he twig is bent the tree's inclined" is felt to be peculiarly
applicable in his case.

And still one ought not to be fatalistic about the twig: for the tree,
indeed, it is too late, but that means nothing, if not that for the twig
it is yet time. In certain ways this idea is recognized and acted upon,
as, for instance, when a taste for music is to be cultivated children
are held to practise daily on the piano, even though they hate it; if
dancing is necessary to secure a graceful carriage, they must learn to
dance, notwithstanding that they might prefer to swarm up and down the
sidewalk on roller-skates. And so, when a relish for books is to be
awakened, why should it not follow that children must read? Why content
one's self with anything short of that? To read to a child, otherwise
than occasionally and with the occult purpose of giving a lesson in ease
of utterance, is evidently pernicious. It may sound well to say that
Charlie likes to be read to, but the real sense of the statement is that
he considers reading laborious, and that we are doing our best to
strengthen him in that opinion. To be sure he is right,--reading _is_
more or less laborious at the outset; but then the obvious deduction
from this would seem to be that the more seriously he applies himself to
it the better.

To some persons such an axiom will have a brain-feverish sound: children
are heard of who are devoted to books to the injury of their health, and
so it is assumed that to incite any child to read may be a tempting of
Providence. This is a groundless supposition. Even in the few authentic
cases of precocious development efficient parents may easily take
measures to check the ravages of intellect, while in the far greater
number of instances where the mental and physical qualities are pretty
evenly balanced, parental efficiency would be well displayed in
cherishing rather than in repressing a love for literature. If one
thinks what a companion a book may be in hours of loneliness, what a
comforter in weary illness or in sorrow, and, above all, what a blessing
in the temporary escape it offers from the every-day trials of
existence, which tend to take on huge proportions if one settles down
among them, but will look of a very reasonable size to one who comes
back to them with sight refreshed after a judicious absence,--if one
thinks of all this, the art of playing on the piano or of dancing sinks
greatly in importance as compared with the art