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Tommy (to his pal in middle of charge). "Look out, Bill. Your bootlace is undone!"
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
This paragraph will, I hope, catch your eye in time to be of use as a guide in the holiday fairy-tale traffic. But at worst there are always birthdays or, for nursery girfts, those even more apt occasions known as Nothing-in-particular Days (Humpty-Dumpty, you rememember, a recognised authority, used to call them un-birthdays.) Anyhow, if you should be looking about for something applicable to Kit or Ursula, you may take my word that you will find nothing better than The Dream Pedlar (Simpkin, Marshall). The letterpress—I beg your pardon, I should have said the "reading"—is by Lady Margaret Sackville, who had clearly a pretty taste in fairy matters, and the pictures are by Florence Anderson in colour, and Clara Shirley Hayward in black-and-white. I don't say that all these are of equal merit, but the best of them are delightful. Moreover, although in the modern sumptuous fashion the colour plates are introduced on brown-paper mounts, still they have the practical merit of being fixed, and not merely gummed at one corner, a fashion that simply results in litter for the nursery floor. The tales themselves are wholly charming, and about quite the right people, kings and woodcutters and dream-princesses and goblins. Perhaps now and again Lady Margaret falls to the temptation of being a thought too clever with an aside, so to speak, whispered in the ear of the reader-aloud. But the wise child will forgive her this for the compelling charm of her simplicities. For me, if I had a favourite in the tales, it was perhaps Martin's godmother, "an attractive old lady, short, with large fan-like ears, which she would wave to and fro when amused." There is an enchanting picture of her doing it. I have not yet known the nursery where that picture would not soon bear the thumb-marks of popularity.
Not a single word could be conveniently omitted from Friends and Memories (Arnold), but I could easily spare a great many of its notes of exclamation—nearly all superfluous—for Miss Maude Valerie White's style of writing needs no such advertisement. And having got rid of that grumble I feel at liberty to express, without restraint, my profound admiration of the book and its author. Never, then, had it been my good fortune to read so many pages that are filled with what I can only call the fragrance of life. Sorrows and troubles Miss White has known in abundance—one often sees her smiling through a veil of tears—but she steadfastly refuses to dwell upon anything but the joy of living, and the kindness of her many friends. This splendid way of regarding the world is one of the qualities that has made her welcome and more than welcome wherever she goes; it is also the quality that gives an almost unique distinction to her volume of reminiscences. One can scarcely think of her as an eminent composed whose songs have been heard throughout the world when the gift, which she obviously values most and would herself call "priceless," is that of being able to keep up a cheerful end whatever happens. Her book, therefore, is really both a tonic and a lesson, but it is a tonic that is as delightful as good champagne, and it is a lesson that is full of humour and of what is rarer than humour—good fun. Even in her reticences Miss White cannot save herself from being amusing, for on her first page she refuses to tell us her age, though afterwards she gives it away time and again to anyone inquisitive enough to use a little arithmetic. But she need have no fears, for she has the spirit of youth which can laugh at figures and defy the passing years.
