(C) Underwood & Underwood (C) Clinedinst, from Press Illustrating Service SENATOR HIRAM JOHNSON, OF CALIFORNIA SENATOR GILBERT M. HITCHCOCK, OF NEBRASKA Senator Johnson is one of the foremost critics and Senator Hitchcock one of the most active defenders of the Administration's peace policy These prominent railway labor men are leading supporters of the Plumb plan for Government ownership of railways, reported in last week's Outlook length. Absolute sleep, the kind that "knits up the raveled sleave of care," is impossible for me. Monday Night-Meadville. This hotel is a comfortable, old-fashioned building with high ceilings and exceedingly large rooms. Bath-rooms were invented evidently after the house was built, and so alternate bedrooms have been converted. It is rather unusual for one to have a hotel bath-room 20 x 20 x 20. It makes me feel as if I had a suite partitioned off in a warehouse. Went to bed last night after leaving Utica. At Rochester some one scrambled noisily into the berth over mine, which was thoughtful of him. Then he began to snore-not quiet, respectable snores, but snorts and agonized wheezings and chokings. I lay awake an hour or more, wondering how he managed to come to after each choke. He did it just as if it were a regular thing. As there was no respite to be had apparently, I got up and washed and shaved just before we pulled into Buffalo, where I walked up and down the platform, drawing in great breaths of damp, smoke-laden air with the hope that it was fairly well filtered before it reached my lungs. At the worst, however, it could not equal the impure, stuffy air of the car I had just left. It was still raining, and the streets had that wretched look that city streets have in rainy weather. Wednesday Night-Oil City. For the first time I have been in the oil regions of Pennsylvania. The pungent odor of the crude oil penetrated the train while yet we were several miles away. Every one talks oil, although in small figures, for it does not flow as it did in the early days. It has to be pumped, and a half barrel is considered a very fair output per day for one well. As we came into the city I could see along the track the heavy, cumbersome walking-beams and the pipe-lines to iron reservoirs. Every available foot seemed to be bored or piped. Even the narrow margin between the railway and the river was disfigured with pumps and reservoirs and a network of pipes. I listened to two men on the train talking about drilling a well on a little farm. They expected to go down one thousand feet at a cost of a dollar a foot. They might get a half-barrel a day; they might get a quarter-the average amount; and they might have the unpleasant satisfaction of spending their money without striking any oil. About as risky a gamble as a horse-race, and more expensive. Sunday Afternoon-Butler. The hotel here is a very comfortable place to spend one's Sunday. A pleasant room overlooking a little square, a bath, and delightful meals are all one could wish for among strangers. This is the first commercial hotel in all my travels where they have guest books. At least they had them. The last three or four, of several years' standing, are on the table in the lobby. Some of the former guests' remarks were witty, some very matter-of fact, and some coarse. Occasionally there are human animals that have not allowed their minds to ascend above the level of the mere brute. Thursday Night-Harrisburg. Here in the streets of Harrisburg one sees an occasional Mennonite or Dunkard in garb strange to New Yorkers, where short skirts, sporty stockings, and décolleté gowns have educated us out of the idea that anything more modest can maintain a dignified fashion of its own. I know nothing of the religion of these people, but it must be substantial and satisfying, for strong, healthy bodies and pure faces are the rule, with scarce an exception. Taine said that the English people fought for their religion, even died for it, but never lived it. Apparently these people do. It must be fearfully hard to live one's religion on week-days. I never tried it. Yesterday I was in Gettysburg, a vast cemetery with a costly post office in the center. I was told by a native that it takes longer to get a letter now than before, the clerk has to walk such a distance to get it. It is decidedly out of keeping with either the appearance of the place or the necessities of it. But government by all the people, for all the people, means a large pork barrel. In the hotel lobby, after dinner, a man passed me his card, which read, "Capt. Guide." He explained that he was not really a captain, but the boys called him that, so he let it go. People liked to hear him talk, he said, and always gave him cigars, for he could talk better while smoking. As I didn't want to hear him talk, I refrained from such