Literature for Children

This book is about books of literature. Its excuse for being at all is in the over-reading of books that are not literature. Confusion and hurry confront both child and teacher in the land of books. The hope is held that something can be done to lead the child out of this confusion.

There is no greater possibility existing in the child's educational life than the possibility of self-cultivation in the reading of great books. Nor has there ever been a greater need for the quiet reading of such books than in a time of wonderful mechanical invention. Shall a boy fly or shall he read? It seems both fair and possible to say that he may fly but he must read. Whatever be the line of work he chooses to follow, he will have spare hours. His contribution to the life of his community and the rounding out of his individual life are dependent very largely on the wise use of these spare hours. Some spare hours may be given to music or the theatre, some to social entertainment, some to outdoor sports, some to church aid work; but some must surely be given to the reading of great books.

The following pages attempt to set the boy on the right trail, so that when he reaches man's estate he will of his own accord devote a just portion of his spare hours to books of literature. To do this, attention needs to be given to these practices: the learning of a little choice poetry by heart, the learning of a few fairy stories and myths through the ear, the reading and rereading of a few great books, the saving of money to build up a small but well-selected private bookshelf, the practice of reading aloud by the fireside or in the schoolroom. The chances are that a boy so directed will find reading a pleasure and will turn to what is really worth while. The attempt by parents and teachers to bring about an abiding love for books of power is a most commendable attempt; and, if successful, the best contribution to a refined private life. To all such attempts these pages aim to contribute.

The preparation of these pages has been made easier and surer by the generous aid of Mr. Fred L. Homer, of the Central High School of Pittsburgh, and Mr. Homer L. Clark, a business man of Cleveland, in reading a greater portion of the manuscript; by Miss Emily Beal, of the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, in information on illustrated editions of children's books; and by Mr. Ernest C. Noyes, of the Peabody High School of Pittsburgh, in reading the proof.

For kind permission to use copyright material the author thanks Mr. Rudyard Kipling and Messrs. Doubleday, Page and Company for "Recessional"; Professor Richard G. Moulton for the arrangement of the selections of Hebrew poetry; Houghton, Mifflin and Company for the selections from Longfellow, Holmes, Emerson, and Whittier; and The Macmillan Company for the selections from Tennyson, Browning, Arnold, Clough, and Rossetti.

The man who believes that education and books are designed for the imparting only of useful information had better read no farther than this sentence; for if he does, he will be irritated many a time by what he regards as ideal and foolish and unworthy of a practical age. But if he believes life to be something more than meat and the body something more than raiment, and that he needs his books as well as his cloak brought into Macedonia, he may with patience and sympathy follow the guesses herein at the ways and means by which good books may be brought into the life of a boy. For in the living out of the great story of securing shelter and food and raiment, the boy who has never felt the charm of a great book in chimney-corner days, or the man who has never pored over a "midnight darling" by candlelight, has missed one of the most refined and harmless pleasures of life. The very books themselves are refining because they make up the art of literature, an art that is in its highest sense an expression and interpretation of life. This art deals with the beautiful. Its appeal is primarily to the feelings. Its basis is truth whether actual or hoped for. It is this very nature of literature itself that at the start brings up the question whether the investment put into it is really worth while. How far has education a right to develop a sense of the beautiful? What abiding pleasures and tastes, if any, should the boy of school age seek and cultivate? Just what equipment for life does a boy need, anyhow?

These are big questions; they are knotty questions. They have never been settled because they cannot be answered in a way satisfactory to all. They are rather questions of temperament than of logic. To attempt an investigation into the claims of literature in a scheme of education, and to draw from such claims a logical conclusion, is beyond the ability, knowledge, or inclination of the writer; only personal impressions will be attempted in the chapters that follow. And besides, such an investigation, if it could be made, would be so out of fashion among schoolmasters at the present time that it might bring nothing but reproach on the one attempting it. The very convenient plan is to assume a certain educational specific as true and from that assumption to go straight to a favourable conclusion. In accordance with this fashion it seems the easiest way to take the privilege of the day and without more ado assume that books of literature are necessary in the education of a boy, and conclude therefrom that a principal business of the teacher is to train the boy to read books intelligently and to form a substantial taste for them. And why should not a schoolmaster who dotes on a few old favourites have an unshaken faith in his assumption and go merrily on to the business of the literature itself and what may be done toward developing among school children a taste for it?

The late Professor Norton pointed out that a taste for literature is a result of cultivation more often than a gift of nature. The years of the elementary school seem to be the time in which cultivation is easiest and the one in which the taste takes deepest root. Vigorous and tactful effort will go far to develop pure taste and abiding taste for books.

The present age is more concerned about pure food than about pure books—maybe an exemplification of John Bright's wish that the working-men of England eat bacon rather than read Bacon. The bulky, coarse food of the last century has been displaced by the sealed package of condensed food done according to a formula, and a mystery to the man who eats it. So is it in our books. We do not have the frankness and vulgarity of the eighteenth century; but instead, we have the most studied forms of insinuation, the harm of which was not approached by the coarseness of former times. Many a present-day story makes the ordinary course of life seem uninteresting, a dangerous thing for a book to do, according to Ruskin. The conduct portrayed has in it too much of personal freedom arising out of caprice, breaking too much with traditional right through what a critic once designated as "debauching innuendo and ill favoured love." The book is often spectacular or sullen in tone. It may be melodramatic, leaving the reader rebellious or with a weakened sense of responsibility. Or again, it may be given to boisterous laughter over situations based on personal misfortune or bad manners—the way of the comic supplement. And worst of all, it may become the fashion; that is, a best seller. Its name and some of its motives will probably get to the children through the talk of the parents. Then to persuade the reading public that the pure taste for the healthful story is much more worth while will try the resources of the teacher. Yet that is exactly what should be expected of him—a Herculean task and a most thankless one.

To secure a stable as well as a pure taste for things worth while in books should be an aim of the teacher. He must do this in an age when the vaudeville idea is deep-rooted. Variety takes the place of sustained attention. This begets the mood for profligacy. Something new and good is expected to turn up in the shape of a book. In this mood there is nothing to inspire to steady purpose. And it seems that the best thing left for the teacher to do is to "come out strong" on a few good books. Through fortune and misfortune such books will be permanent possessions to their reader.

The responsibility for securing this pure and abiding taste rests primarily with the teacher. He needs to know and to appreciate the good books which he desires the boy to read. He needs to know the poem or story at first hand, not criticism about it. If the teacher has real appreciation for a piece of literature, the boy will discern it in his face. Then the boy can be put on the right scent and left to trail it out for himself, as Scott long ago suggested. Time must be taken to do this: a few good things must be done without fuss or hurry. It is foolish to have a taste surfeited as soon as cultivated. Here is truly a place to be temperate as well as enthusiastic.

A teacher should be able to read aloud from a book with good effect. The voice can bring out the finer touches that are likely to be missed by the eye. No explanation in reading is so good as is adequate vocal expression. In fact, as a rule, the less explaining the better. If there is a single thing that for the last dozen years has stood in the way of boys' and girls' appreciating good literature, it is the so-called laboratory method. Of all the quack educational specifics that have been advanced, the laboratory method, with a poem or an imaginative story, has been the most presumptuous and absurd. Who cares to treat fancies and fairies according to formulæ? One might as well apply the laboratory method to his faith and his hopes in his religion.

In this struggle to bring good books into the life of the boy, many opposing forces must be met with tact and with patience. Censorship of books, like inspection of foods, may be highly desirable; but by no means is it efficacious. The worthless book will continue to obtrude itself at all times and on all occasions. Then there are the reading habits of the community, the notions of parents about what the child should read, and the child's own natural or acquired tastes,—these must all be reckoned with. Here are a few of the opposing forces to be encountered in every community:

The juvenile series—the hardest problem to handle from the book side of the question. The series is always "awful long," all of the volumes are cut to the same pattern, they are always in evidence, and they are all equally stupid. The themes range from boarding school proprieties to criminal adventure; and they are all equally false to the facts of real life or the longings for true romance. What shall be done with them?

The ease of access of the child to the daily paper with headlines inviting attention to the doings of police courts and clinics.

The eagerness with which children read the comic supplement and even ask at the public library if books of that class of humour cannot be had.

The low-grade selection that is many times given the child by the school reader as subject-matter from which to learn the great art of reading.

The prejudice of parents and even of communities against fairy tales and all forms of highly imaginative literature—the hardest thing to meet from the reading side of the question. Librarians are requested not to give fairy books to children. Such books are thought to be bad. The demand is for true books. Parents have not discovered the existence of the imagination and the part it has played in the intellectual, artistic, and spiritual progress of man. But must school teachers not first recognize the truth of this last statement before parents are expected to do so?

The impression that books of information are real literature and that they ought to be sufficient subject-matter for any child's reading.

The belief that books should teach facts and point morals rather than entertain and refine and inspire.

The early acquired taste of boys and girls for stories of everyday life; boys turning to the athletic story and girls to the school story.

Excessive reading and reading done at the suggestion of a chum.

Lack of ownership of books and of the rereading of great books.

The passing of the practice of reading aloud about the fireside.

The teacher will surely need to summon his judgment, courage, and perseverance if he is to succeed measurably in the effort for good reading. Let him not forget that his most enduring work will not be seeking to cut off from the child the book that is not good, nor yet convincing the parents that this or that book is good or bad; but it will be getting the interest and confidence of the child himself. When the teacher comes to consider that a boy naturally loves a hero, and like Tom Sawyer longs to "die temporarily," or that a girl is naturally curious to open the forbidden door of the closet as was Fatima, he cannot but see that this is good ground where the right seed will spring up many fold. Here then is the place for the teacher to sow with care. For him, the pages that follow are designed as something of a guide in the field of children's books, if, whilst working as a husbandman therein, by chance he feels the need of a fellow labourer.

The place of literature in the primary and grammar grades of schools needs neither a defence nor an apology. Being a part of that branch called reading, it is fundamental in the course. The claims set up by branches other than that of reading and speaking English do not concern us here. We assume that the first portion of time in a programme is allotted to this. The object may be dramatic expression in the lower grades, getting the exact thought from a printed page and reproducing it in the upper grades, drill in the mechanical details of the language, such as spelling and pronunciation; or it may be that rare growth of personality that comes, say, through the skilful reading of poetry aloud. Without a fair degree of mastery of the elements of reading and speaking English by the time he completes the grammar grade work, the boy will enter a secondary school or turn to earning a living, ill-equipped either to organize and express his own thoughts, or to find profit and pleasure in gathering the thoughts of another from a printed page—the greatest accomplishment that a school can give to any one. It is rather common to hear a high school student say that he cannot get the story by reading "The Lady of the Lake." This inability is a positive discredit to what should be normal mental vigour; and such a student will be found inefficient for the serious business of life or the refined pleasure of the fireside.

Now it behooves teachers to put on their thinking caps and devise ways and means that will help students to get the thought from reading, to tell this thought, and to appreciate the excellencies of good English books. And they must do this single-handed and alone in the day school, for but little help can be looked for from the Sunday school, from many public libraries, and from the home as it is now governed. The child is turned over to the teacher to train, and in that child lurk two tendencies of American social life: the hope of getting something for nothing and the passion for constant variety. And these tendencies are unchecked by any exercise of that old-time positive authority in the home, that had much salutary influence on young barbarians. But through a foolish tolerance, the boy drifts into many habits that do not include the exemplary ones of sustained attention, industry, thrift, and self-reliance,—habits that make for efficient life. A royal road to knowledge is expected, and travel thereon is to be unrestricted by respect either for age or for authority. His hay must always be sugared. He becomes a creature of whims, and with this creature the teacher finds his task in hand. What are the reading habits and tastes that he brings from his home, and how can the teacher best improve them?

It is clear to even a casual observer that children leave the public school without the groundwork for a course of reading either for pleasure or for profit through life. It is also clear that they will get little help in this line from places other than the public school as things now obtain. And it is equally clear that the reading habits formed before the age of fourteen years are the habits and tastes that last. If then, according to his natural gifts, the student is to be led to gather the fullest measure from the field of literature, it is the special duty and privilege of the teacher to direct that gathering. To this attempt to develop a taste for good literature, some one may raise the objection that it will not fit all children—and the objection is well taken. The appeal of literature is not universal. There are a few persons who find its counterpart in a study and appreciation of the beauties and wonders of nature. Then again there are many who, instead of taking themselves to the art of books, find pleasure in perhaps the greatest of all arts, the art of social intercourse—an art that is universal enough to reach from vagabondia to the very exclusive set. However, there is a vast class devoted to a subdued and refined domestic life, and here it is that good books will bear good fruit many fold. With this class the teacher must work. What then is to be given to the children?

Of course it is understood that we are to deal with the enduring literature of childhood, the literature of power. And it is also to be understood that reading is to be done in moderation and with care. Then again it is evident that a certain amount of reading must be prescribed and thoroughly mastered. Reading must be from what is standard down to the point of appeal, lest the point always hold the boy to the earth earthy. After a taste for onions has once been developed, little hope can be entertained of making the boy a judge of the delicate flavour of grapes—they will hang high. The teacher must assert a bit of that healthful positive authority that sets many an urchin on the right path. A limited choice from books that are classics may be given in good time. All the chords of life have been struck in great literature, and a fair knowledge and good judgment can reach almost any disposition, even the most whimsical.

The thing of first importance to be prescribed is learning classical poetry by heart until its music has taken a hold on the learner. Introduce the boy to the varied field of lyric poetry and you have put before him one of the rarest and most abiding pleasures of life. Here his troubled heart may always find consolation. Nothing will bring him to a sense of his own personality with such a deft touch as a perfect lyric coming to him through his own voice. The next thing to look to is a right that is a fixed right of childhood and one that it is positively vicious to suppress, the right to the land of fairy life. A free range here will be meat and drink to any boy. Much sordidness and much selfishness in old age come to the man or woman who has not a cultivated imagination. Logic and cold facts are of precious little value in the fireside life of a family. The best things of that life are not reasoned out; but they are felt out and wondered out. Again, the great field of mythology that is so fundamentally linked to that of literature, and that is a capital mark of culture, should be open to the boy that he may roam about and wonder at its mysteries. Then he may as certainly come to own an "Age of Fable" as he must own a "Golden Treasury." And what a pair are these!

