there be nothing else at hand. Does that
show that he is properly supplied with reading matter? They will read
these books; but they would read better books with more pleasure and
more profit.

For our third rule, let our children's stories have no lack of incident
and adventure. That will redeem any number of faults. Thus, Marryatt's
stories, and Mayne Reid's, although in many respects open to censure and
ridicule, are very popular, and deserve to be. The books first put into
a child's hands are right enough, for they are vivid. Whether the letter
A be associated in our infant minds with the impressive moral of "In
Adam's fall We sinned all," or gave us a foretaste of the Apollo in "A
was an Archer, and shot at a Frog,"--in either case, the story is a
plainly told incident, (carefully observing the unities,) which the
child's fancy can embellish for itself, and the whole has an additional
charm from the gorgeous coloring of an accompanying picture. The
vividness is good, and is the only thing that is good. Why, then, should
this one merit be omitted, as our children grow a little older? A
lifeless moral will not school a child into propriety. If a twig be
unreasonably bent, it is very likely to struggle in quite a different
direction, especially if in so doing it struggle towards the light.
There is much truth in a blundering version of the old Scriptural maxim,
"Chain up a child, and away he will go." If you want to do any good by
your books, make them interesting.

And with reference to all three rules, remember that they are to be
interpreted by the light of common sense, and you will hardly need the
following remarks:--

It is alike uncomfortable and useless to a child to be perpetually
waylaid by a moral. A child reading "The Pilgrim's Progress" will omit
the occasional explanations of the allegory or resolutely ignore their
meaning. If you want to keep a poor child on such dry food, don't
mistake your own reason for doing so. It may be eminently proper, but it
is very uncomfortable to him. If you want children to enjoy themselves,
let them run about freely, and don't put them into a ring, in
picturesque attitudes, and then throw bouquets of flowers at them. But,
if you will do so, confess it is not for their gratification, but for
your own.

If you choose to try the dangerous experiment of writing "instructive"
stories, beware of defeating your own object. You write a story rather
than a treatise, because i