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seem to be just that they have been able to catch the qualities of sympathy and sincerity that belonged in the first case to the manner of the telling of their story; so perhaps, after all, nothing but good was meant them from the start. At any rate from first to last there is not a page in this book that is not sweet, wholesome and entirely readable. Here is tenderness without mawkishness, humour without noise, a sufficiency of action without harshness of outline; most surprising, here is a story, in which many of the characters are of the Stage. presented with an entire absence of limelight or any other vulgarity. All this, indeed, one expects from the title-page; but none the less it is no mean achievement. And so—my congratulations.

Through the Ages Beloved (Hutchinson) might be fairly described as an unusual story. I am bound to say that I both admired and enjoyed it; but at the same time a more tangled tale it was never my task to unravel. For the benefit of future explorers I will say that the motive of the plot—whose scene is laid in Japan—is reincarnation. Consequently, though the hero, Kanaya, begins as a modern student who has fought through the Russo-Japanese war, you must be prepared to find him and yourself switched suddenly without any warning into the remote past. I am not quite sure that Mr. H. Grahame Richards has been playing the game here. So unheralded is the transference that even the close and careful reader will experience some bewilderment; as, for example, when the heroine, whose own name remains the same in both ages, re-enters with different parents. As for the skipper, his doom will be confusion unmitigated. However, once you have found your bearings again, there is much to admire in the treatment of a time and a place so eminently picturesque. Mr. Richard's pen-pictures of Japanese scenery have all the delicate beauty of paintings upon ivory. The clear, clean air, the colour of sunrise flushing some exquisite landscape, a flight of birds crossing a garden of azaleas—all these are realized with obvious knowledge and enthusiasm, and more than compensate for the intricacy of the plot. But this is certainly there. Once only was I myself near vanquished. This was when the Kanaya of the past, himself the result of the modern Kanaya hitting his head on a stone, began to hint of uneasy visions pointing to a remote Port-Arthurian future. Here I confess that (like Alice and The Red King) I longed for some authoritative pronouncement as to who was the genuine dreamer, and who would "go out." Still, an original story, and one to be read, even with knitting of brows.

There seems some lack of proper respect in describing as a pot-boiler a story that, when no longer in its first youth, can enjoy a second blooming at ten shillings and sixpence net, in its own cardboard box, and embellished with any quantity of the liveliest coloured pictures. Yet I fear that this is my impression about The Money Moon (Sampson Low). I have liked Mr. Jeffrey Farnol's other work too well to be able to accept this at its present sumptuous face-value. You remember no doubt how George Bellew, having been jilted by the girl of his original choice, set out upon a walking tour; how on the first day of this expedition he fought a bloody battle with a carter, about nothing in particular, and arrived at a village with the significant name of Dapplemere. You will not have forgotten that at Dapplemere there lived a small boy, who talked as boys do in books but nowhere else; a lavendery old lady-housekeeper whose name (need I remind you?) was Miss Priscilla; and a maiden as fair as she was impoverished. You recall too how all these charming people took George to their expansive hearts, and welcomed him as the ideal hero, without apparently once noticing that he must at the moment (on the author's own showing) have had a swollen nose and probably two black eyes. No, I repeat my verdict. The whole thing is too easy. I understand, however, that in America, where The Money Moon is at present shining more brightly than with us, there exists a steady demand for this rather saccharine fiction. So let us leave it at that.

There must be many persons (I am one of them myself) who, when confronted with a topical burlesque of Alice in Wonderland, would confess to a little regret. The book is such a treasured joy that one hates to have any hands, even the cleverest, laid upon it. Yet the deed is so often done that there is clearly a large public that does not share this view. Therefore a welcome seems assured for what is certainly, so far, the wittiest of the attempts, Malice in Kulturland (The Car Illustrated), written by Horace Wyatt, with pictures by Tell. The ingenuity with which the parodists have handled their task makes me wish that my personal prejudice had allowed me to appreciate it more whole-heartedly. Especially neat is the transformation of the Cheshire Car into a Russian Bear, seen everywhere in the wood (there is a clever drawing of this). You remember how, as Alice's request, the Cat kindly obliged with a gradual disappearance from tail to grin? The Bear does the same, "beginning with an official statement, and ending with a rumour, which was still very persistent for some time afterwards." Mr. Wyatt has certainly a pretty turn of wit, which I shall look to see him developingin other and more virgin fields.

"CAN WINKLES BE ELIMINATED?"

Bristol Observer.

They can be withdrawn with a pin.

"An ewe, owned by Mr. Sydney Crowther, of Oak View Farm, Plompton, near Harrogate, has given birth to a lamb."

Yorkshire Evening Post.

One would have expected a lion in these martial days.

The Passport with accompanying photograph sometimes arouses suspicion. One seldom looks like oneself immediately after a rough Channel crossing.