extravagance, but it didn't seem to make any difference. At last I went to bed and shivered until morning, when I transacted my business as quickly as possible and returned to Harrisburg. To-morrow I make a quick run to Baltimore, then back to Reading and the hard-coal country; and then home, thank the Lord! I want home-cooked food, a home-made bed, an easy chair and slippers, my favorite pipe and a good book. Friday Night-Baltimore. Annapolis is a quaint old city. It has an atmosphere of absolute calm, a restful effect on frayed-out nerves that gets you. You feel as if you had been transported to the eighteenth century, and you almost expect to see Richard Carvel and Dorothy Manners sitting under a spreading tree by one of the old, old houses. Black mammies and little pickaninnies are more in evidence now, I imagine, than two centuries ago. One old crone, black as a thunder cloud and looking fully as threatening, tottered along ahead of me, muttering to herself and yet loud enough for all near by to hear. It was evident she had a strong aversion to "white trash." Adjoining Annapolis, but separated by a stone wall and two centuries, is the Naval Academy. Beautiful and modern buildings around three sides of a quadrangle face the bay, which stretches like a burnished mirror to the horizon. The band was just finishing the morn ing concert. While I lingered the middies marched to their classes with such clockwork precision that it stirred even my sluggish blood. I wish every young man in the country could have this trainingnot for preparedness primarily, although that is good; but for the snap, the vigor, the ability to govern and to obey, that it gives him. Sunday. A long, narrow valley, with coal mines and culm heaps on the hills five hundred yards apart or thereabouts and with washeries at the beginning and ending of the two miles of straggling buildings, is the setting of this nameless city. Occasionally one sees a fair building like a high school or a church or a bank, but nothing else. Of all the wealth taken from the earth there is little evidence. For entertainment there are the movies and a theater which, judging from a bill setting forth a coming attraction, does not always have first-class talent. And occasionally there is a gala night, when the male population, or a large part of it, pushes its way into a weather-beaten barn of a hall to see a prize fight. Last night upon the hotel piazza several stocky young men with cauliflower ears were earnestly discussing their chances. They were healthy brutes and by no means so foul-mouthed as their hangers-on and backers. Still they showed but little intelligence, and it was not hard to surmise that they would never get yond the "preliminaries" stage in big affairs. The boxing game requires quick brains as well as quick muscles and strong bodies. be This afternoon I came back from a walk sooner than I expected, and found my door locked on the inside. Presently two waitresses opened it, and naïvely and unembarrassedly explained that, as my room contained the only bath on the floor, they had been using it. Well, I have the consolation of feeling that a clean girl will wait upon me at table even if I do pay for her baths. I asked the clerk of the hotel last night what there was interesting to see around town, and after considerable thought he said there was not a thing except a "swell dance" at the park. I went to the affair and watched the rising and risen generation dance. Some did remarkably well. After a while one of the young men possibly the floor manager-came up and politely asked me if I were a stranger. Upon being told that I was, he said. "Why don't you dance?" 66 66 Because I do not know any one," I replied. "Oh, that don't make any difference. Just grab any one. It will be all right.” citi However, I didn't, but watched with interest the different types of young zens- -descendants of Slavs, Germans, Irish, Italians, and Swedes. Possibly there were other races represented, but I could pick out these readily. Altogether they were a fresh, attractive-looking lot of young men and women-somewhat unconventional in language and demeanor, but sound at the core. Thursday night-Wilkes-Barre. Hazleton is the highest point in Pennsylvania. It is a matter of great pride to the inhabitants. The cabman speaks of it; the hotel clerk mentions it; and every one with whom you do business boasts of it. Still, every town should have some one thing of which to be proud. And what, pray, is better than altitude? "I will look unto the hills from whence cometh my help." Only Hazleton, being on the highest plateau, has to look down, if indeed it looks anywhere. What a busy little city Wilkes-Barre is! Its one square is the center of the retail business and the evening promenade. Round and round at night the younger generation walks, at first