We always did pity a man who does not love childhood. There is something morally wrong with such a man. If his tenderest sympathies are not awakened by their innocent prattle, if his heart does not echo their merry laughter, if his whole nature does not reach out in ardent longing after their pure thoughts and unselfish impulses, he is a sour, crusty, crabbed old stick, and the world full of children has no use for him. In every age and clime the best and noblest men loved children. Even wicked men have a tender spot left in their hardened hearts for little children. The great men of the earth love them. Dogs love them. Kamehame Kemokimodahroah, the King of the Cannibal Islands, loves them. Rare and no gravy. Ah, yes, we all love children. And what a pleasure it is to talk with them! Who can chatter with a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, quick-witted little darling, anywhere from three to five years, and not appreciate the pride which swells a mother's breast when she sees her little ones admired? Ah, yes, to be sure. One day--ah, can we ever cease to remember that dreamy, idle, summer afternoon--a lady friend, who was down in the city on a shopping excursion, came into the sanctum with her little son, a dear little tid-toddler of five bright summers, and begged us to amuse him while she pursued the duties which called her down-town. Such a bright boy; so delightful it was to talk to him. We can never forget the blissful half-hour we spent booking that prodigy up in his centennial history. "Now, listen, Clary," we said--his name was Clarence Fitzherbert Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers--"and learn about George Washington." "Who's he?" inquired Clarence, etc. "Listen," we said; "he was the father of his country." "Whose country?" "Ours--yours and mine; the confederated union of the American people, cemented with the life-blood of the men of '76 poured out upon the altars of our country as the dearest libation to liberty that her votaries can offer." "Who did?" asked Clarence. There is a peculiar tact in talking to children that very few people possess. Now, most people would have grown impatient and lost their temper, when little Clarence asked so many irrelevant questions, but we did not. We knew that, however careless he might appear at first, we could soon interest him in the story, and he would be all eyes and ears. So we smiled sweetly--that same sweet smile which you may have noticed on our photographs. Just the faintest ripple of a smile breaking across the face like a ray of sunlight, and checked by lines of tender sadness just before the two ends of it pass each other at the back of the neck. And so, smiling, we went on. "Well, one day George's father----" "George who?" asked Clarence. "George Washington. He was a little boy then, just like you. One day his father----" "Whose father?" demanded Clarence, with an encouraging expression of interest.