s our favourite book for giving away to right-minded people--"The
Invisible Playmate," by William Canton. We fear that there are still
lovers of children who do not know this book; but if so, it is not our
fault.

Grand Street is a child at heart, and one may watch it making merry not
only along the pavement but in the shop windows. Endymion's gallant
spirit was strongly uplifted by this lively thoroughfare, and he strode
like one whose heart was hitting on all six cylinders. Max Maisel's
bookshop alone is enough to put one in a seemly humour. But then one
sees the gorgeous pink and green allurements of the pastry cooks'
windows, and who can resist those little lemon-flavoured,
saffron-coloured cakes, which are so thirst-compelling and send one
hastily to the nearest bar for another beaker of cider? And it seems
natural to find here the oldest toyshop in New York, where Endymion
dashed to the upper floor in search of juvenile baubles, and we both
greatly admired the tall, dark, and beauteous damsel who waited on us
with such patience and charity. Endymion by this time was convinced that
he was living in the very heart and climax of a poem; he became more and
more unreal as we walked along: we could see his physical outline
(tenuous enough at best) shimmer and blur as he became increasingly
alcaic.

Along the warm crowded pavement there suddenly piped a liquid, gurgling,
chirring whistle, rising and dropping with just the musical trill that
floats from clumps of creekside willows at this time of year. We had
passed several birdshops on our walk, and supposed that another was
near. A song sparrow, was our instant conclusion, and we halted to see
where the cage could be hung. And then we saw our warbler. He was little
and plump and red-faced, with a greasy hat and a drooping beer-gilded
moustache, and he wore on his coat a bright blue peddler's license
badge. He shuffled along, stooping over a pouch of tin whistles and
gurgling in one as he went. There's your poem, we said to
Endymion--"The Song-Sparrow on Grand Street."

We propose to compile a little handbook for truants, which we shall call
"How to Spend Three Hours at Lunch Time." This idea occurred to us on
looking at our watch when we got back to our kennel.

PASSAGE FROM SOME MEMOIRS

How long ago it seems, that spring noonshine when two young men (we will
call them Dactyl and Spondee) set off to plunder the golden bag of Time.
These creatures had an o