catapult, a pistol, or even a sword-stick, will be satisfied that
the titular ownership should lapse to his juniors, so far below
him in their kilted or petticoated incompetence. After all, the
things are still there, and if relapses of spirit occur, on wet
afternoons, one can still (nominally) borrow them and be happy on
the floor as of old, without the reproach of being a habitual
baby toy-caresser. Also one can pretend it's being done to amuse
the younger ones.

None of us, therefore, grumbled when in the natural course of
things the nominal ownership of the toys slipped down to Harold,
and from him in turn devolved upon Charlotte. The toys were
still there; they always had been there and always would be
there, and when the nursery door was fast shut there were no
Kings or Queens or First Estates in that small Republic on
the floor. Charlotte, to be sure, chin-tilted, at last an owner
of real estate, might patronize a little at times; but it was
tacitly understood that her "title " was only a drawing-room one.

Why does a coming bereavement project no thin faint voice, no
shadow of its woe, to warn its happy, heedless victims? Why
cannot Olympians ever think it worth while to give some hint of
the thunderbolts they are silently forging? And why, oh, why did
it never enter any of our thick heads that the day would come
when even Charlotte would be considered too matronly for toys?
One's so-called education is hammered into one with rulers and
with canes. Each fresh grammar or musical instrument, each new
historical period or quaint arithmetical rule, is impressed on
one by some painful physical prelude. Why does Time, the biggest
Schoolmaster, alone neglect premonitory raps, at each stage