cism of the Allies, but appraisement of Germany;
and his arguments, simply but eloquently expressed, should be very
closely regarded by those haphazard optimists who suppose this War to be
the personal prank of a braggart Kaiser, doomed to an immediate failure
for want of his subjects' support. I have devoured more pages of printed
matter since this trouble began than I care to think about, but from the
whole lot I have had less enlightenment than from this half-crown
volume; I have learnt exactly what is taking place--and why--from one
who, unhappily, died before any of the existing wars was declared.
Clearly the days of miracles are not yet dead.

* * * * *

No doubt you already know the work of Mr. H. F. PREVOST BATTERSBY
(FRANCIS PREVOST) in "another place," _i.e._, on the battlefield, where
as a war-correspondent he has proved himself a keen observer and an
accomplished master of style. But he can also write romances uncommonly
well. His latest, _The Lure of Romance_ (LANE), displays once more
exactly the qualities that have brought its author previous renown--an
appreciative eye and a ready pen for the dramatic and picturesque
aspects of a big fight. He knows exactly what a bullet sounds like as it
whistles over the head of the person to whom it was addressed; and as no
doubt many of us are taking an unusual interest in bullets just now
there should be a large public for a story that is so largely concerned
with them. On its own merits as a tale it is bustling and picturesque
enough. The scene of it is laid in a South American Republic (that
useful variant on Ruritania), and the plot deals with the rescue of the
charming daughters of a rapscallion President, threatened by local
revolutionaries. Naturally, therefore, there is some shooting--in the
American sense--all of which bears the sign of expert handling. The
affair ends with a really thrilling climax, in which _Doyne_, the
engineer and chief hero, confounds the politics of his enemies by
letting loose a reservoir upon them. This is great fun. Especially as
the contents of the reservoir, on its way down through a
mountain-jungle, brought along with it what Mr. BATTERSBY pleasantly
calls "clattering carapes of gigantic crabs." A truly gripping finish!

* * * * *

Illustration: THE PICNIC, SEPTEMBER, 1914.

_Anxious Mother._ "I HOPE WE'VE FORGOTTEN NOTHING, FRED?--SANDWICHES,
SPIRIT LAMP, SUGAR,