But the human race changes in the same way that each one of us does. The race had its childhood when men and women played the games that are now left to you youngsters. We can even see the change in our own day. Some of us--who are not grandmothers, either--can remember when youth of fourteen and fifteen played many games which, nowadays, an unfortunate damsel of six years--ruffled, embroidered, and white gowned, with delicate shoes, and hips in the vice-like grasp of a modern sash--feels are altogether too young for her. I dare say I shall live to see the once-beloved dolls abandoned to babies; and I fear the next generation will find a Latin grammar in the cradle instead of a rattle-box, and baby cutting his teeth scientifically, with a surgical instrument, instead of on a rubber ring. Well, well! What _do_ you suppose our great-grandchildren will do? We must not let these old-fashioned customs be forgotten, and I want to tell you the story of May-day. A curious tale is told of the beginning of the May-day celebration, which is of more venerable age than perhaps you know. You shall hear it, and then you can believe as much as you choose, as all the rest of the world takes the liberty of doing; for although the grave old Roman writers put it in their books for truth, it is very much doubted by our modern wiseheads, because it is so unreasonable, and so inelegant (as our dainty critic says). As though the world was always reasonable, forsooth! or undoubted historical facts did not sometimes lack the important quality of elegance! However it may be, here is the story: Many hundred years ago,--about two hundred before Christ, in fact,--there lived in Rome a beautiful woman named Flora. Had she lived in these luxurious days, she would have enjoyed another name or two; but in those simple times she was plain Flora. Being human, this lady had a great dread of being forgotten when she had left the world. So she devised a plan to keep her memory green. She made a will giving her large fortune to the city of Rome, on condition that a festival in her memory should be celebrated every year. When the will came before the grave and reverend Roman senators, it caused serious talk. To decline so rich a gift was not to be thought of; yet to accept the condition they did not like, for it was a bold request in Madam Flora, who had, to say the least, done nothing worthy of celebrating. At last, according to the old story-tellers, a way out of the difficulty was found, as there generally is; and the city fathers decided to accept the terms, and make Flora worthy of the honor by placing her among their minor deities, of which there were no less than thirty thousand. She took her place as Goddess of Flowers, with a celebration about the first of May, to be called Floralia, after her.