That it is any function of the school to give joy to its children is an idea of slow growth. A child's school-time is usually thought of as preparation for living and not as living itself. Hence the rebuke of the teacher to the child who interrupts the "nature-lesson" to blow the thistle-down which waves over his head, or to watch the bee which booms against the window-pane, or the hawk which floats lazily against the blue sky. Life is such a wild, wilful, irregular thing. Quietude, prudent inaction, is so much safer. So with books. It is the old search for life, life, more abundant life--for knowledge of it, for entrance into it--which sends the child to the fairy-story, the boy to the tale of adventure, the young girl to the story of romance, the older man and woman to the realistic novel. And it is the instinctive feeling of the teacher and parent that life is a dangerous force and difficult of control which has made school and home look askance upon reading which the child finds too enjoyable. There is another feeling or belief which lies back of our doubt of work or study or reading which is too enjoyable. It is in regard to the part which love of ease plays in human enjoyment. Love of ease is strong in human nature, and the man who tries to get his knowledge of human life mainly through the novel has indeed sought a short-cut to his end which will bring him but a short distance on his way. This is not the time nor place for the discussion of the value of fiction, but undoubtedly we are inclined to believe that man's indolence is a strong factor in man's enjoyment of certain lines of reading, and indolence is a bad thing. Therefore, we distrust the value of such reading. Whether we like or dislike it, however, we are obliged to admit that fiction is a permanent form of literature, that our children will read it, and that the question for us to settle is shall it be good or poor. What, then, has the teacher to do? Two things: To _be_ the atmosphere from which the child breathes in love for and delight in good books. This is first. All things in the way of learning are possible after this. Second, to be the pupil's guide and director in what may be called his "laboratory practice" with books. The Autocrat, mellowest of men of ideas, once suggested that every college and university should have a professorship of books. The Autocrat was an ingrained aristocrat, although one most mild and kind. The true democratic idea is that a professorship of books should be established in every school-room. But how shall the blind lead the blind? How shall the teacher who herself never has learned to know, to enjoy, and to choose good books guide others to do so?