admirable method in his madness, such fine poetic feeling in the conception of character, and the ghosts who flit through the pages of the story are so exceedingly human, that one feels quite at home with Peter, and is really sorry when, all too soon, his madness passes away, and he awakes to a new life, to find himself an old man.  Apart from its strong dramatic interest, Peter Ibbetson has rare value, from the pictures of Old Paris in the last days of LOUIS-PHILIPPE, which crowd in charming succession through the first volume.  Mr. GEORGE DU MAURIER, the well-known artist in black and white, has generously assisted Mr. GEORGE DU MAURIER, the rising novelist, by profusely illustrating the work.  ’Tis a pretty rivalry; hard to say which has the better of it.  Wherein a discerning Public, long familiar with DU MAURIER’s sketches, will recognise a note of highest praise for the new departure.”

The Baron recommends Mrs. OLIPHANT’s The Railway Man and his Children, which is a good story, with just such a dash of the improbable—­but there, who can bring improbability as a charge against the plot constructed by any novelist after this great Jewel Case so recently tried?  Mrs. OLIPHANT’s types are well drawn; but the story is drawn out by just one volume too much.  “For a one-volume novel commend me,” quoth the Baron, “to Miss RHODA-BROUGHTON-CUM-ELIZABETH-BISLAND’s A Widower Indeed.  But ... wait till after the festivities are over to read it, as the tale is sad.” En attendant, A Happy New Year to everyone, says

THE BENIGN BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

SIMPLE STORIES.

“BE ALWAYS KIND TO ANIMALS WHEREVER YOU MAY BE!”

FRANK AND THE FOX.

FRANK was a very studious and clever little boy.

[Illustration]

He took the keenest delight in music, and when he had mastered his lessons, he was very fond of playing on the concertina, and singing to his own accompaniment.  He could already play “The Bells go a-ringing for Sarah!” with considerable finish and expression, and since his Uncle DODDLEWIG had presented him with half-a-crown for his performance, he had given the air with variations, and the song with every description of embellishment, all over the paternal mansion, and in most corners of the ancestral estate.

To tell the truth, his family were getting somewhat tired of his continued asseverations concerning the tintinabulatory tribute everlastingly rendered to the excellent young woman.  And had he not been so markedly encouraged by rich old Uncle DODDLEWIG, there is every reason to suppose that FRANK and his concertina would have been speedily suppressed.

FRANK heard his Papa lamenting that foxes were so very scarce, that recently they had had no sport whatever.  “There must be plenty of foxes in the country,” said the Squire, “but they won’t show.”

Now FRANK had been reading about Orpheus, and how he charmed all the wild beasts with his melody.  It was true the boy had not a lyre, but he had no doubt that his concertina would do as well, and he was quite certain he had seen a fox while taking his rambles in Tippity Thicket,