Who having once read, seen, and felt this picture can ever forget it or fail to feel the atmosphere of this place? It is thus we come to realize that Jesus Christ was really once a boy, a young man, a human being, on the earth. Even here, however, all possible helps in the form of pictures, maps, etc., must be called in as aids to the picturing power of the mind. The number of "likes" in the two foregoing selections (there are at least eight of them expressed or implied) suggests the remark of a humble woman regarding the parables, "I like best the likes of Scripture." This word lies at the root of all picture-work. Whether in the parables of Jesus, who was the prince of teachers, or in the discourses of great preachers whose sermons teem with "likes," or in the story-teller's skilful comparison of place with place, people with people--Palestine with Vermont as to size, with England, Scotland, and Wales as to its divisions--Galilee, Samaria, and Judæa being "united because they had one government, one ruler; separate because of their peculiar characteristics, their definite boundaries, and jealous claims to special privileges"--in all the notion of likeness is the central point of the thought. We never can know anything without having something to know it with. A "like" is the key that enables us to unlock and to enter the door of the unknown. It is through picture-work also--to go a step further--that we come to have revealed to us our own characters. This type of picture-work is at once the most difficult and the most important of all. An example of such picture-making is chosen from an account written by Miss Wiltse, setting forth her method of making stories in order to suit the needs of specific cases among her pupils. Not every one has the love or the genius of Miss Wiltse, and no one can hope to win such success as hers at once; but it may be that by catching some of her spirit, studying her plan, and patiently practicing, we may learn this royal way of reaching the hearts of our children. "There was in my kindergarten," she writes, "a little boy whose deceit and cruelty were quite abnormal; he would smile in my face with seraphic sweetness while his heavy shoe would be crushing his neighbor's toes.... He seemed incorrigible. At last I wrote a story entitled 'The Fairy True Child,' into which I put my strongest effort to reach this untruthful child. I told it to the class, and before it was concluded this boy's head was low upon his breast, his cheeks aflame with conscious guilt. No direct reference was made to him; no other child thought of him in connection with the story. The next day he asked to have it repeated, and his conduct was noticeably better; the story became his moral tonic, and one glad day he threw his arms about me, saying he wanted to keep his Fairy True Child always.