the girls in groups or by twos, and later each girl with the boy of her choice. Somewhere on the square mate calls to mate, and the girls have beaux to see them homethe same old game, thousands of years old, but ever new to the happy participants. Heigh-ho! I wish I were at home! Dinner is over, and I am lucky enough to have some mail- -one letter from my wife, cheery and bracing as October air, and one from Betty, a dear little girl of six who calls me Uncle Jim and tells me all her doings in her own delightful way, albeit it is as hard to decipher as a combination of the chirography of Napoleon Bonaparte and Horace Greeley. Sunday Scranton. This is the queen city of the coal regions. It has handsome public buildings and beautiful homes, and is withal clean and progressive. Saturday night is always the great parade night for the workers. Money flows freely then. A certain percentage of the week's wage is spent in pleasure, harmless or otherwise. Knowing this, a certain class of vampires ogle the men as they pass, or, if a more exclusive type, permit men to ogle them. It is such times as these that are dangerous for the young man who has no ties to bind him; when the loneliness of having human beings everywhere about him and yet not one to speak to in anything but a business way is absolutely oppressive. The older men have letters to write and have seen that business and folly do not mix. That may be an unmoral view rather than a high standard of ethics, but it keeps traveling men as a class clean. Happier and less cynical is he who can keep before him the vision of the one who has faith in him as he has faith in her. This evening I heard a fine sermon, and it was supplemented by most excellent music. The sermon was clear and logical and appealed to a man's best mental powers. There was nothing in it of the sensational or the appeal to sympathies. It was a lecture which showed research, broad knowledge of history, and, better, a clear insight into psychology. The man was a thinker not only, but had gone outside of cloister walls and had met with the doers of the world. It was a spur to sluggish minds and an incentive to right living. But a wanderer does not get this treat every Sunday. Tuesday Night. Lowering clouds and rain beating against the windows by my breakfast table this morning. Not a pleasant prospect for a day's work, but with a mental "Cheer up! The worst is yet to come," I attacked a hearty breakfast to put me in good physical shape. A full stomach can forgive any weather and almost any insult. I put on raincoat and rubbers, and with umbrella raised I started out to see the first of ten customers. Around the corner my umbrella was turned inside out, a wreck, and I faced the gusts of rain chastened in appearance but decidedly unchastened in spirit. I reached my first place, and with my best smile entered. Gloom sat enthroned here. The proprietor looked as if his.family and friends had died, his money was lost, and a mortal sickness was upon him. I told a funny story. He eyed me with disfavor. I told another. He looked at the puddle of water which my raincoat was making on the floor. I tried a sad anecdote, which cheered him up a little, and at the end of an hour I sold him about a quarter of what I should. The next call was no better. Everything was wrong. The times were bad, the present Administration rotten, the last one rottener, and the next one will probably be worse. I cheered him up with an expenditure of a lot of vitality and sold him. a small bill of goods. The next man was busy, and I made an appointment to take him to lunch. Then I saw two others who did not buy anything, and came back for my luncheon appointment. Wet as I was, I enjoyed the meal. Over coffee my customer agreed to buy a larger line than I had expected, and, furthermore, he was good for it. The afternoon was a different story. Not one of the remaining customers bought anything, and wet clothes and soggy shoes did not add to my cheerfulness. What little I may have had disappeared before my last call, I fear. This kind of weather makes me feel as if I was living in the trenches with water up to my knees, and without the consolation of shooting some enemy. I feel very much riddled myself, and, if it were not for the fact that I have given hostages to fortune, I would cease this peripatetic life, even if it does make one a sort of philosopher. Friday. Homeward bound! The hurrying throngs of New York are left behind, and we have rounded the curve at Spuyten Duyvil and straightened out for the long run to Albany. How quickly the electric locomotive picks up speed! Within a few train lengths we are rushing along at forty-five miles an hour, if the rail clicks tell a truthful story. Through Yonkers with scarcely a slowdown, city on one side and busy yards, sugar mills, and factories