and repeats the hymn he is learning, Quentin usually jigging solemnly up and down while he repeats it. Each finally got one hymn perfect, whereupon in accordance with previous instructions from mother I presented each of them with a fivecent piece. Yesterday (Saturday) I took both of them and Ethel, together with the three elder Garfield boys, for a long scramble down Rock Creek. We had great fun.

CLASS ACTIVITIES

1. Make a list of the chief topics discussed in these letters. 2. Use one of the topics in your list for a floor-talk; read again the part of the selection in which it is treated, so that you will be able to give your talk well.

3. Which of the books mentioned in these letters have you read? Name the book you liked best.

4. Suggested theme topics:

a. Father's letters.

b. Christmas Day at the Roosevelts'.

c. Theodore Roosevelt, an ideal father.

d. Pets in our house.

e. Why I like Roosevelt.

5. Mention ways in which the homes described in this section are alike. Mention ways in which they differ. Which home do you like best? Why?

CLASS-LIBRARY READINGS

GLIMPSES INTO A FEW HOMES

1. "Incidents of Home," Roosevelt's Letters to His Children, 29-34, 217-218.

2. "Home Pets," ibid., 34-38, 47-48, 81, 199–200.

3. "Pillow Fights," ibid., 68-69, 153–154.

4. "A Picture Letter," ibid., 104.

5. "The Egg in the Nest," Children's Literature, 49.

6. "The Courtship, Merry Marriage, and Picnic Dinner of Cock Robin and Jenny Wren," ibid., 42-44.

7. "Our Charming Neighbors in Feathers," Compton's Pictured Encyclopedia, 1: 400-426; World Book, 1: 729, 731, 738.

8. "The Hero and Tin Soldiers," The Van Dyke Book, 124-127.

Which child did these parents love most? "Which shall it be? Which shall it be?" I look'd at John - John look'd at me (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet As well as though my locks were jet); And when I found that I must speak, My voice seem'd strangely low and weak: "Tell me again what Robert said." And then I, listening, bent my head.

"This is his letter: 'I will give

A house and land while you shall live,
If, in return, from out your seven,
One child to me for aye is given.""

I look'd at John's old garments worn,
I thought of all that John had borne
Of poverty and work and care,
Which I, though willing, could not share;
I thought of seven mouths to feed,

Of seven little children's need,

And then of this. "Come, John," said I,

"We'll choose among them as they lie Asleep"; so, walking hand in hand, Dear John and I survey'd our band.

First to the cradle lightly stepp'd,
Where the new nameless baby slept.
"Shall it be Baby?" whispered John.
I took his hand, and hurried on
To Lily's crib. Her sleeping grasp
Held her old doll within its clasp;
Her dark curls lay like gold alight,
A glory 'gainst the pillow white.
Softly her father stoop'd to lay
His rough hand down in loving way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,

Then huskily said John, "Not her- not her!"

We stopp'd beside the trundle-bed,
And one long ray of lamplight shed
Athwart the boyish faces there,
In sleep so pitiful and fair;

I saw on Jamie's rough red cheek
A tear undried. Ere John could speak,
"He's but a baby, too," said I,
And kiss'd him as we hurried by.

Pale, patient Robbie's angel face
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace.
"No, for a thousand crowns, not him!"
We whisper'd, while our eyes were dim.

Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward son,
Turbulent, reckless, idle one

Could he be spared? Nay; He who gave
Bids us befriend him to his grave;
Only a mother's heart can be

Patient enough for such as he;

"And so," said John, "I would not dare
To send him from her bedside prayer."

Then stole we softly up above
And knelt by Mary, child of love.
"Perhaps for her 'twould better be,"
I said to John. Quite silently
He lifted up a curl astray

Across her cheek in wilful way,

And shook his head: "Nay, love; not thee,"
The while my heart beat audibly.

Only one more, our eldest lad,
Trusty and truthful, good and glad —
So like his father. "No, John, no-
I cannot, will not, let him go."

And so we wrote, in courteous way,
We could not give one child away;
And afterward toil lighter seem'd,
Thinking of that of which we dream'd,
Happy in truth that not one face
We miss'd from its accustom'd place;
Thankful to work for all the seven,
Trusting the rest to One in heaven.

2. THE FRESHMAN FULL-BACK

RALPH D. PAINE

The boyish night city editor glanced along the copyreaders' table and petulantly exclaimed:

"Isn't that spread head ready yet, Mr. Seeley? It goes on the front page and we are holding open for it. Whew, but you are slow. You ought to be holding down a job on a quarterly review.”

A portly man of middle age dropped his pencil and turned heavily in his chair to face the source of this public humiliation. An angry flush overspread his face and he chewed at a grayish mustache as if fighting down rebellion. His comrades at the long table had looked up from their work and were eyeing the oldest copy-reader with sympathetic uneasiness while they hoped that he would be able to hold himself in hand. The night city editor felt the tension of this brief tableau and awaited the threatened outbreak with a nervous smile. But Seeley jerked his green eyeshade so low that his face was partly hidden, and wheeled round to resume his task with a catch of the breath and a tone of surrender in his reply.

"The head will be ready in five minutes, sir. The last pages of the story are just coming in."

A much younger man, at the farther end of the table, whispered to his neighbor:

"That's cheap and nasty, to call down old man Seeley as if he were a cub reporter. He may have lost his grip, but he deserves treatment for what he has been. Managing editor of this very sheet, London correspondent before that, and the crack man of the staff when most of the rest of us were in short breeches. And now Henry Harding Seeley isn't any too sure of keeping his job on the copy-desk."

"That's what the New York newspaper game can do to you if you stick at it too long," murmured the other. "Back to the farm for mine."

It was long after midnight when these two put on their coats and bade the city editor's desk a perfunctory "Goodnight."

They left Henry Harding Seeley still slumped in his chair, writing with dogged industry.

"He's dead tired, you can see that," commented one of the pair as they headed for Broadway, “but, as usual, he is grinding out stuff for the Sunday sheet after hours. He must need the extra coin mighty bad. I came back for my over