verse whose sprightly humour
makes up for its slight metrical roughness. The imperfect but allowable
rhyming of "bear" and "appear" in the first stanza is entirely correct
according to the old-time standards which we ourselves follow, but we
fear that the delicate ear of a precise metrical artist like Rheinhart
Kleiner would object to its liberalism. "The Amateur Press" is
distinguished by an excellent review from the pen of Mrs. Renshaw. The
style is satisfactory, and the criticism just, making the whole well
worthy of the prize book it has secured for its author. "'Pollyanna,'
the Glad Book" is a meritorious and entertaining review by Mrs.
Griffith. "Hope," by Marguerite Sisson, is commendable for its use of
that noble but neglected measure, the heroic couplet. Mr. Daas'
concluding editorial, "Literature and Politics," is admirable for its
concise exposition of the United's new ideals, and its masterly
refutation of the common fallacy that political quarrels are necessary
to stimulate activity in the press associations.

_The Looking Glass_ for May is a journal unique in purpose and quality.
Edited by Mrs. Renshaw in behalf of her many gifted recruits, it reveals
a condition absolutely unexampled; the acquisition by one member of so
many high-grade novices that a special publication is required properly
to introduce them to the United. "To a Critic of Shelley," by Helen H.
Salls, is a long piece of beautiful blank verse, marred only by one
accidental rhyme. Miss Salls is evidently one of those few really
powerful poets who come all too seldom into Amateur Journalism,
startling the Association with impeccable harmony and exalted images.
The present poem grows even more attractive on analysis. The diction is
of phenomenal purity and wholly unspoiled by any ultra-modern touch. It
might have been a product of Shelley's own age. The metaphor is
marvellous, exhibiting a soul overflowing with true spirituality, and a
mind trained to express beautiful thought in language of corresponding
beauty. Such unforced ornateness is rarely met in the domain of amateur
poetry. We feel certain that Miss Salls has already become a fixed star
in the empyrean of the United. Exalted poetry of quite another type is
furnished by the work of our new Director, Rev. Frederick Chenault,
whose two exquisite lyrics, "Birth" and "The Sea of Somewhere," appear
in this issue. With little use of formal rhyme and metre, Mr. Chenault
abounds in delicate c