were
so.

"Lord, Keep My Spirit Sweet," by Mr. Samples, is a religious lyric of
substantial charm and grace.

The Editorials in this issue consist mainly of critical notes on
previous numbers, and in general show a gratifying soundness of opinion.

* * * * *

=Spindrift= for January opens with "Mater Dolorosa," a poem, by Vere M.
Murphy, whose sentiment and technique are alike deserving of praise.

"The Spirit of January," a sketch by Jean Birkmyre, runs into the
February issue, and is quite acceptable from every point of view, though
not distinguished by that highly imaginative colouring which we find in
many of Miss Birkmyre's similar pieces.

"The Mystery of Murdor Grange" this month falls into the hands of Editor
McKeag, who furnishes one of the best chapters we have so far perused;
possibly the very best. It is exasperating to be cut off abruptly in the
midst of the exciting narrative, with the admonition to wait for page
47!

* * * * *

=Spindrift= for February has as its leading feature an essay on
"Heredity or Environment," by the Editor. In this brief article many
truths are stated, though we fear Lieut. McKeag slightly underestimates
the force of heredity. We might remind him of the Darwin family,
beginning with the poet and physician, Erasmus Darwin. The grandson of
this celebrated man was the immortal Charles Darwin, whilst the sons of
Charles have all occupied places of eminence in the world of intellect.

"To the Enlisted men of the United States," by Edna Hyde, is an ode of
admirable spirit and faultless construction.

"A Fragment," by S. L. (whose identity is now known to us!) shows much
poetical ability, though the metre would move much more smoothly if
judiciously touched up here and there. The description of the crescent
moon sinking in the morning, is astronomically erroneous.

"The Estates of Authors," by Albert E. Bramwell, is a brief but
informative article. As the late Dr. Johnson said of the Ordinary of
Newgate's account, "it contains strong facts."

* * * * *

=Spindrift= for March very appropriately commences with a poem on that
blustering month, from the pen of Annie Pearce. Apparently the piece is
a juvenile effort, since despite a commendably poetic atmosphere there
are some striking errors of construction. In the third line of the first
stanza there is a very awkward use of the impe