It is the smartest boy that gets the hero-part, everywhere: he is head guide in Switzerland, head miner in Nevada, head bull-fighter in Spain, etc., but I knew a preacher's son, seven years old, who once selected a part for himself compared to which those just mentioned are tame and unimpressive. Jimmy's father stopped him from driving imaginary horse-cars one Sunday—stopped him from playing captain of an imaginary steamboat next Sunday—stopped him from leading an imaginary army to battle the following Sunday—and so on. Finally the little fellow said,—
"I've tried everything, and they won't any of them do. What can I play?"
"I hardly know, Jimmy; but you must play only things that are suitable to the Sabbath day."
Next Sunday the preacher stepped softly to a back room door to see if the children were rightly employed. He peeped in. A chair occupied the middle of the room, and on the back of it hung Jimmy's cap; one of the little sisters took
A SUNDAY PLAY.
the cap down, nibbled at it, then passed it to another small sister and said, "Eat of this fruit, for it is good." The Reverend took in the situation—alas, they were playing the