on the other. With a rumble and roar we pass under the Bridge of Sighs that leads to Sing Sing prison. If I had the power, I should like to take out a few fellows, hit or miss, and dump in about a dozen I know for life, solitary confinement, and tar and feathers each day. One of them is a man who always promises to buy goods but never does. His final end should be in boiling oil-before it goes up in price. We are slowing down for Harmon, where we change from electricity to steam. Here Croton Point stretches like a finger far out toward the other shore, which at this point seems five miles away. To the right, through a tangle of marsh grass, flows the Croton River-or what is left of it after supplying New Yorkers with baths and (in these days) drink. An unweaned youngster is yelling vocifer ously for his dinner. Ah, he is now getting it, thank Heaven, and he has made the rest of us as happy as himself. At the Highlands I go to the observation platform to enjoy fully the most wonderful ten-mile stretch of railway in the East. Around jagged rocks, the buttresses of hills torn in some cataclysm of nature, a plunge into a tunnel and a burst into bright sunshine again, a twisting and a turning like some writhing serpent until the reverse curve at West Point, when we gradually quicken again to real speed. Forty miles, forty-five, fifty, sixty, and even sixty-five miles an hour between Beacon and Poughkeepsie. A wonderful gorge this a slice cut out of the rock to let the waters through. Old Dame Nature never tries the same method twice. She varies in countless ways to build up or to tear down, and every way has its own fascination, its own beauty, its own grandeur. The valley begins to open up, and as we pass Kingston we have a clear sweep of twelve miles to the Catskills, now bathed in the gold of the setting sun. Above us are clouds of purple and violet and orange; beside us is the silver river, now quiet as a mill-pond; and on the near-by hills the foliage, rich and heavy, adds just the needed somber to the riot of sunset colors. From the marshy river-bank a startled crane, with his head sunk back on his shoulders, wings his heavy flight toward the darkening east. In the distance sharp details of landscape become a blur in evening haze. From the mountains comes a chill, and the platform is soon deserted. Happy faces are the rule in trains. I presume the feeling of "homeward bound shines out, as it should. What a queer world this would be, indeed, if there were there were none to greet us! There looms the Capitol amid the city's lights. Now for a leisurely taking down of bag and coat. Not too fast, for that would show excitement unbecoming in one so staid. Every one is laughing and talking and crowding to the door as we slowly pull across the river. Down the platform and under tracks to the station. There she is with eyes softly aglow, a tender smile of welcome, and a shy-a very shy-kiss, with mantling cheek. Home, Thomas, and don't stop at every corner for passengers." THE BOOK TABLE: DEVOTED TO BOOKS AND THEIR MAKERS DEEPENING THE FOUNDATIONS OF POLITICAL TH SCIENCE. A BOOK AND A MAN' BY FREDERICK M. DAVENPORT HERE are two events of seemingly incidental importance in the mighty onrush of our times which have recently attracted my attention as an interested student of public affairs. One is the publication of a little book called "The Responsible State," by Professor Franklin H. Giddings, and the other is the completion by Professor Giddings, at the late Commencement, of twenty-five years of service in the Department of Political Science at Columbia University—an event which was celebrated by a dinner and a programme of appreciation on the part of the F. H. G. Club, composed of admiring and grateful former students from different parts of the country. This distinguished teacher and thinker is best known as a sociologist. Sociology is even now supposed to be the mental pabulum of queer people. When Giddings began to expound it so powerfully twenty-five years ago, newspaper editors, Wall Street folks, and some others believed that there must be something essentially peculiar and unsound and unsafe about the man. For quite a period he was on the Index Expurgatorius of more than one metropolitan newspaper staff, by special order. He is now regarded by most men of insight as one of the most cautious and profound philosophical thinkers of our day. There is much research yet to be wrought out before sociology is precisely delimited or mastered, but Giddings has given the study a statistical and scientific standing among educated men which can never be taken away. He has grounded his philosophy of progress, not only or chiefly in the great subconscious evolutionary forces of the world, but in a deep analysis of the psychology of mankind and the free forces of the human spirit. This