Sometimes my young hero brings no exercise at all. It has slipped, in the train, from the book in which he had carefully placed it, or there is a crack in his locker, and the paper slipped through. You order excavations to be made, and the exercise has vanished like magic. Johnny wonders. "Perhaps the mice ate it!" you are wicked enough to suggest. This makes him smile and blush. He generally collapses before a remark like this. * * * * * But if he has a good excuse, behold him! "I could not do my exercise last night," said to me one day a young Briton. It was evident from his self-satisfied and confident assurance that he had a good answer ready for my inquiry. "You couldn't," I said; "why?" "Please, sir, grandmamma died last night!" "Oh! did she? Well, well--I hope this won't happen again." This put me in mind of the boy who, being reproached for his many mistakes in his translation, pleaded: "Please, sir, it isn't my fault. Papa _will_ help me." An English schoolboy never tells stories--never. A mother once brought her little son to the head-master of a great public school. "I trust my son will do honor to the school," she said; "he is a good, industrious, clever, and trustworthy boy. He never told a story in his life." "Oh! madam, boys never do," replied the head-master. The lady left, somewhat indignant. Did the remark amount to her statement being disbelieved, or to an affirmation that her boy was no better than other boys? * * * * * Of course every mother is apt to think that her Johnny or Jenny is nature's highest utterance. But for blind, unreasoning adoration, commend me to a fond grandmamma. The first time I took my child on a visit to my mother in dear old Brittany, grandmamma received compliments enough on the subject of the "lovely petite blonde" to turn her head. But it did not want much turning, I must say. One afternoon, my wife was sitting with Miss Baby on her lap, and grandmamma, after devouring the child with her eyes for a few moments, said to us: "You are two very sensible parents. Some people are so absurd about their babies! Take Madame T., for instance. She was here this morning, and really, to hear her talk, one would think that child of hers was an angel of beauty--that there never was such another." "Well, but, grandmamma," said my wife, "you know yourself that you are forever discoursing of the matchless charms of our baby to your friends." "Ah!" cried the dear old lady, as serious as a judge; "but that's quite different; in our case it's all true." * * * * * If you ever hope to find the British schoolboy at fault, your life will be a series of disappointments. Judge for yourself. I (once): "Well, Brown, you bring no exercise this morning. How is that?" PROMISING BRITON: "Please, sir, you said yesterday that we were to do the 17th exercise." I (inquiringly): "Well?"