THE STORY-BOOK OF SCIKNC K 



They reach the meadow. The lamb frolics on the 

 grass; Joseph and Louis run after butterflies in 

 the midst of a clump of tall trees. 



"Oh, the beautiful cherries !" exclaimed Louis, 

 suddenly; "see how big and black they are! Cher- 

 ries, cherries ! We are going to have a feast. Let 

 us pick some to eat." 



There were, in fact, some large berries of a dark 

 violet hue on low plants. 



"How small these cherry-trees are!" answered 

 Joseph. "I have never seen any like them. We 

 shan't have to climb the tree for them, and you 

 won't tear your new trousers." 



Louis picked one of the berries and put it into his 

 mouth. It was insipid and sweetish. 



"These cherries are not ripe," says little Louis, 

 spitting it out. 



"Take this one," answers Joseph, giving him one 

 that felt very soft. "It is ripe." 



Louis tastes it and spits it out. 



"No, they are not at all good," repeats the little 

 boy. 



"Not good, not good?" says Joseph; "you will 

 see." He eats one, then another, then another still, 

 then a fourth, then a fifth. At the sixth he is obliged 

 to stop. Decidedly they were not good. 



"It is true, they are not very ripe. But let 's pick 

 some, all the same. We '11 let them ripen in the 

 basket." 



They gathered a handful or two of these black ber- 

 ries, then began running after butterflies. The 

 cherries were forgotten. 



