A Versailles Christmas-Tide

placid hours when he lay and smiled in blissful content, craving nothing, now that we were all together again. But this

solitary topic of conversation was food. During the first ten days their diet consisted solely of boiled milk, and as that time wore to a close the number of quarts co

, the doctor withdrew his prohibition, and permitted an approach to the desired solids. But even then the prisoners, to their loudly voiced

at scorn did not prevent them devouring the mess and eagerly demanding more. And thereafter th

petites of these callow cormorants. To witness the French nun seeking to allay the hunger of these voracious schoolboy aliens

r the invalids was gradually lifted, and little things such as spon

he school menus, we raided a cooked-provision shop and carried off a plump, well-browned chicken. The approbation which met this venture resulted in our supplying a succession of poulettes, which, at the invalids' express desire, were smuggled into their room under my cloak. Not

. School food, however well arranged, is necessarily stereotyped, and the element of the unknown ever lurked in our packages. The suga

uncheon. At gloaming, when we returned, it was to find them busy with half-yards of the long crusty loaves, plates o

uietly enjoying the radiance. But by the time the last candle had flickered out, and the glow of a commonplace paraffin lamp lighted the gloom, nature again demanded nou

a week, and cherishes an undying passion for a maiden older than himself. He was ever an interesting study, though I do not think I really loved him until he confided his affairs of the heart, and entrusted me with the writing o

tree, watching the Soeur light the candles that illuminated the Holy Bébé. On the morrow the prisoners, carefu

ited our boys' departure to occupy the little room. Hearing that this fresh prisoner lay under sentence of durance vile, we suggested that all the toys-chiefly remnants of

er, I don't think you know that he is the one French boy we disliked.

d he softened so far as to indite a polite little French note offering his late enemy his sympathy, and formally bequeathing to him the reversion of his toys, including the arbre de

urs spent within the dingy prison walls. And our thoughts were in unison, for the Boy, abruptly breaking the si

EN

last were we homeward bound. The weeks of exile in the stately old town had ended. For the last time the good Sister had lit us down the worn stone steps. As we sped seawards across the bleak country, our thoughts flew back to her, and to the

in a troublous time, and though our earthly paths may nev

same

TOLEN

OF A ROUN

STUAR

AND SEVENTY SKE

s from

terior object in making a book journeyed over four continents in company with her husband, and picked up en route matter for one of the pleasantest, most humorous, and least pretentious books of travel we have read for many a day. It is a

ng the fascinating record of a roundabout tour, feels prompted to steal away. Mary Stuart Boyd, who pens the record, has the g

ilful illustrator, has given us in this handsome volume a number of attracti

pleasanter holiday readin

such is Mrs. Boyd's volume, which her husband has

ice to themselves. They are far and away better than those which we usually get in books of this kind, and we do not kn

be read with equal delight on a lazy summer holiday, or in the heart of London when the streets are enve

oughout her pleasant story of travel. My Boyd's illustrations which appear on practically every page, are, it

larly delightful and un

htful books of travel it has b

country. To read her book is to conceive an insensate desire to be off and away on 'the long trail' at all hazards and at all costs

and in practice by making droll sketches of people encountered by the way, which heighten the charm of his wife's viva

e invariable good humour and brightness with which she records even

and observation-seeing many things that the mere man-travelle

unfailing, that it is safe to say that there is not a dull page from first to last in this recor

o acquire as wel

r. Boyd's numerous sketches it is only necessary to say that they are excellent. Altogether

written, and liberally illustrated by an ackno

nd pencil sketches alike have grace, nerve, and humou

.. Mrs. Boyd's volume must commend itself to people who contemplate visiti

, and sympathetic. Without illustrations, Our Stolen Summer would be a notable addi

Vivacious and di

book there could be nothing but pr

ularly happy and interesting r

with not a little humour and a real literar

among them. The success of Our Stolen Summer, however, is due as much to the artist as to the author; and praise must be equally divided. Mr. Boyd's sketches are spirited, clever, full o

BURGH: WILLIAM

ted by A

N SABBA

T LOUIS

N PAGE ILLUSTRAT

s from

d to illustrate the writer's ideas-a quality that seldom resides in illustrations.... All are faithfully presented as only one wh

ppeal to the sentiment of the Scottish people throughout the world t

hich has been seen of late years. Mr. Boyd has entered thoroughly into th

. S. would assuredly have granted) upon interpreting so vi

of local circumstances and characteristic details. Mr. Boyd's success in making us see so plainly the moods and manners o

ciate this beautiful book for its accurate interpretat

er in the illustrations, and a quiet observation of the humo

An attract

ch verse-are not only worthy of the poem, but actually emphasise and define its merits, we give the boo

poem are distinctly clever, especially in their charact

umorous and pathetic) of a Scottish rural lowland parish, and will d

red that such a classic poem should be faithfully and adequately illustr

nd another the book

opular with Scots in every part of the world, are full of pawky humour, and the

he sake of the poet, of the artist, and of that form of Scottish

sed at once by the strength and confidence of a masterful draughtsman and the insight of a keen

of grace or humour beyond the wording of the text, the very scene and p

te as Stevenson's. His drawings place in pictorial view the poet's thoughts, while th

& WINDUS, III S