The Child's Question.

"What are the flowers for, mamma,         That spring up fresh and bright,     And grow on every hill and plain,         Where'er I turn my sight?     "How do the flowers grow, mamma?         I've pulled the leaves away,     And tried to see them blossom out,         On many a summer's day."     "The flowers were made, my little child,         That when our footsteps trod     Upon the green and pleasant fields,         We then might think of God.     "We may not see how they do grow,         And bloom in beauty fair;     We cannot tell how they can spread         Their small leaves to the air:     "But yet we know that God's kind hand         Creates these little flowers,     And makes the warm sun shine on them,         And waters them with showers.     "And so we love to think that He,         Who paints their sweet leaves thus,     Who sends the sunshine and the rain,         Has thought and care for us."