the power of their charms, so that you are able
to look your full. I say "very" young, because it is a knowledge that
comes to them only too soon, and a little of this knowledge is, at any
rate, "a dangerous thing."

Children sometimes set you thinking more than any philosopher who ever
existed. Their ideas are so fresh, so unsophisticated, so original.
The atmosphere of the great unknown still seems to cling to their
souls. They are not yet tainted with the world's impure air. They ask
you questions impossible to answer, but which you are obliged to parry
in an underhand manner, so as not to expose your ignorance. They solve
problems and reach conclusions after a way of their own, which, at any
rate, have plenty of reason about them. I remember being very much
struck by a little boy's idea once when his mother was remarking on
the strange appearance of a man who, while his whiskers were black as
ebony, possessed hair of a snowy white. "But why, mother, should it
seem funny?" broke in the child. "Aren't his whiskers twenty years
younger than his hair?"

Dogs certainly cannot talk or say quaint things, but they can do
nearly everything else. At any rate they can understand you and
distinguish between the words, as the following instance proves.

We have family prayers at home, and have had them ever since we were
quite little things. What an ordeal they used to be too! We used to be
watched so strictly, and the moment our eyes wavered from our books,
attention would at once be drawn to the culprits and cover them with
confusion. Woe be to him, too, who forgot to turn over the leaf of his
book with the rest! It is such an unkind thing to do to print all the
books alike. If you forget and turn over later, you are at once
detected. Being sharp children, however, we used to make this our
first care, so that whatever we were doing--laughing, pinching,
winking, our pages all went over together, so we _sounded_ attentive.

Our little dog was even more cunning than ourselves. He was never
permitted, on any plea, to lie before the fire. "It enlarged his
liver," his master said. Now this decree is a great deprivation to
dogs. They like warmth and comfort just as much as we do; indeed,
they love the fire to such an extent that if all the terrors of Hades
were put before them, they would by no means have a salutary effect.
The dogs would try to be as naughty as possible in the hopes of
getting there.

But this particular litt