countless are the traditional games from whose recurrent theme of a beleaguered castle and a stolen bride Froebel caught the idea which he transfigured in The Knights and The Mother. Remember how anxiously Harold grasped his ear when you tugged at it and then professed to show it to him between your fingers; how his eye followed the ball which you playfully jerked by its string from his hand; how eagerly he hunted for a hidden button; how tirelessly he took apart and put together the blocks you had shown him how to build into a cube. Then ponder your memories, and you will soon begin to realize that these infantile games are cast in the one mold of all spiritual activity. What, indeed, is self-consciousness but the play of the spirit with itself—the deliberate scattering of the wealth of thought for the purpose of rewinning it— the voluntary self-exile through which the soul makes itself everywhere at home.

Speech, says George Eliot, is but broken light upon the depths of the unspoken. My aim in this letter has been to quicken in your mind a thought which must be created anew by each new thinker. We can not paint physical motion either with pigments or with words, much less dare we hope to

paint the ceaseless motion of spirit. You must feel it, will it, know it in yourself. Then, and not till then, can you really understand why both the drama of history and the drama of infancy begin with the fall.

By-and-by, in work and play,
They'll be busy all the day;

Wading in the water clear,

Running swift for mother dear.

So this way and that,
With a pat-a-pat-pat,
And one, two, three,

For each little knee.

EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER.

DEAR : Have you ever wondered at the helplessness of babies as contrasted with the precocious independence of young animals? Have you ever asked why baby chickens can see, hear, run, scratch, scrape, and peck, and why, on the contrary, the human infant is born practically blind and deaf, is unable to balance his own head, and can neither grasp, hold, walk, stand, creep, nor sit? Knowing you, I am sure you have not only asked these questions, but have read carefully the answers given to them by Mr. Fiske in his many and lucid explanations of the meaning of infancy. You have learned from him the connection between the helplessness of babyhood and man's capacity for progress. You know that the mental life of animals is restricted to a few simple acts which, being repeated throughout the careers of individuals and of species, come to be performed easily and unconsciously. You understand that because animals do very few things and do them often the nervous connections necessary for their performance are perfected and trans