I have some little children who are fond of listening to me while I tell them stories; but I always find, that when they are very much pleased with one, they ask these questions: “Is it all true, mama? Is it about a real little boy and girl?” and when I am obliged to answer, “No, I do not think it is,” their countenances fall, and they seem as if half their pleasure and half their interest were gone. Now I cannot help fancying that other little boys and girls may have the same love for true stories that mine have; so I think I will write some and try. Would you then like to hear about some real children who are now alive, and at the moment you read of them, most likely either playing or learning their lessons, either good or naughty, just as they are going to be described to you? You would.—Well then, Emily, Edwin, and Charles, are my children, and I will make you know them as well as if they were your own playfellows; and who can tell but you may some time or other chance to see them, and to play with them in reality? How droll it would be to meet them, and to find out that they were the very children you had been reading about, and how surprised they would be to see that you knew all that had ever happened to them. Why, they would think that you must be little fairies, and would be half afraid to trust themselves with you for fear that you should play off some elfish trick upon them.