"It makes a heaven-wide difference whether the soul of the child is regarded as a piece of blank paper, to be written upon, or as a living power, to be quickened by sympathy, to be educated by truth."  
It had been a long, wearisome day at the Free Kindergarten, and I was alone in the silent, deserted room. Gone were all the little heads, yellow and black, curly and smooth; the dancing, restless, curious eyes; the too mischievous, naughty, eager hands and noisy feet; the merry voices that had made the great room human, but now left it quiet and empty. Eighty pairs of tiny boots had clattered down the stairs; eighty baby woes had been relieved; eighty little torn coats pulled on with patient hands; eighty shabby little hats, not one with a "strawberry mark" to distinguish it from any other, had been distributed with infinite discrimination among their possessors; numberless sloppy kisses had been pressed upon a willing cheek or hand, and another day was over. No,—not quite over, after all. A murderous yell from below brought me to my feet, and I flew like an anxious hen to my brood. One small quarrel in the hall; very small, but it must be inquired into on the way to the greater one. Mercedes McGafferty had taunted Jenny Crawhall with being Irish. The fact that she herself had been born in Cork about three years previous did not trouble her in the least. Jenny, in a voice choked with sobs, and with the stamp of a tiny foot, was announcing hotly that she was "NOT Irish, no sech a thing,—she was Plesberterian!" I was not quite clear whether this was a theological or racial controversy, but I settled it speedily, and they ran off together hand in hand. I hastened to the steps. The yells had come from Joe Guinee and Mike Higgins, who were fighting for the possession of a banana; a banana, too, that should have been fought for, if at all, many days before,—a banana better suited, in its respectable old age, to peaceful consumption than the fortunes of war. My unexpected apparition had such an effect that I might have been an avenging angel. The boys dropped the banana simultaneously, and it fell to the steps quite exhausted, in such a condition that whoever proved to be in the right would get but little enjoyment from it.
 
"O my boys, my boys!" I exclaimed, "did you forget so soon? What shall we do? Must Miss Kate follow you everywhere? If that is the only way in which you can be good, we might as well give up trying. Must I watch you to the corner every day, no matter how tired I am?"
 
Two grimy little shirt bosoms heaved with shame and anger; two pairs of eyes hid themselves under protecting lids; two pairs of moist and stained hands sought the shelter of charitable pockets,—then the cause of war was declared by Mike sulkily.
 
"Joe Guinee hooked my bernanner."
 
"I never!" said Joe hotly. "I swapped with him f'r a peach, 'n he e't the peach at noon-time, 'n then wouldn't gimme no bernanner."
 
"The peach warn't no good," Mike interpolated swiftly, seeing my expression,—"it warn't no good, Miss Kate. When I come to eat it I had ter chuck half of it away, 'nd then Joe Guinee went t' my lunch bucket and hooked my bernanner!"
 
I sat down on the top step, motioned the culprits to do likewise, and then began dispensing justice tempered with mercy for the twenty-fifth time that day. "Mike, you say Joe took your banana?"
 
"Yes 'm,—he hooked it."
 
"Same thing. You have your words and I have mine, and I've told you before that mine mean just as much and sound a little better. But I thought that you changed that banana for a peach, and ate the peach?"
 
"I did."
 
"Then, why wasn't that banana Joe's?—you had taken his peach."
 
"He hadn't oughter hooked—took it out o' my bucket."
 
"No, and you ought not to have put it into your bucket."
 
"He hooked—took what warn't his."
 
"You kept what wasn't yours. How do you expect to have a good fruit store, either of you, by and by, and have people buy your things, if you haven't any idea of making a good square trade? Do try to be honest; and if you make an exchange stick to it; fighting over a thing never makes it any better. Look at that banana!—is it any good to either of you now?" (Pause. The still small voice was busy, but no sound was heard save the distant whistle of the janitor.)
 
"I could bring another one to Joe to-morrer," said Mike, looking at his ragged boot and scratching it along the edge of the step.
 
"I don't want yer to, 'f the peach was sour 'n you had ter chuck it away," responded Joe amiably.
 
"Yes, I think he ought to bring the banana; he made the trade with his eyes open, and the peach didn't look sour, for I saw you squeezing it when you ought to have been singing your morning hymn,—I thought you would get into trouble with it then. Now is it all right, Mike?—that's good! And Joe, don't go poking into other people's lunch baskets. If you hadn't done that, you silly boy," I philosophized whimsically for my own edification, "you would have been a victim; but you descended to the level of your adversary, and you are now simply another little rascal."
 
We walked down the quiet, narrow street to the corner,—a proceeding I had intended to omit that day, as it was always as exciting as an afternoon tea, and I did not feel equal to the social chats that would be pressed upon me by the neighborhood "ladies." One of my good policemen was there as usual, and saluted me profoundly. He had carried th............