THE SUNSET END
To-day I went to Mary's wedding, and it has made me very thoughtful.
She was very lovely--a great, blooming blonde, the image of Roger.
They were a fine pair, as he held her on his arm: he looking younger
than his sixty years, she older than her twenty, for all the children
are wonderfully mature and well-developed.
She was nearly as tall as young Paynter, whose slenderness, however,
is like steel. I well remember when Dr. McGee took him to North
Carolina and made him over--a weak, irritable little precocity of
twelve or so. He never ate or slept in a house for three years, and I
think that the birds and trees of that period got into his opera and
made it what it is, the musical event of a decade. He works best in
Paris, and they will live there, after a honeymoon on the Island.
I don't think Mary was ever the favourite child, though each of the
six thinks it is, Margarita is so wonderful with them! She cannot hide
from me, who watch every light in her eye, that young Roger, the
second child and oldest boy, means a shade more to her than the
others, just as Roger, when he sits alone with Sue, the second
daughter, talks to her more confidentially than to any of the others,
and watches her yellow head most steadily when they are all swimming,
off the Island wharf. They are both fine, big girls, just as Roger and
my namesake are fine, big, steady fellows and little Lockwood is a
fine, big, handsome child.
But my foolish old heart lost itself long ago to a pair of slate-blue eyes
set in an olive face under dark, strong waves of hair, and when into that
large, blonde brood there came a perfect baby Margarita, a slender, dark
thing who flashed the summer twilight sky at one from under her long dark
lashes, I claimed her for mine and mine she is--my Peggy. She is alone
among the others, my precious black swan: her quaint, dreamy thoughts are
not their practical, sunny clear-headedness, her self-peopled, solitary
wanderings are not their merry comradeships, her lovely, statuesque
movements are not their athletic tumbles. She stood to-day at her mother's
knee in just the attitude S----n painted them for me, her eyes clouded with
awe just as the bloom upon her mother's sweeping gown of velvet clouded its
elusive blue, the soft plume upon her bride-maiden's hat leaned against the
rich lace on her mother's breast. How beautiful they were! As I stared at
them and their eyes lighted at the same moment with just the same dear
smile, so that they were more than ever wonderfully alike, I heard a woman
whisper behind me that the gentleman the beautiful Mrs. Bradley and her
picturesque little daughter were smiling at was the child's godfather, an
old friend--all his money left to her and his namesake, her brother. Before
the whisper had ended Margarita the woman had turned her eyes toward her
husband--they could not leave him long that day--but Margarita the child
kept hers on me, and under them the years rolled back and I seemed to see a
grave young girl sitting on the sand in a faded jersey, looking down into
my heart and telling me that I loved her!
How many times since have I not seen her on that beach, cradling her
rosy babies in her strong, smooth arms, murmuring with her graceful
daughters, judging mildly between some claim of her tall, eager sons!
How many summer evenings have I sat with Peggy in my arms and watched
her pace that silvering beach with her husband, hand in hand like
young lovers! I think they forget utterly that Time slips by, he
passes them so gently.
[Illustration: IT IS A FAVOURITE CLAIM OF OURS WHO ARE BIDDEN TO THAT
HOME THAT IT IS AN ENCHANTED ISLE]
It is a favourite claim of ours who are bidden to that home that it is
an enchanted isle, and that he only brushes it with his wings, gliding
over, and turns the scythe away and holds the hour-glass steady. Even
the children feel it: it is a half-jesting, half-serious plaint with
them that the goats, the donkeys, and the ponies to which they
successively transfer their affections can never secure immortal youth
by a yearly sojourn in that happy kingdom. I offered once to rebuild
our old bridge--to make it a drawbridge, even, and thus keep our
treasure safe, but after a long council it was rejected.
"It wouldn't be a really island, then, you see, Jerry dear," said my
Peggy (always deputed to bear an ultimatum to me) "and we like it
better an island--don't you?"
Of course it must be an island! It was marked out for an island when
first the waters were gathered up and the dry land appeared. I think
all the happy places are islands--I should like to make one of Italy.
I am convinced that when the Garden of Eden is definitely settled (and
Major Upgrove is trying to persuade me to come with him to find it--he
has a theory) it will be found to be a secret isle in some great
estuary or arm of that ageless Eastern river suspected by the major.
