mental gymnastics, not recreation. Intercourse with the ideal and impossible gives us perspective and toleration in dealing with the life about us.

It is possible to sympathize with Mr. Crothers' ideas without fully sharing them. The book has the usual inconsistencies of an individual point of view, but it is sincere, and, therefore, stimulating. In manner, conversational, in style, loose and rambling, The Gentle Reader makes easy and delightful reading. W. R. N.

THE FIVE NATIONS. By Rudyard Kipling. New York: Doubleday, Page & Company.

The well-known style and substance of Mr. Kipling's verse reappear in this volume, reiterated praise of the life of action; pictures of the British naval, army and colonial world; criticisms of national policy; and barrackroom ballads, here called "service songs." The exceedingly clever parody of Mr. J. A. Macy in the January "Critic" admirably if irreverently sums up the "five nations,"

"There's the Briton who lives at home

And the Briton who lives abroad
The Briton at sea, and God, and me-
Three Britons, and me, and God."

Adverse criticism of this kind has often been made, though never so happily phrased. But the fact remains that "The Five Nations," though with one or two exceptions it contains no poems in the higher sense of the word, is a work of literature, if we are to understand literature as the sincere, clear an forcible expression of a people's ideas and ideals. That Mr. Kipling is in perfect sympathy with the dominant public opinion not only of Great Britain but of the entire English-speaking world, and that he can phrase that opinion better than any contemporary, is evident in verses like "The White Man's Burden" and "The Truce of the Bear." That he is a leader as well as an interpreter of thought is exemplified in "The Lesson," with its final word in regard to the Boer war,—

"We have had an Imperial lesson; it may make us an Empire yet!"

His attitude toward life and politics may be distasteful to many; it may be wrong; but to understand the last decade of the nineteenth century it must be known. And even if only occasional lines of his work seem to be inspired poetry, he is the only writer of verse who reflects the life of his time with individual literary power.

E. B.

STC

When Hardy awoke the sun had already risen over the Korean hills. The camp was already astir; tall bearded men in dirty white uniforms and high Russian cavalry boots were busy rolling blankets, cooking breakfast, watering horses, performing a hundred different tasks.

Hardy threw off his blanket, and stood up, rubbing his eyes. This was the third morning his sight had caught the same scene-the gentle slope of parched grass to the mud-walled town, five miles away; the red and white of the great Japanese banner that hung from the highest pagoda; the overgrown transport steamers huddled into the little harbor; and, beyond, northward and westward, the leaden bay blending into the mists of the horizon.

"From the look of things," said Hardy to himself, "we move today. The men are plainly breaking camp; that means another retreat. If we only had a light battery here, we could clear the town of those brown rats in an hour. But there's no artillery within a hundred miles, worse luck.”

"Ah, there's Khalturin." Hardy's eye fell on a tall figure near the horselines. “I'll ask him what's up." He sauntered leisurely toward the Russian. "Strange," he thought, "what the Russian sense of humor amounts to. Khalturin, now, has hardly spoken two words to me since I drew his picture at the mess last week. He could no more see it as a joke than-but he looks happy this morning; he's smiling."

As Hardy approached, the Russian captain turned to greet him. "Bon jour, Monsieur Hardy," Khalturin knew little English, and Hardy less Russian. French was the common means of communication.

"Bon jour, Capitaine Khalturin," returned Hardy. "We start early to-day?".

"Yes," the captain pointed toward the north, where a low-lying bank of brown smoke hung about the Pen-su headland. "A Japanese fleet is there. They have landed troops at the river-mouth, and plan to cut us off on this accursed peninsula. Between the five thousand there," he nodded toward the town, "and as many more at the Pen-su, our little three thousand might be nipped. So we ride at once for Ping-Yang. With luck, we shall be there by night, without"-the captain's hand closed on his sword-hilt.

"But I have bad news for you, Monsieur Hardy." Khalturin let the words fall one by one, as if they were too sweet to part with. "You are not to ride with us."

"Not to ride with you?" asked Hardy, amazed. "I have a horse. I can fight if need be; I am the guest of your Colonel."

"Ah, Monsieur Hardy, it is most unfortunate. The Colonel, he has been on the road already an hour, and with him is your friend, Major Sumárkoff. Your horse is gone, also, laden with extra ammunition. We travel light; we leave our tents, and every horse is needed. It is a great pity," Captain Khalturin's face belied his words.

"But he's my horse," Hardy argued. "You have plenty of horses without him; the regiment has lost more men than horses. You are going beyond your orders, Captain Khalturin." Hardy doubled his fist, and took a menacing step forward.

"Iván," called the Captain. A corporal and half-a-dozen troopers who had been standing by ran up, with arms presented.

"You see, Monsieur Hardy of the American Press, violence will not avail you. And I have yet to examine your papers; it will not do for the Japanese to become possessed of information such as you hold."

The Captain gave an order in Russian, and a trooper brought Hardy's