From these three fields the step will be to a knowledge and classification of books and their authors, what books to own, and how to take care of them. And to this working grasp of poetry and stories may be added a little of what is possible in history, biography, and personal essay. In this age of cheap and spurious book-making the reader must know standard editions without abridged and garbled texts. Even editors of hymn books do not hesitate to mutilate great hymns to suit their particular notions. This freedom may be a form of that exaggerated idea of personal privilege that was the gift of democracy in the past century. A good knowledge of fables and proverbial wisdom will certainly temper that notion. Such are some of the things that might be prescribed by the teacher and learned by the student. The field as thus given is limited, but the friends therein are dear friends. Nor are they to be exchanged for the new friends that may come through the advertising appeal, founded on the unsubstantial instinct for constant variety.

If enough idea of authority can ever be driven into the head of the American boy to put him into the attitude of a willing learner, good things may be looked for in habits of reading—provided the teacher be equal to the responsible task that is laid upon him. The habits of reading that measure the use of spare time, and in that way the character of the individual, will work for a more sane and less showy home life and through that for a community given to other than obtrusive and frivolous social life. What bundle of habits will serve its slave better than will this bundle? Or where is keener and more subdued pleasure to be found? Though books are a bloodless substitute for life, as Stevenson has well pointed out, we need some substitute in our hours of ease, and a good book does passing well for such a substitute; and this is especially true if the book be our favourite from the wonderful Waverley series and with it we can square about to the fire, snuff the candle, and let the rest of the world go spin.

The teacher who is a workman skilled in his craft looks upon a few educational practices as being of intrinsic merit—through and through in an age of veneer and cheap imitation. Of these practices the one most fruitful under cultivation, when done with care and in moderation, is that of learning good poetry by heart. The sense of having truly learned a thing by heart, of having completely mastered it, is a most pleasant sense to have. And when the thing learned is one of the many perfect lyrics from the field of English poetry, a far-sighted judge who has lived and considered what is of most value to the individual is led to say: That is well and good. In some mysterious way this possession of a few choice poems makes for a rarer personality and gives that touch which can come only through a perfect work of art. By sheer force of intellect a man may become a cold, designing man of action and set plans on foot for the time being; but the power that is back of all great movements for civilization and culture is one that is grounded in feeling and constructive imagination. The proverbial songs of a nation are a greater force than are its laws. In one of his most entertaining essays, De Quincey points out that, when the intellect sets itself up in opposition to the feelings, one should always trust to the feelings. Normal instincts are worth more than syllogisms. The man who has attuned himself to the moods and impulses of lyric poetry is a safe man in action. Yet he is more than this; he has in him that which is the groundwork of fireside pleasures and of the joys of companionship. In other words, he is a man of cultivated imagination, and he can play in many moods.

Here it may not be amiss to mention the claim of the imagination to consideration as a faculty of the mind and inquire to what extent it should be cultivated in our schools; for if its claim be not good, there is no warrant for using any of the literature of power as subject-matter for education. Bearing on this question is the following excellent remark by the late Charles Eliot Norton, who did so very much to raise the standard of culture in American education: "The imagination is the supreme intellectual faculty, and it is of all the one that receives least attention in our common system of education. The reason is not far to seek. The imagination is of all faculties the most difficult to control, it is the most elusive of all, the rarest in its full power. But upon its healthy development depend not only the sound exercise of the faculties of observation and judgment, but also the command of the reason, the control of the will, and the growth of the moral sympathies. The means for its culture which good reading affords is the most generally available and one of the most efficient." In the same discussion Professor Norton has this to say of poetry as the highest expression of the imagination: "Poetry is one of the most efficient means of education of the moral sentiment, as well as of the intelligence. It is the source of the best culture. A man may know all science and yet remain uneducated. But let him truly possess himself of the work of any one of the great poets, and no matter what else he may fail to know, he is not without education."

To the evident truth of these quotations the humanist will readily assent; and so will the true scientist whose earnest and frank devotion to truth makes it clear to him that nothing great in his field has ever been done without a constructive imagination. The loss of artistic imagination through years of painstaking investigation will be a source of regret to any one devoted to science, as was the loss of the ability to appreciate the charm of great poetry Darwin's old age regret. The taste for this great poetry is grounded on healthful and normal instincts, and it is the part of wisdom to see that this taste be developed in youth. The boy who has nurtured his youthful imagination on the magic of great verse will waken up some morning to find himself among the competent ones of his generation. His life will be bounded by that restraint which can come only through an inability to solve the mysteries and wonders that his imagination is constantly conjuring up. He wants much that he cannot understand and reason out; and the deeper things of life, things which touch him most vitally as a living creature, he looks on with reverence. If his imagination is alive to the experiences of great poetry, he cannot scoff at things felt in the soul but impossible of explanation. To him there are sacred things in the fireside life and at the altar that are not to be laid bare by the curiosity of the reasoner in his search for truth. And when the twilight of the gods falls about him he is not curious to know, but he trusts and fears. A song is worth more to him than a proof. On this he is satisfied to throw himself.

The music of the cathedral organ that Milton could hear daily as a boy stirred his imagination, and in later years he brought forth verse that for the grandeur and scope of its imagination has never been excelled. In a minor but far more human key the songs and balladry of Scotland awakened in Burns the imagination which has made him the idol of his native land and loved wherever English poetry is known. Artistic imagination for the creation or appreciation of poetry is contagious. What is true of the poet himself is also true of the reader of great poetry; its wonderful music causes him to feel and live poems that he has not the gift to write down. It is with this feeling of poems, this appreciation of the great work of poets, that we have to do. To awaken feelings a teacher must have an imagination afire with a little verse that is choicely good, must have at least felt the pure serene a time or two. This same passion for verse, be it ever so limited, can be handed over to the boy through a judicious use of the reading voice. That is the teacher's work in hand.

What kind of verse is to be handed over to the boy, and how much is there to be of it? To the latter question the only safe answer is this: not too much. Talents and tastes vary. Every student can be made to get by rote a certain amount of verse; but as for learning it by heart, feeling and appreciating its music, that is a different thing. The greatest and most painstaking of all anthologists of English verse, Francis Turner Palgrave, claims that there ought to be more than a glimpse into the Elysian fields of song. In the best collection that has yet appeared for the teacher or student, "The Children's Treasury of English Song," Professor Palgrave has this to say in the introduction: "The treasures here collected are but a few drops from an ocean, unequalled in wealth and variety by any existing literature. But the hope is held that it may prove a pleasure and gain to the dear English and English-speaking children, all the world over,—yet the editor will hold his work but half fulfilled, unless they are tempted by it to go on and wander, in whatever direction their fancy may lead them, through the roads and winding ways of this great and glorious world of English poetry. He aims only at showing them the path, and giving them a little foretaste of our treasures.—'To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.'" That hope is to be the hope of the teacher; and it needs back of it the mastering of a few choice lyrics, after which the boy is to be sent forth to browse alone to his heart's desire.

On the question of the kind of verse to give to the boy, Professor Palgrave has made the following remark: "The standard of 'suitability to childhood' must exclude many pieces that have 'merit as poetry': pictures of life as it seems to middle age—poems coloured by sentimentalism or morbid melancholy, however attractive to readers no longer children—love as personal passion or regret (not love as the groundwork of action)—artificial or highly allusive language—have, as a rule, been held unfit. The aim has been to shun scenes and sentiments alien from the temper of average healthy childhood, and hence of greater intrinsic difficulty than poems containing unusual words." The limitations of verse for children, as stated in the remark just quoted, are reasonable and something of a guide to teachers. But they are not always easy to follow. However, nothing must be given to the child unless it has real merit as poetry, no matter how it may strike the fancy at first reading. Nor is any poem that would be otherwise good, to be excluded because it is feared the child may not completely grasp it. He may read plenty of verse that is beyond him somewhat and be all the better for having done so. The thing to be avoided is poetry that is not poetry. He may be allowed to read verse at times that would not be suitable for learning by heart. But what he learns thoroughly must be through and through great poetry. And it matters little what form it may have: ballad, song, fairy poem—he will learn to know it and to love it. Nor is it to be always within the reach of his intellect; his feelings will carry him safely beyond the narrow range of understanding.

If he would reach the boy, the teacher must find a point of contact between the home life and the altogether new life in the school. This point is without doubt the nursery rhymes. Wise indeed are parents who have taught these melodies before the school age has been reached, for the teacher can start at once with the poems he intends to have learned. But where these rhymes have not been mastered in the home, it is imperative on the part of the first-grade teacher to have them mastered in the first school year. For the teacher who hesitates about the advisability of using the Mother Goose melodies, it may be well to state their claim by a quotation from Charles Welsh in his modest but most excellent collection called "A Book of Nursery Rhymes": "The direct simplicity, dramatic imagination, and spontaneous humour of the nursery rhymes of Mother Goose will probably never be excelled by any modern verse. They will for the most part doubtless remain for all time 'the light literature of the infant scholar.' Although some fragments of what has been written since the collection was first made may go to swell the volume of this inheritance from past ages, the selection of any permanent addition will be made finally by the mother and the child. The choice will be by no means a haphazard one, for it will be founded on basal elements of human character, and it will, for the very same cause, be an absolutely autocratic choice. Experience has proved these old rhymes and jingles to be best fitted for the awakening intelligence of the child. The appeal to the imagination by evoking a sense of wonder accounts for the abiding place which these rhymes and jingles have in the literature of the nursery." The truth of these words is so evident that the teacher who would make the learning of poetry by heart a pleasure must surely recognize such rhymes as the hitching-on place between the literature of the home and that of the school.

Next in simplicity, directness, and in the interest of its appeal is verse in the ballad form. It is the easiest of all poetry to learn, for it tells a dramatic tale in a simple way. But there are few short ballads in the language suited to the grammar grades, and there is not sufficient time for learning the longer ones by heart. Many of the best old English ballads have difficulties for the child in the number of obsolete words that they contain. These two things make it difficult to use this absorbing field of poetry as subject-matter for learning by heart. It is probably best to have the boy come to know the stories of the ballads by hearing a frequent reading of them aloud by the teacher. Of the ballads selected for such reading the teacher must go to the old English field to get the greater number; but the modern field must not be neglected, for no teacher could omit that powerful yet simple work of genius, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." Its charm in holding the hearer is as great as was the charm of the old mariner's eye itself when telling the tale. If such a poem has been listened to in the elementary school, it can be taught with greater ease in the secondary school. The same thing is true of many poems.

The greater number of selections that follow these two simple and direct types, the nursery rhyme and the ballad, must be classic lyrics, fairly well suited to the boy, and it matters little whether the form be song, sonnet, ode, elegy, or that of Hebrew verse. In making these selections poems of a martial nature are not to be altogether neglected; but they must have fire, for without it a war ode is one of the most obsolete works of the human intellect. An objection may be raised to the effect that this type of poem is not suited to girls. To this objection the answer may be made, that what is good literature for a boy ought to be good literature for a girl. Will not a girl appreciate that great poem of a sea fight, "The 'Revenge'"? It seems unwise to put in a list of poems to be learned by heart an example of nonsense verse. This verse evidently has a definite place in the intellectual equipment of the child, and he may pick it up later of his own accord. No one would knowingly, however, deprive him of "The Owl and the Pussy Cat," or "The Jabberwocky"; even grown-ups dote on "Little Billee," as Thackeray doubtless did himself. We must all fool more or less—even in verse.

Some teachers will ask how poetry is to be taught. To that question the absolute answer is: through the ear. All poetry is to be read aloud and well read. The dry-as-dust fellow who wants to read it merely as prose should be indicted for a crime against art. Poetry must be read musically and with a natural time and swing. At this point it should be understood that part of the work of a teacher is to develop a good reading tone of voice. The present-day tendencies toward shrieking and a mouthing of words are most deplorable tendencies. Let the teacher first master the poem and then teach it by word of mouth, and teach it as music. It will finally impress itself on the child. Now this reading by which the poem is to be taught is to be merely a good natural reading—not the affected and exaggerated one of the elocutionist. Let the child get the idea that he must say the poem over and over until it has become his own. There is much pleasure in saying poetry aloud when one is walking by himself—a rare luxury in modern city or suburban life. It does not matter if passers-by look on this practice as a sort of lunacy, for it is a most commendable kind of lunacy to have and one that all persons are not so lucky as to possess.

So much is inviting us that no claim is made that the included list is by any means the best one hundred poems. But it is one that the experience of some years of schoolroom work has proved passing good. At least it is good enough for the teacher who has not made a thorough study of the subject. This, that, and t'other substitute might be offered; but when all is said, the selections as they stand, if well mastered, will be something of a king's treasury to the boy.

For the convenience of the teacher the selections are given complete. With but few exceptions the poems are unabridged and under the original titles. When an extract has been made from a longer poem, the first verse of the selection has generally been given as a title. All poems might be remembered by first verses rather than by titles, and every anthology should have an alphabetical index to first verses. The poems as given below will vary in their appeal largely according to the mood of the teacher and his natural temperament; but he can teach no poem well unless he has mastered it himself and has come to appreciate it. There are a few selections, however, as "The Fairy Life," "The Forsaken Merman," and "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud," that are so wholly delightful that the teacher may hold them as favourite children of the imagination. Let the teacher master the selections given below, and if he so choose tear out the pages containing them and then throw the rest of the book away; for if he truly knows these poems by heart, he will no longer be a stranger to literature of power, and the purpose of this book will have been fulfilled.

