in tone to be included in our children's book-every parent and nurse in the country would be up in arms-but they might well be placed on the title page of the other volume. Mr. Riley, however, has written well for both our anthologists. The child, happily undiscrim. inative of social grade, is always a heroworshipper, always, but innocently, envious. His hero is the handy man, the postman, the lamplighter, the gamekeeper. To be with the great man is his ambition and joy, to hear him speak, to watch him make things. Mr. Riley expresses in racy musical verse this young passion. Every boy who has known boyhood at all was once envious of a good-natured Jack-of-all-trades, the Raggedy Man's correlative. Look at Mr. Riley's description of the hero:

O! the Raggedy Man! He works for pa; An' he's the goodest man ever you saw! He comes to our house every day.

An' waters the horses, and feeds 'em hay;

An' he opens the shed-an' we all 'ist laugh When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;

An' nen-ef our hired girl says he can-
He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann.

Ain't he a awful good Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

W'y the Raggedy Man-he's ist so good
He splits the kindlin' and chops the wood;
An' nen he spades in our garden, too,
An' does most things 'at boys can't do.
He climbed clean up in our big tree
An' shooked a apple down fer me-
An' nother'n, too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann-
An' nother'n, too, fer the Raggedy Man-
Ain't he a awful good Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

We would have in the Child's Anthology the Raggedy Man's account of the man in the moon, which there is no space to quote. We would also have Mr. Eugene Field's Dutch lullaby, "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod," which is well known; and William's Miller's "Wee Willie Winkie," which is better known. Another but less popular Scotch poem, belonging to the same family, is "Wee Davie Daylicht," by Robert Tennant. This class of poetry, wherein a bold figure (such as Jack

Frost) is employed to make the picture more real and vivid, is good for children. It stimulates the imagination, and that, in this world, is a most desirable proceeding. There is a capital poem by William Howitt beginning:

The wind one morning sprang up from sleep,

Saying, "Now for a frolic! now for a leap!"

which I have not heard since I was in words of one syllable, yet to this hour I never see a gusty day without recallirg the piece, and thinking momentarily of the wind as a huge, humanized, practical-joking rebel. I don't claim to be a better citizen for this memory; but life is more interesting.

One of the larger sections of the Child's Anthology would consist of what may called dissuasive verse; the chief producers of which are Jane and Ann Taylor, author of "Original Poems," the first deliberate effort to

make a book of verse to please children first and other people afterwards. Although seventy years and more have passed since this collection of lyrics and tragedies first appeared, the book still sways the nursery. In this continued popularity we may perhaps find another proof of the distaste of children for poetry. The manner is prosaic, almost bald; the matter is, beyond words, alluring. The fascination excited by a history of human disaster is ever powerful; and the author who deals faithfully with elemental faults and passions is assured of longevity. Jane and Ann Taylor did this. They took cruelty and greed, covetousness and theft, impatience and anger, and made them the centre of human narratives; vividly real and human narratives - that is the secret of their power. Children never change; the same things that interested the infant Moses interest infants to-day; and there is still something not unattractive in the misfortunes of others. Hence is it that the "Original Poems" hold little audiences spell-bound in 1896 just as they did in 1826, and will hold them spell-bound in the thirtieth century, if mothers are wise. Their influence for virtue is another matter.

They are popular, I fancy, rather for their dramatic interest than their didac、 ticism. Sinners in real life are not so easily daunted. At any rate they would be included in the Child's Anthology, not for their dissuasive powers, but for their capacity to interest.

"False Alarms" is one of the most terrible; the story of Little Mary, who called for her mamma in alarm when there was no cause, by way of pleasantry, and laughed when her mamma came. In the end she catches fire in her bedroom, cries vainly for help, and is almost incinerated. Who (for twenty-four hours) after this, could play with fire or hoax a parent?

In "The Boys and the Apple-tree," disaster is indeed averted, but so skilfully that we experience a thrill as intense as if the catastrophe had really occurred. Tommy and Billy see apples hanging over a wall. Tommy would steal some, but Billy, the blameless Billy, says No-"To steal is a sin." They call on Bobby, to whose father, it seems, the garden belongs, and he, in the course of the afternoon, shows them a man-trap guarding the identical apples which Tommy had coveted, a weapon of peculiar horror.

