SIR,—­I confess I cannot share the anxiety of the “Bewildered Parent” who complains of the child of two and a half years who addressed her learned parent as “Old bean.”  As a convinced Montessorian I recognise in the appellation a gratifying evidence of that self-expression which cannot begin too young.  Moreover there is nothing derogatory in the phrase; on the contrary I am assured on the best authority that it is a term of endearment rather than reproach.  But, above all, as a Vegetarian I welcome the choice of the term as an indication of the growth of the revolt against carnivorous brutality.  If the child in question had called her parent a “saucy kipper” or “a silly old sausage” there would have been reasonable ground for resentment.  But comparison with a bean involves no obloquy, but rather panegyric.  The bean is one of the noblest of vegetables and is exceptionally rich in calories, protein, casein, carbo-hydrates, thymol, hexamyl, piperazine, salicylic dioxide, and permanganate of popocatapetl.  This a learned parent, if his learning was real, ought to have recognised at once, instead of foolishly exploiting a fancied grievance.

Yours farinaceously,

JOSIAH VEDGELEY.

THE OLD COMPLAINT.

SIR,—­Some sixty years ago I was rebuked by my father for addressing him as “Governor.”  Thirty years later I was seriously offended with my own son for calling me an “old mug.”  He in turn, though not by any means a learned man, has within the last few weeks been irritated by his school-boy son derisively addressing him as an “old dud.”  The duel between fathers and sons is as old as the everlasting hills, and the rebels of one generation become the fogeys of the next.  I have no doubt that in moments of expansion the young Marcellus alluded to his august parent as “faba antiqua.”

Yours faithfully,

SENEX.

A TRIPLE LIFE.

SIR,—­As a middle-aged mother I do not appeal for your sympathy, I merely wish to describe my position, the difficulties of which might no doubt be paralleled in hundreds of other households.  I have three children whose characteristics may be thus briefly summarised:—­

(1) Pamela, aged nineteen, is an ultra-modern young woman.  She hates politics of all shades, but adores SCRIABINE, STRAVINSKY and BENEDETTO CROCE.  She smokes cigars, wears male attire and has a perfect command of the art of ornamental objurgation.

(2) Gerald, aged twenty-three, is war-weary; resentful of all authority; “bored stiff” by any music save of the syncopated brand, and he divides his time between Jazz-dancing with the dismal fervour of a gloomy dean and attending meetings of pro-Bolshevist extremists.

(3) Anthony, aged twenty-six, is a soldier, a “regular”; restrained in speech, somewhat old-fashioned in his tastes.  This summer he spent his leave fishing in Scotland and took with him two books—­the Life of Stonewall Jackson and the Bible.  It is hardly necessary to add that Gerald is not on speaking terms with him.