In addition to what the student has mastered by heart he needs to own and keep within arm's reach a good anthology. He should first own "A Children's Treasury of English Song," and about the time he is ready to leave the elementary school the greatest of all collections of verse, "The Golden Treasury of the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the English Language," must fall into his hands. The next best collection is doubtless "The Oxford Book of English Verse," by A. T. Quiller-Couch. For ballad literature "The Oxford Book of English Ballads" by the last-named editor and "The Ballad Book" by Allingham are both good. It is to be hoped that if he has a taste for verse of the ballad form, the boy may some day wander back to Percy's "Reliques of Ancient English Poetry." An occasional boy who cares little for great poetry may have a bent toward songs of war and daring. Though this tendency is to be deplored if it comes late in the boy's school life, it is best to satisfy it. A fairly good but not altogether judiciously selected anthology for this purpose is Henley's "Lyra Heroica." From this reading of poetry in anthologies the boy might go to the carefully edited and selected volumes of the great poets in the Golden Treasury Series. The step to choice complete editions is then easy.

It may chance that the boy who has once tasted of the honeydew of great poetry and who has left the elementary school to take up the actual affairs of life will go back to the authority of his teacher who first pointed out to him such a pure pleasure for his quiet hours. If this gratifying condition should come about, the teacher might name to him the following poems that are still more rare in their appeal—as he will surely come to know when he has felt the touch of "An Ode on a Grecian Urn." Here are the titles: "Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day," Shakespeare; "The Time of Year Thou May'st in Me Behold," Shakespeare; "On the Late Massacre in Piedmont," Milton; "The World is too Much with Us," Wordsworth; "Milton, Thou Should'st Be Living at This Hour," Wordsworth; "Tuscan, That Wander'st in the Realms of Gloom," Longfellow; "Rose Aylmer," Landor; "Out of the Night That Covers Me," Henley; "Go Fetch to Me a Pint o' Wine," Burns; "Proud Maisie is in the Woods," Scott; "She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways," Wordsworth; "Helen, Thy Beauty is to Me," Poe; "She Walks in Beauty," Byron; "The Lost Leader," Browning; "It Was a Lover and His Lass," Shakespeare; "Callicles beneath Etna," Arnold; "La Belle Dame sans Merci," Keats; "Ode to Evening," Collins; "Ode to a Skylark," Shelley; "Ode on a Grecian Urn," Keats; "Kubla Khan," Coleridge; "Ulysses," Tennyson; "L'Allegro," Milton. From these the boy may with the coming of manhood be led to heights of such tunes of the masters as Wordsworth's powerful "Ode on the Intimations of Immortality from Earliest Childhood," and Tennyson's song that is so near to the heart of great things, "In Memoriam."

In that comforting essay, "An Apology for Idlers," Robert Louis Stevenson tells us that it is by no means certain that a man's business is the most important thing that he has to do. And somewhere else he has remarked on a club of men in Brussels who talked about the commercial affairs of Belgium during the day, but who at night came together to discuss the more serious affairs of life. These views are in accord with the Stevenson temperament that looked on life as made up of two worlds: a real workaday one to be unflinchingly faced, no matter what the task that came, and a fanciful one, a play world, that by its appeal to the ideal nature created an atmosphere of joy that made the duties of the real one more tolerable. His own life, so well balanced between work and play, so sane and healthful and inspiring in its influence on all who knew him or read his books, has shown what a romantic cast of mind can get out of life, though it suffer the handicap of ill health and worldly misfortune. The balance-wheel of his life was a playful imagination that always "hath made long nights seem short and heavy toyles easie."

Stern materialism, cold, calculatingly just, impatient with the dreamer, with no charity for lovable human frailties, has always mocked at the notion of a fanciful place where great and glorious things are going on. She spins no web from the threads of her imagination. The warp and woof of her fabric are drawn from facts; and it comes from the loom all wool, a yard wide, and used to cover the nakedness of real men and women. She has never felt the free abandon of fairy land. Her heart has never leap'd up at beholding a rainbow in the sky, a rainbow with the fabled pot of gold—though she has toiled and sweat many a day for nothing more than a mess of pottage. Whilst pointing the finger of scorn at the magic lamp, the ogre's hen, or the seven-league boots, she plays the fool and pays the fiddler in actual life merely because under it all there lurks a passion for the marvellous, founded on chance. In the business world this manifests itself in the perennial hope of a "bull market" or a "bonanza." Of course, pleasures are largely a question of taste, not a question of right, and it is everybody to his liking,—one may prefer the counting house to the back-log at the drowsy hour of midnight,—yet may we all be spared the time when fancy and romance cease to dominate men. Without them life would become mediocre, stupid, dull.

It has been claimed that a nation without fancy and romance never can hold a great place. Material prosperity without a corresponding well-being in the things of the imagination is an unfortunate prosperity. Its pleasures must necessarily be sensual pleasures that grow out of luxury. They carry the man or woman too far away from the land of childhood. Dickens saw this clearly when he said: "What enchanted us in childhood and is captivating a million young fancies now, has at the same blessed time of life, enchanted vast hosts of men and women who have done their long day's work, and laid their gray heads down to rest. It has greatly helped to keep us in some sense ever young, by preserving through our worldly ways one slender tract not overgrown with weeds, where we may walk with children sharing their delights." A good thing it is to keep that slender tract free from weeds. And the stronger the man, the more he needs to do it. Only a man who sees things out of their right proportions and who is without a sense of humour would scorn to renew his youth occasionally in the land of romance. If in life the strongest and wisest men are good at a fight, they are still better at a play. And it is no shame if their "Arabian Nights' Entertainments" is more thumbed than their Bacon's "Essays." They may be all the wiser for it. In Howard Pyle's delightful rendering of the Robin Hood tales he gives this happy admonition in the introduction: "You who so plod among serious things that you feel it a shame to give yourself up even for a few short moments to mirth and joyousness in the land of Fancy; you who think that life hath naught to do with innocent laughter that can harm no one; these pages are not for you. Clap the leaves and go no further than this, for I tell you plainly that if you will go further you will be so scandalized by seeing good, sober folk of real history so frisk and caper in gay colours and motley that you would not know them but for the names tagged to them." And then he sees the secret of making the heart beat young whilst carrying the burdens of grown-up life, and he says, "The land of Fancy is of that pleasant kind that, when you tire of it,—whisk,—you clap the leaves of this book together and 'tis gone, and you are ready for everyday life, with no harm done."

The present age as it gives colouring to educational practices is a matter-of-fact age. Whilst boasting of freedom of thought, it has fallen into a despotism of fact. Like the Old Man of the Sea, this reign of fact has been clutching at the neck of culture and railing at the play of fancy until there is but precious little of the "merrie" life left to look to. The men who cleared away the forest can be pardoned if they lived their lives largely in the light of stern fact, and so might the sons of these men; but those as many generations removed as the present should be able to drop back to the even tenor of a domestic and school life that recognizes the play of fanciful imagination as an essential part of the business of living at all. No sooner had the founders of our nation succeeded in giving men their long-coveted political freedom than science, cock-sure of being able to solve the riddle of existence, strode upon the scene and smote the favourite creatures of the imagination hip and thigh. It not only played havoc with the fairies of our fathers, but it came perilously near doing the same with their faith. And as a result, a material and utilitarian tone has taken hold of education in most places, and boys must be practical, scientific, and wear old heads on young shoulders. This same tendency had begun in the days of Charles Lamb, for he wrote the following protest to Coleridge: "Knowledge must now come to the child in the shape of knowledge, and his empty noddle must be turned with conceit at his own powers when he has learnt that a horse is an animal and Billy is better than a horse and such like; instead of that beautiful interest in wild tales which made the child a man while all the time he suspected himself to be no bigger than a child. Science has succeeded to poetry no less in the little walks of children than with men. Is there possibility of averting this sore evil? Think of what you would have been now if, instead of being fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural history." And what must be said to supplanting the subject of fairy life by the anatomy and physiology of the human body? Is not a boy who knows the happy likeness of Old King Cole or Allan-a-Dale as well educated as he who recognizes the picture of an alcoholic liver? All this educational pother about having boys practical and trained to reason instead of being imaginative and romantic will die of its own accord some day, and then they may once more listen to merrie tales told under the greenwood tree.

The boy who has been nurtured on tales of fancy and who trusts to things to work out for the best of their own accord will generally fall into ways of cheerfulness and contentment. He will play the game of life out with more of heart and courage, and less of doubt and fear. He may be something of an impractical dreamer, but he will be kind and true. He will not aim to understand all mysteries and all knowledge, but will aim to make people happy rather than learned. His early experience of the feelings of pity and terror will refine his emotions as much as it did in the age of Thespias those of the Greek youth. In other words, his early familiarity with fairy tales, whether learned by word of mouth from his father, his nurse, or his teacher, will set his face in the right direction. And to keep it so turned he will of necessity have to build up a fairy library. What that library might contain and what he should know as a perfect lesson must now be considered.

A sense of fitness rather than a feeling of loyalty to the language points to the English fairy and household tales as the ones with which to begin. If the teacher has a folk-lore curiosity and interest which aid him in giving these fairy tales to the children, that is well and good. But this historic view is by no means so important as it is to know thoroughly the tales themselves and to enter into an appreciation of them with a keen and boyish interest. The present concern is with a limited number of stories that are so wholly good and so very necessary to the child that he should come to know them completely. Then from this beginning the boy can wander at his own sweet will and keep friends with Jacobs, Perrault, Grimm, Andersen, and, last of all and no doubt best of all, "The Arabian Nights' Entertainments." But from all of these the rude vigour, the dramatic directness, and above all the playful humour of the English tales will first captivate him. They have not quite the grace, simplicity, and elegance of the French tales, nor the more fanciful and romantic touches of the German tales; yet, as Mr. Jacobs has told us, "They have the quality of going home to English children. The English folk-muse wears homespun and plods afoot, albeit with a cheerful smile and a steady gaze."

"English Fairy Tales" and "More English Fairy Tales" should be in the hands of every child. The stories are told in a way that preserves all of their dramatic interest and humour of phrase and situation. This characteristic humour of English folk-fancy, Mr. Jacobs has skilfully caught. He has this to say of his way of telling them: "I am inclined to follow the traditions of my old nurse, who was not bred at Girton and scorned at times the rules of Lindley Murray and the diction of polite society. And I have left vulgarisms in the mouths of vulgar people. Children appreciate the dramatic propriety of this as much as do their elders. Generally speaking, it has been my ambition to write as a good old nurse would speak when she tells Fairy Tales. I am doubtful of my success in catching the colloquial-romantic tone appropriate for such narratives, but they had to be done or else my object, to give a book of English Fairy Tales which children would listen to, would have been unachieved. This book is to be read aloud and not merely to be taken by the eye." All children should rejoice, that, so long after Puritanism had suppressed these tales in many parts of England, and after its decline they had come to be supplanted by the Mother Goose tales of Perrault, there has come such an excellent retelling of them in the Jacobs books. If there be anything in fairy literature better than "Tom Tit Tot," I have not found it. It is altogether fitting to have it stand first in such a great collection. And with other such very good tales as "Cap o' Rushes," "The Three Sillies," and "Jack and the Golden Snuff Box," to say nothing of the dramatic telling of "Hop o' My Thumb," "Jack the Giant Killer," and "Jack and the Bean Stalk," the pleasure from reading the book at the right age will mayhap never be surpassed. One might regret that the curious and helpful information of the notes had not been reserved for a separate treatise for mature readers, did not the amusing illustration of the court-crier by John D. Batton give the warning that the tales are closed and children must not read any further. After having learned some of the best stories through the ear, the boy must certainly buy and keep these two books.

After the English tales are familiar, the boy might be given the Mother Goose tales as first collected by Charles Perrault in 1696. They had been current orally in France for many years before this, and they undoubtedly had their origin in the oldest folk-lore of the world. It is said Perrault wrote them down as he heard them with the intention of writing them over in verse after the manner of the fables done by La Fontaine. But his little son, to whom they had been told, rewrote them from memory as an exercise, and the lad's version, being so simple and direct, was given to the world in that form by his father. They slowly found their way into England and for a while supplanted the native tales. There is surely a universal appeal in such stories as "Little Red Riding Hood," "Cinderella," "Puss in Boots," and "Sleeping Beauty." The best rendering of these to-day is a small volume by Charles Welsh, entitled "The Tales of Mother Goose." It has none of the poetic justice that refuses to have the wolf eat up Little Red Riding Hood. It would be well for some publisher to reprint an edition issued in New York in 1795 under the title of "Tales of Passed Times, by Mother Goose." Some good renderings of particular tales, however, may be found scattered through collections of fairy stories that have appeared.

The temptation to say something about the famous "Cruikshank Fairy Book" in which some of these Mother Goose tales appeared cannot be resisted at this point. It is a very noticeable illustration of the inability of a man of talent always to keep to his last. No artist has ever drawn such superior pictures for children as did Cruikshank. Where can anything better be found than Jack's descent on the harp, the Ogre's flight, or the presentation of the boots to the King? Why then did not Cruikshank make a picture book with pictures only? Why did he leave his last to write the stories anew in order that he might take the opportunity to give his own views and convictions on what he considered important social and educational questions; or "to introduce a few temperance truths with a fervent hope that some good may result therefrom"? The notion that moralizing makes children good has spoiled many an artistic horn and has never made a good educational spoon.