Cried Tommy, "I'll mind what my good mamma says,

And take the advice of a friend;

I never will steal to the end of my days; I've been a bad boy, but I'll mend!"

We are to suppose that he did mend. The sisters Taylor were wise not to carry their histories too far.

"Greedy Richard" has a fine aristocratic flavor:

"I think I want some pies this morning," Said Dick, stretching himself and yawning;

So down he threw his slate and books,
And saunter'd to the pastry-cook's.

There, of course, he ate too much. To this day, if any one were to say to me suddenly, "Quick, tell me who is your ideal among millionaires," the figure that would jump to my mind would be Greedy Richard. I should not think of Mr. Barney Barnato until afterwards.

And not only is there his wealth to admire, but look at the splendid liberty of the boy-he could fling aside his slate and books whenever he wished!

One does not realize how admirable was the work of Jane and Ann Taylor until it is compared with that of inferior writers. They had a rival in Louisa Watts, whose efforts to be found in a volume painfully entitled "Pretty Little Poems for Pretty Little People"-attempt to cover the same ground. Her style lacks the vigor of that of her exemplars; but none the less the book attained very considerable popularity, among parents and instructors, in the forties and fifties. She seems to have considered narrative less her strength than the popularization of science, a large portion of the book being occupied by lessons, presented in the most distressing doggerel, in astronomy, mineralogy, botany, and other branches of learning. The lecturer is mamma, and the audience, consisting of Ann, Julia, Harry, and others of a strikingly considerable family, are always disproportionately grateful for the information tendered to them. Thus:

One evening very fine and clear.
Ann and Eliza walking were,
And being very near the sea,
They viewed it each attentively.

Curious Eliza very soon

Said, "Dear mamma, pray is it known
What water is? If you can tell,
Ann and myself would like it well."

Mamma, delighted to be drawn, breaks off at once, at a hand gallop:

The element of water is
Composed of only two gases;
One part of hydrogen is there,
Four oxygen, or vital air,

and so on.

But Louisa Watts's highest achievement was the ballad entitled "The Benefit of Learning and Good Behaviour." In this poem the progress of a virtuous and industrious child from penury to wealth and position is narrated with convincing spirit. In the hope that we all may profit by her ex

ample, I will quote the lines. In read ing, mark how inevitably one incident follows another:

There was a little cottage girl,

Once forced from morn till night to whirl
The spinning-wheel, to earn the bread
With which her mother might be fed;
But though she had so much to do,
She learn'd to read, and spell and sew.
Soon as her poor old mother died,
Her wants were comfortably supplied
By a good clergyman-and she
Taught all his little family;
But soon a dreadful war began
And many people in the town

Were kill'd, and had their houses too
Burnt, then what could poor Catherine do?
To hide, she in an oven got,

But soon the soldiers found her out
And would have killed her very soon,
But as she screamed, her voice was known
By a young gallant officer,

Who took her home and married her;
But he was forced to go away
To battle, and was killed that day.
Poor Cath'rine then became a slave
To a rich man, who one day gave
An entertainment to the king,

this kind of composition. "Some of his pieces of verse," writes Macaulay's biographer, "are almost perfect specimens of the nursery lyric. From five to ten stanzas in length, and with each word carefully formed in capitalsmost comforting to the eyes of a student who is not very sure of his small letters -they are real children's poems, and they profess to be nothing more." I have not made any extensive search in other biographies for kindred verses-that is a labor for the anthologist-but as a foretaste of the quality of the material now waiting to be unearthed and collected together for the contentment of the nursery, I will quote the following lyric, the authorship of which I have tried in vain to trace:

There was a little girl, she wore a little hood,

And a curl down the middle of her forehead,

When she was good, she was very, very good,

But when she was bad, she was horrid.

He thought it, she a slave should be,
With so much grace and modesty.
He heard with wonder and delight,
Poor Catherine her tale recite;
But more delighted was to find
She had a cultivated mind:

And very soon was changed the scene,
For Catherine became a queen.

