And who that has ever watched a party of children, listening with bright eyes and parted lips to some weird, uncanny legend,--like that group of little girls for instance, in Mr. Charles Gregory’s picture Tales and Wonders,--can doubt for a moment the “fearful joy” that terror lends them? Nowadays, it is true, their youthful ears are but too well guarded from such indiscretions until they are old enough to scoff at all fantastic folly, and the age at which they learn to scoff is one of the most astonishing things about our modern progress. They have ceased to read fairy stories, because they no longer believe in fairies; they find Hans Andersen silly, and the Arabian Nights stupid; and the very babies, “skeptics in long-coats,” scorn you openly if you venture to hint at Santa Claus. “What did Kriss Kringle bring you this Christmas?” I rashly asked a tiny mite of a girl; and her answer was as emphatic as Betsey Prig’s, when, with folded arms and a contemptuous mien, she let fall the ever memorable words, “I don’t believe there’s no sich a person.” Yet the supernatural, provided it be not too horrible, is legitimate food for a child’s mind, nourishes its imagination, inspires a healthy awe, and is death to that precocious pedantry which is the least pleasing trait that children are wont to manifest. While few are willing to go as far as Mr. Ruskin, who, having himself been brought up on fairy legends, confesses that his “first impulse would be to insist upon every story we tell to a child being untrue, and every scene we paint for it impossible,” yet a fair proportion of the untrue and the impossible should enter into its education, and it should be left to the enjoyment of them as long as may be. Those of us who have been happy enough to believe that salamanders basked in the fire and mermaids swam in the deeps, that were-wolves roamed in the forests and witches rode in the storm, are richer by all these unfading pictures and unforgotten memories than our more scrupulously reared neighbors. And what if we could give such things the semblance of reality once more,--could set foot in spirit within the enchanted forest of Broceliande, and enjoy the tempestuous gusts of fear that shook the heart-strings of the Breton peasant, as the great trees drew their mysterious shadows above his head? On either side lurk shadowy forms of elf and fairy, half hidden by the swelling trunks; the wind whispers in the heavy boughs, and he hears their low, malicious laughter; the dry leaves rustle beneath his feet,--he knows their stealthy steps are close behind; a broken twig falls on his shoulder, and he starts trembling, for unseen hands have touched him. Around his neck hang a silver medal of Our Lady and a bit of ash wood given him by a wise woman, whom many believe a witch; thus is he doubly guarded from the powers of evil. Beyond the forest lies the open path, where wife and children stand waiting by the cottage door. He is a