the family circle and the school-room to be, after all, a luminary of, at best, the fourth or fifth magnitude. You gain nothing except mortification and disappointment, by cheating your wonderful scion out of his childhood. I am afraid that most of us, even those who have not fallen into the gravely absurd error just referred to, are yet apt to expect too much of our bairns. They may be marvels of sweetness, and sprightliness, and filial devotion, but they are only babies after all. “Children should be seen--not heard!” is often repeated by us in thoughtlessness or ignorance of the real character of the maxim. It is illiberal and cruel, and belongs to the age when a father held almost unlimited power over the very life of his child; when the younger members of the household never dared to sit down in the presence of their parents, without their express and gracious permission. I agree that a pert, loud-tongued child is an offence, at all times, but do not let us, on this account, condemn to silence the bird-like voices that make sweetest music in our hearts and homes. Even birds sing sometimes when we would rather they should refrain; so let us be forbearing with the clamor of the babies. Do not pretend to judge them by the rules you would apply to grown people. “Father!” says a bright-eyed boy, as his parent enters the house at evening, “did you remember to get me the ball you promised?” “I did not, Tom. You shall certainly have it to-morrow.” Tom goes off, in apparent content. In reality, he is sorely disappointed; but he is a good child, and does not wish to make his father unhappy. The promise for to-morrow helps him to bear the trial tolerably well. The next evening, he is more backward about asking. He hangs around his parent’s chair for some time, in hopeful suspense, but as the longed-for plaything does not appear, he ventures timidly upon a diplomatic “feeler”-- “Father, maybe you’ve forgot your promise, again?” The father has had a harassing day--filled with carking care--and the smouldering temper needs but a spark to influence it. “Boy!” he says, hastily, “if you ever say ‘ball’ to me again, you shall not have it at all! I will not be teased out of my life about your jimcracks!” Tom shrinks back, as if he had been struck in the face; creeps silently off to his little room, and there, in solitude, cries as if his heart would break. He _has_ had a blow. It is not so much the loss of the toy, but his is a sensitive nature, and his father’s words were sharp swords. He meant to be very good, very patient. Nothing was further from his thoughts than to annoy his usually kind parent. Mingling with, and embittering his grief, is a burning sense of injustice. He knows that the injury was undeserved. “Father wouldn’t have talked so to a grown man! It’s just because I’m a poor little boy, and can’t help myself!”