broke out over who should sit next to "César": this one cries, "I reserved my place at his right hand," and another challenges her, "I have settled for the left side." And here the command's whistle intervenes, and innocent laughter rises in an air brimming with feeling and merriment.

In every one of our sons and daughters there is an aptitude and a capacity for the tasting of art or the practice of it; but those capacities flower or are effaced according to the direction that

steers them and the environment that works upon them. And how delightful was the hour in which I heard questions raining down upon the artist's head, so that he rubs his brow to recall the serial number, smiles, and then answers in detail — or else the protests rise loud.

I think you are tired now — but the campers are not tired. Here are the tongues of the campfire blazing, calling everyone to a circle where we enjoy "whatever comes along" of talk and of songs

let loose, free, no throat growing hoarse over them, rising with the silvery rays and drifting like mist among the valleys and the hills spread out as far as the eye can see. Upward the eyes lift to watch the stars, and are lost for spells in the world of the heavenly bodies... And darkness steals into the heart of the wood — but you will not feel it here; it is another day, of golden dreams toying with your enraptured fancy. To the tent, then, to sleep on the hope of an early sunrise... tomorrow morning!...