she could give to it the
touch of drama, and she is always interesting, even when there is
discursiveness, occasional weakness, and when the picture is not
well pulled together. The book had to be written; she knew it, and
she did it. The book will be read, not for patriotic reasons, not
from admiration of work achieved by one of the Indian race; but
because it is intrinsically human, interesting and often compelling
in narrative and event.

May it be permitted to add one word of personal comment? I never
saw Pauline Johnson in her own land, at her own hearthstone, but
only in my house in London and at other houses in London, where
she brought a breath of the wild; not because she dressed in Indian
costume, but because its atmosphere was round her. The feeling of
the wild looked out of her eyes, stirred in her gesture, moved in
her footstep. I am glad to have known this rare creature who had
the courage to be glad of her origin, without defiance, but with an
unchanging, if unspoken, insistence. Her native land and the Empire
should be glad of her for what she was and for what she stood; her
native land and the Empire should be glad of her for the work,
interesting, vivid and human, which she has done. It will preserve
her memory. In an age growing sordid such fresh spirits as she
should be welcomed for what they are, for what they do. This book
by Pauline Johnson should be welcomed for what she was and for what
it is.

Gilbert Parker.

PAULINE JOHNSON: AN APPRECIATION.

By Charles Mair.

The writer, having contributed a brief "Appreciation" of the
late Miss E. Pauline Johnson to the July number of The Canadian
Magazine, has been asked by the editor of this collection of her
hitherto unpublished writings to allow it to be used as a Preface,
with such additions or omissions as might seem desirable. He has
not yet seen any portion of the book, but quite apart from its
merits it is eagerly looked for by Miss Johnson's many friends
and admirers as a final memorial of her literary life. It will now
be read with an added interest, begot of her painfully sad and
untimely end.

In the death of Miss Johnson a poet passed away of undoubted
genius; one who wrote with passion, but without extravagance, and
upon themes foreign, perhaps, to some of her readers, but, to
herself, familiar as the air she breathed.

When her racial poetry first appeared, its effect upon the reader
was as that