is what makes his thinking so valuable to political science. He has made sociology a natural introduction to politics by revealing the influences which shape political movements, which determine what they shall be and how they shall work out. He does not forget that we are ever in the presence of great evolutionary forces, but the core of his teaching is that the time has now, come in human progress when the free mind of man may, to some extent, modify and direct the great evolutionary forces, and to a degree never before possible in the history of the world. His emphasis is always upon the value of trained human centers of deliberation to forestall political and social hysteria and disaster. He is a true democrat in that he has no faith in any democracy which is not guided and molded by a natural aristocracy of mind and character. Such a philosphy was never more needed than now, when a blind wave of anarchistic democracy is sweeping across the world. His students for a long generation have The Responsible State-A Re-examination of Fundamental Political Doctrines in the Light of the World War and the Menace of Anarchism. By Franklin H. Giddings, Professor of Sociology and the History of Civilization in Columbia University, and Sometime Professor of Political Science in Bryn Mawr College. Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston. been prepared to estimate the quality and the worth of the illegitimate democracy which comes out of Moscow. Ultraradicalism, to minds at once conservative and shallow, appears to mean the attempt to establish certain objective qualities among men. That is not what it means to Giddings. With him the most radical and dangerous error in politics is the assumption that all men, having been endowed by a democratic state with equal power to vote, are therefore equally competent to hold office and to rule. His students for a long generation have understood that this unsound dogma lay at the heart of the shirt-sleeves democracy of Andrew Jackson; that it is the taint of the Industrial Workers of the World and of Bolshevists everywhere; that it was the peril of the leadership of Schmitz in San Francisco, of Blease in South Carolina, of Ben Butler in Massachusetts, of Sulzer in New York, as it is of Lenine in Russia. Giddings has long expounded and confounded the ideas of an unintelligent, impetuous, and ultra-radical democracy. The vice of this sort of a democracy is that, whether it confesses to the indictment or not, it really believes as strongly in subjective equality as it does in objective equality. It denies that some are by nature of nobler mold and greater ability than others. It knows nothing of the laws of heredity. It attributes the variability in efficiency and behavior among men merely to differences in culture and to inequalities of opportunity. Quick to take advantage of the ruin and chaos which absolutism and divine right have brought upon the world, anarchistic democracy proclaims the revolution and the torch and an end of natural as well as privileged aristocracy. Giddings's political philos ophy is neither absolutism nor radicalism. It is democratic republicanism, which has so recently proved itself capable of saving and safeguarding the priceless values of civilization. Democratic republicanism distributes political power with approximate equality. It seeks to establish even-handed justice. It imposes public burdens chiefly upon those who have the ability to bear them. It provides educational opportunity for all. It strives to protect the health and strength of the population. It curbs and finally abolishes privilege. It goes far to achieve approximate equality of economic opportunity. But it does not accept the dogma that men are subjectively equal. It knows they are unequal, physiologically, mentally, and morally. As it grows wiser, it looks about for exceptional men to perform legislative, administrative, and judicial tasks. It ungrudgingly acknowledges their superiority and listens to their counsel. It puts and keeps them in positions of authority and power. "The Responsible State" is the liberty loving and resolute American professor's answer to the cringing and corrupting German professor's philosophy of the arbitrary and absolute state. The state is the finest creation of the human mind, but it is neither arbitrary nor absolute. It is finite, relative, responsible. It has its ori gins in the developments of human behavior, in a growing toleration, liberty, associated feeling, mutual helpfulness, on the part of the many, and in an awesome and more or less subconscious sense, on the part of the many, of the need of the far-seeing and superior few in positions of infiuence and authority. The responsible state is a living population engaged in political experimentation, safeguarding the commonwealth, protecting