Early Aspirations.  
One pleasant summer afternoon, Mr Wright, coming in from the office, seated himself beside his composed little wife, who was patching a pair of miniature pantaloons.
 
“Nan,” said the husband, with a perplexed look, “what are we to do with our Robin when he grows up?”
 
“George,” answered the composed wife, “don’t you think it is rather soon to trouble ourselves with that question? Robin is a mere child yet. We must first give him a good education.”
 
“Of course, I know that,” returned the perplexed husband, “still, I can’t help thinking about what is to be done after he has had the good education. You know I have no relation in the world except brother Richard, who is as poor as myself. We have no influential friends to help him into the Army or the Navy or the Indian Civil Service; and the Church, you know, is not suitable for an imp. Just look at him now!”
 
Mrs Wright looked through the window, over one of those sunny landscapes which are usually described as “smiling,” across a winding rivulet, and at last fixed her gorgeous eyes on a tall post, up which a small black object was seen to be struggling.
 
“What can he be up to?” said the father.
 
“He seems to be up the telegraph-post,” said the mother, “investigating the wires, no doubt. I heard him talking about telegraphy to Madge this morning—retailing what cousin Sam tries to teach him,—and I shouldn’t wonder if he were now endeavouring to make sure that what he told her was correct, for you know he is a thorough investigator.”
 
“Yes, I know it,” murmured the father, with a grim pursing of his lips; “he investigated the inside of my watch last week, to find out, as he said, what made the noise in its ‘stummick,’ and it has had intermittent fever ever since. Two days ago he investigated my razor,—it is now equal to a cross-cut saw; and as to my drawers and papers, excepting those which I lock up, there is but one word which fully describes the result of his investigations, and that is—chaos.”
 
There was, in truth, some ground for that father’s emotions, for Master Robin displayed investigative, not to say destructive, capacities far in advance of his years.
 
“Never mind, George,” said Mrs Wright soothingly, “we must put up with his little ways as best we may, consoling ourselves with the reflection that Robin has genius and perseverance, with which qualities he is sure to make his way in the world.”
 
“He has at all events made his way up the telegraph-post,” said Mr Wright, his smile expanding and the grimness of it departing; “see! the rascal is actually stretching out his hand to grasp one of the wires. Ha! hallo!”
 
The composed wife became suddenly discomposed, and gave vent to a scream, for at that moment the small black object which they had been watching with so much interest was seen to fall backward, make a wild grasp at nothing with both hands, and fall promptly to the ground.
 
His father threw up the window, leaped out, dashed across the four-feet-wide lawn, cleared the winding rivulet, and cut, like a hunted hare, over the smiling landscape towards the telegraph-post, at the foot of which he picked up his unconscious though not much injured son.
 
“What made you climb the post, Robin?” asked his cousin Madge that evening as she nursed the adventurous boy on her knee—and Madge was a very motherly nurse, although a full year younger than Robin.
 
“I kimed it to see if I could hear the ’trissity,” replied the injured one.
 
“The lek-trissity,” said Madge, correcting. “You must learn to p’onounce your words popperly, dear. You’ll never be a great man if you are so careless.”
 
“I don’t want to be a g’eat man,” retorted Robin. “I on’y want t’understand things whats puzzlesum.”
 
“Well, does the telegraph puzzle you?”
 
“Oh! mos’ awfully,” returned Robin, with a solemn gaze of his earnest eyes, one of which was rendered fantastic by a yellow-green ring round it and a swelling underneath. “I’s kite sure I’s stood for hours beside dat post listin’ to it hummin’ an hummin’ like our olianarp—”
 
“Now, Robin, do be careful. You know mamma calls it an olian harp.”
 
“Yes, well, like our olian harp, only a deal louder, an’ far nicer. An’ I’s often said to myself, Is that the ’trissity—?”
 
“Lek, Robin, lek!”
 
“Well, yes, lek-trissity. So I thought I’d kime up an’ see, for, you know, papa says the ’trissity—lek, I mean—runs along the wires—”
 
“But papa also says,” interrupted Madge, “that the sounds you want to know about are made by the vi— the vi—”
 
“Bratin’,” suggested the invalid.
 
“Yes, vibratin’ of the wires.”
 
“I wonder what vi-bratin’ means,” murmured Robin, turning his lustrous though damaged eyes meditatively on the landscape.
 
“Don’no for sure,” said Madge, “but I think it means tremblin’.”
 
It will be seen from the above conversation that Robert Wright and his precocious cousin Marjory were of a decidedly philosophical turn of mind.