the artillery station at Montauk Point, Long Island, came back unharmed and happy. Not only that, but they put in a month in the open air, learned to ride and shoot and drill and get their bodies into splendid shape. And most of them gained from five to ten pounds in weight.

One thing more: those boys learned how to take care of themselves. And they learned to obey orders. One does in the Regular Army. And that may be, come to think of it, why the soldiers are called brutal. Nothing could be conceivably more brutal than the mere suggestion that a care-free Greenwich Village revolutionist obey anything!

IN THE FIELD

The Second Corps Area of the Army-only one of the nine corps areas in the United States-comprises the States of New York, New Jersey, and Delaware. In this particular Corps Area were camps for the several arms of the service. Infantry aspirants went to Plattsburg, the Coast Artillery school was at Fort Hancock, cavalrymen went to Camp Dix, while the Field Artillery monopolized the extreme eastern end of Long Island.

The term "monopolize" is correct. In an area over which from twentyfour to forty-eight cannon are shooting every afternoon there are no advantages in habitation. The eastern end of Long Island in the vicinity of Montauk Point is just a little more deserted than the Sahara Desert, and about as attractive. Gorgeous sunrises and sunsets there are; but outside of this natural scenery there is absolutely nothing to meet the eye but vast ranges of sand-hills. No human being is so foolish as to stroll over these dunes; stray animals are carefully shooed away. Only the foolhardy birds, unfortunately unable to

the artillery range for a playground for a few days.

The Sixth Field Artillery has the distinction of being the first American regiment to fire cannon in the World War. They were in the First Division-those fellows who say: "We weren't heroes; we were Regulars." The Sixth Field was ready for action when we entered the war; and, naturally, they were the first to be sent into the fight. According to one's point of view, there is or is not a certain disadvantage in being prepared. The man who is prepared is pretty sure to be called upon first, and called upon to do the dirty work. Naturally, too, the Sixth Field likes to maintain, its reputation.

It does. One day, just to show what it could do, a battery of the regiment went into position, figured its range, site, deflection, sheaf of fire, and height of burst; and then dropped height of burst; and then dropped

four big shells into a space that could be covered by a tablecloth. That space was three miles away. And, I submit, that is some shooting!

It was these men to whom was intrusted the task of training some 540 raw recruits. All they had to do was to teach the boys to take care of themselves, obey orders, keep clean, maintain their health, drill, do guard duty, execute the maneuvers of kitchen police, ride horses, saddle horses, harness horses, groom horses (including the horses' hoofs), clean cannon, jockey cannon into position, and then fire those guns. And fire them so that they would hit something besides the all-embracing atmosphere.

And within a month's time that was just about what the officers and men of the Sixth Field Artillery succeeded in doing.

"PLAY BALL! ON YOUR MARK! TIME!" BUT NOBODY SAID, "FORE!"

Of course such military work as was done at Montauk was only part of the training. The guiding principle of the Citizens' Military Training Camps is to condition the boys, to build them up physically as well as to teach them. Sports occupied much of the time of the boys in all the camps of the nine Corps Areas. Boxing, wrestling, athletic meets, filled the afternoons. Baseball games, played on regular schedule in every camp, decided the Corps Corps Area championships. The medals, formally presented by the Colonel, were mighty hard to win. And all sporting equipment was supplied by the Army-even gymnasium slippers. "Didn't get these in France," mused one ex-sergeant, as he surveyed his brand-new pair of white "sneakers."

Swimming was a recreation particularly emphasized. Recognized as one

of the very best exercises for every muscle of the body, instruction in swimming was given to all students. The boys were carefully classified according to proficiency; and the daily swim was a jubilant occasion. Almost all of the camps had good tennis courts also; but one or two golfers were forced to abate their enthusiasm for thirty days. The Army, efficient organization that it is, had found it impracticable to build about thirty-six golf links upon short notice. Too bad, but unavoidable. And, after all, there is perhaps a question as to whether boys of twenty-one-and that was the average age of the C. M. T. C. students-need daily exercise on putting greens.