In Cruikshank's work in illustrating "Household and Fairy Tales" by the brothers Grimm, we have a masterful production from the best period of his genius, and we have it illustrating a superior text, the translation made by Edward Taylor in 1823 and reprinted in 1868 with an introduction by John Ruskin. Thackeray said that they had been the first real, kindly, agreeable, and infinitely amusing and charming illustrations for a child's book in England, and that they united beauty, fun, and fancy. And who was a better judge of this than Thackeray? If it was not too bold to say that "Tom Tit Tot" is the best household fairy story in the language, it could be said with equal truth that Cruikshank's etching of the two elves in "The Elves and the Shoemaker" is the best fairy illustration yet done. These German stories are charming. The contention that the stories are creepy is but the contention of a moralist. It should carry no weight with the teacher who would give the boy artistic notions of beauty, love, and mystery. These notions are always safer than those of cold realism worked out in artificial conduct. Sir Walter Scott wrote in this strain to Edward Taylor in 1832: "There is a sort of wild fairy interest in them which makes me think them fully better adapted to awaken the imagination and soften the heart of childhood than the good boy stories which have in late years been composed for them. In the latter case, their minds are, as it were, put into stocks, like their feet at the dancing-school, and the moral always consists in good moral conduct being crowned with temporal success. Truth is, I would not give one tear shed over Little Red Riding Hood for all the benefit to be derived from a hundred histories of Johnny Goodchild. In a word, I think the selfish tendencies will soon enough be acquired in this arithmetical age; and that, to make the higher class of character, our wild fictions—like our own simple music—will have more effect in awakening the fancy and elevating the disposition than the colder and more elaborate compositions of modern authors and composers." It is hoped the pictures of Cruikshank and the translation of Taylor will soon appear in a large and attractive volume.

When the dramatic colloquialism and humour of the English tales, the superior grace, elegance, and beauty of the French tales, and the light, airy fancy of the German tales have been presented to the boy, the Scandinavian tales of Hans Christian Andersen will give him a refinement in fairy life that he has not found before. They do not have, save in a few such cases as "Holger the Dane," the quality of appealing to grown-ups as well as to children—the test of a child's book that is literature, or rather the test of a man yet on good terms with the world. They are somewhat dull, wearisome, and overdone in places and do not stop when the story is ended, as we find in "The Fir Tree"; yet in some way they temper the English and German tales and meet Ruskin's requirement that a child's tale should sometimes be both sweet and sad. In fact, these stories are great favourites with many children, who actually prefer "The Ugly Duckling" to "The Golden Bird." The boy might early start with a few of the individual stories so delightfully illustrated by Helen Stratton, and then when he can afford it buy the excellent edition illustrated by the Danish artist, Hans Tegner, from all of which he will get a new and pleasant touch of fairy life.

There yet remains one book, not always called a fairy book, that must be read before the boy leaves the land of fancy and wonder. It was the favourite volume of Stevenson, and small surprise is it to any one who knows the book and knows of the man. Nor is it less surprising to think that the Oriental scholar, Antoine Galland, who first gave these stories to Europe two hundred years ago, would be called out of bed at night to tell them to an eager crowd under his window, the crowd always begging for just one story more. One might search in vain for a companion volume to this most capital of all books, "The Arabian Nights' Entertainments." The tales are on a bigger scale than are the English and German tales. There is a vastness of desert and starry sky in the tent life of the Arab that is unknown in the cottage life of the English peasant. And this is reflected in the tale that is told. Immensity and Oriental mystery have taken the place of colloquial directness and humour, and we have almost pure romance. Their richness and splendour captivate the reader and transport him into a wonderland of powerful magicians and magnificent palaces. The book is elemental in its appeal and will always furnish royal entertainment for man or boy. And the man who is not too completely grown up will keep his Lane's translation within arm's reach against the hours when the dull cares of the world are weighing him down.

As fairy tales have a common plot in many languages, so has there been a common way of preserving and transmitting them. This has been by oral tradition. They were originally to be given by word of mouth, a method that is yet best fitted to curious children. The teacher must give them through the ear, if they are to be learned and retained. Whenever it is possible in doing this, he must not forget to start with the pleasant beginning, "once upon a time," nor yet to omit the best of all conclusions, "and all went well ever afterwards"—neglecting, of course, to add that truism for grown-ups, "that didn't go ill." In this practice of giving a few choice tales through the ear is the preparation for the time when a boy will eagerly thumb a favourite volume of his own in some quiet nook. But a few of the better tales must first have been mastered so that they can be told with dramatic directness. Here then the same practice must hold that is followed in all reading: do not overread. A few stories are to be well learned and a few books to be owned, but only a few. If the boy once comes to feel his strength from a limited number of good stories, the made-to-order story for the fellow with the curls will never appeal to him. What he knows he will know and be glad to know.

If it be presumption to select a limited list of stories by grades when the world is so full of stories, it must be presumption. There are stories that can have no substitutes until the world has had another accumulated experience of some hundreds of years of fireside lore. The list that follows has been found good for a limited list, yet as complete a one as a child can master. No apology need be offered for the insertion of Ruskin's great story or the two stories of jungle life by Kipling. They are modern, but form a good bridge to modern books that have real merit. A boy who will not read "Red Dog" with an interest on fire had better grow weak on a Rollo book. His taste is surely to be lamented. He will early fall in love and later fall into cynicism.

Here is the list for the first four or five grades to be given in about the order in which they are written: "The Old Woman and Her Pig," "The Three Little Pigs," and "Henny-Penny," all as told by Jacobs in "English Fairy Tales"; "The Three Bears" as told by the poet Southey, where the little old woman continues to play a part; "Little Red Riding Hood" in which the wolf eats her up, "Cinderella; or, the Glass Slipper," and "The Master Cat; or, Puss in Boots" from "The Tales of Mother Goose" as told by Charles Welsh; "Tom Tit Tot," "The History of Tom Thumb," "Jack the Giant Killer," and "Whittington and His Cat" from "English Fairy Tales"; "Beauty and the Beast" and "Hop o' My Thumb" from "The Children's Book"; "Hansel and Grethel," "The Blue Light," and "The Golden Bird" from Taylor's translation of the Grimm tales; "The Ugly Duckling" and "The Fir Tree" from Andersen; "The Story of Aladdin; or, the Wonderful Lamp," "The History of Ali Baba and the Forty Robbers Killed by One Slave," and "The Story of Sinbad the Sailor" from "The Arabian Nights' Entertainments"; "The King of the Golden River" by John Ruskin; "Kaa's Hunting" and "Red Dog" from "The Jungle Books" of Rudyard Kipling.

When these stories have been well learned through the ear, their purpose as literature and as groundwork for narrative speech will have been accomplished. Of course, the teacher must read many stories to his class besides the ones named above; but he is not to require more than a mere listening to the reading from a point of interest only. By and by the boy will fall into the habit of reading aloud to some one else, and this may now be trusted to carry him along. Wise suggestion on the part of the teacher will direct him in getting a few good volumes that he can call his own. A fairy library, not large but well selected, will become a comfort to him in later years when the lamp is getting dim. For the man who finds himself unable to read with pleasure a fairy tale that charmed him in youth proclaims himself a slave either to relentless materialism or to cold and dignified egotism. And if he be not obstinately short-sighted, he cannot help seeing that the man who yet loves a fairy tale is one who also fears God, is clear of head, and is brave of heart.

In the succession of the seasons, the coming of spring puts young blood into old veins much as it dresses the gray of winter in a lively green. The possibilities of the daughter of Ceres while she dwells beneath the earth are likewise to be found between the covers of a fairy library. A man might travel many a long way in search of a better fountain of youth.

There is not the slightest necessity for schoolmen's staring at one another when it is proposed to let boys once more look through magic casements at the classic myths of Greece and Rome. These masters of knowledge can depend upon it that their pedagogic systems are wrong if they set themselves up against the primitive feelings of mystery and fear. There is yet too strong a trace in the blood to forsake the gods and heroes that have satisfied instincts, very human and commendable, for many generations. No goblin nor witch needs to be cast out when the blood flows red; it is merely an indication of abundant life drawn from the strength and courage that marked an heroic age. If a boy's talents be anything but mediocre, they will naturally turn to this age to satisfy a longing. It is small wonder that the young Keats should stay up all night reading Chapman's Homer, or should translate the Æneid into English "just for fun." These glimpses were pure serene to a poet who afterwards caught in such a rare way their classic beauty; and the gods surely loved him for it, for they decreed that he should die young.

The charm of the myths of Greek and Roman literature is enduring, because they embody both truth and beauty—sometimes held to be one and the same. Nothing but a perverted taste, that is fed on the prosaic processes of material achievements or the artificial standards of a moral system, could fail to find pleasure and inspiration in them. Their appeal is artistic, to the sense of beauty. Their truth is a deification of the longings of the human heart as it seeks for comfort and protection in a world whose mysterious events can hardly be fathomed. And their gods and heroes embody the great virtues that marked a classic people as much as they did the beauty of their intellectual achievements—the virtues of courage, patience, honour, loyalty, contentment. A normal disposition will take satisfaction in this interpretation of truth and beauty. Not only will its possessor be satisfied, but he will be ennobled by the very presence of these qualities before his keen senses. The world will seem to him more than a place in which he is to toil and spin day after day; his soul will dwell apart on a mountain where not all mortals can ever climb, a mountain crowded with culture. He can temporarily leave the common crofts, seek his solace and confession, and be all the better to ply again his allotted task. He will learn of one spot where the greed and brutality of industrial progress cannot set its heel and leave the print of what is practical and ugly.

This cry for the practical has laid a curse on the culture of many a boy. He has been educated for the eight or ten hours that he works for his board and keep, and the rest of his waking day finds him ill at ease in a field of study or an appreciation of the better things of life. Not being able to "speak Greek" or to talk with men who do speak Greek, he naturally turns to the spectacular, the ornate, the frivolous. Nothing of an order above the broadly burlesque or the melodramatic will hold his interest and attention. The theatre of Dionysus is too severely classical in the beauty with which it represents life in action, and he never learns to sit out a pure tragedy, hear "sweetest Shakespeare warble his native wood-notes wild," or dilate on the right emotions, if "Jonson's learnéd sock be on."

The boy's talents are in all probability not at fault. They are merely dressed in the prevailing fashion. This fashion is set by a standard of what is useful for material success in life. The subject-matter of education must be scientific facts, and with these facts the boy must be taught to reason. The uselessness of imagination and memory as mental powers is held up to him. It is not for him to enrich his mind by what an active and retentive memory can give him of classic literature. In fact, the memory is looked upon, by the "scientific gent" (as Thackeray labelled him) in his laboratory, as a minor concern and left to work out its own salvation—if it really needs to be saved. And as for the memory being used to chronicle the exploits of mythical heroes in an age of superstition, that would be unthinkable in the day of scientific research. Let not the boy then be held up to blame if he is no more able to name the Olympian council than was Tom Sawyer to name the first two disciples chosen. The fault is with the system, the rational scientific system.

Greek is well nigh gone from the high school course. Latin is under indictment. In their stead we are to have such substitutes as biology and chemistry. The exploits of Achilles and the wanderings of Æneas are to be supplanted by the dissection of an oyster and the making of soap. Now oysters and soap are all right in their way, and it is a good thing we have the one to eat and the other to wash with; but when it comes to using them to satisfy the instinct for a fight or for the discovery of a hidden treasure, that is a stupid and brutal forcing of a theory. If progress must come at the price of selling a boy's birthright for a mess of pottage, it is a pity some one cannot smite her with the edge of a sword. The study of the humanities that has been the bone and sinew of generations past cannot give place to the scientific vogue without wrecking the hope and desire of many a romantic youth. To leave out the classics is to proclaim a material age to be bigoted, boastful, and self-sufficient. Yet that is exactly what the scientific educator, who calls himself modern and progressive, is proposing, because business demands it. What claim has a business demand on academic policy, anyhow? Is not vagabondia as much entitled to the floor?

"The descent to Avernus is easy." Reformed spelling is not so hard as Greek roots. In fact, the plan is to follow along the line of least resistance. The memory must not be cumbered with dead matter if the boy can reason on experiments for practical business demands. And are not the myths of these Greek and Latin languages too imaginative and impractical, covered with too much of academic dust, to serve a purpose in a practical age? This is heralded from educational convention to educational convention, and whilst the breaking of idols goes merrily on, a few brave teachers who speak Greek are regularly taking a Spartan stand to preserve what yet remains of the classic structure. In a boastful age they are not going to forget. If Homer and Ovid are forced by business demands from the academic halls, what hope is there left in Israel?

The one and only one seems to be the myths in translation. Their claim to the attention of teachers can be clearly given from the preface to the best telling of them that has yet appeared, Bulfinch's "Age of Fable; or, Beauties of Mythology," a happy title to such a valuable book: "If no other knowledge deserves to be called useful but that which helps to enlarge our possessions or to raise our station in society, then Mythology has no claims to the appellation. But if that which tends to make us happier and better can be called useful, then we claim that epithet for our subject; for Mythology is the handmaid of literature, and literature is one of the best allies of virtue and promoters of happiness.

"Without a knowledge of mythology much of the elegant literature of our own language cannot be understood and appreciated. When Byron calls Rome 'the Niobe of nations,' or says of Venice, 'she looks a Sea-Cybele fresh from ocean,' he calls up to the mind of one familiar with our subject illustrations more vivid and striking than the pencil could furnish, but which are lost to the reader ignorant of mythology. Milton abounds in similar allusions. The short poem 'Comus' contains more than thirty such, and the ode 'On the Morning of the Nativity' half as many. Through 'Paradise Lost' they are scattered profusely. This is one reason why we often hear people say that they cannot enjoy Milton. But were these persons to add to their solid acquirements the easy learning of this little volume, much of the poetry of Milton which has appeared to them 'harsh and crabbed' would be found 'musical as is Apollo's lute.'"

