Girls, who are elder sisters, and possibly past the fairy-tale stage, be gracious in the telling of stories to the little ones who cannot read! It may be a trouble to hunt in your memory for these stories and put them into words, but it is really worth while to do it, and do it well, avoiding what is gruesome and fearful, but choosing all that is charming and attractive. Even in the way of “self-culture” the task will be good for you, and still better if you can succeed in telling a story “out of your own head.” The present writer began her work in this way when a child, writing fairy-tales, and recounting one by word of mouth, entitled, _The Precipice Passage_, which continued from day to day during many months, and was of the most thrilling description, as well as of superhuman length. A most beautiful book, though not exactly a fairy-tale, for children is _The Story without an End_, translated by Sarah Austin from the German of Carové (Sampson Low & Marston). The child who possesses this book, with the original coloured illustrations, to pore over, will have a foundation of graceful and tender fancies for the “culture” of riper years. “But,” you may object, “this paper is for girls, not for children, and we have outgrown fairy-tales.” There is one fairy-tale which you ought to read whatever your age, if it is not already familiar to you—_Undine_, by De la Motte Fouqué. If you can understand German, you should certainly read it in the original. If not, an English translation is to be obtained. It is, perhaps, the sweetest and most pathetic legend of all romance. Romance! The charm of that word! One loves, even in middle age, to linger regretfully upon it, and dream over the poet’s vision of— “Magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn.” We do not envy the youth or maiden whose pulse is not thrilled by those immortal lines; yet who can give a reason for their charm and spell? The present generation, it is to be feared, do not read the prose works of Longfellow as they should. _Hyperion_ and _Kavanagh_ are tender mystical romances, full of charm. It is, however, an impossible task to stand at the door of this vast library of the world’s fiction, and point you to the volumes you may take down from the shelves. One general observation may be made, seeing that our title is “Self-Culture.” The best novels will aid you indirectly in “self-culture.” The worst will not leave you where they found you, but will do you actual harm. You will be just one little bit farther removed from “self-culture”—will be nearer that which is vulgar and paltry, and poor and mean, to go no farther—for the reading of a “trashy” novel. It is, therefore, not the indifferent matter you may think it, to take up the silly sentimental story for the sake of an hour’s amusement. Find your amusement where there is no need of repentance.