The compiler of the Child's Anthology would, after examining, however thoroughly, all previous collections of poetry, have completed but a small portion of his task. For then would come the search for these playful verses which so many men, not professionally writers for children, have thrown off with the aim of pleasing little friends. Just as "The Giant's Shoes," written by Professor Clifford for the entertainment of his children, is one of the best nonsense stories in the language, so are some of these rhymes without parallel. Sir George Trevelyan tells us that Macaulay, posing as The Judicious Poet, a myth in which his young readers more than half believed, was much given to

ents unawares,

In the kitchen down below were oc

cupied with meals,

And she stood upon her head, on her little truckle-bed,

And she then began hurraying with her heels.

Her mother heard the noise, and thought it was the boys,

A-playing at a combat in the attic, But when she climbed the stair and saw Jemima there,

She took and she did whip her most emphatic!

Authorities differ as torthe opening of the poem:

There was a little girl who had a little curl Right down the middle of her forehead. is a common and preferable reading; and more people than not believe that when the word "horrid" is reached the poem is over. Few know that Jemima was the rebel's name. Few but are astonished to learn of the versatility of her heels. That the above quotation of

The company included the Dowager Lady Letherby and the Misses Elizabeth and Dorothea Sutton-the Lexingtons-the bishop and his good lady-Lord Edenmore-Sir John and Lady Marchington-Tommy Hurdlestone Miss Goodchild, a host of others, and Mr. George Hawley. But on the 29th and 30th the guests had been admittedly a little dull, for that universal favorite, George Hawley, had been absent on a brief visit to an old friend of his living on the borders of Leicestershire. He was to return to Laughton on the 31st in order to be present at Lady Stayneyard's dance.

New Year's eve was that rare occurrence, a bye day, with Mr. Hugo Meynell's pack. George Hawley sat drinking port in Squire Sheldon's oak parlor. It was close on three o'clock in the afternoon when he rose to go. The squire naturally protested at losing the finest company in the world, and before they had touched on the Westminster Scrutiny, or even a second bottle had been cracked. But Hawley was firm. He had promised Lady Stayneyard very faithfully to return in time for her dance. There lay at least a twelve-mile ride before him, and there was, moreover, some likelihood of a fall of snow before night.

So he took his leave of the genial squire, and half an hour after sundown was within six miles of Laughton Park. He was riding quietly on the highroad, when suddenly a curious idea came across his mind. He felt a shade weary of the monotony of the fashionable life he had led at Laughton Park for near a week. The old, strange eagerness for adventure possessed him. Quick as thought his mind was made up. Not a mile away, and approached by a desolate lane, were some disused farm buildings. In the thatching of the roof of one of these was hidden the famous scarlet coat, and his larger pistol was also there. He had not clapped eyes upon his notorious property since he had taken a clear hundred

night three weeks back on the Ashbourne road. The recollection of his encounter with the distinguished soldier stirred him to immediate action. In a very few minutes, when it would be totally dark, he judged the Manchester Mail would come toiling up that hill. "Captain Scarlet" would be there to meet it.

With that unerring sense of localities, which had been no small factor in making the man so successful, he reached the lonely homestead. Here he dismounted and entered. Standing on one of the feeding troughs, he ran his hand between the thatching and a broad rafter. There, sure enough, he found the coat. It was of silk and unlined. Around the edge of the collar ran a narrow gold braid. Folded neatly it occupied a very small space. A little further along the rafter his hand struck the leather holster containing the horse pistol. This was wrapped round with hay, and was, he assured himself, perfectly uninjured from exposure to damp. He loaded it carefully, as also the smaller weapon he carried with him where danger might chance to come. Though snow had not yet fallen, the night was bitterly cold, and he decided not to wear the silk coat there and then in exchange for his riding coat, as was his usual custom, but to put it on at the last minute over the other, for the garment was made loose so as to admit of this arrangement. Then he strapped the holster to the saddle, Blouzelinda, his mare, waiting patiently all the while. He regretted greatly not having any false white stockings handy for the bay. These were little makebeliefs, bandages, in fact, which he had found very useful and misleading more than once of a dark evening: as when Mr. Sheriff Lounger had caused a handbill to be issued offering a reward to any person giving information as to the whereabouts of a suspiciouslooking stranger, riding a bay with three (if not four) white, stockings; whereas Blouzelinda had not a single white hair in her body. But he de