The truth of this last statement is very evident to the English teacher in high school work. He must stop to teach myths that should be the common possession of all children before he can go on with his work in the "Minor Poems." If boys would enter the high school with some of the classic myths firmly drilled into them, they would read with pleasure the most imaginative of all the English poets. Mythology in translation is a fixed possession of English literature, and it must be grasped more or less in detail before the boy can ever expect to have the marks of literary culture and to read figurative composition with ease. With the beginning of school life must begin the learning of myths by word of mouth. No classical dictionary can later take the place of this practice. These myths are to be mastered and reproduced in good English; and after a few years of such drill the children will read the stories of gods and heroes with the same ease that they do a colloquial fairy tale. It is the same old step from the story-teller to the book and a quiet corner where no one can break the spell.

Fortunately there is not so extensive a field of mythology suitable for use as there is of fairy literature, and the boy can easily hope to make it his own. The field must exclude both the modern nature myths that have been compounded to suit the occasion, and the cruder and more recent discoveries of savage races. In short, Greek mythology must make both the beginning and the end of what is to be learned; for there has been no nation other than Greece that has developed a mythical faith so intellectual in its scope and so beautiful in its expression. This beauty has been expressed through both art and literature. It would be an almost unpardonable neglect on the part of a teacher if a boy were permitted to go through school and not be familiar with the heroic age. He should know the stories of the gods and heroes; know the Olympian council, the labours of Hercules, the adventures of Jason, of Perseus, of Achilles; he should know the Trojan War in its picturesque greatness and the wonderful exploits of Odysseus on his homeward journey; and he should know such stories as those of Apollo, of Œdipus, of Orpheus, of Admetus, of Proserpine, of Niobe, and of Psyche. This knowledge of Greek mythology will bring one of the most pleasurable and stimulating of all feelings to a boy, the consciousness of wandering at ease in a domain where all mortals have not been privileged to enter.

Almost hand in hand with the Greek myths must be taken their variations in Roman life and the few that seem to be original there. Although the Greek and Roman deities had most attributes in common, they were yet distinct, each having his particular name. It is unfortunate that the Latin names have come into such extensive use and that we always speak of Jupiter instead of Zeus, and Venus instead of Aphrodite. But the Hellenic spirit is hard to keep foremost in this commercial age. If the glare of the arc light could be screened at times and the starry sky be read as a book wherein the constellations still hold their Greek names, some of the heroes that have been made permanent might inspire the observer with a feeling to read again their story. Yet let us have the sweetness of the rose, whatever be its name.

It is rather perplexing to know what myths to give the child when he first enters school and through the first four or five years of his school life. The taste and culture of the teacher have much to do with this. But whatever is given, give it as it is written without deforming it by having it adapted to suit the years of the boy. He can understand many things of which the teacher is not aware. Take it directly from "The Age of Fable," and at the start remove all difficulties of telling by drilling on the pronunciation of proper names. Then let the boy learn the myth through the ear and tell it fluently and exactly. While doing this, the art that is so closely woven with Greek myths must become familiar also. The boy must be able to recognize such works as "Aphrodite of Melos," "Apollo of the Belvidere," "Diana of Versailles," "The Faun of Praxiteles," "The Laocoön Group," and "Niké of Samothrace." The refining influence that comes through them is not easy to explain, but it comes. Take it for what it is worth, as you take the myths themselves. And at no time should the teacher seek for philosophical arrangement and interpretation, that at best is merely a confusion of words, or moralize on something that is purely dramatic instead of didactic. The myths are stories and should be used as stories.

A reasonably good list to use for this kind of drill work in, say the first four grades, is the following, to be learned in the order written: "Latona and the Frogs," "Arachne," "Niobe," "Midas and the Golden Touch," "Apollo and Daphne," "Pandora and her Box." "Narcissus," "Ceres and Proserpine," "Ulysses and Polyphemus," "Dædalus," "Æolus," "Philemon," "Vulcan," "Cyparissus and the Stag," "Arion," "Ulysses and the Sirens," "Callisto and Areas," "Ariadne's Thread." "Io and the Gadfly," "Perseus and Medusa," "The Wooden Horse," "Phaeton," "Pygmalion and Galatea," "Æsculapius and Apollo," "Jason and the Golden Fleece," "The Death of Hector," "Cupid and Psyche," "Ulysses and Penelope," "Pegasus," "Orpheus and Eurydice," "The Labors of Hercules," "Admetus and Alcestis." After mastering these stories, the boy will be ready to read for himself.

Let him first read Hawthorne's "The Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys," and then the companion volume, "Tanglewood Tales for Girls and Boys; a Second Wonder-Book." These are indispensable. Then he must read a good edition of Kingsley's "Heroes; or, Greek Fairy Tales for My Children." That is a delightful book, despite its deplorable tendency to preach. Now he is ready for that charming continuous tale, Lamb's "Adventures of Ulysses," which of course he must own and keep near at hand. He can now take up and learn the second most valuable work he can own as a student of literature, Bulfinch's "Age of Fable." Of course it is understood that Palgrave's "Golden Treasury" is to be the first most valuable one.

Some dozen years ago there appeared in a magazine a story called "The Little Brother of the Books." It was the story of a small crippled boy who each afternoon went his way to a certain book stall and was always found absorbed in the same book. The book was the "Age of Fable." That he did this is not strange to any one who owns the book and knows it well. There are few compilations in which the richness of a literature is gathered together and retold in a way that will make it endure as a book. Yet this is true of the "Age of Fable." Every student should own an illustrated copy of it, and preferably one that has never been edited. It is told as a story, and a captivating story it is. A quotation from the preface cannot be resisted here: "Our book is not for the learned, nor for the theologian, nor for the philosopher, but for the reader of English literature, of either sex, who wishes to comprehend the allusions so frequently made by public speakers, lecturers, essayists, and poets, and those which occur in polite conversation.

"We trust our young readers will find it a source of entertainment; those more advanced, a useful companion in their reading; those who travel, and visit museums and galleries of art, an interpreter of paintings and sculptures; those who mingle in cultivated society, a key to allusions which are occasionally made; and, last of all, those in advanced life, pleasure in retracing a path of literature which leads them back to the days of their childhood, and revives at every step the associations of the morning of life.

"The permanency of these associations is beautifully expressed in the well-known lines of Coleridge:

Just how far books and reading are questions of taste, or should be looked on as questions of taste merely, is passing hard to say. That there are prevailing fashions, local-colour variations, and a few more or less permanent models is noticeable to such a degree that an observer might conclude motley to be the only wear. The readers seem to be no more able to agree in what they like than did the urchins over the pease-porridge in the nursery rhyme:

So it goes in books with every one to his own liking, though the particular likings are a very unsubstantial guide to the literary merits of the books liked. A book may become a fashion based on conventional acquiescence and appearances rather than on real worth. Let the judgment of individualism, with courage and restraint, lay bare the fashion, and where then is its habitation or what is its name? Such judgment sets up more or less arbitrary lines of taste that run wide, and it makes a guess at what is enduring literature, a hazardous kind of guess. Yet the peculiar thing of it all is that in this guess pedantry is as likely to play false as is the capricious fancy of the reading public that takes the book of the hour, whatever it be. This makes a kind of self-constituted division of readers, each satisfied with his lot and each serving a purpose.

Some readers' tastes, however, are neither prudish nor slovenly. They are very catholic and succeed in picking out what is good from both the bookish and the popular kinds of books. They can read any book that is a book. But you recall that Charles Lamb could not reckon directories, scientific treatises, the works of Hume and Gibbon, and generally those "volumes which no gentleman's library should be without" as being books. If to these were added those books which no gentleman's library should contain, we come to a field fairly easy of investigation. In other words, we must get back to that field that includes the literature of power rather than the literature of knowledge. Of course, if somebody chooses to read blockheaded encyclopædias, withering economic essays, proper Sunday school books, sophomoric novels, or privately printed verse, that is purely his own concern; but such reading is beyond the pale of real books as they relate to well-regulated courses in the home or in school life.

How far is a teacher to be influenced in his selection of books for students by their lines of taste? That depends on how far the tastes of readers in general indicate that books of their liking are to be classed as books of power, as real literature. It is rash to say that a book has real merit because it becomes the best seller of a season; nor is it to be condemned for the very reason that it is a best seller. However, the general praise of a hundred thousand readers is not so much an index to the book's merit as the book is an index to the character of the readers who praise it. Unqualified laudation of a new book, especially a novel, is an annoying kind of hysteria that has failed to find any other outlet. But the very fact that the book is opportune or spectacular carries it along. It grows up and flourishes in a day, and in a day dies out.

It is curious to note how times change in the reading world and with them lines of taste. To-day the line most evident in the American reading public, and the one most difficult to meet in the development of a taste for good books, is the passion to be up-to-date, as its commercial phraseology would have it. It is awakened by that wonderful agent, the advertising appeal, that deals not with quality but with quantity. In books it calls for a story, and that story must be the latest or it is certain to be absolutely neglected. On being asked what dish he preferred at a dinner, Thoreau said, "The nearest." That was in keeping with his theory of cutting down the denominator; the theory of the reader of the latest is one of multiplying the numerator. As the proper thing, each new book is taken, horns, hide, and tallow. The reader's reverence for the present grows apace, and he no longer has use for old wine, old friends, and old books. This is a reflection of a widespread impression in American life that up to the present time but little truth of substantial value as to methods of living and thinking has been found out. A wonderful industrial progress, working through inventive skill, has given the notion that anything over a generation old is scarcely worth a passing notice, a notion fatal to all art. Every one must seize in a hurry the newest thing in the market, lest he be branded as out of date. And it all looks as if everybody was trying to do what Alice found them trying to do in Wonderland, running as fast as they could to keep where they were.

This mad rush for the latest is largely aided and abetted by that invention of the devil, the literary section of many Sunday newspapers. Finding research a bit dull, the ambitious or needy doctor of philosophy launches into literary criticism for the reading public. He at once discovers that the college sophomore who wrote a particular story is another Thackeray in style. Then in turn a Dickens or a Balzac is found out. Finally the news is passed on the Rialto that there is being issued a story combining the delightful characteristics of the three old masters. And thus and thus it goes, with the whirligig of Sunday newspaper criticism spinning out the tastes of the reading public.

Now if these titled critics ever cease discovering great new books as regularly as the day of rest comes around, or if the paper reading public cease to take these critics as truthful, then the teacher may hope to find a more sympathetic field in which to work. Of course the teacher must shake off his pedantry and quit his foolishness in taking a classic beyond the years of the boy whose veins are full of red blood, and putting it on a dissecting table for the study of etymology and syntax. He must know fairly well the boy's likes and dislikes and remember that they are very strong. And he must also remember that the boy is joined to his idols, and these are not to be broken until better ones are substituted. Iconoclasm for its own sake is sheer waste. The teacher himself must be wedded to good literature, or his efforts will avail little. If he knows, from his own quiet reading, a few good books well, that is enough. Sympathetic appreciation, like good nature, is contagious. If the teacher does not appreciate the book, the boy will not—unless he does it out of pardonable perversity.

The teacher has more to do with shaping the boy's reading than he at first sees. He is apt to hesitate because the public library, ambitious for a circulation record, gives the boy what he will be likely to read; the Sunday school library, anxious to inculcate moral principles through stories false to life, gives him what he does not want; the home, eager to please him in every way, gives him anything he asks for. Yet in the face of this threefold condition, the wise and sympathetic teacher can direct an average course of reading that has in it more good than poor books. To do this, he must work along two lines: discourage overreading and encourage ownership in books. The practice of overreading is the worst reading practice in modern life. Like all extremism, it is hard to meet. It is as unpopular to oppose unlimited reading as it is to oppose unlimited charity or unlimited education; yet they all need to be carried out in moderation. The aim should be the mastery of a few good books and the discouragement of the passion for constant variety that indicates a lack of singleness of purpose through a lack of self-control and the power of sustained attention. The greatest aid to this will be the encouragement of small savings and the buying of good editions. When this is done, encourage the boy to read out loud to his family at home in the evenings the portions of his book he likes best. If he does this, he and his book are friends as long as he continues reading. Soon he will have a small, well-chosen, and much-used library. The boy who will buy a book with his own money, will read aloud from it to his family, will reread it, is safely started on the way to becoming a well-read man.

After feeling the need of good books in the home where they can be turned to as the fancy directs, and after feeling a desire to buy such books, the boy will next need to know what titles to select. And that is no easy question. Temperament, home circumstances, occupation, and many other factors enter into it. But the thing that helps out is the fact that the range of books of power is universal, embracing so many moods, that enough good titles may be found for any one, however whimsical his tastes may be. In fact the boy will find many more good books to his liking than he will ever find time to read, or than he needs to read. The problem will become one of exclusion. Two lists for two boys of different dispositions may vary widely and yet both be good literature. But in the range of English books there are a few that the common judgment of readers and the praise of critics have so generally classed as necessary to the shelves of a cultivated man, that they should be given first place and in some way or other a reading and a rereading of them be secured. It is not meant that reading is never to depart from this seemingly arbitrary standard. That would be at least prudish, to say nothing of its being impracticable. What is meant is that such things as comic supplements, at once stupid, silly, and debauching to both the intellectual and the artistic tastes, should be kept from all boys. The daily newspaper with its sensational head-lines telling of crimes is as bad, and the schoolboy has no business with it at all. But maybe the practice most widespread and fatal to an appreciation of books of real worth and power is the addiction to "juveniles" in the ever issuing series. If he has drunk to excess of these, the boy will have hopelessly weakened his ability ever to appreciate anything great. He will never be able to warm to the powerful deeds of Odysseus, Hector, or Joshua—he will be only a tolerable but proper grown-up. In the face of these and many more hindrances, reading will have to be rigidly directed, and in that directing, lines of appeal in the field of good literature can be drawn out. Generally the reason for a boy's revolting against a good book is the fact that whoever is in control of his reading presupposes that very thing. The book is often timidly handed out and with something of an apologetic air. By some peculiar piece of judgment it is believed that the boy prefers the book that is both insipid and stupid. This ineffectual effort arises from a lack of courage on the part of preceptor and parent: the old, old story of overindulgence. What may be sauce for the father should not always be sauce for the son. The theory that what is good for the one ought to be good for the other, even to food and drink, is only another sophism of a falsely sentimental age that is over-tolerant of what is called personal rights. The fact that Senator Hoar delighted in an occasional yellow back, is no reason why a boy should have such a story when he should be learning his catechism.