Surely that mysterious Apple (of whose powers Margarita was once so
sceptical) never grew on any vulgar, easily-to-be-come-at mainland!
No, it lurks to-day in its own island Paradise, and the angel with the
flaming sword cut the land apart from all common ground so that the
furrows smoked beneath it as the floods raced in. If we find it--the
major and I--shall we bring some apples back to Peggy? In truth, I am
none too sure. Why my darling's sex has been so eager for that Apple
is not yet entirely evident--though I am not too stupidly obstinate to
admit that it may be evident, one day. But the fact remains that Eve
certainly regretted it, and Adam, one would suppose, must have, for he
has been settling dressmaker's accounts ever since!
As to the position held by this father of mankind among the Bradley
children, by the way, volumes might be written. To suppose that
Barbara Jencks, their bond slave in all else, has remitted an atom of
her zeal in bringing them into the state of religious conviction
enjoyed by the Governour-General's family, would indicate the densest
ignorance of her character. And success has not been entirely lacking,
for my namesake delights in the battles of the Kings and Sue's sweet
life is a very Sermon on the Mount. But Lockwood still sacrifices to
Pan among the beehives and propitiates the Thunder God with favourite
kittens, and Roger the Second long ago informed his would-be mentor,
to her horror, that if a fellow tried to be like his father and told
the truth and worked hard, he thought that fellow could take his
chances with God! Dear, obstinate lad, with your cleft chin and your
blue eyes, it is not your grandmother, who leaves her Emerson and her
Psalms unread together, when she can fill her keen, proud eyes with
you, that will deny your simple creed!
But my little Peggy has outgrown Pan, and scorns to appease her baby
brother's deities.
"I asked Roger," she said to me one late afternoon, when we sat in her
mother's rocky seat and watched the red sun sink, "why the sun was
here--just so that we could see things? And he said yes. And the moon
the same way, for night. But that little blind girl I see in the Park,
in New York, _she_ can't see things, Jerry dear. She never can. What
is that for?"
"I can't tell, sweetheart."
"You don't know, Jerry dear?"
"No, Peggy, I don't know."
"But someone knows?"
"That I can't tell, either."
She turned her serious, deep eyes on me.
"But, Jerry dear, nothing can be that someone--_Someone_--don't know,
can it? That wouldn't be right. There must be _Some one_?"
"I hope so, sweetheart."
She stared quietly at the rosy ball that sank, below us and far away,
at the rim of the sea--Margarita's sea.
"I know there is, Jerry," she said simply. "Look at that, the way I
do, and you'll know, too."
And just then, I thought I did ...
Sue was at the wedding, of course, grey, and a little worn, now, but
dressed _a merveille_ and delightful in her pride at her genius-boy.
His sister, a wonderful, modern young woman, has learned her "trade,"
indeed, though one that her mother never dreamed of, and will
decorate, furnish and supply with everything from ancestral portraits
to patent mouse-traps any structure from a hotel to a steam-yacht that
you may place in her capable, college-bred hands. A remarkable
achievement is young Susan--the achievement of the _fin de siecle_
generation. At the wedding-breakfast she described to me her last
"job"; the putting in commission of a dilapidated fifteenth-century
_chateau_ for its new oil-king owner--he was born in a bog-cabin in
Ireland and never tasted anything but potatoes and stir-about till he
was fourteen. But Susan has raked Europe for a service fit for him to
eat his cabbage from and Asia for rugs fit for his no longer bare
feet, and has deposited his good American cheque in her bank. She is
improving the occasion of her American visit by an extended hunt for
old silver and brasses and china for a great country house on the
Hudson--its many-millioned mistress will pay well for her "imported"
treasures!
Truly is Susan a lesson to us, and wide would be her
great-grandmother's eyes could she see Susan disposing of her girlish
samplers and draping her camel's-hair shawl behind a Hawthorne jar.
And I am bound to admit that Susan is not marrying, though her mother
was struggling with two delicate children at her age. No, Susan has
no need to "marry to get away from home." As fast as this
accomplished young woman establishes herself in a charming house, some
envious person buys it of her, and she moves serenely to a new one, a
contented, self-respecting Arab with a bank account.
