ruction. A story must stimulate not merely inform. This is the
trouble with our "informational literature" for children, of which
very little is worthy of the name. Indeed, I am not sure it is not a
contradiction of terms. It is frankly didactic. It aims to make clear
certain facts, not to stimulate thought. It assumes that if a child
swallows a fact it must nourish him. To give the child material with
which to experiment,--this lies outside its present range. Reaction from
the unloveliness of this didactic writing has produced a distressing
result. The misunderstood and misapplied educational principle that
children's work should interest them has developed a new species of
story,--a sort of pseudo-literary thing in which the medicinal facts
are concealed by various sugar-coating devices. Children will take this
sort of story,--what will their eager little minds not take? And like
encyclopedias and other books of reference this type has its place in a
child's world. But it should never be confused with literature.

Literature must give a sense of adventure. This sense of adventure, of
excursion into the unknown, must be furnished to children of every age.
As I have said before, I think "Peek-a-boo, there's the baby!" is the
elementary expression of this love of adventure. The baby disappears
into the unknown vastness behind the handkerchief and to her, her
reappearance is a thrilling experience. Children's stories,--as indeed
all stories,--have been largely founded on this. The "Prudy" and "Dotty
Dimple" books though keyed so low in the scale seem adventurous because
of the meagre background of their young readers. But children of the
age we are considering,--who have left the narrowly personal and
predominantly play period demand something higher in the scale of
adventure. To them are offered the great variety of tales of adventure
and danger of which the boy scout is the latest example. Every child in
reading these becomes a hero. And every child (and grown-up) enjoys
being a hero. Higher still comes "Kidnapped" and so up to Stanley Weyman
and "The Three Musketeers" which differ in their art, not in their
appeal.

Now is it not possible to give children these adventurous excursions
which they crave and should have, without so much killing of animals or
men, and so many blood-thirsty excitements, and so much fake heroism?
What relationships do such tales interpret? What truths do they give a
child upon which to base