I began to ail and mope.

Mr.Squills was called in.
"Tonics!" said Mr.Squills; "and don't let him sit over his book.

Send him out in the air; make him play.

Come here, my boy: these organs are growing too large;" and Mr.Squills, who was a phrenologist, placed his hand on my forehead.

"Gad, sir, here's an ideality for you; and, bless my soul, what a constructiveness!" My father pushed aside his papers, and walked to and fro the room with his hands behind him; but he did not say a word till Mr.Squills was gone.
"My dear," then said he to my mother, on whose breast I was leaning my aching ideality--"my dear, Pisistratus must go to school in good earnest." "Bless me, Austin!--at his age ?" "He is nearly eight years old." "But he is so forward." "It is for that reason he must go to school." "I don't quite understand you, my love.