One day, a gentleman in India went into his library and took down a
book from the shelves. As he did so, he felt a slight pain in his
finger, like the prick of a pin. He thought that a pin had been stuck,
by some careless person, in the cover of the book. But soon his finger
began to swell, then his arm, and then his whole body, and in a few
days he died. It was not a pin among the books, but a small and deadly
serpent.
There are many serpents among the books now-a-days; they nestle in the
foliage of some of our most fascinating literature; they coil around
the flowers whose perfume intoxicates the senses. People read and are
charmed by the plot of the story, and the skill with which the
characters are sculptured or grouped, by the gorgeousness of the
wood-painting, and hardly feel the pin-prick of the evil that is
insinuated. But it stings and poisons.
Let us watch against the serpents and read only that which is healthy,
instructive and profitable.
[Illustration: GOOD NIGHT.]
"LITTLE MOTHER."