saintly presence,—so clean and well groomed that you feel inclined to push her into a puddle.  Her hands are not full of vulgar toys and sweetmeats, like those of the other children, but are extended graciously as if she were in the habit of pronouncing benedictions.

IV—Insouciance!

Le petit Charles puts his evil little paw in his dangerous pockets and draws out a wicked lucifer match, saying with abominable indifference, “Bah! what do we care?  We’re going to build a fire, whatever you say.  Come on, boys!”

V—Un Plaisir Dangereux!

The boys “come on.”  Led by “le petit vilain Charles” they light a dangerous little fire in a dangerous little spot.  Their faces shine with unbridled glee.  The G. L. M. retires to a distance with a few saintly followers, meditating whether she shall run and tell her mother.  “Le petit Paul,” an infant of three summers, draws near the fire, attracted by the cheerful blaze.

VI—Malheur et Inexpérience

Le petit Paul somehow or other tumbles into the fire.  Nothing but a desire to influence posterity as an awful example could have induced him to take this unnecessary step, but having walked in he stays in, like an infant John Rogers.  The bad boys are so horror-stricken it does not occur to them to pull him out, and the G. L. M. is weeping over the sin of the world.

VII—Trop Tard!!

The male parent of le petit Paul is seen rushing down an adjacent Alp.  He leads a flock of frightened villagers who have seen the smoke and heard the wails of their offspring.  As the last shred of le petit Paul has vanished in said smoke, the observer notes that the poor father is indeed “too late.”

VIII—Desespoir!!

The despair of all concerned would draw tears from the dryest eye.  Only one person wears a serene expression, and that is the G. L. M., who is evidently thinking: “Perhaps they will listen to me the next time.”

IX—La Fin!

The charred remains of le petit Paul are being carried to the cemetery.  The G. L. M. heads the procession in a white veil.  In a prominent place among the mourners is “le pauvre petit Charles,” so bowed with grief and remorse that he can scarcely be recognized.

It was a telling sermon!  If I had been a child I should never have looked at a match again; and old as I was, I could not, for days afterwards, regard a box of them without a shudder.  I thought that probably Yverdon had been visited in the olden time by a series of disastrous holocausts, all set by small boys, and that this was the powerful antidote presented; so I asked the teacher whether incendiarism was a popular failing in that vicinity and whether the chart was one of a series inculcating various moral lessons.  I don’t know whether she understood me or not, but she said no, it was “la méthode de Pestalozzi.”

Just at this juncture she left the room, apparently to give the pupils a brief study-period, and simultaneously the concierge was called downstairs by a crying baby.  A bright idea occurred to me and I went hurriedly into the corridor where my friend was taking notes.

“Salemina,” said I, “here is an opportunity of a lifetime!  We ought to address these children in their native tongue.  It will be something to talk about in educational pow-wows.  They do not know that we are distinguished visitors, but we know it.  A female member of a School Board and the Honorary President of a Froebel Society owe a duty to their constituents.  You go in and tell them who and what I am and make a speech in French.  Then I’ll tell them who and what you are and make another speech.”

Salemina assumed a modest violet attitude, declined the honour absolutely, and intimated that there were persons who would prefer talking in a language they didn’t know rather than to remain sensibly silent.

However the plan struck me as being so fascinating that I went back alone, looked all ways to see if any one were coming, mounted the platform, cleared my throat, and addressed the awe-struck youngsters in the following words.  I will spare you the French, but you will perceive by the construction of the sentences, that I uttered only those sentiments possible in an early stage of language-study.

“My dear children,” I began, “I live many thousand miles across the ocean in America.  You do not know me and I do not know you, but I do know all about your good Pestalozzi and I love him.”

“Il est mort!” interpolated one offensive little girl in the front row.

Salemina tittered audibly in the corridor, and I crossed the room and closed the door.  I think the children expected me to put the key in my pocket and then murder them and stuff them into the stove.

“I know perfectly well that he is dead, my child,” I replied winningly,—“it is his life, his memory that I love.—And once upon a time, long ago, a great man named Friedrich Froebel came here to Yverdon and studied with your great Pestalozzi.  It was he who made kindergartens for little children, jardins des enfants, you know.  Some of your grand-mothers remember Froebel, I think?”

Hereupon two of the smaller chits shouted some sort of a negation which I did not in the least comprehend, but which from large American experience I took to be, “My grandmother doesn’t!”  “My grandmother doesn’t!”

Seeing that the others regarded me favourably, I continued, “It is because I love Pestalozzi and Froebel, that I came here to day to see your beautiful new monument.  I have just bought a photograph taken on that day last year when it was first uncovered.  It shows the flags and the decorations, the flowers and garlands, and ever so many children standing in the sunshine, dressed in white and singing hymns of praise.  You are all in the picture, I am sure!”

This was a happy stroke.  The children crowded about me and showed me where they were standing in the photograph, what they wore on the august occasion, how the bright sun made them squint, how a certain malheureuse Henriette couldn’t go to the festival because she was ill.

I could understand very little of their magpie chatter, but it was a proud moment.  Alone, unaided, a stranger in a strange land, I had gained the attention of children while speaking in a foreign tongue.  Oh, if I had only left the door open that Salemina might have witnessed this triumph!  But hearing steps in the distance, I said hastily, “Asseyez-vous, mes enfants, tout-de-suite!”  My tone was so authoritative that they obeyed instantly, and when the teacher entered it was as calm as the millennium.

We rambled through the village for another hour, dined at a quaint little inn, gave a last look at the monument, and left for Geneva at seven o’clock in the pleasant September twilight.  Arriving a trifle after ten, somewhat weary in body and slightly anxious in mind, I followed Salemina into the tiny cake-shop across the street from the station.  She returned the tumbler, and the man, who seemed to consider it an unexpected courtesy, thanked us volubly.  I held out my hand and reminded him timidly of the one franc fifty centimes.

He inquired what I meant.  I explained.  He laughed scornfully.  I remonstrated.  He asked me if I thought him an imbecile.  I answered no, and wished that I knew the French for several other terms nearer the truth, but equally offensive.  Then we retired, having done our part, as good Americans, to swell the French revenues, and that was the end of our day in Pestalozzi-town; not the end, however, of the lemonade glass