Before venturing on a list of books that will serve the boy fairly well as he passes through the primary and the grammar grades of school, a few of the superior books that have stood the test of time must be noticed. They are fundamental in school and in general reading. The arguments of literary critics as to what constitutes this good literature have no place in a work of this nature that aims to aid teachers and parents in selecting books for their children. It is enough to know that the verdict of time has been rendered in favour of such books as "The Arabian Nights' Entertainments," "Robinson Crusoe," and "Gulliver's Travels." A knowledge of such books is fundamental to any one who is ambitious to master the elements of English literature. And the mere fact that he knows them well will give him a conscious strength and pardonable feeling of superiority that the unlettered youth cannot have. After this he can be trusted to browse pretty much as he chooses. He may occasionally find the bars down, or maybe later go over the fences; but he has learned to judge of what is worth while, and will surely return to the books that gave him happy hours, whatever other tasks were laid on him.

In selecting this list for schoolboys there is a temptation to take works too mature for school age. This may come from that lingering instinct that supposes every one, no matter what the age, to be interested in the same things in which you are interested. The very best things for manhood are to be reserved for that time of life. Grammar school boys cannot appreciate the playful humour of Lamb, the prophetic scolding of Carlyle, or Thackeray's keen analysis of human weaknesses and foibles; neither can a high school boy do it, and it is foolish to insist that it be done. Schoolboys are not men, and they might be told to reserve the greater part of Carlyle and Thackeray until two or three years after they have cast their first vote. Neither author is adapted to a beardless youth. But then we have that wonderful pair of story-tellers, Scott and Stevenson! What boy can resist them or would ever think of trying to do so? If Margaret Ogilvy would not lay down a book of "that Stevenson man" until she had found out how the laddie got out of the barrel, do you suppose that a boy with adventurous blood in his veins could do so? Though the best test for a child's book is the fact that it has charms for the grown-up, he would certainly be foolish who would insist that the great books for mature men and women be read in youth. It is after all school days are ended and the boy has become a man well started in the actual affairs of life that he can read and appreciate "Vanity Fair," "Adam Bede," "Tess of the D'Urbervilles," or "Anna Karénina." The tendency to take great books for mature readers, abridge and overedit them, and then present them to adventurous boys by a laboratory method of minute dissection, is annoying and foolish. Boys who still enjoy harnessing a dog to a wagon are neither university students nor good literary critics. But they do like to find out how Robinson Crusoe made a canoe, Tom Canty ate his first royal dinner, or David Balfour helped Alan Breck defend the roundhouse.

Naturally, the first book to put into the hands of the primary school child to be called his own is a good illustrated edition of the Mother Goose rhymes. There is nothing to take the place of that accumulated wisdom of the nursery that is so charming to the ear. He has learned many of the jingles by word of mouth before his school age; but he now needs to own the book himself, read the words, and look at the pictures. The whole thing must be in one volume for him. But what volume? It is hardly safe to presuppose the possession of these nursery rhyme books before the school age, though that is exactly where they belong. Maybe for this reason it is better to start with the edition of Kate Greenaway that makes up in refinement and delicacy for what it lacks in power and intensity. It is unfortunate that there is no available reprint of the original edition of "Mother Goose's Melody" compiled by Oliver Goldsmith for John Newbery about 1765, which contained the "most celebrated songs and lullabies of the old British nurses, calculated to amuse children and incite them to sleep." To own such a quaint edition would surely be a delight. Nearly as quaint and delightful, especially the illustrations, is the "Only True Mother Goose Melodies" now reprinted from the Boston edition of 1839. Of the editions of recent years there are many good ones, the one appearing under the title of "National Rhymes of the Nursery" having superior illustrations by Leslie Brooke, but being marred by an artificial arrangement. If some artist with the genius of Cruikshank would give a few of the best years of his life to illustrating a complete collection of these rhymes, he would become a benefactor of childhood. And if such an edition were well made mechanically, printed on good unglazed linen paper from large type and good woodcuts, well sewed, and bound in linen or leather, the boy might consider himself favoured of the gods if he could call such a book his own. These "things that are old and pretty" deserve to be well arrayed. Yet they deserve to be read for their own sake, an enduring charm of sound. Professor Saintsbury has clearly pointed out that they should never be twisted into an authentic meaning according to the spirit of severest "scientism"; but they should be made "to serve as anthems and doxologies to the goddess whom in this context it is not satirical to call 'Divine Nonsensia,' who still in all lands and times condescends now and then to unbind the burden of meaning from the backs and brains of men, and lets them rejoice once more in pure, natural, senseless sound."

After the nursery rhymes, the next volumes for the boy's book shelf will be collections of fables and fairy tales. The animal fable is easiest to start with, and children like it best as a rule. Talking beasts kindle their imagination and stimulate their awakening powers. Fables are direct, simple, wise, and have a universal appeal. In the delightful first chapter of "The Newcomes," Thackeray tells us that long ages before Æsop, asses under lions' manes roared in Hebrew, sly foxes flattered in Etruscan, and wolves in sheep's clothing gnashed their teeth in Sanscrit. They are a common inheritance for childhood. The English-speaking child has a number of very good collections at his command, among them being the one recently issued with illustrations by Arthur Rackham and another in the New Cranford series illustrated by Richard Heighway, and he should surely own the one or the other. But in neither is the drawing quite so charming as is that of Boutet de Monvel for the French fables of La Fontaine.

What a pity that there is no single volume of fairy tales to meet the child's demands! It should contain the best of the English folk tales, the best of Perrault, the brothers Grimm, Andersen, and others; should have illustrations of the merit of Cruikshank's; should be artistically printed and bound—and it should be a big book. Children love big books. A child's book on thin paper and bound in limp leather would not be a child's book. Coloured illustrations are not necessary; children like a few lines in black and white; but it is necessary to have the book a kind of "ponderous tome." Then it can be read on the floor while it rests on the boy's knees as he sits cross-legged before the fire; or, better still, while he lies on his belly, his chin in his hands and his feet swaying in the air. While he is small, no real boy was ever designed to sit upright on a chair and hold a small book ten inches from his eyes, with the light coming over his left shoulder. Maybe some philanthropic publisher will some day issue a big book of tales to be owned by the boy and read at his ease. But the lack of it to-day necessitates the building up of a fairy library.

The first book to be put into the fairy library might be the charming "Golden Goose Book" of Leslie Brooke, followed by Cruikshank's "Fairy Book." The Mother Goose tales as first collected by Perrault should now be owned in a well-illustrated English translation. On account of their humour and their common everyday tone, the English household and folk tales will make a strong appeal. Scudder's "Folk Stories," S. Baring-Gould's "Old English Fairy Tales," and "Fairy-Gold" by Ernest Rhys are all good in their way; but "English Fairy Tales" by Joseph Jacobs, with its amusing illustrations by John Batton, is told in the simplest and most dramatic way, and it should be owned by every boy.

There is one collection of fairy tales that should come into the boy's possession about the end of the third school year, and that book is the excellent work of the brothers Grimm, whatever be the title. The one superior translation is the one made by Edward Taylor about 1826, and a reprint of it issued in 1878, with Cruikshank's etchings and Ruskin's introduction. But there are many good and simple translations that are well illustrated. After these highly imaginative tales of the German fireside, there should be owned a good translation of the romantic and refined tales of the North, the fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen. To these stories are many excellent illustrations, including those of Stratton, Tegner, and Dulac. It may not be possible and maybe not desirable to own editions of the tales of D'Aulnoy, Laboulaye, Hauff, and others, for the best of their stories may be found in some compilations. Among these are "Mother Goose Nursery Tales" issued by Nister, Andrew Lang's "Blue Fairy Book," "Big Book of Fairy Tales" collected by Walter Jerrold, "A Child's Book of Stories" illustrated by Jessie Wilcox Smith and the recently issued attractive edition of "The Fairy Book" by Dinah Maria Mulock. A distinct service could have been rendered to children if Andrew Lang had selected the best of the stories from his voluminous and unequally good colour fairy books and had issued them in one large, well-made volume with artistic illustrations.

And yet there remains the greatest and most wonderful of all fairy tales, the "Tales of a Thousand and One Nights," to be begun with the easier tales now, but only to be enjoyed thoroughly in the upper grammar grades. No other book is so romantic or so entrancing, nor does anybody ever get too old to read it. It worked its spell on Coleridge, for he wrote: "Give me the 'Arabian Nights' Entertainments' which I used to watch, till the sun shining on the bookcase appeared, and, glowing full upon it, gave me the courage to take it from the shelf." And was it not this book that made wonderful little Marjorie Fleming willing to sleep at the foot of the bed where she could continually read it? The translation made by Edward William Lane in 1839 and illustrated by William Harvey under his direction will never be surpassed; but Jonathan Scott's translation is easier for the boy to read. Many well-illustrated but not always well-edited editions may be found.

Will a boy read "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland"? Should a boy read "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland"? Yes and yes! Any boy who cannot enjoy the most delightful fooling that was ever put into a book deserves the greatest of sympathy. He is certainly full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. Where else was there ever such clever and curious nonsense? What mathematician other than Dodgson ever put before boys and girls such enduring work? It is a case where two and two does not always make four, but it does always make the pleasing thing. Much that goes as serious literature is not half so wise as is the playfulness of this book, nor is it so worthy of being thoroughly known and appreciated. Of course there are a few perpendicular people who see not that it has abiding charms. They cannot double or shake to the mood of its nonsense—nor do they find it grow "curiouser and curiouser" with each reading. Yet it is a classic for children, and it is going to endure.

As a general rule, books for children are cast in a rather serious mood. This is true of the myth and the romantic fairy tale. But the element of humour creeps into the English and the German household tales, for humour is necessary to all earnest living. How far this sense of humour is to be developed is a question hard to answer. This much is true, however: in mature years and under the full responsibility of life, a keen sense of humour is about the only thing that will save a man from himself at times, preserve his balance when he is nearing the borderland of tragedy. Now what is to be the nature of this humour? Is it to be the insipid burlesque that finds its pleasure in the medical almanac and the comic supplement? Or is it to be the kind that wears the sock with brains and taste, the kind that Touchstone has? The latter is the one that sparkles and is worth while. It is the kind that the child starts with in "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" and "The Rose and the Ring." It is the product of men who possess qualities of mind and heart such as Thackeray did. How Shakespeare must have doted on his jesters! And what musical nonsense refrains he wrote.

All this bears out De Quincey's saying that only a man of extraordinary talent can write nonsense. And nonsense literature is a test of the ability of a reader. Pitt once exclaimed: "Don't tell me of a man's being able to talk sense; every one can talk sense. Can he talk nonsense?" Now a child will talk nonsense and delight in it, even if it is nothing but a counting-out rhyme. Then he will come to prefer nonsense of a refined type, innocent and fantastic verse. A book of this kind that he will take a fancy to is Edward Lear's "Nonsense Songs"; and if it is the edition illustrated by Leslie Brooke, he will be grateful when a nonsense mood is on him. Ruskin called it the most beneficent and innocent of all nonsense books. The boy might start with this book, go to "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," and then try "The Rose and the Ring." When he reaches the upper grammar grades, he will then enjoy the splendid retelling of "The Adventures of Don Quixote," by Judge Parry, with Walter Crane's illustrations. If he does this, on reaching man's estate he will keep some favourite translation of this wonderful book of Cervantes in a convenient pocket edition along with his "Pickwick Papers."

Before going to the class of books based on myths, one brief work must be mentioned, not only because it marks an epoch in the making of children's books, but also because it is a child's classic with real merit, and about the only one on such a theme. Nearly all others of this kind are prudish, priggish, and inartistic. This one happens to have a loftiness of tone. Its style is as charming as this whimsical title: "The History of Little Goody Two Shoes, otherwise called Mrs. Marjory Two Shoes, the means by which she acquired her learning and wisdom, and in consequence thereof her estate; set forth at large for the benefit of those

Though America's contribution to children's literature of an enduring type has been limited, it is gratifying to know that America's most finished artist, Nathaniel Hawthorne, has given to that literature two books that every boy must know, "Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys" and "Tanglewood Tales for Girls and Boys; a Second Wonder-Book." That every boy who is going to become a mature reader of good books needs to know the myths of Greece and Rome, goes without saying. Now he had better learn these from a book having a literary touch than from the ordinary telling of text-books. For this reason he should completely master these two books by Hawthorne. The illustrated edition of the former by Walter Crane and George Wharton Edwards' illustrations of the latter are both fine. Not so good as these two, yet necessary, is Charles Kingsley's "Heroes; or, Greek Fairy Tales for My Children." And the telling of the story of the Odyssey by Charles Lamb in his "Adventures of Ulysses" is good to read, but rather difficult before the last year of the grammar grades. The wonderful exploits of the heroes in the Iliad should be familiar to every boy, and he can get them about all in Bulfinch's "Age of Fable" as well as anywhere else. This book he must surely own, and whether it is called merely a text-book or not, it is the best work that has yet appeared on the mythology of the world as it is found in classical allusions of English books. If he learns the story of the siege of Troy and the return to Ithaca from this book, he may want to hear Chapman speak out loud and bold a few years later.

