f Paj, a gloomy citadel hewn
out of rock on the edge of a beautiful valley. _The Secret of the_
_Sahara_ is illustrated with pictures taken by the author, many times
under pain of death if she were detected using a camera.

=iv=

C. E. Andrews is a college professor who saw war service in France and
relief administration work in the Balkans. His gifts as a delightful
writer will be apparent now that his book of travels, _Old Morocco and the
Forbidden Atlas_, is out. This book, unlike the conventional travel book,
has the qualities of a good story. There is colour and adventure. There
are humorous episodes and there are pictures that seem to be mirrored in
the clear lake of a lovely prose. The journey described is through a
region of Morocco little traversed by white men and over paths of the
Atlas Mountains frequented chiefly by wild tribes and banditti.

Of all places to go, old New York remains, for many, the most appealing.
Does it sound queer to recommend for those readers _A Century of Banking
in New York: 1822-1922_, by Henry Wysham Lanier? Mr. Lanier is a son of
Sidney Lanier, the poet, and those who believe that a chronicle of banking
must necessarily be full of dry statistics are invited to read the opening
chapter of this book; for Mr. Lanier begins his tale with the yellow fever
epidemic of 1822, when all the banks of New York, to say nothing of the
thousands of people, fled "from the city to the country"--that is, from
lowermost Broadway to the healthful village of Greenwich. This quality of
human rather than statistical interest is paramount throughout the book.

I go back almost four years to call attention again to Frederic A.
Fenger's _Alone in the Caribbean_, a book with maps and illustrations from
unusual photographs, the narrative of a cruise in a sailing canoe among
the Caribbean Islands.... It is just a good book.

=v=

_Robin Hood's Barn_, by Margaret Emerson Bailey, should be classified, I
suppose, as a volume of essays. It seems to me admirably suited for this
chapter, since it is all about a pleasant house inhabited by pleasant
people--and surely that is a place where everyone wants to go. Margaret
Emerson Bailey is describing, I think, an actual house and actual people;
not so much their lives as what they make out of life in the collectivism
that family life enforces. At least, I seem to get from her book a unity
of meaning, the lack of which in our lives, as we live them daily, makes
fo