sort of answer if only he can play a part in the conversation. If we
could in any way depend on the children giving the kind of answer we
expect, all might go well and the danger would be lessened; but
children have a perpetual way of frustrating our hopes in this
direction, and of landing us in unexpected bypaths from which it is
not always easy to return to the main road without a very violent
reaction. As illustrative of this, I quote from the "The Madness of
Philip," by Josephine Daskam Bacon, a truly delightful essay on child
psychology in the guise of the lightest of stories.

The scene takes place in a kindergarten, where a bold and fearless
visitor has undertaken to tell a story on the spur of the moment to a
group of restless children.

She opens thus:

"Yesterday, children, as I came out of my yard, what do you think
I saw?"

The elaborately concealed surprise in store was so obvious that
Marantha rose to the occasion and suggested, "An el'phunt."

"Why, no. Why should I see an elephant in my yard? It was not
_nearly_ so big as that--it was a little thing."

"A fish," ventured Eddy Brown, whose eye fell upon the aquarium in the
corner. The raconteuse smiled patiently.

"Now, how could a fish, a live fish, get into my front yard?"