Does any schoolboy from a home other than one in which Puritan notions yet prevail read "Pilgrim's Progress"? If he does not, the fault is not in the book. It is as interesting as it is vitally true, and has been positively helpful. According to Macaulay, it has been loved by those too simple to admire it. There is really no such thing as an uninteresting great book. There are uninterested people, though there should not be an uninterested normal boy. If there is, he is a victim of the emasculating process of sugar-coated teaching, parental indulgence, and vaudeville amusement. Or maybe he has the habit of the boy's series, that cuts all characters to the same fashion, the fashion of prudery. In either case he will never be a pilgrim. Of course it would be foolish to insist on a boy's reading many such books, even if there were more like it written. You might as well insist on seven sermons a week for a man. One in seven days seems often enough to be effective; and one great book like this one, if well mastered, is all that the boy needs. In mature years he can again read it and marvel at its intrinsic greatness and find it something of a reflection of his own experiences in life. And by having done this he may chance to read such great poetical allegories as the "Faerie Queene" and the "Divine Comedy."

As this allegory of Bunyan's represented the spiritual experiences of life as the Puritan saw it, so does "Robinson Crusoe" represent the Puritan view of the practical virtues in experience, such as the virtues of prudence, ingenuity, and patience. But for all this it is one of the most fascinating and typical of English stories, and one of the really great ones. Every lad must know this book. Stevenson tells of a Welsh blacksmith who learned to read that he might add this hero to his possibilities of experience.

The third book of that great half-century following the Restoration is one of the few books written to be read by men that has become a child's classic. No wonder Swift afterwards exclaimed, "What a genius I had when I wrote that book!" Yet children read it with pleasure without seeing anything in it but the interesting adventures of Gulliver. Of course, the voyages to Lilliput and to Brobdingnag are the only ones to be given to the boy, and it is unfortunate that publishers have not generally recognized this in issuing "Gulliver's Travels" for children. It is less necessary to read the other two voyages than it is to read the second part of "Pilgrim's Progress" and the "Further Adventures of Robinson Crusoe."

There is a field of reading very much akin to the field of mythology in which there is no single book that the boy can read that is so permanent in its form as is the "Wonder-Book," yet it is a field in which the boy should feel at home. That is the field that includes the Arthurian legends and the Robin Hood stories. Among the many books that have appeared, the excellent work done by the poet Lanier in his "Boy's King Arthur" and by the late artist Howard Pyle should surely find a place on every boy's book shelf. Much of Malory is retained in the former, and the conventional drawings in the latter make a strong appeal despite the widespread mania for colour. The boy who has become attached to his "Age of Fable" might satisfy his curiosity in this romantic field by the almost equally good "Age of Chivalry" and "The Legends of Charlemagne."

At what age should a boy turn to Shakespeare? That depends on the boy. If he is an average child, he should have something of the plays read to him at a fairly young age; but it is doubtful if he can do much on his own account before the high school age is reached. He might, however, be urged to attempt "A Midsummer-Night's Dream," "The Tempest," and "King Henry V." At about the age of twelve or fourteen years he should own a good illustrated edition in one volume such as the one done by Sir John Gilbert. But be this as it may, he has a right to get something of a glimpse of the wonderful things in these plays through that admirable telling of some of them in Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare." Though it may be Lamb instead of Shakespeare, there is no better book of retold stones in English than this work of Thackeray's "Dear Saint Charles" and his sister Mary.

This brings up the question of the boy's reading of poetry and the books that he should own. As suggested in a former chapter, the one good collection is Palgrave's "Children's Treasury of English Song." There is no second one in this class; for all others seem to have some fatal defects of judgment, though they are usually printed in more attractive form. The publishers of this anthology need to issue a well printed, well illustrated, and well bound edition, and the book stores need to put it on their shelves, where it is now almost a total stranger. But the approach to such a collection should be gradual. It might start in the second grade with Kate Greenaway's edition of "Dame Wiggins of Lee and Her Seven Wonderful Cats; a Humorous Tale Written Principally by a Lady of Ninety," and Caldecott's "John Gilpin's Ride." This could be followed with Kate Greenaway's or Hope Dunlap's "Pied Piper of Hamelin." And all children must have Stevenson's "A Child's Garden of Verses" with illustrations by either Florence Edith Storer or Jessie Wilcox Smith. Eugene Field's "Poems of Childhood," illustrated by Maxfield Parrish, deserves a place, as does the dainty volume of Blake's "Songs of Innocence," illustrated by Geraldine Morris. If on reaching the upper grammar grades the boy has found pleasure in his "Children's Treasury of English Song," he might be urged to own complete editions of a few of the poets. The first volume should be the poems of Longfellow, not because of his greatness but because he is the best loved of our noted poets and the easiest one for the boy to read. The next volume should be one of Tennyson, where he will find things actually great. If he comes to prefer "The Passing of Arthur" to "Enoch Arden," he is developing taste and judgment and will later enjoy Milton and Wordsworth.

There are two books of recent years, "The Jungle Book" and "The Second Jungle Book," that have intrinsic worth and charm and should be owned by every boy about his fifth school year. The superior tales are the Mowgli stories, and it is a pity they are not issued in a single volume. Where was there ever a more intense or dramatic story written than "Red Dog"? How does it happen that teachers seldom give these stories to children, but manage to waste plenty of good time on insipid, made-to-order stories designed to teach mercy to animals? These animal stories for a purpose are like most verse for an occasion—an offence against literary art. Let the boy learn of the charms and the tragedies of animal life in the jungle.

When the boy's reading shifts toward the romance and the novel, he needs to guard against overreading, indiscriminate reading, and being bewildered by the multitude of books from which to choose. For a while he had better keep to such books as "The Prince and the Pauper" and "Treasure Island." If he is not at once interested in that plot based on the universal desire to change lots with some one else, or the universal longing to find a hidden treasure, he either has perverted tastes or is without any tastes at all. From these it is an easy step to the forest life of "The Last of the Mohicans" and the life of chivalry presented in "Ivanhoe." He will then surely like that charming story of romantic home life, "Lorna Doone."

Some teacher may wonder if books other than stories and verse are not to be read. Of course they are, and they will be anyhow. Yet they are not books of power, fundamental to the growth of personality; they are books of knowledge of one kind or another. Just where the division line is to be drawn and which is the right class for this book and that, is hard to say, and matters little when it is determined; but the place of a few has been definitely fixed by experience, and they happen to be stories. That great literary field of comfort to men, the personal essay, is beyond the schoolboy. And so is much of biography and history. But there can be found for him to read many books, such as "Tales of a Grandfather," "A Child's History of England," Southey's "Life of Nelson," "Two Years Before the Mast," "The Oregon Trail," Franklin's "Autobiography," and some good abridgment of "Plutarch's Lives," that make an order of books different from "Robinson Crusoe," "Pilgrim's Progress," and "Arabian Nights' Entertainments"; yet they ought to be read after a few of the greater ones have been mastered. Many a boy may be greatly helped and inspired to honest effort by Samuel Smiles' "Self-Help," yet no one would think of classing it as great literature. This, together with books on travel and the wonders of science and invention will take care of themselves, and the average boy will pick up enough of them of his own accord. What he needs is a book that by its imaginative power lifts him above the commonplace facts of everyday life. If the foundation be laid in the enduring work of a few great books, what is built thereon will abundantly reward the early effort of mastering them.

There is yet one book of powerful and pure English that must be mentioned. The boy should have early heard it read aloud, learned passages from it by heart, and have read parts of it on his own account. In proportion as he has gathered the richness of this book will he have a grasp on clear language and clear understanding. That book is the version of the Bible authorized by King James. It gave to our fathers not only their faith but also that grip on racy, clear, and vigorous English that made many an artisan a better talker and writer than the man trained in the halls of higher learning. It has had a power above all other books in English to stir the imagination and move the soul, and this without regard to any particular religious belief. No book has ever told stories with the ease, directness, and intensity of this one. Its style expresses the strongest and deepest feelings of English-speaking men. And this style has been caught by such masters of prose in their own centuries as Bunyan and Lincoln. Yet it is evident to teachers that the great stories of the Scriptures are not known by children. The Bible needs to be dusted and read, even if it is brought about by the strong hand of authority in the home and in the school.

Taste in books can be directed, or at least modified, and the authority to direct must be about its business with the urchins at school. The aphorism that you can lead a horse to the water but you cannot make him drink, is only half true. If the water is kept under his nose and there is a good grip on the halter, he will be drinking before he is aware of it. In fact, he may need to be led away at times to keep him from drinking too much. The business of the school teacher is to get the boy to the trough and then see that he does not drink too much. This will be a thing of effort, for at every turn there are the springs of juvenile series, Sunday School Pharisees, comic supplements, and penny-dreadfuls that flow as if they would never cease. The boy needs to develop a sort of anchorite spirit and seek out a secluded place with an armful of books that are really worth while.

The armful which he needs to own and be friends with might be something like the following, if such a list can be ventured without offence to that strong spirit of individualism that will call it wooden and lock-step; yet that in its iconoclasm and mental anarchy gets nowhere and does nothing. This is the list by grades: First grade—"Mother Goose Rhymes," Brooke's "The Golden Goose Book," "Dame Wiggins of Lee and Her Seven Wonderful Cats"; second grade—"Æsop's Fables," "The Cruikshank Fairy Book," Goldsmith's "The History of Little Goody Two Shoes"; third grade—Carroll's "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," Jacobs' "English Fairy Tales," Stevenson's "A Child's Garden of Verses," Scudder's "The Children's Book"; fourth grade—Grimm's "Fairy and Household Tales," Andersen's "Fairy Tales," Browne's "Granny's Wonderful Chair," Thackeray's "The Rose and the Ring"; fifth grade—Hawthorne's "The Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys" and "Tanglewood Tales for Girls and Boys; a Second Wonder-Book," Kingsley's "Heroes; or, Greek Fairy Tales for My Children," Swift's "Gulliver's Travels into Several Remote Nations of the World," Kipling's "The Jungle Book" and "The Second Jungle Book"; sixth grade—"Arabian Nights' Entertainments," Lamb's "Adventures of Ulysses," Defoe's "The Life and Strange Adventures of Robinson Crusoe," Pyle's "The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood," Palgrave's "The Children's Treasury of English Song"; seventh grade—Bunyan's "The Pilgrim's Progress," Lanier's "The Boy's King Arthur," Twain's "The Prince and the Pauper," Cervantes' "The Adventures of Don Quixote of the Mancha," Stevenson's "Treasure Island"; eighth grade—Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare," Cooper's "The Last of the Mohicans," Scott's "Ivanhoe," Blackmore's "Lorna Doone," Bulfinch's "The Age of Fable; or, the Beauties of Mythology."

The savings necessary to buy these books, the time spent in reading and rereading them, the power and taste that will come from both of these efforts,—these will serve the boy when he comes to man's estate. For no work in a finishing school or in college English can ever give him what he will get of his own accord by having good books as his companions during his public school life. Let him try the list with the hope that it will meet Ruskin's comment: "Of course you must or will read other books for amusement, once or twice; but you will find that these have an element of perpetuity in them."

The publishing of books is like the brook in the poem, it goes on forever. The number and variety found on sale at the end of each year is truly bewildering. The flesh is becoming wearied with the number and the spirit perturbed with the variety. The prospective buyer does not know where or how to begin, and about the only way out of the confusion is to do as the brothers did in the story, buy them by the yard. For the man of long purse it is a convenient way to untie the library knot; but after this has been done the question of where to begin reading is a harder one than where to begin buying had been. There was much philosophy in the remark of the quickly made millionaire, who after having bought many editions de luxe of standard authors, said: "Now give me something that I can read, a few stories of Old Sleuth and Nick Carter." Though his taste might be questioned, his remark hit the nail on the head—a few books that can be read.

That is what the average buyer is after. And these few must be books that are worth while, must be taken from the multitude, and must be taken one or two at a time if they are to be properly enjoyed. Each season brings a few of these in new and attractive editions. By them must the library be slowly built up. The purchase of many volumes at a time, even if they are good volumes, is something few readers can stand. It is like the sudden acquisition of wealth or the sudden coming into fame: a stumbling block to the greatest of pleasures, the slow but certain enrichment of life. Many a good student has been spoiled by being turned loose in a school library that cost him no effort or inconvenience to acquire. Ease of access and intemperance of use are things on which he will fall down. And therein is the foolishness of parents in supplying their children all at once with that great and varied load that has several times appeared under different names, but with the general title of libraries for young folk. There is much good and conveniently arranged material in all of them; but it is this very thing of coming into the child's possession all at once that makes them objectionable. Books, like many other luxuries, should not be indulged in to excess.

Books for the boy should largely be purchased out of his own savings. No book bought in this way will be left unread. Some persuasion on the part of teachers and parents will be necessary to bring about this practice of saving. A month or so before Christmas or the summer vacation the town boy ought to be told to save the money he is used to spending on candy and picture shows that he may buy for himself a book. The country boy can do the same thing by hoeing corn a few more days for a neighbour or raising a few more chickens on his own account. As they should, books will also come as gifts, and poor judgment on the part of the giver is very unfortunate. The giving of a poor book that can hardly be afforded is kind-hearted as an act; but the boy who feels by courtesy bound to read it is surely a helpless victim. Yet in his own family he should be given a book twice each year, on his birthday and at Christmas time. In fact he needs to be taught always to celebrate the one and hang up his stocking on the other; for no two practices will be so likely to keep him from falling into cynicism in mature years—especially if each anniversary brings with it a helpful book. Highly prized as will be these good books the boy receives as gifts, they will never mean quite the same to him as the books bought at a sacrifice to himself. When all is said and done, about the best indication of practical wisdom in this age of prodigality is economy of savings. It will surely be followed by economy of time and energy. The boy who is taught to save money for the purchase of something of permanent value has a good start in the right direction. The most reasonable thing to buy with these savings is a few good books.

