In our discussion of fiction we have dwelt entirely on books for adults and neglected what is known as juvenile fiction. Here again the omission was intended. Juvenile fiction is certain to make its way in more than ample supply into American homes, and I doubt whether fiction that is wholly good for adults is not the best for boys and girls of, say, thirteen. When our fathers and mothers, or our grandfathers and grandmothers, were young, they read the newest book by Dickens, Thackeray, Wilkie Collins, and were no worse for having fewer “juveniles” than modern publishers purvey for the benefit of the growing generation. I should think that Henty’s books, which have merits, but were turned out on a steam lathe, would suggest that Scott’s historical romances are better, and that the Pattys and Pollys and Lucys and Brendas, whose adventures are chronicled in many an entertaining series would speedily make way for heroines like Maggie Tulliver and heroes like Master Tom Brown, whose youth is perennial. When “juveniles” are really good, parents read them after children have gone to bed. I do not know whether “Tom Brown at Rugby” is catalogued by the careful librarians as a book for boys, but I am sure it is a book for men. I dare say that a good many pairs of eyes that have passed over the pages of Mr. John T. Trowbridge and Elijah Kellogg and Louisa Alcott have been old enough to wear spectacles. And if Mrs. Kate Douglas Wiggin ever thought that in “Timothy’s Quest” and “Rebecca” she was writing books especially for the young, adult readers have long since claimed her for their own. I have enjoyed Mr. A. S. Pier’s tales of the boys at “St. Timothy’s,” though he planned them for younger readers. We are told on good authority that _St. Nicholas_ and _The Youth’s Companion_ appear in households where there are no children, and they give a considerable portion of their space to serial stories written for young people. Between good “juveniles” and good books for grown persons there is not much essential difference. Anyone who is old enough to make out the words can safely enter the large world of the English and American novel. The chances of encountering the few that are unfit for the young are slight. Ruskin in his essay “Of Queens’ Gardens,” which treats of the education of girls, says: “Whether novels, or poetry, or history be read, they should be chosen, not for what is _out_ of them but for what is _in_ them. The chance and scattered evil that may here and there haunt, or hide itself in, a powerful book, never does any harm to a noble girl; but the emptiness of an author oppresses her, and his amiable folly degrades her.” A novel in our language that has been read and freely talked of for many years is as safe as a church; and there are enough such novels to keep one happily occupied during all the hours one can give to reading fiction to the end of one’s days. LIST OF FICTION _Supplementary to Chapter IV_