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‘ The Queen of Joy.’ By L. T. Meade, with six colored illustration* by Percy Tarrant. London: W. and R. Chambers. A simple, ajid pleasant story of English, French, German, and Itvlian girls in the freat French school of La Chapello. Mrs leade knows how to tell a story that will appeal not only to girls, but to their mothers as well, and ttie above maintains her reputation in this regard. There is nothing improbable in what is told, and the frolics of the girls become very real in the capable hands of this experienced writer. ‘ Gray’s Hollow.’ By Mary Grant Bruce. Melbourne. Ward, Lock, and Co, A story of tha Australian hush by one who has gained a reputation for the harmlessness and somewhat idealistic character of her stories. Her boys and girls are, perhaps, just a trifle too good to tepresent the real thing. But the nanative of their joys and sorrows, and ups and downs, varied with trips to Sydney and adventures in the bush, makes more profitable reading than many books of greater pretensions. ■ Mona’s Mystery Man.’ By Vera G. Dwyer. Melbourne: Ward, Lock, and Co. A story of a youth and a maid in a Sydney office. The maid has ideals, the youth : s cag.'r to make money; and so they arc at cross-purposes, and there follow the usual misunderstandings, which arc all satisfactorily cleared up in the last chapter but one. Then the curtain falls, and everyone lives happily for ever after. Not a story to set the Thames on Are, and neither better nor worse than so many, many others. ‘The Swindler* and Other Stories.’ By Ethel M. Dell. London: T. Fisher Unwin. Mi ss Dell is said to be a “ top-notcher ’’ in the matter of circulation, and a writer whose “stuff” is rushed. Well, it is a free country, this British Empire of ours, and if a man or a woman can enjoy Miss Dell, let them. 'We do not. We have read but one novel of hers, ‘The Knave of Diamonds,’ but ’twill serve. More disappointing matter we have rarely met. Yet it is praised by those unfortunate reviewers whose chief stock-in-trade has long been an unlimited supply of indiscriminating eulogy. Miss Dell may “ sell ’’ as many as Miss Corelli, but she has certainly neither the latter’s brains nor taste. There is nothing healthy about her impossible bounders and neurotic. females. ‘ The Bail J amper.’ By Robert J. C. Stead. Londom T. Fisher Unwin, A Canadian story of a youth in a country store in a country township who is in lore and poor. Also, he is suspected of and charged with theft, and thing* look very black for him. But as he has to clear his character before ho can win the lovely heroine, and os space is pressing, the author ingeniously transforms or translates the " lady help ” at the board-ing-house into a female detective who has seen things. The rest is easy. The villain disappears, the hero get* a rise in salary, and the lady names the day. MISCELLANEOUS. There is no end to the changes in London journalism (says the ‘ British Weekly and they are in every way disconcerting and troublesome. One of our evening papers will shortly appear -njhder new auspices. The ‘Pall Mail Magaone,’which has fought such a long, gallant, and unsuccessful fight, ihiae been absorbed by ‘Nash's Magazine/ which is the property of the great American journalist Mr Hearst. Ihe new title is said to be ‘Nasb’s Pall Mall Magazine.’ Mr E. V. Luca* maintains that breakfast without marmalade is a soulless meal. “ The universities are nobly loyal to marmalade. At Cambridge they say that no man can pass his Little-Go until he ban consumed his own weight in it, while Oxford first called it /Squish/” and to the late editor of the ‘lnk’ we owe—

'Mid things around that sully end do- , grade, 'Mid sloth and «in. By one comestible the world is made Worth living in : 'Mid forms of provender ell stodgy, rude, And heathenish. One, only one, with grace is still imbued— My amber squish.

Scott, who was poet, novelist, and lawyer, would have been & great journal is t. Listen to this from hie ‘Journal' for February 15. 1826; “ Yesterday I did not write a line of ‘ Woodstock.’ Partly, I was a little out of spirits. Partly, I wanted to wait for some new ideas. . . .

Partly, I was a little too te beyond the I cannot pall well in long traces when the draught is too far behind me. I love to hare the pres* thumping, clattering, and banging in my rear; it creates the necessity which almost always make* me work best. Xe:ds must when the Devil drives. . . There is the true spirit

of journalism ; and that devil, eursly, is the printers deni I

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BOOKS AND BOOKMEN, Issue 15638, 31 October 1914

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BOOKS AND BOOKMEN Issue 15638, 31 October 1914

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