lustre that we see in the eyes of happy children,--a lustre that is
dimmed, alas, in after years. Their eyes still see visions, but the
"shadows of the prison house" have fallen about us, and the things
which we have seen we "now can see no more!"

If you chance to be the Person with a Story, you sit like a queen on
her throne surrounded by her loyal subjects; or like an unworthy sun
with a group of flowers turning their faces towards you. Inspired by
breathless attention, you try ardently to do your very best. It seems
to you that you could never endure a total failure, and you hardly see
how you could bear, with any sort of equanimity, even the vacant gaze
or restless movement that would bespeak a vagrant interest. If you are
a novice, perhaps the frightful idea crosses your mind, "What if one
of these children should slip out of the room?" Or, still more tragic
possibility, suppose they should look you in the eye and remark with
the terrible candor of infancy, "We do not like this story!" But no;
you are more fortunate. The tale is told, and you are greeted with
sighs of satisfaction and with the instantaneous request, "Tell it
again!" That is the encore of the Story-Teller,--"Tell it again! No,
not another story; the same one over again, please!" for "what novelty
is worth that sweet monotony where everything is known, and loved
because it is known?" No royal accolade could be received with greater
gratitude. You endeavor to let humility wait upon self-respect; but
when you discover that the children can scarcely be dragged from your
fascinating presence, crying like Romeo for death rather than
banishment, and that the next time you appear they make a wild dash
from the upper regions, and precipitate themselves upon you with the
full impact of their several weights "multiplied into their velocity,"
you cannot help hugging yourself to think the good God has endowed you
sufficiently to win the love and admiration of such keen observers and