an odiously priggish child called Daisy Randolph, refused to sing on a
Sunday when desired to do so by her mother. For this, most properly,
she was whipped. A devoted black maid who shared Daisy's religious
views, comforted her little mistress by bringing her a supper of fried
oysters, ice-cream and waffles. As a child I used to think how gladly I
would undergo a whipping every Sunday were it only to be followed by a
supper of fried oysters, ice-cream and waffles, the latter a comestible
unknown to me, but suggesting infinitely delicious possibilities.
Unfortunately I can never remember having been asked to sing on Sunday,
or indeed on any other day.

Speaking seriously, I do not believe that these emotionally pietistic
little books produced any good effect on the children into whose hands
they were put. I remember as a child feeling exasperated against the
ultra-righteous little heroines of all these works. I say heroine,
because no boy was ever given a chance as a household-reformer, unless
he had happened to have been born a hopeless cripple, or were
suffering from an incurable spinal complaint. In the latter case,
experience induced the certainty that the author would be unable to
resist the temptation of introducing a pathetic death-bed scene.
Accordingly, when the little hero's spine grew increasingly painful
and he began to waste away, the two next chapters were carefully
skipped in order to be spared the harrowing details of the young
martyr's demise. Girls, not being so invariably doomed to an early
death, were alone qualified to act as family evangelists, and one knew
that the sweet child's influence was bound, slowly but surely, to
permeate the entire household. Her mother would cease to care only for
"the world and its fine things," and would even endeavour to curb her
inordinate love of dress. Her father would practically abandon
betting, and, should he have been fortunate enough to have backed a