ive of their kind. Joel Chandler Harris could not have written
_The Prisoner of Zenda_, but those of us who have enjoyed the wiles of
that "monstus soon beast, Brer Rabbit," would not have it otherwise.

* * * * *

You cannot write of love unless you have loved, of suffering unless
you have suffered, or of death unless some one who was near to you has
learned the heavenly secret. A little touch of each must teach you the
full meaning of the great thing you mean to write about, or your work
will be lacking. There are few of us to whom the great experiences do
not come sooner or later, and, in the meantime, there are the little
everyday happenings, which are full of sweetness and help, if they are
only seen properly, to last until the great things come to test our
utmost strength, to crush us if we are not strong, and to make us
broader, better men and women if we withstand the blow.

And lastly, remember this, that merit is invariably recognised. If
your stories are worth printing, they will fight their way through
"the abundance of material on hand." The light of the public square
is the unfailing test, and a good story is sure to be published
sooner or later, if a fair amount of literary instinct is exercised in
sending it out. Meteoric success is not desirable. Slow, hard,
conscientious work will surely win its way, and those who are now near
the bottom of the ladder are gradually ascending to make room for the
next generation of story-writers on the rounds below.

To Dorothy

There's a sleepy look in your violet eyes,
So the sails of our ship we'll unfurl,
And turn the prow to the Land of Rest,
My dear little Dorothy girl.

Twilight is coming soon, little one,
The sheep have gone to the fold;
See! where our white sails bend and dip
In the sunset glow of gold.

The roses nod to the sound of the waves,
And the bluebells sweet are ringing;
Do you hear the music, Dorothy dear?
The song that the angels are singing?

The fairies shall weave their drowsy spell
On the shadowy shore of the stream;
Dear little voyager say "good-night,"
For the birds are beginning to dream.

O white little craft, with sails full spread,
My heart goes out with thee;
God keep thee strong with thy precious freight,
My Dorothy--out at sea.

Writing a Book

Having wr