Ah, well, perhaps it will be, as her mother triumphantly declares, all
the more honour to the man who gets her, after all! We oldsters must
not be stubborn, nowadays.
My mother, like old Mrs. Upgrove, is living still; well and happy,
both of them, thank God, and as proud of their sons as if either had
ever done anything to deserve it. Neither of them has much to say of
Margarita, I have noticed, though both fondle her children, a little
absently, perhaps, and feign to wonder what it is we see in Peggy that
blinds us to the excellencies of the others--stouter children and more
respectful, my dear!
And Death, that spares them both, and old Madam Bradley, too
(eighty-eight now and half paralysed for nearly twenty years!), what
had we done that he should take away one whom we and the world--her
world--could so ill spare? Does _Someone_, indeed, know why, my
sweetheart Peggy? I try to think so, but it is hard to see.
Nine years ago Harriet put Peggy into her mother's arms and praised
the little thing and kissed them both, and then told Roger that she
must leave them, for she felt ill and would not risk the
responsibility of further nursing. She would send a good nurse
straight from New York, she said, and Roger himself took her there,
leaving the doctor with Margarita, as soon as he dared. He brought
back the other nurse, wired me to look after Harriet, and left her
comfortable in the little apartment of a good friend of hers, with a
promise of a speedy return. He never saw her alive again.
Dr. McGee, even then a famous physician and devotedly attached to her,
worked day and night over her, but it was useless; the over-strained,
busy heart had given way and she lived only three days, growing
feebler with every hour.
I was sitting beside her in the afternoon, trying to be cheerful,
trying to cheer her with those futile subterfuges we are forced to,
trying to get it all clear in my own troubled mind, when she smiled
whimsically at me and begged me to spare myself such pain.
"A nurse is the last person to need such talk, dear Mr. Jerrolds," she
whispered to me, and as the good deaconess who had been her first
helper in her chosen work burst into tears and stumbled from the room,
she put out her hand and I took it silently.
"What you have been--what you have been, Harriet!" I muttered
unsteadily, and then her eyes met mine.
"What have I been?" her lips barely formed the words, "do you know?"
There in her soft brown eyes I saw at last--at once. God knows I never
guessed before. They met mine so calmly, so honestly, so
fearlessly--alas, they could be fearless now!
"And I have been such a fool--such a brute!"
"Hush! you never knew," she whispered, "you could not help it, my
dear. It was so from the very first--when you saw my diary."
"But I might--I might have----"
Again she smiled whimsically.
"O no," she said quietly, "there was no chance for me, of course. I
never dreamed of it, my dear. But--but I wanted you to know it. There
has never been anybody but you."
I tried to speak, but could not, and again, but the words dried on my
lips. Then I saw that she was sleeping--from exhaustion, probably, and
sat by her in silence till the deaconess came back, red-eyed, and sent
me away. I bent over her and kissed her cheek, before I left, and I am
sure that her lips moved and that the hand I had held while she slept
pressed mine faintly. But she did not open her eyes, and in the
morning the message came that she had drifted easily away, in that
same sleep before dawn.
Gone--and I never knew, never faintly surmised, never considered!
Gone--and there had never been anybody but me!
Ah, Peggy, there had need be _Someone_ that knows, to make good the
pity of it, the cruelty of it, the senseless waste of it!
But we three, whom she gave so generously to each other, whom, in
turn, she tended back to life, into whose lives she has grown as a
tree grows, can we call her love wasted?
Nor is it among us alone that her memory flourishes. No woman in all
those mountain parishes she loved so well faces her dark hour of
travail without blessing her name and the name of her messengers,
whom, in the endowment called in memorial of her, Margarita sends to
them, to tend them and the children they bear, as Harriet helped her
and hers. She lies among them, a stone's throw from the corner-stone
she laid nearly twenty years ago, now, and many visitors have never
seen the tablet that lies along her grave--so thick the flowers are
always lying there.
"Mother says you are not to look so sad, Jerry dear, because it isn't
me that Freddy's marrying!" says Peggy softly, behind me, and I come
back to the present, with a jerk.
