dness. Thus, on one occasion, suddenly in most
righteous anger, just as if a parenthesis to the remark he was making,
he interposed, "Come and be caned, boy. My study, twelve o'clock."
When the boy was leaving, very unrepentant after keeping the
appointment, in the same parenthetical way the master remarked, "Go
away, boy. Cake and wine, my room, five o'clock"--which proved
eventually the most effective part of the correction.

To children there always appears a gap between them and "grown-ups"
as impassable as that which Abraham is made to describe as so great
that they who would pass to and fro cannot. As we grow older, we cease
to see it, but it exists all the same. As I write, five children are
romping through this old wood on broom-handle horses. One has just
fallen. A girl of twelve at once retorts, "Do get up, Willy, your
horse is always throwing you off." The joys of life lie in us, not in
things; and in childhood imagination is so big, its joys so entirely
uncloyed. Sometimes grown-ups are apt to grudge the time and trouble
put into apparently transient pleasures. A trivial strawberry feast,
given to children on our dear old lawn under the jasmine and
rose-bushes, something after the order of a New England clam-bake,
still looms as a happy memory of my parents' love for children,
punctuated by the fact that though by continuing a game in spite of
warning I broke a window early in the afternoon, and was banished to
the nursery "as advised," my father forgave me an hour later, and
himself fetched me down again to the party.

To teach us independence, my father put us on an allowance at a very
early age, with a small bank account, to which every birthday he added
five pounds on our behalf. We had no pony at that time, indeed had not
yet learned to ride, so our deposits always went by the name of "pony
money." This was an excellent plan, for we didn't yet value money for
itself, and were better able to appreciate the joy of giving because
it seemed to postpone the advent of our pony. However, when we were
thought to have learned to value so sentient a companion and to be
likely to treat him properly, a Good Samaritan was permitted to
present us with one of our most cherished friends. To us, she was an
unparalleled beauty. How many times we fell over her head, and over
her tail, no one can record. She always waited for you to remount, so
it didn't much matter; and we were taught that great lesson in life,
not to b