all of course written from Zerlina's point of view. She requires
of a professional aunt many things. She must, to begin with, remember
the birthdays of all her nephews and nieces, of Zerlina's children
in particular. If she remembers their birthdays, it stand to reason,
Zerlina's reason, that the sequence of thought is--presents.

The really successful aunt knows the particular taste of each nephew and
niece. She knows, moreover, the exact moment at which the taste changes
from a love for woolly rabbits to a passion for steam engines. Instinct
tells her at what age a child maybe promoted, with safety, from wool to
paint, and she knows the critical moment in a boy's life when a Bible
should be bestowed. It usually, or perhaps I should say my experience is
that it usually, follows the first knife, an ordinary two-bladed knife,
and comes the birthday before a knife--"with things in it." The real
boy must have a knife with things in it: a corkscrew,--I wonder why a
corkscrew?--a buttonhook, a thing to take stones out of horses' hoofs,
a thing to mend traces with--I know I am ignorant of the technical
terms--but the hardest-hearted shop-assistant will never fail to help a
professional aunt in the choice of a knife, unless by chance he should
be unhappy enough never to have been a boy, and such cases are rare.

I used often to wonder why boys wanted all these things. Now I know,
because I asked Dick and he said, "You see, Aunt Woggles, I use them for
other things." I am not sure that most of us don't do the same thing
with many of our most cherished possessions in life.

As regards steam-engines Zerlina lays down a distinct law. They must
never burst--that is an injury no sister-in-law would ever forgive--and
paint must never come off. If Zerlina had known and loved the taste of
crimson lake in the days of her youth, she would never draw so hard and
fast a line.

From the earliest moment in a baby's career, the professional aunt takes
upon herself serious responsibilities. She may not, for instance, like
any ordinary aunt, pass the baby in his perambulator, out walking. Any
other aunt may, with perfect propriety, say, "Hullo, duckie, where's
auntie?" and pass on. She knows the danger of stopping, and seeks to
avoid it. Not so the professional aunt. She realizes the danger and
faces it. She knows she will have to wait, for the sake of the child's
character, until he shall choose to say, "Ta-ta."

He will probably, if he is