Here we have simply narrowed the choice of subjects to a field with which you are all equally well acquainted. It will be noticed that the first subject given is a rather general one, only somewhat narrower than the subject which stands at the head of the exercise. But even if you draw upon occurrences within the school-room for your incident, it will be well to devise for it a more particular title.

The question may be asked, Why select a title before writing, or why select one at all? It is true brief articles are sometimes printed in newspapers and elsewhere without titles. It is also true that the title of many a book has not been fixed upon until after the book was written. But the principle holds none the less good, Select your title first. No man can write coherently and effectively without having in his mind a definite idea of what he is writing about. And since language is the best means for crystallizing our ideas, for rendering them clear and definite, the sooner we put the subject of our thought into some formula of words, the better. This holds especially true in the more abstract themes which we shall take up later, for in them the temptation to wander from the main line of thought is peculiarly great. But even in the writing of an ordinary incident, the selection of a title beforehand, and the endeavor to keep that title clearly in mind throughout, will give a directness and unity to the composition that could not otherwise be obtained. It will occasionally be found necessary in the course of writing, to introduce certain things that were not contemplated at first, or to extend or abridge the treatment of a subject in accordance with the requirements of

time and space, and this may necessitate a modification of the title. But such things should be foreseen as far as possible in advance, for if they are not they invariably entail extra labor, or else work seriously to the detriment of the composition as a whole.

Very often there may be several available titles, almost or quite equally suitable. Exactness should in general be the leading consideration in deciding between them, although at times attractiveness may be allowed to outweigh this.

For the present work select anything that has happened to vary the ordinary routine of school duties, and proceed as in the last exercise. The following is given as an example:

JACK'S IGNOMINY.

"Been at it again, eh," thought Mr. Bates, looking up over his spectacles. The little, dirty, ragged figure of Jack came slowly into the office, the great whites of his eyes rolling in marked contrast to his intensely black face, so black indeed that it was void of the relief of shadows and could easily have been mistaken for the surface of a great India rubber ball. He came rubbing along the wall, picking the panels with his finger-nail, and at the planting of each foot glanced slyly and inquiringly at Mr. Bates. "What have you been doing now?" said Mr. Bates, sternly. Jack was very confident that his conduct had been reputable and proceeded, in his own excited dialect, to demonstrate his innocence; but as this was a daily occurrence Mr. Bates understood well how to weigh Jack's words.

Mr. Bates had arrived at the conclusion that it was hopeless further to attempt to arouse Jack by use of ruler or appeals to his conscience. He would experiment on other theories. Now Jack had a weakness. He esteemed his muscular powers very highly, and would hazard anything to prove to the boys his ability to accomplish any feat given. To his mind, failure in an attempt

meant disgrace. Mr. Bates thought to come at Jack's morals by way of his pride. He led Jack out to the corner of the main hall

"Stand in that corner,

"Heels up close - raise

where all the children passed in and out. sir!" said Mr. Bates. Jack obeyed. your arms out this way" (illustrating by raising his own arms on a level in front). "Now stand there till I tell you to leave," said Mr. Bates, walking out to the center of the hall where he stopped and stood regarding Jack closely. Jack's eyes were not the only white spots on his face at this period; a row of pearly teeth came into view. He thought if that was his punishment he didn't mind so much. But his manner soon changed; he seemed to take a more serious view of the prospect. His face drew down, his head was pressed hard back against the wall, and his arms commenced to sink slowly to his sides, but on being reprehended by Mr. Bates he brought them to a level again.

Mr. Bates looked at his watch: one, two, three minutes passed, the gong struck, the doors flew open, and the children began to file out. Jack gave one hurried glance at the coming columns, then gritted his teeth. He must hold his hands steady

now.

66

Keep them up!" from Mr. Bates.

Beads of perspiration stood out on Jack's forehead, and at each succeeding renewed struggle to raise his arms his appearance became more comical. He saw his playmates endeavoring to suppress their laughter, and made one final effort to steady his arms, but they fell to his sides paralyzed. His disgrace had come. One mad lunge and he was out through the lines and away across the field, the peals of laughter from the children playing fainter and fainter on his ear. The experiment had proved successful.

That evening Jack was not seen with his accustomed associates, but went about alone, nodding to himself knowingly, and muttering, “Fool 'em one," as he stopped at each convenient corner and stood with his heels close together and arms extended.

C. W. H.

EXERCISE VI.

COMPLEX INCIDENT.

Subjects:

Fido and the Rabbits.

The “Awkward Squad" on Parade.
The Triple Play That Won the Game.
A Complicated Affair.

So long as we confine ourselves to recounting the actions of one person, we meet with few difficulties. For ordinarily a person does but one thing at a time, and to give a faithful account of his actions we have only to relate them in the order of their doing, our chief disadvantage here lying in the fact that we cannot always relate events in as rapid succession as they occur. But our deeds seldom stand alone. Perhaps the great majority of our acts derive their interest and their significance not merely from their relation to what has preceded and to what shall follow, but also from their relation to something else, whether distant or close at hand, that is going on at the same time. Human life is a wonderfully, even terribly, intricate and complex affair. So here the writer is met at once by an insuperable difficulty. How shall he carry along together these diverse occurrences? While one man runs up the railroad track signaling wildly and another works desperately to close the broken switch, the train comes thundering down the grade with its engineer vainly endeavoring to operate the air-brake and its

passengers reading and talking unconcernedly inside. Here are half a dozen strands twisted into a single string. But words are not strands and cannot be twisted into strings; they are more like links, and can only be added, one at a time, and one after another, to form a continuous chain. You see the difficulty. We talk about the thread of a narrative, and the figure is better than we know. For, like most other threads, it usually consists of several strands. But it is simply impossible for the writer- the fabricator with words— to carry them along together. His material forbids that. He can only take up one strand at a time, carry it as far as he deems wise, and then leave it hanging there while he goes back after another. That is, he can only show us first a portion of this strand and then a portion of that, and tell us that they ought to be woven together, leaving it to our imagination to carry out the process. The result at best will be imperfect. But that should not discourage; it should only stimulate to greater effort. Where there are no problems, no difficulties, there is no incentive to work. If one man were to attain perfection, no man thereafter could hope to outdo him.

Relate an incident from life in which there were two or more prominent actors, bearing in mind the difficulties pointed out above and overcoming them as best you can. Notice in the following model the ingenious interweaving of the actions of three persons.

With that I tried to force my kinsman toward the black; but he felled me to the ground, burst from my grasp, leaving the shoulder of his jacket, and fled up the hillside toward the top of Aros like a deer. I staggered to my feet again, bruised and some