And as he was toiling up the last stretch of road the brothers at the gate perceived him and called out, "Here's Father Anselm!", and the others heard, and came running to meet him. "And did you win, dear Anselm?" they asked him eagerly. Then he shook his head sadly, but held out the bag of gold. And they ran to take it to the prior, so they did not see the tears on Anselm's face.

And he went to his desk, where the sunlight came streaming in over the parchments the brothers had prepared against his coming. "How kind they all are!" thought Anselm. He took his place and began to copy and illuminate, with swift and practiced fingers. The brothers came to congratulate him, and after they had gone young Brother Jerome came quietly up from his dim distillery, with a silver goblet in his hand. Anselm drank the elixir. Perfect, perfect! Oh, what a miraculous liqueur it was! Every drop a little jewel of happiness. He turned to Jerome and said after a moment:

"Fair enough, Brother Jerome, fair enough. And, by the way -ah-it would perhaps be well for you to bring a goblet just a little larger, perhaps half again. I have decided that to give a really good judgment I must have more volume-more elixirto roll upon my tongue to determine just the right proportions."

"Certainly, father, I'll bring you the extra amount each day. My! What beautiful work you're doing! I suppose you're preparing for next year's contest?"

"Ah, yes, next year's contest. I am resolved to keep the distinction I have won," answered Father Anselm.

GEORGE T. WASHINGTON.

W

Impression

ITH one wing a bar across the moon,

In the opal autumn night,

The great geese blown from the north
Caught an instant in the light,

Three shreds of the north wind's song
In stormy flight.

EUGENE A. DAVIDSON.

Book Reviews

Spanish Bayonet. By STEPHEN VINCENT BEN ÉT. (George H. Doran Company: New York, 1926.)

IT is always refreshing to have a contemporary author break

away from the accepted and now traditional realistic writing and go back to the good old romanticism. Mr. Benét does it thoroughly in Spanish Bayonet. He calls his book an historical novel of revolutionary days, although the only pretext he has to do this is the fact that the action happens to come at the period of the revolution. The plot itself has nothing to do with the rebellion. It is a vivid picture of plantation life in Florida toward the end of the 18th century; the color of the tale is heightened by the introduction of characters picked from a group of Italian, Greek and Minorcan colonists in the plantation. The book can be classified as one of adventure, and as such it is very well handled; it is full of unexpected developments, of interesting details and local color and affords a few hours of very pleasant reading for anyone who, satisfied with an exciting plot, will overlook the fact that, in developing this plot, the author has practically forgotten the existence of such a thing as character.

A. M.

Seventy Summers. By PoULTNEY BIGELOW.

IN

'N the popular business of laying bare a human soul, few have been more successful than Poultney Bigelow. The soul is his own and the exposure (probably) inadvertent. Anyway, whether consciously or not, in Seventy Summers he gives himself away at every step. Petty boastings, bon mots (nothing bares the soul like a bon mot), bogus epigrams, and little spites, all reveal the author as interesting to watch but hardly impressive to admire. However, perhaps because hastily and rather carelessly written, Seventy Summers does avoid that self-conscious smugness which mars so

many autobiographies. Mr. Bigelow boasts without apology. He does not write for posterity; he writes for the newspapers.

The aim of Seventy Summers, if not of Mr. Bigelow's whole life, is to take away the breath. And the author is admirably equipped for the work. He is one of The Bigelows: all his ancestors, family, and immediate relatives were wonderful and he is wonderful. His versatility would shame the late Masterman Ready. The extent of his travels and the variety of his adventures is really astounding. With an assemblage of notable acquaintances, furthermore, rivalled only by Chauncey M. Depew, he shows an indiscretion in talking about them which Mrs. Asquith herself might envy. Theodore Roosevelt, who went to law school with Poultney; Kaiser Wilhelm, who played with him as a boy; Andrew Carnegie, who insisted on calling, quite unencouraged, on his father; Booker Washington, Henry Ford, H. G. Wells, Mr. Gladstone-all acquaintances and friends-come in for cuts from Poultney. When, as very occasionally happens, he tires of talking about himself, he looses his tongue among the noblest names, very literally leaving not Launcelot brave or Galahad clean. Then if the reader is still unastonished, Mr. Bigelow will tell off-color stories or anything. He must have his audience gasping.

In a word, Poultney Bigelow is an "old stager". Having enjoyed all the finest advantages America has to offer (he went to Yale, too, you know, and makes caustic, colorful comments about that); having travelled all over the civilized world, personally civilizing large portions of it; having handled with equal address savage chieftains, European diplomats, and naked maidens bathing in the Danube, he is now prepared to talk about it. Seventy Summers is interesting table talk. The reader may disagree with the author in every other paragraph; he may consider him incoherent and garrulous; he almost certainly will consider him very naif; but he will just as certainly be fascinated in spite of himself, and attached to the Circle of Auditors. Which is all Mr. Bigelow

wants.

T. W. C.

Editor's Table

The LIT. was-what?

ONE, NE, two, three, four, five. Ibid bottommost reference slithering. Writing implacable Greek letters always round. And a Grampus rampant chanting in thirds. Then Buzz jarred at grinding shadows. And set with

code here and here, scrolling white pages is Rich Beautiful Prose. Five in a smaller circle. No table, desk, but April. VALE, abortive Osborn. VALE, daughter of stone and Brontasaurus. Sing Campus

ABRACADABRA.