"Not Freddy, perhaps," I answer with pretended severity, "but some
other young sprig no better than Freddy, and then poor old Jerry may
go hang!"
She slips her firm little hand--Margarita's hand--into mine shyly.
"Now, Jerry, how silly you are!" she says, looking carefully to see if
I am teasing her or by any chance in earnest.
"How can I marry a young sprig, when I am going to marry you?"
"Since when?" I inquire sardonically.
"Why, Jerry!"
Her big eyes open wide, she plants herself before me and stares
accusingly.
"You know very well--you can't have forgotten? You and I and little
Jerry and Miss Jencks are going round the world when I am sixteen! To
Japan, and see the wistaria and the cherry blossoms and the five
hundred little stone Buddha-gods that get all wet with spray and the
red bridge nobody may walk on!"
"Anywhere else?"
"Yes, to Vevay and see where Mr. Boffin used to live and old Joseph
that told you when you were all grown big and went back,
"_C'est moi, Monsieur, qui suis Joseph: j' ai nettoye les premieres
bottes de Monsieur!_"
How well I remember those first formidable boots, and my manly
feelings when I clumped them down in the hall before my door for
Joseph to clean! Jerry and Peggy and I are going over every foot of
the old grounds--the school, where the little fellows still sport
their comfortable, round capes; the way, well trodden still, I'll
wager, to the old _patisserie_ with its tempting windows of
indigestible joys; the natatorium where we dived like frogs; the
English church where we learned the Collects and eyed the young
ladies' school gravely till it blushed individually and collectively;
the famous field where I fought the grocer's boy who cried "_a bas les
Anglais!_" three days running. (He beat me, incidentally.)
I find that all the old memories come back very sweetly: I had a happy
childhood, on the whole, one that never lacked love and sympathy.
Believe me, ye parents, who think that these days will soon be
forgotten, they make a difference, these idle memories, and life is
inexpressibly richer if those early days are rich in pleasant little
adventures and cheery little experiences, cheerily shared! I have more
to remember than Roger, whose early boyhood was, though far wealthier
than mine, strangely poorer from the lack of just this mellow glow
over and through it.
And Margarita's? We shall never know what filled those silent,
childish hours of hers, alone with the dogs and the gulls. Her quaint
lonely games, her towers of sand and shell, her musings by the tide,
her dreams on the sun-warmed rocks--I fancy I see them all in watching
Peggy. She cannot tell herself.
"I began to live," she says, "when I met Roger."
"You have lived a great deal, since, have you not, Margarita?" I say,
a little wistfully, perhaps, she is so splendid and so complete, and
one seems so broken and colourless and middle-aged beside her.
"A great deal. Yes, I suppose so," she answers, and her eye rests
quickly but surely on Roger, on each of the yellow heads, then on the
dark one, and then, at last, on me.
"You have given up a great deal for those handsome heads, Margarita,"
I go on, under the spur of some curious impulse, "did you never regret
it? You had the world at your feet, Madame used to say, and you gave
it up ..."
She looks at me with the only eyes in the world that can make me
forget Peggy's, and gives me both her hands (one with a flashing,
cloudy star sapphire burning on it) in that free, lovely gesture so
characteristic of her.
"Don't, Jerry!" she says in her sweet, husky voice, and Roger hearing
it, turns slightly from his guests and gives her a swift, strong look.
The gay wedding crowd melts away, the clatter of the wine-glasses is
the wash of pebbles on the beach, her hand in mine seems wet with
flying spray, as she speaks in that rich, vibrating voice, for me
alone:
"I had the world at my feet--yes, Jerry dear, and I nearly lost it,
did I not? I did not know, you see. And I have it now, Jerry, I have
it now!" (O, Susan of the bank account, who need not marry to get away
from home, will that look come to your eyes and glow there till your
face is too bright for an elderly bachelor to bear? Indeed, I hope it
may!)
"There is only one world for a woman, Jerry," says Margarita softly,
"and no one can be happy, like me, till she lives in it--the hearts
that love her. His and theirs--and yours, dear Jerry, O always yours!"
His and Theirs and Mine!
Amen to that, my dear, and surely if there is _Someone_ that knows, He
knows that what you say is true!
