John Habberton, the author of "Helen's Babies," was born in Brooklyn, New York, on February 24, 1842. He enlisted in the army in 1862, and served through the Civil War, at the close of which he adopted journalism as a profession, becoming, in due course, literary editor of the "Christian Union." His first and most popular story, "Helen's Babies," after being declined by various publishers, appeared in 1876, and more than a quarter of a million copies have been sold in America alone. According to Mr. Habberton himself, the story "grew out of an attempt to keep for a single day the record of the doings of a brace of boys of whom the author is half-owner." Apart from a number of novels, Mr. Habberton has also written a "Life of George Washington," and a play, "Deacon Cranket," performed more than five hundred times. _I.--The Imps_ The first cause of the existence of this book may be found in a letter, written by my sister, and received by me, Harry Burton, salesman of white goods, bachelor, aged twenty-eight, just as I was trying to decide where I should spend a fortnight's vacation. She suggested, as I was always complaining of never having time to read, I should stay at her place, while she and her husband went on a fortnight's visit. She owned she would feel easier if she knew there was a man in the house. "Just the thing!" I ejaculated. Five minutes later I had telegraphed my acceptance, and had mentally selected books enough for a dozen vacations. I knew enough of Helen's boys to be sure they would give one no annoyance. Budge, the elder, was five years of age, and had generally, during my flying visits, worn a shy, serious, meditative, noble face, and Toddie was a happy little know-nothing of three summers, with tangled yellow hair. Three days later I hired a hackman to drive me from Hillcrest Station. Half a mile from my brother-in-law's residence the horses shied violently, and the driver, after talking freely to them, remarked, "That was one of the Imps!" As he spoke the offending youth came panting beside our carriage, and in a very dirty sailor-suit I recognised my nephew Budge. Then a smaller boy emerged from the bushes at the side of the road, and I beheld the unmistakable lineaments of Toddie. "They're my nephews!" I gasped. "Budge," I said, with all the sternness I could command; "do you know me?" "Yes; you're Uncle Harry. Did you bring us anything?" "I wish I could have brought you some big whippings for behaving so badly. Get into this carriage." As they clambered up, I noticed that each one carried a very dirty towel, knotted tightly in the centre. After some moments' disgusted contemplation of these rags, I asked Budge what these towels were for. "They're not towels, they're dollies," promptly answered my nephew.