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.