Barring this deprivation, however, it is certain that the young men who went to Artillery Camp at Montauk were taught, and learned, a lot of in

N

teresting and useful things; that they learned how to treat horses decently and to keep their own bodies in splendid physical shape. And it is equally certain that they all seemed to enjoy a month's life in the open air; and that when it was all over they were so emotional as to get together and make nice speeches to their officers and to present them with small remembrances and to take up a collection for several of the enlisted men who were ill. Human beings react in the most unaccountable ways, do they not?

Most of the boys who went to Montauk, moreover, are firm in their strange intention to return to camp for further training next year. They actually like being soldiers for a month; like the sport of living in open tents, eating great heaps of army chow, playing baseball, swimming, and riding horseback. They think it's

pretty good fun to drag a battery of big French "seventy-fives" out across the wind-swept hills at full gallop, and to fire those big guns at a tiny target away off there in the hazy distance. They consider the working out of abstruse firing problems as an exciting puzzle instead of as so much complicated mathematics; and they will work and play twelve and fourteen hours a day, and then lie flat on their stomachs on their camp cots scribbling diagrams until it grows too dark to see the pencil scratches on the paper.

.

And when it's time for "taps," and the weirdly sweet notes of the loveliest of all bugle calls float across the fields, the boys are too tired to be bothered by the conviction that the country is "going to the dogs." Maybe the country won't, by the way-with those boys actually enjoying the life of a soldier.

O one enjoys being an outsider. Yet most summer visitors find themselves so classed by the allthe-year-round residents of the country or seashore region of their summer abode. This is all very well for a year or two; but after one has spent a dozen summers in a place, with every prospect of spending a dozen more, one grows a bit weary of this social handicap. At least I do, for I summer "'way down East" in Maine, where being a native is a matter of caste to which the geography of one's birthplace is merely incidental.

I am not one of those lordly and pompous magnates who can stalk into a shop with the air of one who is conferring a favor by his presence and demand that his house be made habitable on the instant of his arrival, regardless of the fact that he has chosen to arrive late on a Saturday afternoon preceding the double holiday occasioned by a Monday Fourth of July. It was after such an episode, however, that I got the suggestion (which after a considerable period of successful experimentation I pass on to you) that this lack of caste is not hopeless and final, that even in Maine as well as in India-and if in these two strongholds, why not everywhere?-there is a sporting chance for us all. After the magnate had departed with such cold comfort as he could get from a few vague and courteous generalities -one could hardly call them promises of service the storekeeper, a dignified deacon and local magistrate, indulged in a few unflattering remarks on the summer resident. "Careful," said I; "you know I'm one of them." "You," he said; "why, you're almost a native." So simply did I receive my

BY ONE WHO IS ALMOST

accolade; so naturally was I started on my quest. From that moment I walked humbly, warily, as one set apart from my careless kind, seeking to spy out and tread the strait and narrow path which would bring me to the desired haven. Now, after several summers, I have come to believe with my deacon-storekeeper that with due perseverance one can become "almost a native." And if "almost," why not some day "quite"? Moreover, I have discovered from experience and observation that there are short cuts which I, from even my slight point of vantage, am glad to point out to would-be aspirants.

The first is as to the method of acquiring information. Don't ask a succession of direct questions. At least, that will close the mouth of any "Down Easter," and I suspect the genus native has certain characteristics wherever he may dwell. When I arrive after the winter, I want to know the news. My absence has made me for the time conspicuously alien, but after a few days I begin to penetrate below the surface happenings. From my milkman I learn that a valuable piece of undeveloped shore property has changed hands. He comments, "You know, it used to belong to Miss So-and-So, who died two years ago." I don't know, but I do not tell him so, for that would make him feel I was so ignorant as to be quite beyond the pale. To the next person with whom I have dealings I mention, as he does a piece of work for me, that I hear Mr. So-and-So has bought the Point. "Oh, did you hear that?" Emboldened by the fact that some one else has told me so much, he tells me a bit more. Again I press no questions,

