So it is with children. Nothing is more sad than to see a child, at an age when his or her natural freshness and simplicity should be most clearly in evidence, already cramped and artificial through an effort to copy some older person. A gentleman once took shelter in a house during a heavy storm. The master and mistress were both out, but their little daughter was summoned from her A B C to talk to the unexpected guest. He told her he was sorry to have brought her downstairs, to which came the simpering reply, “Oh! pray don’t mention it!” _Imitatio ad nauseam!_ [Sidenote: Dressing Up.] [Sidenote: Dumb Crambo.] One way in which the love of imitation comes out is in the delight all children take in “dressing up,” and in any form of charades or dumb crambo. This is probably a very useful way of developing originality and of setting children’s wits to work. Where it is not coupled with the putting on of gorgeous raiment, and is not merely an excuse for “showing off,” the very variety of character assumed ensures its being a wholesome exercise. Dumb crambo is especially helpful, for in that pastime there is practically no opportunity for self-glorification, while it tends directly to stimulate the children’s ingenuity and to kill their self-consciousness. [Sidenote: Tricks of Posturing.] All observers of child life have noticed in some little ones an unhealthy trick of making faces, posturing, or otherwise trying to attract attention. This is unnatural and should be carefully watched and eradicated. But it should be remembered that in most cases of that kind the _cause_ is physical—generally a weakness in the nervous system—and the child must be dealt with most tenderly though firmly. On the other hand, many people can recall instances where what may be described as a true theatrical tendency has shown itself in a perfectly healthy and charming manner in very young children. No better example of this can be found than is contained in a little paper lying under the writer’s hand. To transpose it would be to spoil the vividness of the story, so it is given here just in its original form. [Sidenote: Tea at the Vicarage.] “I was more or less of a newcomer in our village when I one day received a pressing invitation to tea at the Vicarage. When I arrived I found my hostess, a charming white-haired and white-shawled old lady, in her usual arm-chair by the drawing-room fire, and, seeing the chair on the other side of the hearth empty, I dropped into it with a delicious feeling of comfort after my walk through the chill and gloom of a foggy evening. I had not been many minutes installed when tea was brought in, and the hot cakes which my soul loved were deposited on the little brass stand inside the fender at my feet.