rom
two generous friends, unhappily growing up and very tall at that; and
they had it from parents who were one of several families who shared in
the benefit of a Good Uncle. I know nothing certainly of this man
except that he was a Radford of Plymouth. I have never learned nor
cared to learn of his commoner occupations, but certainly he was one of
those shining and distinguished uncles that tower up at times above the
common levels of humanity. At times, when we consider our derived and
undeserved share of his inheritance and count the joys it gives us, we
have projected half in jest and half in earnest the putting together of
a little exemplary book upon the subject of such exceptional men:
Celebrated Uncles, it should be called; and it should stir up all who
read it to some striving at least towards the glories of the avuncular
crown. What this great benefactor did was to engage a deserving
unemployed carpenter through an entire winter making big boxes of
wooden bricks for the almost innumerable nephews and nieces with which
an appreciative circle of brothers and sisters had blessed him. There
are whole bricks 4-1/2 inches x 2-1/4 x 1-1/8; and there are
quarters--called by those previous owners (who have now ascended to, we
hope but scarcely believe, a happier life near the ceiling) "piggys."
You note how these sizes fit into the sizes of the boards, and of each
size--we have never counted them, but we must have hundreds. We can
pave a dozen square yards of floor with them.

How utterly we despise the silly little bricks of the toyshops! They
are too small to make a decent home for even the poorest lead soldiers,
even if there were hundreds of them, and there are never enough, never
nearly enough; even if you take one at a time and lay it down and say,
"This is a house," even then there are not enough. We see rich people,
rich people out of motor cars, rich people beyond the dreams of
avarice, going into toyshops and buying these skimpy, sickly,
ridiculous pseudo-boxes of bricklets, because they do not know what to
ask for, and the toyshops are just the merciless mercenary enemies of
youth and happiness--so far, that is, as bricks are concerned. Their
unfortunate under-parented offspring mess about with these gifts, and
don't make very much of them, and put them away; and you see their
consequences in after life in the weakly-conceived villas and silly
suburbs that people have built all round big cities. Such poor
u