What shall the reader buy, and where shall it be bought? To the former question a partial answer has already been attempted, but to the latter one the answer is more uncertain. In a general way a book might be bought as any other article is bought, where the same quality can be bought cheapest. But that principle is based on the advertising appeal, an appeal that is strong where extravagance and wastefulness abound. The making, selling, and buying of books is no exception to this rule of trade. Books, like other articles, are now bought and sold according to fashion, and the official pot of fashion must be kept boiling if it takes the last penny. And like other fashions book fashions change, even to morals and heroines; so that a body might as well be out of the reading world as to be out of fashion in it. Just now the fashion seems to turn out books with morbid morals and mediocre heroines, and yet the people continue to read them and talk about them. The story is drawn, printed, bought, read, dramatized, heard, and praised—even from the pulpit. And before there is time for you to compose yourself in peace, a new emotion is sprung on which all must dilate alike. This is the hubbub about the multitude of new books that makes the buying of a few standard ones something of a problem. The classics, especially for children, either in old or in new editions, are hidden in the confusion. And because of the talk the youngsters hear they want to read the book their parents are reading, as they are curious to read the daily paper, a thing never designed for any schoolboy to do. For this reason they need to be urged strongly to buy the book that is old and tried by years of helpful reading.

The advertising appeal that persuades a buyer of books to invest in what he does not want and cannot use is active in two ways, through travelling agents and at the book counters of department stores. Of all the hindrances to the building up of a small library out of savings for that purpose, the proverbial book agent is the greatest. This master of the art of persuasive perseverance, with his oilcloth bag hidden under the frock of his coat, has filched many a hard-earned dollar from the farmer. If he had had either the artifice or the charity to get the money and not deliver the book, the effect of his pernicious activity would not be so marked. Yet what he sells as a book takes its place on the centre-table with others of its kind to waste the time of winter evenings and wet days for a generation. That interesting and rather convenient character, the pedler with his pack, has passed away; but the agent and his book continue to flourish. Can no one propose a short way with book agents?

In the city the confusion is wrought by the woman agent and the girl clerk. Next to resisting civilly the entreaties of the agent in black is for a man, after having threaded that modern labyrinth, the department store, and having halted at the book counter to take his bearings, to be pounced upon by the clerk in black before he has had time to thumb a single volume, and asked if he has been waited on. He watches the cosmopolitan stream of buyers tossing about the cosmopolitan collection of book bargains on the main aisle counter, and then retreats in confusion to seek some old-fashioned book store where he can loaf in ease and think of what he wants to buy. Though scarcely willing to admit the claim of many buyers and readers of books that it is not good book-buying etiquette to purchase a book at a department store, he feels at least that it is not a quiet, convenient, and wise way. And the pity of it all is, that out of this shuffle and clatter the child is made the victim of the poor book that is bought because it can be bought cheap.

The fairly well arranged book store is the one place where a book for a boy may be bought in proper form. Though the second-hand book store is an interesting place for the man who has not the germ fear, it is no place to get a boy's book. And the old-fashioned book shop that must have been a joy to the man of reading tastes has passed, as has the old apothecary shop. From their modern offspring, the book store and the drug store, we must get our books and our physic. It is on the shelves of these book stores that buyers like to explore and make discoveries of editions. If the particular edition be known, a good way to buy is to order books directly by mail from the publisher. In fact, this is what often has to be done in small towns and in country districts where well-stocked shelves are not within reach. Yet few buyers can adjust themselves to the practice of buying anything that they have not seen. They like to feel the response of the book to the touch, see the type and the illustrations and the binding. This is all good where the store carries a complete stock; but if every good book wanted has to be ordered for the buyer, he might as well do it himself directly from the publisher. From these publishers good descriptive catalogues may be had for the asking, and by means of them the book not found at the store may be ordered.

At the usual book store, whether purely secular or connected with the publishing house of a denominational church, books for men are bought with greater ease than books for children. A well-selected list of titles for boys is seldom found. The ubiquitous juveniles are lined up as usual, but good reprints of children's classics are absent. The uninformed buyer is at the mercy of the more uninformed clerk. Out of the indecision of the one and the advice of the other something wholly unfit for the boy is bought. The poor book received as a gift is beyond the boy's control and a delicate matter to handle; but the buying of a poor book with good money is a serious blunder. About the only safe way is to know what you want before you go into the store, dig it out from the shelves yourself, and have the clerk do nothing but wrap it up and give you your change. If you are not settled on what you want, get into the habit of reading the book numbers of some journal like The Nation, or consult with the well-informed heads of the children's departments of public libraries.

The particular edition of a book to be bought is largely a question of taste and of the money at the command of the buyer. Many a boy sees little in fine, well-illustrated editions. What he wants is the story without regard to its dress. He may become wedded to the poorly made, unattractive book that has opened up new lands to him, just as many a child has formed a greater attachment for a small rag doll than for an expensive one of wax. Again, circumstances may necessitate the buying of a twenty-five or fifty-cent edition of a book instead of a two or three dollar one. Yet this is true: if the book is bought at a sacrifice and is to serve for a lifetime (and no old book that has served its owner well ought ever to be replaced by a new one), the best edition available should be bought, even if it is expensive. Of course, this largely depends on the book. Mother Goose, some treasury of poetry, Æsop, stories from Shakespeare, a favourite collection of fairy tales, and all such books often used need to be in the best of editions; but the ones less often read may be in cheaper form.

In selecting an edition the first thing to look to is the type and paper. Even a standard edition may be printed from worn plates giving an indistinct impression. A clear-cut, large type on unglazed paper is certainly the best. The detailed colour illustration on a special sized plate-paper does not appeal to the average child any more than do the simpler black and white drawings done in a few lines and put on the ordinary reading page. But the best illustrations that are being done to-day are very often done in colour, and at first glance they catch the fancy of the child—then, too, they are the fashion. Whatever kind they may be, illustrations are almost necessary to a child's book. The next consideration is the binding. What may have been gained in attractiveness of page has surely been lost in mechanical execution on binding. Books, even high-priced books, are now cased instead of bound. The machine-made back is hung to the book in an insecure way. There is no hand shaping or building of the back to the book. A child's book costing three dollars will in a short time become loose, hollow-backed, and the plate illustrations will fall out. Hand-craft at a reasonable price has gone by the way here as it has in many other fields of workmanship. What the publisher has failed to do in the binding of the book, the boy must be urged to make up in the handling of it.

This brings up the question of the care of books. Vandalism may do its work among books as well as anywhere else. A good book deserves the best of care and needs to be secure from the hand that would soil or deface it. It is a friend to be kept in comfortable quarters, and its rights are to be respected. It is never to be used as a flower press nor as a window stick; neither is it to have its back carelessly broken nor its leaves turned down. It was made to be read and to be enjoyed, and this without regard to the fact that it came as a gift or was bought with hard-earned money. The boy should early be taught how to take care of it as he would any other product of art.

The best-made book may be broken by opening it carelessly the first time. Glue is flexible under slow pressure, but will break under sudden strain. If the book is taken in the middle and the halves suddenly jerked open, it will be broken beyond repair; but if the back of the book is placed on a table and the leaves turned down slowly from both covers to the centre, the glue will give and the book will not be damaged. By going over the whole book carefully in this way once or twice, it will be ready for use. At no time, however, while reading, should the covers or leaves be turned farther back than they would be in lying flat open on a table. The next thing for the boy to learn is how to take care of the leaves of the book. The leaves should be carefully turned with the dry tips of the fingers from the top of the page and pressed down gently but firmly. And under no circumstances should the corner of a leaf be turned down to mark the place where the reader left off—an interested memory and a book mark are designed for that purpose. To keep his books, every boy should have a book shelf or two of his own that he can easily reach. Any kind of home-made shelf will do; and in it the books are to be set on end, never on the front of the book, each in its particular place so that it might be found in the dark. He ought to learn all of his books by touch. After each reading the book is to be carefully put in its stall and left there until the owner chooses to take it out again.

When a book has been bought or received as a gift, the boy should, according to the old style, write therein his name, the date it came into his possession, and the warning that it is his book. Book plates are really unnecessary to a small library, unless the owner can well afford them. But it is necessary that the owner's name be written in each one. Now, should the boy lend his book? It is a question whether the refusal to lend it is a selfish act or not. Like umbrellas, books are often looked on as stray blessings to be taken in by any one who chances to come across them or who needs them. The well-conceived chaining idea has long since disappeared, but the purloining habit still lingers. It and its handmaiden, borrowing, have wrought much confusion and inconvenience in private libraries. Few people ever think to return a book, or at least to return it in good condition. If the truth were always told, the couplet of the satirist would fit the possessor of many a repleted library:

Does any one who has laboured hard to build a house move out of it as soon as it is completed? Does any one who has cultivated a friendship give it up as soon as it is secure? Should any one who has learned to thoroughly enjoy a good book throw it aside as soon as this is done? Like the house or the friend, that book should continue to be a comfort to him who has learned to appreciate it. In short, the boy must make friends with a few books and then keep them without capitulation. If he does, he may some day feel the truth of these verses:

What edition of a book to buy is determined in about the same way as is the pattern of our clothes—by a compromise between our means and our likings. But in the case of our children it is a pretty well-known fact that their likings must be directed and the means at their disposal regulated—even in the purchase and reading of books. A boy left to himself will about as often fall into extravagant habits of taste as he will into extravagant habits in the use of his pocket money. He is no more able to judge of the good investment of knowledge than of the good investment of money. In the desire to appear as a good fellow among his companions he disregards either economy of time or economy of means. He needs to be shown the wisdom of saving along both lines. This can be done in no better way than by indicating to him an edition of a book that will require some sacrifice on his part to buy, and maybe to find time to read. This may all have to be done without regard to his tastes.

To let the mere notions of a boy determine the edition of a book to be bought and to estimate the merits of different editions by these same notions is foolish. This is neither directing nor cultivating tastes. The old plan of fencing in the pasture and of not letting the boy wander too far afield was many times a very good plan. Tastes need to be directed and boundaries fixed. Instead of permitting the boy to determine the merits of the illustrations and the binding, he should have pointed out to him repeatedly what good illustrations and good binding are, and whether they can both be afforded.

Both tastes and circumstances may lead to the buying of a cheap, modest-looking book. This may serve its owner well, and he may never miss what might be called the charm of a well-illustrated, well-printed, and well-bound edition—one pleasant to look into and to touch. He may be as little able to judge of the artistic make-up of a book as of the cut of his clothes or the quality of his food; what he wants is something to satisfy hunger and to cover nakedness, in whatever form it may be given. Because of this the boy can bury himself in the pages of an ill-made book if the words tell an enchanting story. But it is safe to say that most boys do like well-made books with good illustrations.

The pencil of the artist seems almost necessary to give the right touch to a child's book that is great literature. Not in that they enable the boy to get the story more easily are illustrations valuable, but in the fact that they lend an artistic touch to a thing that is of itself a work of art. A guess, however, at the kind of illustrations needed for children's books would be very arbitrary. No one could hold that the present-day coloured illustrations, with what is termed life in action instead of decoration and convention, are the only right ones for children. Nor are the old line-drawings in black and white to be discarded. We need woodcuts as well as the engraved colour-plate; we need Cruikshank, Tenniel, Greenaway, and Crane, as well as Brooke, Rackham, Parrish, and Smith, for each has added a charm to some of the great literature of childhood. May children's books continue to fare well at the hands of talented artists. No more enduring work can be wrought than that in which a keen and sympathetic imagination gives expression to a picture that was first put into words.

The work in hand for the teacher is to secure the buying of as good an edition of a book as the boy can afford. The fact should be kept before him at all times that he can usually get the good edition if he is willing to do so. If it should happen that in any particular year the boy cannot afford all of the books that might be bought in that year, the teacher should see that the one or two most valuable ones are secured. For example, if he is a sixth-grade boy, he must by some means manage to get "Robinson Crusoe" and "The Arabian Nights' Entertainments." The teacher's own interest, enthusiasm, and good taste will successfully solve what is to be done. As an aid in this direction it is to be hoped that book stores will display a number of good editions of each title of the standard books for children in order that a more satisfactory choice may be made of any one title. And the stores could do a good turn by having well-informed and painstaking clerks to aid in the selection of the right edition.

In the list that follows, a few low-priced editions without illustrations are given as well as the more artistic and expensive ones. The teacher may not care to own the large illustrated edition that appeals to the boy. Nor does he want an abridged edition. He may have to depart from the list in order to get a complete copy of such great books as "Don Quixote." For this particular title the teacher may range from the single volume of Motteaux's translation in "Everyman's Library" (one of the best issues of standard books for the teacher to select from at a low price) to that of the excellent translation by Shelton issued in the expensive "Tudor Translations." So does he need some complete edition of Lane's translation of "A Thousand and One Nights" with Harvey's illustrations if possible, such as the three-volume edition imported by Scribner, the four-volume edition in "Bohn's Standard Library," or the six-volume edition in the "Ariel Classics." Then again, it may happen that an edition such as the two-shilling edition of Grimm translated by Taylor and illustrated by Cruikshank, issued by the Oxford Press, is as good for the teacher as for the boy. But the appended list will not include and designate editions suitable for teachers only. The working out of such a list by the teacher for himself will indicate his interest in the task that is before him.

The list is not intended as a guide in building up an extensive library for the use of children. Its chief merit, no doubt, is in the fact that it is a limited list. And its first good result must be in the practice of the boy's buying a few books that are good and that will be read and reread. But little comment will be offered here and there on the preference of one edition over another. All editions designated by a star are well worth owning. A guess at the age for reading a book has been made, but with considerable latitude because of the unequal reading ability among children. The age from six to ten years, the primary grades of public school, will be indicated by the letter "P" placed before the title; the age from ten to fifteen years, the grammar grades of school, will be indicated by the letter "G" placed before the title. Any suggestions on included editions found unsatisfactory by experience, or on good editions omitted, will be gladly received. The sole aim herein is to present a list that will be of help to the teacher and the boys under him in finding the best that publishers have to give of the enduring literature for children.