Whence his decisions as to what he likes lack maturity, and consequently to give him that for which he professes to like is equivalent to feeding him on unripe fruit.

So we conclude that what he says he likes he really does not like, and to please him therefore, it becomes necessary to give him what he professes to dislike.

Ergo, I will read him to sleep with the seventeenth chapter, part forty-nine of the works of Niet-Zhe on the co-ordination of our aesthetic powers in respect to the relative delights of pleasure and pain._ I will do my Aunt Jerusha the credit of saying at this point that her method of putting me to sleep was efficacious.

I do not ever remember having retained consciousness past the third paragraph of her remedy for insomnia.
[Illustration: Aunt Jerusha as a disciplinarian.] I tremble to think of what I should have become had this fauntleroy process of rearing been allowed to continue unchecked.

There were prigs enough in our family already without afflicting the world with another, and it rejoices me to this day to recall that just as we were reaching the point when it was either an early and beautiful demise in the odor of sanctity as a perfect child, or my present eminence as the most continuous human performance on record for me, my father stepped in, reasserted his authority and rescued me from the clutches of my Aunt Jerusha.