Stand from under, children; papa has a few screws loose and may suffer a loss of balance, dispersing steel pipes and himself across the greensward. Befall what may, the children will go right on awesomely thinking that fathers are wonderful beings who can do anything, a touching but goofy aspect of child psychology.

Comes a time to every feminine person when she goes up in the world. Using lofty contraptions under the back of her shoes, touching herslef with stiletto heels as if with two magic wands, abracadabra!-she transfigures a tender-age girl into a tender-age woman.

Towser is thinking, One minute the boy I love wants me to be with him, next minute he doesn't. Do human beings think or do they just muddle along on instinct? This is a good subject to change. As to what will happen in the church, George Hughes says he doesn't know, and what a help he is.

Children must learn to multiply this by that and come out correct usually, else what's the use of growing up into a world full of income-tax banks? But education is vexation. Often Miss Jones gets so weary of trying to hammer data into little craniums that she yearns to be shipwrecked on a desert isle; and often the little craniums get so weary of Miss Jones, period. Then one day, surprise!

Well, what do you know--here it is kite month again, going on throw-out-the-first-baseball month; life is looking up. All in favor of abolishing winter for a few years say aye. And a lot of good that will do you. But let's have no gloomy thoughts about anything while spring is springing--not even about that kite being stuck in the tree, for kites love to get struck in trees. and if those lads have to shinny up to unhitch it, breathes there a lad who loveth not to shinny?

Walking around an art museum brings joy and peace to the soul, and to the lower extremities brings aches, walker's cramp and faltering locomotion as if the muscles have moldered into oatmeal. A similarly exhausting thing to do with legs affects, oddly, on one of the sexes; when a great, powerful man follows his wife through some stores while she shops, not fatigue, but blind staggers is what he winds up with, whereas the weak little woman finishes tippy-toeing on clouds.

As great men, in their formative years, often are driven by a thirst for knowledge along the line of their budding genius, let us assume that little James, there, is destined to be a world-renowned zoologist. If you can't quite swallow that assumption, oh, be a nice reader and come along for the ride anyway.

Maybe Dick Sargent's young romantic is one of the lads who were heaving snowballs at girls on John Clymer's cover last week. Maybe the act of drawing a bead on a neat little blonde resulted in a queer discovery--that girls are an interesting institution beyond their value as targets and as something to pull the hair of.