“Well, that was because your aunt came up suddenly, and your Papa couldn’t get another seat. Poor auntie wouldn’t have gone at all if she hadn’t gone then.”
“Oh, wouldn’t she?”
“No.”
Another pause.
“Do you think she’ll come up suddenly to-day?”
“Oh no, I don’t think so.”
“No, I hope she doesn’t. I want to go to the circus to-night. Because, you see, nurse, if I don’t it will discourage me.”
So, perhaps the world is wise in promising us the circus. We believe her at first. But after a while, I fear, we grow discouraged.
ON THE EXCEPTIONAL MERIT ATTACHING TO THE THINGS WE MEANT TO DO
I can remember—but then I can remember a long time ago. You, gentle Reader, just entering upon the prime of life, that age by thoughtless youth called middle, I cannot, of course, expect to follow me—when there was in great demand a certain periodical ycleped The Amateur. Its aim was noble. It sought to teach the beautiful lesson of independence, to inculcate the fine doctrine of self-help. One chapter explained to a man how he might make flower-pots out of Australian meat cans; another how he might turn butter-tubs into music-stools; a third how he might utilize old bonnet boxes for Venetian blinds: that was the principle of the whole scheme, you made everything from something not intended for it, and as ill-suited to the purpose as possible.