though showing a sincere interest in all that he volunteers. But I begin to see that this was a village happening which occasioned much interest and gossip. Armed with the facts already in my possession, I say to another of my good friends: "What about Miss So-and-So's estate? I hear they had quite a time settling it up." By the time I have talked with the fifth person I learn that this was an estate with fifteen heirs which had been in the courts for months, that as the day of settlement approached rival men of the village sought its control, that three of the local worthies drew by arrangement from the bank one afternoon thirty thousand dollars, set forth with it in an automobile, visited a sufficient number of heirs to obtain control of eight-fifteenths of the property, settled with them for cash, and returned to town the following afternoon to spring on the rival bidders the information that they owned more than half the property, so distributed as to give them the whip-hand to obtain complete control at practically their own terms. Is not a picturesque tale like that worth a little effort in research? Which of my summer neighbors enjoyed the thrill which was mine as I met any one of these three staid citizens going about their daily duties and pictured them slipping out of town with thirty thousand dollars in their automobile and calling on one heir after another until they had persuaded a majority to make the sale? Yet note that I would never have found this out from one person. That would have been to trust even a "near-native" too far with the intimate affairs of their associates. But if one had told this, why, reasoned the

next one instinctively, should not he tell that?

We summer folk are most closely observed and shrewdly sized up in our money transactions. Consistent economy and careful use of what money we have, be it little or much, is respected. That is what the people themselves practice. How watchful some of my good neighbors are lest I pay too much! Wood was a commodity of varying price this summer, and three of my neighbors inquired anxiously from whom I bought the modest pile at my back door and how much I paid for it, commenting with approval: "That was all right. I paid that myself for my last cord." For there are prices and prices, as there are tradespeople and tradespeople. One of the practical advantages of being a "nearnative" is that one finds one's self passed from person to person within, a circle of those with whom these people trade themselves. Even then one must "watch one's step." It is possible to be economical, but not too "near," as they put it. My carpenter estimated a year ago on a screened porch for one of my cottage neighbors, the work to be done in the following spring. Prices went up, and the work took a little longer than he had figured. He sent his bill according to estimate, but wrote the circumstances, suggesting that the job had not paid him his usual day's wages. The reply came back from my friend that he was sorry, but that was all the cottage could stand in expense this year, and he paid simply the amount of the bill. That was business, perhaps, but it was not good business in the long run, for his carpenter's bills will allow in the future a safe margin for profit, and, what will affect his comfort more, he will not be first served when several of us need carpentry. It is so easy for them not to do our work, and the reasons which they can advance are so plausible and even truthful. One of our summer folk, who is well off but not wealthy, wished to impress upon the contractor who was estimating for an addition to her farmhouse that she had to count her pennies. So she told him that if the costs ran over a certain amount she could always put a mortgage on the house. Mortgage! Not pay her bills without a mortgage! He just faded quietly away. It was weeks later that one of the village people told me why this man had not undertaken her job. She was told only that he was too busy with other work. But that is not the whole story as regards dealings that involve money or service. We must adapt ourselves to their times and seasons and to their ideas and customs. Here is where the real art of this attempt to become a native comes in, and here is the reason why I recommend it to all summer folk as the most entertaining and reward

ing of summer avocations. Any one of us can be our city selves. We do that naturally. But to approach a simple transaction as a native would approach it, that is another story.