property right, enforcing contracts, fostering the enterprises of civilization, but also ameliorating the social and economic lot of man. The responsible state is organized civilization. In organized civilization the survival of the fit does not mean the survival of the brutal, as the German grotesquely misapprehends. The fit are those who are adapted to the environment in which they live. If the environment is the jungle, then ferocity and cruelty are worth while. But if we mean civilized human society, which is a moral environment, then honor, intelligence, justice, good faith, are the fittest to survive. For a quarter of a century at Columbia Giddings has maintained a seminar in the problems of progress. The personal relations established there with his students have been close and intimate, and he has grown a crop of able disciples. Out of his very first seminar group came men like Ripley, of Harvard; the Rosewaters, of the Omaha "Bee;" young Francis Walker, the economist; and Hamilton Holt, of the "Independent." And their kind has not failed in the succeeding years. Giddings has exploded intellectual dynamite in the consciousness of his pupils and quickened them into new and more powerful periods of growth. His whimsical and deliberate class-room method of shock and exaggeration has been delightful, but nobody was ever misled by it. It was too cool and calculated for that. The Anarchist, said he one day, is a man who wants law and government for nobody and nothing. The Socialist is a man who wants law and government for everybody and everything. And the individualist is a man who wants law and government for everybody but himself and his own affairs. Exaggerated, but striking and illuminating. Like A man thinking-that is Giddings; and a prophet, not so much by instinct as by far-seeing insight into what must happen because human forces are what they are and human nature is what it is. Cramb, of the University of London, Giddings foresaw and expected the great war through which we have passed. When the Kaiser of Germany gave his parting brutal instructions to his soldiers who were going to China, Giddings wrote an editorial for one of the leading magazines to which he was accustomed to contribute, declaring that before that man died the world would have to reckon with him. It was thought to be unwise to commit the magazine to such views, and the editorial was returned. Giddings is a genuinely American political philosopher. His doctrine of surplus might normally overflowing into right explains America. And it explains the abnormality and final impotence of German might. With Giddings only might makes right; not brute might, not Prussian might, but might overflowing into the rational channels of progress and service, into honor and mercy and fidelity and human comprehension and world brotherhood this sort of might makes right, and nothing else can make it. And that is the real America, the America that is always fighting to put democracy into the saddle of government at home against all odds. It is the America of the Civil War, of the Spanish War. It is the America in China and in France. But neither the book nor the man is blind to the administrative and superficial thoughtlessness of America. "Of all the follies that the human mind can be guilty of," he holds, "the least excusable is to put trust in an inadequate army. Let us either accept the pacifist contention, lay down our arms, and trust in the sufficiency of sweetness and light to save us from the blood-lust of the supersavage, or, believing that the supersavage can be restrained only by the kind of might that he is capable of understanding, let us make it mighty enough to restrain him." But, take her all in all, America has justified, with all her faults, the rigorous philosophy of this distinguished teacher and thinker. She has justified his theory of what we may expect in a crisis from the spontaneous power, the individual initiative, and the quick voluntary co-operation of free peoples. Over against the thirtyfive hundred German professors and lecturers who servilely bowed the knee to the savior of Kultur, America is happy in a reasonable number of devoted and daring men in professorial chairs who have never bowed the knee to Baal; who dwell upon the mountain-tops of vision, but who know practically the psychology and the behavior of the people in the plain; who rebuke and spare not their countrymen in error, but interpret truly the inner spirit and the direction of movement of the American democracy. THE NEW BOOKS ESSAYS AND CRITICISM Anatole France. By Lewis Piaget Shanks. The Open Court Publishing Company, Chicago. Convention and Revolt in Poetry. By John Livingston Lowes. Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston. Faces in the Fire, and Other Fancies. By F. W. Boreham. The Abingdon Press, New York. Fighting for a New World. By Charles William Dabney. The Abingdon Press, New York. Higher Powers of Mind and Spirit (The). By Ralph Waldo Trine. Dodd, Mead & Co., New York. Home and the World (The). By Sir Rabindranath Tagore. Translated. The Macmillan Company, New York. Mushrooms on the Moor. By F. W. Boreham. The Abingdon Press, New York. What is America? By Edward Alsworth Ross, Ph.D., LL.D. Illustrated. The Century Company, New York. TRAVEL AND DESCRIPTION Pilgrim in Palestine (A). By John Finley. Illustrated. Charles Scribner's Sons, New York. Book of the National Parks (The). By Robert Sterling Yard. Illustrated. Charles This is the latest and most complete account of our National Parks. Mr. Yard is connected with the Department of the Interior; he is an enthusiast in out-of-door matters, and he knows his subject thoroughly. There is much in his book which has not appeared elsewhere, and it is written in a way which takes it entirely out of the class of manuals and guide-books and Service and Sacrifice. By Corinne Roosevelt Robinson. Charles Scribner's Sous, New York. Some of the best poetry that has come from Mrs. Robinson's gifted pen is to be found in this volume. Noteworthy above all others are the poems writen in memory of her brother, Theodore Roosevelt. "Valiant for Truth," "The A. E. F. to T. R." (republished on this page), and "To My Brother are poems not soon to be forgotten by those who share in the heritage of the one she truly calls "our greatest companion." It is to be regretted that the effect of the volume as a whole is marred by the inclusion of some rather mediocre versified characterizations which at best are only mildly amusing. Sailor Town: Sea Songs and Ballads. By C. Fox Smith. The George H. Doran Company, New York. Small Craft: Sailor Ballads and Chantys. By C. Fox Smith. The George H. Doran Company, New York. Verse for Patriots: To Encourage Good Citizenship. Compiled by Jean Broadhurst, A.M., Ph.D., and Clara Lawton Rhodes, A.M. War Verse. Edited by Frank Foxcroft. The SCIENCE Inventions of the Great War. By A. Russell Bond. Illustrated. The Century Company, New York. Mason-Wasps (The). By J. Henri Fabre. Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos. Dodd, Mead & Co., New York. This is the ninth volume of Fabre's "Souvenirs Entomologiques" to be issued in English, and the second volume devoted to wasps. Fabre puts the magic of his personality into this study so pervadingly that behind the scientific account of the insect we always see the charming portrait of the man. The book thus has a double interest. Our First Airways: Their Organization, Equipment, and Finance. By Claude Grahame-White and Harry Harper. Illustrated. The John Lane Company, New York. Realities of Modern Science (The). An Introduction for the General Reader. By John Mills. The Macmillan Company, New York. FICTION Far-Away Stories. By William J. Locke. The John Lane Company, New York. Judging by this collection, Mr. Locke's short stories are as good in one way as his novels are in quite another. "The Scourge," for instance, is a notably powerful bit of fiction. Delightful is the little sketch "Shadow Friends," in which the author tells of the war work of some of the people in his novels-Doggie and Jeanne of "The Rough Road," Septimus, Paragot, Marcus Ordeyne, and others. From Father to Son. By Mary S. Watts. The Macmillan Company, New York. One may always depend on Mrs. Watts for sound character depiction. Here members of the family react differently to the discovery that the grandfather made a fortune in the Civil War by selling rubbish as drugs to the Government at an enormous profit. Is the money still "tainted"? is the question. In the main the many people of the family are agreeable and refined and their ways of living and thinking are pleasantly told. A good novel for quiet, leisurely, vacation reading. You Never Saw Such a Girl. By George Weston. Dodd, Mead & Co., New York. A simple, amusing tale of the romance and adventures encountered by the girl referred to in the title and an older woman on a vacation trip undertaken in a light motor delivery wagon. Light but jolly. MISCELLANEOUS Grizzly (The). By Enos A. Mills. Illustrated. Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston. "In the grizzly bear's territory I have camped alone and unarmed. I have trailed the grizzly without a gun. I have repeatedly been outwitted by him, but never has he attacked me. I consider him in most respects the greatest animal on the North American continent, if not in the world." Could any animal lover, after reading thus far in this book, fail to follow the pages to the end of the trail? The author writes in an informal, conversational style, and his book is full of entertaining anecdote and information. Good Manners and Right Conduct. By |