* * * * *
HARMEN POLS
BY
MAARTEN MAARTENS
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THE COMPLETE WORKS
OF
WILLIAM J. LOCKE
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Idols
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At the Gate of Samaria
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Captain Amyas
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"A brilliant piece of satire, gemmed with ingenious paradox.
Every page is pregnant with vitality."--_Boston Herald._
The Ball and the Cross _Cloth. 12mo. $1.50_
"The most strikingly original novel of the present season. It
is studded with intellectual brilliants. Its satire is keener
than that of Bernard Shaw. Behind all this foolery there
shines the light of Truth. A brilliant piece of satire--a gem
that sparkles from any point of view the reader may choose to
regard it."--_San Francisco Bulletin._
EDEN PHILLPOTTS
The Thief of Virtue _Cloth. 12mo. $1.50_
"If living characters, perfect plot construction,
imaginative breadth of canvas and absolute truth to life are
the primary qualities of great realistic fiction, Mr.
Phillpotts is one of the greatest novelists of the day....
He goes on turning out one brilliant novel after another,
steadily accomplishing for Devon what Mr. Hardy did for
Wessex. This is another of Mr. Phillpotts' Dartmoor novels,
and one that will rank with his best.... Something of
kinship with 'King Lear' and 'Pere Goriot.'"--_Chicago
Record Herald._
"The Balzac of Dartmore. It is easy and true to say that Mr.
Phillpotts in all his work has done no single piece of
portraiture better than this presentation of Philip
Ouldsbroom.... A triumph of the novelist's understanding and
keen drawing.... A Dartmoor background described in terms of
an artist's deeply felt appreciation.--_New York World._
"No other English writer has painted such fascinating and
colorful word-pictures of Dartmoor's heaths and hills, woods
and vales, and billowy plains of pallid yellow and dim
green. Few others have attempted such vivid
character-portrayal as marks this latest work from beginning
to end."--_The North American._
"A strong book, flashing here and there with beautiful gems
of poetry.... Providing endless food for thought.... An
intellectual treat."--_London Evening Standard._
The Haven _Cloth. 12mo. $1.50_
"The foremost English novelist with the one exception of
Thomas Hardy.... His descriptions of the sea and his
characterization of the fisher folks are picturesque, true
to life, full of humorous philosophy."--JEANNETTE L. GILDER
in _The Chicago Tribune_.
"It is no dry bones of a chronicle, but touched by genius to
life and vividness."--_Louisville, Kentucky, Post._
"A close, thoughtful study of universal human nature."--_The
Outlook._
"One of the best of this author's many works."--_The Bookman._
MAUD DIVER
A TRILOGY OF ANGLO-INDIAN
ARMY LIFE
_New York Times_: "Above the multitude of novels (erotic and
neurotic) hers shine like stars. She has produced a
comprehensive and full drama of life, rich in humanity;
noble, satisfying--it is not too much to say great."
(New Editions)
CANDLES IN THE WIND
CAPTAIN DESMOND, V. C.
THE GREAT AMULET
_Cloth, 12mo. $1.50 each._
_The Argonaut (San Francisco)_: "We doubt if any other writer
gives us so composite and convincing a picture of that
curious mixture of soldier and civilian that makes up Indian
society. She shows us the life of the country from many
standpoints, giving us the idea of a storehouse of experience
so well stocked that incidents can be selected with a
fastidious and dainty care."
_London Morning Post_: "Vigor of characterization accompanied
by an admirable terseness and simplicity of expression."
_Literary World_: "Undoubtedly some of the finest novels that
Indian life has produced."
_London Telegraph_: "Some sincere pictures of Indian life
which are as real and convincing as any which have entered
into the pages of fiction."
_The Chicago Tribune_: "The characterization is excellent and
her presentation of frontier life and of social conditions
produces a strong impression of truth."
_Boston Evening Transcript_: "Knows absolutely the life that
she depicts. Her characters are excellently portrayed."
_Chicago Record Herald_: "Well told; the humanization good
and the Indian atmosphere, always dramatic, is effectively
depicted. Holds the attention without a break."