Last year I wanted to have a sign painted. Our farmhouse is set in the open pasture and approached only by a grassy road. As the road was becoming more grassy, it seemed well to indicate to the tradesman and automobilist that if they made the turn from the main road they would find us. I asked two of the village people to whom I should go. Both mentioned the same man, saying, "He'll treat you right" (indication of my status of being "almost a native"), with the addition, "You can tell him I sent you," showing a tiny doubt whether my status would be recognized by another. I went to the sign painter, whom I found decorating a ten-foot board with the familiar "Say it with flowers." Did I enter in a businesslike manner and say, "I want a sign two feet and a half by ten inches with my name and an arrow on it, to be painted on a black board with white letters. Can you do it?" Ah, no! that might be the city way, but I was aspiring to become a native. I admired his handiwork, inquired if he was very busy, and suggested that I sought a sign. He was busy, fourteen signs behind on his work now, doubted if he could do it. I expressed regret, but accepted his word, preparing to depart. "See here, what kind of a sign do you want?" I told him where I lived, "on the old Kingsley place," the reason I wanted a sign, and that it need have only my name and an arrow. "How long is your name?" Fortunately, I qualified with only six letters. That wasn't much work, he commented. He might do that; buthe turned on me suddenly-where was the board? Oh, was I to provide the board? Very well. What size did he want, and what kind? He had furnished me with full directions and I was leaving to call on the carpenter when at the door he halted me. "Come in here a minute." We went into his inner sanctum. "How would this piece do?" It suited him and me exactly, and he sketched on it my name and the arrow. I was to call for the sign in two days. It was to be black with white letters. He had decided that, telling me it was the style I wanted because it was easiest to read.

On the third day I went for the sign. The moment I arrived I knew from his manner that it was not done. "The name is "I began. "If I had known that, the sign would be done,' he remarked, quizzically. It proved that he had put the first coat of paint on the board before it occurred to him that he had failed to copy the name on a piece of paper before he painted over it. He was very apologetic. The

sign would be done when I came for the next mail. He produced that afternoon a very good-looking sign, a light-gray background with black lettering, black arrow, and a narrow blue border-line. You remember he had told me it must be black with white letters. Did I show any surprise? Not at all. Did I know how much it was going to cost? Only that it "wouldn't cost much." I paid him a dollar and departed with my sign, deciding, as I contrasted our dealings with those of a similar transaction in the city, that I was really on the way to becoming a native. Most of my summer neighbors took the appearance of such a sign for granted. Not so one of my discerning friends who is farther than I along the road to becoming a native. "How did you get that sign?" he asked. I told my tale. "Well," he confessed, "I looked at that, and wondered how I should go about getting one if I needed it, and I decided I should order it some day when I was up in Boston!"

There is a story from "Punch" which represents a summer visitor as asking a "native" what they do in all the long, quiet winter. "We laugh about the funny things you people do in summer," was the quick reply. That was a clever bit of repartee, but, from my experience, not in the least true. They are far more likely to let us drop out of their lives as completely as if there had never been a summer visitation and never would be one. Winter is the time of freedom for their own social life; in summer they are too busy with us. Nor can we blame them, for, while our advent supplies needed funds, it does completely change the village life. But need it? That is my question. Need we be such outsiders? Have we not every one of us proved in some moment of naturalness and insight that we can enter simply and sincerely into the life of the communities of which we become for the time being a part?

It was a college freshman who first called my attention to the cramping limitations of the dictionary as to the genus native. Confronted by the necessity of recording the facts of her life truthfully in a "daily theme” autobiography, she wrote, "I was not born in my native place, but when I was on a visit to my grandmother." Even while we laughed, we understood and sympathized. Here was a strong soul who was not going to let a mere accident of geography, of temporary convenience, deprive her of caste in her "native" town. The world is full of shifting populations. Americanization is one of the long-syllabled problems about which we concern ourselves. Shall we not do ourselves what we are asking these others to do, and endeavor wherever we sojourn to become natives?

TH

ABOUT SUMMER READING

HE early summer weeks and the vacation days, now close upon us, always bring an appeal from publisher and book-stand to purchase "light summer reading." The vacation leisure time is certainly dedicated to enjoyment; but isn't it a mistake to suppose that pleasure in reading can be had only through foolish and vacuous fiction? And isn't it another mistake to let the choice of what we read depend on what we may chance to find on the "library" shelves of hotels and boarding-houses-for the most part discarded stories, left behind because not worth taking home? We all plan our other summer enjoyments; why not plan our summer reading also?

