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panying a Natural History expedition shave his beard nor cut his hair till
ing heroine, Cynthia Bremner, is of young girls to send one to his hotel, introduced with three lovers, Shaun and is then so affected by the child's James, the novelist, who is forming naked innocence that he returns her her taste for books and pictures; to her mother; at Harvard he falls in Laurence Man, who holds a substanlove with a neglected wife, and later, tial position with the Great Company, becomes her paramour while tutoring and is favored by Lady Bremner, and her children, who admire him pro- Peter Middleton, a young clerk in the digiously. But for a few good descrip- Company, whose only claim to the tive passages, the book is without a Bremner's hospitality is school redeeming feature. George H. Doran friendship between his dead father, Co.
Major Middleton, and Sir Everard.
The book is essentially a love-story, L. M. Montgomery, author of but Peter's ups and downs in the offices "Anne of Green Gables," "Anne of the Company give variety, and in the of Avonlea,” etc. adds to this pop- closing chapters the scene changes to ular and wholesome series “Anne's the battlefields of France. The plot House of Dreams," in which are is unfolded in leisurely fashion, with described the opening years of Anne's the introduction of
many minor happy married life. Her young doctor characters-among them a suffragette -an old acquaintance to readers with whom Cynthia's brother is in of the earlier books—carries her only love-and with fascinating descripsixty miles from Green Gables, to tions of Cornwall and Wales, and Four Winds, where he has found for whimsical philosophizing on life and them a quaint little white house, art. Perhaps it might have been looking toward the sunset and the shortened to advantage, but the great blue harbor, with a big grove of human interest is kept well in the forefir-trees behind it, and two rows of ground, and the digressions are all Lombardy poplars down the lane. delightful. Altogether, the story is There they make a group of new of unusual quality, and even the friends: Captain Jim, the lighthouse doubts and hesitations of its principal keeper, whose cheery philosophy divides characters will be refreshing to readers the honors with the tart cynicism of who have had a surfeit of heroes and Miss Cornelia, the man-hating spin- heroines absolutely without moral ster; Marshall Elliott, vowed not to fastidiousness. E. P. Dutton & Co.
N. OF MICK
Entered as Second Class Mail Matter at Boston, Mass.
No. 3821 September 29, 1917
I. The Union of English-Speaking Peoples.
DUBLIN REVIEW 771
CHAMBERS's JOURNAL 780 III. Christina's Son. Book III. Chapter V. By W. M. Letts. (To be continued)
784 IV. The Jewish Claim to Palestine. By Joseph
Cowen (English Zionist Federation) CONTEMPORARY REVIEW 789 V. Wild Life at War. By Frances Pitt
NATIONAL REVIEW 794 VI. Mohammed's Coffin. By Sir George Douglas. Chapter V. (Concluded)
CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL 801 VII. Remembrance. By R. C. Lehmann
PUNCH 806 VIII. Pleasant Mercy Comes to Town. By J. E. G. de Montmorency
CONTEMPORARY REVIEW 807 IX. Views and Fairies
TIMES 812 X. German “Guarantees" in Belgium ManchESTER GUARDIAN 818 XI. The Two Blockades
LONDON Post 820 XII. The Mind of the Workers
A PAGE OF VERSE. XIII. Romance. By Neil Munro
BLACKWood's MAGAZINE 770 XIV. To the Men Who Have Died for England
Punch 770 XV. At Last Post. By W. E. K.
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"Sleep thou till morn,” said d'Artagnan “When we three march again!"
Neil Munro. Blackwood's Magazine.
TO THE MEN WHO HAVE DIED
old orchard crofts of Picardy,
In the high warm winds of May, Tossed into blossomed billowings,
And spattered the roads with spray. Over the earth the scudding cloud,
And the laverock whistling high, Lifted the drooping heart of the lad
At one bound to the sky. France! France! and the old romance
Came over him like a spell; Homesickness and his weariness
Shook from him then and fell; For he was again with d'Artagnan,
With Alan Breck and d'Artagnan; And the pipes before him gleefully
Were playing airs of Pan.
Through dust that in a mist uprose
From under the tramping feet, He saw old storied places, dim
In the haze of the summer heat. Menace and ambush, wounds and
death, Lurked in the ditch and wood, But he, high-breasted, walked in joy
With a glorious multitude; Great hearts that never perish,
Nor grow old with the aches of Time, Marched through the morning with
him, All in a magic clime; But loved of all was d'Artagnan,
And Alan the kith of kings, Fond comrades of his childhood's days,
Still on their wanderings.
All ye who fought since England was a
name, Because Her soil was holy in your
eyes; Who heard Her summons and confessed
hallow'd lies The truth of English freedom-fain to
give Those last lone moments, careless of
your pain, Knowing that only so must England
live And win, by sacrifice, the right to
reignBe glad, that still the spur of your
bequest Urges your heirs their threefold way
alongThe way of Toil that craveth not for
rest, Clear Honor, and stark Will to
punish wrong! The seed ye sow'd God quicken'd
with His Breath; The crop hath ripen'd-lo, there is no
AT LAST POST.
From miry clefts of the wintry plain
He leapt with his platoon, The morion on his forehead,
And the soul of him at noon; With head high to the hurricane
He walked, and in his breast He knew himself immortal,
And that death was but a jest. A smile was on his visage
When they found him where he fell, The gallant old companions,
In an amaranthine dell. “Lad o' my heart!" cried Alan Breck,
“Well done thy first campaign!"
Come home!-Come home!
trees; At rest are the waves of the sundown
seas; And home—they're home The wearied hearts and the broken lives
At home! At ease!
W. E. K. Killed in action, April, 1917. The Poetry Review.