_Toronto Mail_: "Real imagination, force, and power. Rudyard
Kipling and imitators have shown us the sordid side of this
social life. It remains for Mrs. Diver to depict
tender-hearted men and brave, true women. Her work is
illuminated by flashes of spiritual insight that one longs to
hold in memory."
CHARLES MARRIOTT
The Intruding Angel _Cloth. 12mo. $1.50._
The story of a mistaken marriage, and the final solution of
the problem for the happiness of all parties concerned.
When a Woman Woos _Cloth. 12mo. $1.50._
"Unique. The book is on the whole a study of the relations
of men and women in the particular institution of marriage.
It is an attempt to define what a real marriage is, and it
shows very decidedly what it is not. Full of the material of
life."--_New York Times Book Review._
A Spanish Holiday _Illustrated. Cloth. 8vo. $2.50 net. Postage 20
cents._
"The spirit of Spain has been caught to a very great degree
by the author of this book, and held fast between its
covers."--_Book News._
* * * * *
NETTA SYRETT
Olivia L. Carew _Cloth. 12mo. $1.50_
An interesting character study of a passionless,
self-absorbed woman humanized by the influence of a man's
love and loyal devotion.
Anne Page A Love-story of To-day _Cloth. 12mo. $1.50_
"Readers must judge for themselves. Women may read it for
warning as well as entertainment, and they will find both.
Men may read it for reproach that any of their kind can
treat such women so. And moralists of either sex will find
instructions for their homilies, as well as a warning that
there may be more than one straight and narrow way."--_New
York Times._
Six Fairy Plays for Children _Sq. 12mo. $1.00 net. Postage 8 cents._
A. NEIL LYONS
ROBERT BLATCHFORD
_Cloth. 12mo. 75 cents net. Postage 10 cts._
The Sketch of a Personality.
An Estimate of Some Achievement.
"A splendid figure for biographical study."--_The Call._
Cottage Pie _Cloth. 12mo. $1.50._
A Country Spread. A Novel.
Sixpenny Pieces _Cloth. 12mo. $1.50._
The Story of a Sixpenny Doctor
"Not since famous 'No. 5 John Street' has been offered so
telling and characteristic a work. Power to stir human hearts
and sway human sympathies. Holds the interest with a grip of
iron and will make many think."--_Chicago Record Herald._
"Unique in style and matter and intense in human
interest."--_Louisville Courier Journal._
"Notable, pathetic, humorous and tragic. In realistic force
and convincing truth of characterization it is a striking
achievement. Slum life has never been better
portrayed."--_Brooklyn Eagle._
Arthur's Hotel _Cloth. 12mo. $1.50._
"Sketches of low life in London. The book will delight
visitors to the slums."--_New York Sun._
M. P. WILLCOCKS
The Way Up _Cloth. 12mo. $1.50_
THE ROMANCE OF AN IRONMASTER TOUCHING THREE VITAL QUESTIONS
(_a_) _Capital and Labor._
(_b_) _The Claims of the Individual Against Those of the State._
(_c_) _The Right of a Woman to Her Own Individuality._
"M. P. Willcocks is an English writer of unusual force and
that dry, incisive humor dearly beloved of the intellectual
reader. In 'The Way Up' this writer crystallizes a tense and
telling problem. The book is earnest enough for the most
serious of readers, yet never dull or dreary. The
humanization is admirable."--_Chicago Record-Herald._
"Miss Willcocks shows the wit of Barrie in close alliance
with the bold realism of Thomas Hardy and the philosophic
touches of George Meredith."--_Literary World, London._
"Striking studies of character and grace of charm and
style."--_New York Sun._
"Such books are worth keeping on the shelves, even by the
classics, for they are painted in colors which do not
fade."--_London Times._
The Wingless Victory _Cloth. 12mo. $1.50_
"A most remarkable novel which places the author in the first
rank. This is a novel built to last."--_The Outlook._
"A book worth keeping on the shelves, even by the classics,
for it is painted in colors which do not fade."--_The Times._
"It is an excellent thing for any reader to come across this
book."--_Standard._
"A splendid book."--_Tribune._
A Man of Genius _Cloth. 12mo. $1.50_
"Far above the general level of contemporary fiction. A work
of unusual power."--_Professor William Lyon Phelps._
Widdicombe _Cloth. 12mo. $1.50_
A Romance of the Devonshire Moors
MAUDE ANNESLEY
The Wine of Life _Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_
"The story is well worth reading; it is never dull and is
positively superior in the distinctness of its character
portraiture to the common run of drawing-room
fiction."--_Charleston News and Courier._
The Door of Darkness _Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_
"A story of great interest."--_Newark Evening News._
"Thoroughly absorbing.... A subtle psychological
situation."--_Providence Journal._
Wind Along the Waste _Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_
"There are some capitally drawn pictures of Parisian low life
and its types, and a few thrilling adventures. The whole
conception is so forcible that one can hardly get on fast
enough."--_Pall Mall Gazette._
_Shadow-Shapes_ _Cloth, 12mo, $1.30 net. Postage 12 cents_
"The theme of the story is that of hypnotic suggestion....