What enjoyment is must be a purely personal question. The automobile road book and the railway folder may be all that one man's literary taste craves; while another may beam with joy over the profoundest problems of metaphysics. Most of us, however, want human romance or adventure, comedy or tragedy, moving situation or lively incident, or rounded modeling of character. If we turn from fiction to biography, then witty anecdote or pertinent reminiscence or witty comment furnish the element of enjoyment. The two fields provide the best hunting-ground for that part of our summer enjoyment to be had from reading.

The fad for discussing best lists of ten books whose company we would most like to have on a desert island is

about over. Perhaps some one will

start a list of the best-balanced diet of books to take on a vacation by a person of reasonably good taste, not one who would care for "St. Elmo" even if it were new-and I saw a young lady reading it with the utmost absorption in the subway quite recently; not one whose love of plot would lead him to dote on the very latest detective story I have seen, in which an amateur detective of ducal descent bubbles with joy in getting hold of a case in which a corpse, nude except for eyeglasses, is found in a stranger's bathtub, an incident so humorous to the noble detective that he makes up comic rhymes about it; not one whose penchant for modernity in fiction insists on the depressing, sordid, and unsanitary side of life.

Rather, I have in mind a person whose appreciation of quality in writing and thoroughness in dealing with life and character would make Walpole's "The Cathedral" or Galsworthy's "Forsyte Saga" suitable for the pièce de résistance of the summer parcel of books, to be balanced by shorter and lighter tales of adventure and romance.

Needless to say, a vacation list should not be confined to books published day before yesterday. Vacation is a lovely time to "catch up" on books; we shall still this season see piazza readers fulfilling a deferred duty by perusing "Babbitt," and even "Main Street." Moreover, there are those who might like to see if they really could stand it to read some of the great and acclaimed masterpieces of fiction and biography and essay. Herodotus and Thackeray's "Vanity Fair," Gibbon's "Decline and Fall," and Reade's "Cloister and the Hearth" seem about equally distant in time and equally hard to enjoy to most of our young people. One fancies that an experiment or so in the supposed arid desert of Victorian literature might be worth while.

"Well, make a list yourself," some one may say. No; not a list, but a few random suggestions, cast into a soliloquy, for which pray pardon me. Just out of a new parcel on my desk is "Amiel's Journal," brand new (that is, this edition is), compact, inviting in type and margin. I never read it, probably everybody else has; but I rather like the first phrase that strikes my eye: "The cricket is not the nightingale; why tell him so?" And I see by Mrs. Humphry Ward's Introduction that Mark Pattison, a good critic, says the "Journal" is a "precious record of a unique experience." It will take only a small corner in the trunk, let's put it in. Then, going to the other extreme, let's hunt up the dogeared old "Maison Lévy" French edition of Dumas's Valois stories; I haven't read them for ten years, and I am always contending that they are livelier than anything Dumas ever wrote except perhaps the first of the "Three Musketeers" series. They are flexible volumes; stick them in. Then in political and journalistic biography I must certainly read H. H. Kohlsaat's "Memoirs from McKinley to Harding," just now attracting comment. One would like to compare it with Mr. Oscar Straus's "Through Four Administrations." And another new book of biography and reminiscence would be Mr. Bok's "A Man from Maine," the story of a remarkable man and a singularly forceful life-that of Mr. Cyrus Curtis. Mr. Burton J. Hendrick has just been awarded a prize for his "Life and Letters of Walter H. Page," and it continues to head the list of non-fiction best sellers. Also, harking back to the idea that there are some books that are enjoyable now even if they are not now new, one might dip with pleasure into Strachey's "Victoria," or Thayer's "John Hay," or Tallentyre's "Vol

taire," or Trevelyan's "Macaulay," or Lockhart's "Scott," or Forster's "Dickens;" yes, or even egotistical old Boswell's "Johnson." But if we go on putting good biographies into our vacation trunk it will have to be of a super-expansible order.

