ago a fisherman imagined that he saw
it.'

Mr. Yeats has certainly done his work very well. He has shown great
critical capacity in his selection of the stories, and his little
introductions are charmingly written. It is delightful to come across a
collection of purely imaginative work, and Mr. Yeats has a very quick
instinct in finding out the best and the most beautiful things in Irish
folklore. I am also glad to see that he has not confined himself
entirely to prose, but has included Allingham's lovely poem on The
Fairies:

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.

All lovers of fairy tales and folklore should get this little book. The
Horned Women, The Priest's Soul, {411} and Teig O'Kane, are really
marvellous in their way; and, indeed, there is hardly a single story that
is not worth reading and thinking over.

The wittiest writer in France at present is a woman. That clever, that
spirituelle grande dame, who has adopted the pseudonym of 'Gyp,' has in
her own country no rival. Her wit, her delicate and delightful esprit,
her fascinating modernity, and her light, happy touch, give her a unique
position in that literary movement which has taken for its object the
reproduction of contemporary life. Such books as Autour du Mariage,
Autour du Divorce, and Le Petit Bob, are, in their way, little playful
masterpieces, and the only work in England that we could compare with
them is Violet Fane's Edwin and Angelina Papers. To the same brilliant
pen which gave us these wise and witty studies of modern life we owe now
a more serious, more elaborate production. Helen Davenant is as
earnestly wrought out as it is cleverly conceived. If it has a fault, i