The absorbing drama grows in interest with every page, the
sense of impending tragedy is always with us. It is well and
cleverly done."--_Pall Mall Gazette._
MY ENEMY--THE MOTOR
BY
JULIAN STREET
_Illustrated. Cloth. 16mo. 50 cents net. Postage 6 cents._
"Will supply all normal readers, motor enthusiasts or
otherwise, with cause for chuckling during a good
half-hour."--_Chicago Record-Herald._
"Mr. Street's style is lively and vivacious."--_Boston
Transcript._
"In the manner of Jerome K. Jerome and may be heartily
commended."--_New York Globe._
"The humor of Julian Street first became known by the
publication of the clever little story 'My Enemy--the
Motor.'"--_The Boston Herald._
"More acceptable than the ordinary run of novels because it
is more amusing, less pretentious and not so long. About as
long as the ordinary novel might be if only novelists would
omit superfluities. Just the right length."--_N. Y. Evening
Sun._
THE NEED OF CHANGE
BY
JULIAN STREET
_Illustrated. Cloth. 16mo. 50 cents net. Postage 6 cents._
"A sketch too good to miss. Deliciously
humorous."--_Baltimore Sun._
"Delightful. Jovial and joyous as a fat man's hearty
laugh."--_Chicago Record-Herald._
"A brilliant story, sympathetically illustrated."--_New York
American._
"Fortify yourself when you start the story. If you don't, you
may disturb the passengers by laughing right out loud."--_San
Francisco Bulletin._
"Many laughs between the covers. The story is told with
spirit and a constant sense of humor."--_New York Saturday
Review of Books._
"Now and again you have the extreme luck to run across a book
that is really FUNNY. Not the machine-made, madly-advertised
type. 'The Need of Change' is the kind that usually you pick
up by accident, start to run through casually, find yourself
startled into a chuckle by some unexpected humorous line, and
end by reading every word with zest and hustling around to
loan it to your friends.... Keeps the reader in one
continuous howl; the fun never becomes forced. A
gem!"--_Philadelphia Item._
THE HICKORY LIMB
BY
PARKER H. FILLMORE
_Illustrated. Cloth. 16mo. 50 cents net. Postage 6 cents._
"'The Hickory Limb' is a remarkable story, which I have
enjoyed, appreciated, and admired. It displays a knowledge of
human nature, tenderness and humor."--_Charles Battell
Loomis._
"A true and amusing picture of child life."--_Louisville
Courier-Journal._
"The little heroine and all the children are capital."--_New
York Sun._
"A charming companion to popular 'Alice in
Wonderland.'"--_Chicago Record-Herald._
"One of the most relishable pieces of humor evolved in some
time."--_Albany Argus._
"We do not recall having seen any more striking evidence of
the arrival of an age of social experimentation than little
Margery's rebellion."--_Chicago Evening Post._
"A dainty idyll, full of charm. Should prove a
classic."--_Cincinnati Enquirer._
"Powerful in its subtle analysis of childhood
philosophy."--_Rochester Union and Advertiser._
"A most delightful story.... Let Mr. Fillmore go on writing
other stories like 'The Hickory Limb.'"--_Toronto News._
"An hour of amusement, a series of laughs from the heart out,
and a pleasant vista backward to the days of childhood will
come to the reader of 'The Hickory Limb.'"--_Cincinnati
Tribune._
* * * * *