If one is to yield to the natural urge of vacation, he will follow the lure of adventure or humor rather than that of psychology. The one striking new writer of adventure stories with a historical background is Sabatini, and, to my liking, "Scaramouche," his first romance, is also his best. Joseph Conrad's visit has brought out the fact that his recent romance "Reserve" was begun and abandoned years ago, and he jocosely defies the reader to find the "joint" where the new work begins; we may not be able to do that, but it is a ripping good tale of sea and adventure-and something more. A charming and colorful picture of mountain life is Miss Lucy Furman's "The Quare Women." Another kind of romance, "Abbé Pierre," is redolent of the charm of France in pre-war days; its admirers may not be so numerous as those of the Wild West or crime and detective yarns, but they are among those who recognize that which is delicate and gracious in spirit. A new story that I have read and recommend is "Stella Dallas," by Olive Prouty, not "highbrow" or subtle, but a moving and holding treatment of a singular social situation, one of the novels that will especially appeal to women readers.

For fun pure and simple I want to read a new book called "Strictly Business," by F. M. Howard, the author of "Happy Rascals," which came close to W. W. Jacobs's depiction of sailors' robust and irresponsible capers on shore. Booth Tarkington's new collection of short stories has some clever and amusing comedies of child life, but is of uneven quality. I confess to a liking for Mr. P. G. Wodehouse's lively and slangy stories; "Mostly Sally" is good fun. Mr. G. A. Bermingham's Irish tales and novels are excellent in their sly and restrained humor. For a delicate and elusive entertaining quality "The Enchanted April," by Elizabeth of the German Garden, is a quiet little masterpiece. Not a story, but to me the most delightfully humorous book of this season, is Edmund Lester Pearson's "Books in Black and Red," which tells with gusto of literary forgeries, quaint hoaxes, curiosities of the book world, and queer characters, prime among whom is that American eccentric, "Lord" Timothy Dexter.

These suggestions are both random and rambling. The purpose is not to get you, the reader thereof, to read this or that, but to urge you to take a

little of your pre-vacation time to decide what kind of thing you would truly enjoy, and then to select accordingly. Theodore Roosevelt in one of his Outlook editorials put the true gist of the matter of listing books when he said: "There are many thousands

of good books; some of them meet one man's needs, some another's; any list of such books should simply be accepted as meeting a given individual's needs under given conditions of time and surroundings." R. D. TOWNSEND.

Macmillan Company, New York. $1.50. This is rather in the "Keeping Up With Lizzie" type than in that of "The Days of Poor Richard." Mr. Bacheller scores the fads and vulgarities of the day with humor, satire, and sometimes downright scolding. The book is both pointed and amusing.

MUSIC, PAINTING, AND OTHER ARTS EARLY NORTHERN PAINTERS: THEIR ART (THE). By Mrs. C. R. Peers. Illustrated. The Medici Society of America, Boston. Based on works to be found in the National Gallery in London, this book will appeal to American readers mainly because of its careful and sympathetic description and criticism of the pictures of the early Flemish, Dutch, and German masters included, and also because of the attractive illustration of the volume.

SCIENCE

GREAT AND SMALL THINGS. By Sir Ray Lankester. Illustrated. The Macmillan Company, New York. $2.50.

Professor Lankester fairly illustrates the range of this miscellany of science by pointing out that it reaches "from the phagocyte to the gorilla, from the pond-snail to the Russian giant, from the facts about longevity to theories as to human progress and the cruelty of Nature." One of the most enjoyable chapters has the title "Spider-Sense and Cat-Sense," and we commend it to the wiseacres who dabble in "occultism." There is a curious pleasure in jumping lightly from one bit of popular science to another as this book does. Professor Lankester's reputation as a British scientist of high standing guarantees the accuracy of the book. The frontispiece, a portrait of "John," a young gorilla, is so pathetically ugly that it is beautiful.

TRAVEL AND DESCRIPTION CLIMBS ON ALPINE PEAKS. By Abate Achille Ratti (Pope Pius XI). Illustrated. Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston. $2.

People interested in mountaineering will thoroughly enjoy these accounts of Alpine climbs by the Pope, written years ago, it is true, but now for the first time translated into English.

