friend, hoping probably that the friend's chastened condition will make
him more lenient towards this mawkish form of literature. The parents
expostulate, pointing out to their son how ungrateful he is, and how
ungracious it would be to part with his aunt's gift. Then the boy can
contain himself no longer. He bursts out, unconsciously expressing the
normal attitude of children at a certain stage of development:

"It's a _daft_ book ony way: there's naebody gets kilt ent. I like
stories about folk gettin' their heids cut off, or there's nae wile
beasts. I I like stories about black men gettin' ate up, an' white
men killin' lions and tigers an' bears an'---"


Then, again, we have the passage from George Eliot's "Mill on
the Floss":

"Oh, dear! I wish they would not fight at your school, Tom. Didn't
it hurt you?"

"Hurt me? No," said Tom, putting up the hooks again, taking out a
large pocketknife, and slowly opening the largest blade, which he
looked at meditatively as he rubbed his finger along it. Then he
added:

"I gave Spooner a black eye--that's what he got for wanting to leather
me. I wasn't going to go halves because anybody leathered me."

"Oh! how brave you are, Tom. I think you are like Samson. If there
came a lion roaring at men, I think you'd fight him, wouldn't you, Tom?"