such a paper as he had in mind.
He didn't have enough money of his own for that, but he figured out that
by going again to the tradespeople and getting them to pay for
advertising in his paper and by making people pay for subscriptions to
the paper, the problem could be solved. He decided to limit the scope of
his enterprise to the publication of six numbers, one every month. He
went to different tradespeople with whom the family dealt, stated his
intentions, and asked for advertisements at the rate of fifty cents a
number. He was only twelve years old at the time and they naturally had
doubts about his ability to carry out the project; but some were found
with enough kindly sympathy to agree to pay him, when he brought them
the paper containing the advertisement. In the same way, among relatives
and friends and neighbors, he sought subscriptions at the rate of five
cents a copy and succeeded in obtaining a sufficient number for his
purpose.

He chose a name for his paper by himself but, when it came to the
question of the reading matter, he did not presume to attempt much of
that, at first, but felt he could do better by appealing to his mother
and aunt and others for the kind of contributions he had in mind.

He carried out his project, to the letter,--six numbers, one a
month--and at the end of it, he not only had the satisfaction of a fine
effort well done, but he had also earned a clear profit of over fifteen
dollars. Likewise, he had helped the growth of character, the taste for
literary achievement, the acquisition of much useful experience and
information, and considerable mental training of an admirable sort.

I might continue in this way, almost indefinitely, telling about the
interests and results which may come quite naturally to boys and girls
freed from the routine of school training.

Enough has been said, however, to suggest food for thought. With a
feeling of interest, or enthusiasm, behind it, almost any kind of mental
exercise, or physical exercise, takes on the color of gladness. Without
interest, or enthusiasm, almost any kind of compulsory effort becomes
drab and drear and irksome. The intellect can be a splendid friend to
the feelings--it can bring all sorts of suggestions to them, and point
out their usefulness and their charm--but if, for some reason which may
be entirely intuitive and fundamental and all-wise, the feelings refuse
to respond, or to cooeperate, any further compulsion is apt t