A CHEERFUL GIVER


It was a warm August evening when a farm hand passing the Weston house
paused a moment to look admiringly at the picture which the wide open door
presented.

A rude frame of home manufacture, covered with netting, kept inquisitive
moths from entering, at the same time allowing a flood of light to make
its way out into the door-yard, where it lay upon the grass and added
glory to the marigolds which grew beside the path.

"Happiest family I know on," muttered the man, drawing a rough hand across
his eyes. "Makes me think of the time when I was a little feller ter hum,
and had two sisters jest 'baout the size of Square Weston's girls."

Then, with a sigh, the man went on up the road, but the memory of the
family group in the brightly lighted room remained in his mind for many a
day.

At one side of the table with its bright cloth smoothly spread, sat Mr.
Weston perusing the county paper, at times reading aloud a bit of
especially interesting news to his wife who was busily at work upon an
apron for little Prue. In the centre of the table stood a large lamp, a
monument to the enterprise of Silas Barnes, the village storekeeper.

"You folks don't want ter go pokin' raound with taller candles when ye kin
git er lamp that gives light like all fireation, do ye?" he had said.