They demonstrate the courage, resourcefulness, and modesty of their august author, and, what is more, his excellent common sense in writing simply as a mountain climber, without any suggestion of his calling, about his adventures in the high Alps. The style is direct, terse, and clear.

JERSEY: AN ISLE OF ROMANCE. By Blanche B. Elliott. Illustrated. D. Appleton & Co., New York. $3.50.

This is not a mere book of travel giving glimpses of the famous Channel island; it will be for most readers almost an encyclopædia of facts topographical and historical, set down with the enthusiasm of a lover of the quaint people and institutions of Jersey. There are many attractive pictures.

RED MAN IN THE UNITED STATES (THE). An Intimate Study of the Social, Economic, and Religious Life of the American Indian, made under the direction of G. E. E. Lindquist. Illustrated. The George H. Doran Company, New York. $3.50.

This valuable volume is the result of a "survey" of the Indians of the United States during the years 191922. It presents reports as to the status of the Indians in every part of the country, with many photographic illustrations. The tone of the book is optimistic as to the future of the race, but its facts constitute a clarion call to friends of the Indian to continue their work for his improvement, physical, moral, and intellectual. It is interesting to note that the Indians of the United States are increasing in number and that more than half of them are citizens.

By Elizabeth Crump

a grip that is by no means lessened because of the tragical ending of many of them.

UNDERSTANDING ITALY. By Clayton Sedgwick Cooper. Illustrated. The Century Company, New York. $3.

A survey, largely economic, of Italy's present conditions. The book is written from a thoroughly sympathetic standpoint, and presents an optimistic picture of the Italian people; it includes an interesting chapter about the origin and aims of the Fascisti. The style is lively and agreeable.

MISCELLANEOUS

GLORY OF THE PHARAOHS (THE). By Arthur Weigall. Illustrated. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. $5.

This is an excellent work from which to get in readable form a background, historical and archæological, as an aid to understanding the value and meaning of Lord Carnarvon's recent Egyptian discoveries. Mr. Weigall himself has made valuable explorations, and has been InspectorGeneral of Antiquities for the Egyptian Government. He has written some of the best press correspondence printed in this country about the Tutankhamen discoveries. Mr. Weigall has the rather rare faculty of writing simply and agreeably about things which might seem dull if presented by a dry-as-dust scientist.

BOOKS RECEIVED

FICTION

CHASTE DIANA (THE). By E. Barrington.
Dodd, Mead & Co., New York. $2.
DOBACHI. By John Ayscough. The Macmillan
Company, New York. $2.

ECHO. By Margaret Rivers Larminie. G. P.
Putnam's Sons. New York. $2.

FIRES OF FATE. By Wilbur Finley Fauley. The Metropolitan Book Service, New York. $1.75.

MARK GRAY'S HERITAGE.

By Eliot H. Robinson. The Page Company, Boston. MOTHERING ON PERILOUS. By Lucy Furman. Illustrated. The Macmillan Company, New York.

$1.50.

NACHA REGULES. By Manuel Galvez. E. P. Dutton & Co., New York. $3.

SWINGING LANTERNS.
Enders.
York. $2.50.

An American woman's year in China is vivaciously described in this pleasantly written book. Its point of view is that of one who is greatly interested by the strange people, remarkable customs, and singular architecture of the Celestial Empire, and who is wise enough to see these things in an appreciative instead of a deprecating spirit-the only way to travel enjoyably and to understand something of an alien civilization. Many attractive photographs illustrate the volume.

WISDOM OF THE WILDERNESS. By Charles G. D. Roberts. The Macmillan Company, New York.

These stories of wild-animal life display the combination of accurate knowledge and fervid imagination characteristic of the author. The tales hold the reader's attention with

Boni

By Robert A. Simon. & Liveright, New York. $2. POOR PINNEY. By Marian Chapman. Boni & Liveright, New York. $2. ROAD TO CALVARY (THE). By Alexey Tolstoy. Boni & Liveright, New York. $2.50. WAKE OF THE SETTING SUN (THE). By William Averill Stowell. D. Appleton & Co. $2.