... like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken. This, therefore, should make you determine to cry against mediocrity; to purchase for those empty shelves the best of a class, the best of an edition, and the most authentic of texts. Lady Eastlake once wrote: “The real secret of a child’s book consists not merely in its being less dry and less difficult, but more rich in interest, more true to nature, more exquisite in art, more abundant in every quality that replies to childhood’s keener and fresher perceptions. Such being the case, the best of juvenile reading will be found in libraries belonging to their elders, while the best juvenile writing will not fail to delight those who are no longer children. ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ the standing favourite of above a century, was not originally written for children; and Sir Walter Scott’s ‘Tales of a Grandfather,’ addressed solely to them, are the pleasure and profit of every age, from childhood upward. Our little friends tear Pope’s ‘Odyssey’ from mamma’s hands, while she takes up their ‘Agathos’[49] with an admiration which no child’s can exceed.” The opinion here quoted somewhat overstates the real case. The experienced librarian of to-day could tell a different tale from the loan desk; it is the average young person she must have in mind, and the average understanding. But this understanding is not commensurate with the reading ability of the child; it is much above it, and this fact also should be considered an asset for the librarian to work with. Despite the theories regarding how a story should be told to a seven-year-old reader, and to one twelve years old, the volumes do not very consistently adapt themselves to such a classification. The buyer must say: Is it to be read _by_ the child? Consider his schooling. Is it to be read _to_ the child? Consider his understanding. Let us not subject ourselves to the criticism that our ideals will not work. If they are unpractical, they are useless and must be amended. It is recognised that something more is wanted than the “masterpiece,” so guardedly extolled by Mr. Everett T. Tomlinson,[50] a popular author of boys’ books. He separates the boy and the classic by a wide gulf of adolescent requirements; he pleads for something in addition to bone and tendon; he believes the boy demands material to fit his mental estate, which is not equipped for “ready response” to adult literature. In other words, the juvenile book of to-day, which is well typified by his own stories, is to supplement and not to supplant the “masterpiece.”