I question if a three-year-and-a-half-old granddaughter would have chosen as a safe place of deposit for the white beans and red-freckled apples the handsomest chair I have.

You will find your laddie's soiled collars in his waste-paper basket; his slippers will depend from the corner of the picture you had framed for him on his last birthday; his dress-suit will be crumpled upon his wardrobe shelf, and his _chiffonier_ be heaped with a conglomeration of foils, neckties, dead _boutonnieres_, visiting-cards, base-balls, odd gloves, notebook, handkerchiefs, railway guides, emptied envelopes, caramel papers, button hooks, fugitive verses, blacking brushes, inkstand, hair brushes--the mother who reads this can complete the inventory, if she has abundant patience, and time is no object with her.
Nevertheless, I repeat it--let him have his "den," and one in which he can find more comfort and enjoyment than in any other haunt.

We mistake--the most affectionate of us--in attributing to our sons' sensibilities the robustness or wiry insensitiveness that belongs to their physical conformation.

Timely gifts are not thrown away upon them; each tasteful contribution to their well-being and happiness is a seed set in good soil.
A dear friend, in whose judgment I have put much faith, put it well when she gave her reason for rectifying only the glaring disorders of her boy's apartments while he was out of them, and letting the rest go.
"They must be clean and bright," she remarked, with tender forbearance.

"But I never meddle with his books and papers, or do anything that will, in his opinion, mar the individuality of his quarters.