native Anglo-Saxon vitality springs the
unquestioned supremacy of English literature. Assiduous devotion to the
mastery of rhetoric, and the habit of constructing logical synopses
before writing the text of articles would enable Miss Mappin to utilise
her knowledge of literary history in a manner truly worthy of its depth.
"Trinidad and its People," by "F. E. M. Hercules," exhibits a somewhat
maturer style, and forms a very interesting piece of geographical
description. "The Pursuit of the Innocent," is a serial story by Miss
Trafford, and though only a small part of it is printed in the current
issue, we judge that it derives its general atmosphere from the popular
"thrillers" of the day. The dialogue is not wholly awkward, but there is
a noticeable want of proportion in the development of the narrative.
Miss Trafford would probably profit by a more faithful study of the
standard novelists, and a more complete avoidance of the type of fiction
found in modern weekly periodicals such as =Answers= or =Tit-Bits=.
Those who feel impelled to introduce stirring adventure into their
tales, can do so without sacrifice of excitement and interest by
following really classic writers like Poe and Stevenson; or
semi-standard authors like Sir A. Conan Doyle. The puzzles propounded by
Miss Hillman are quite interesting, though matter of this sort is
scarcely to be included within the domain of pure literature. We guess
=airship= as the answer to the first one, but have not space to record
our speculations concerning the second. =Merry Minutes= closes with the
following poem by Master Randolph Trafford, a very young author:

"Once upon a time, there was a little boy,
And, if you please, he went to school;
That little boy, he always would annoy,
And found at school a very nasty rule."

Without undue flattery to Master Trafford, we may conclusively state
that we deem his poem a great deal better than most of the =vers libre=
effusions which so many of his elders are perpetrating nowadays!

* * * * *

=The Scot= for July is devoted completely to the work of the feminine
amateurs of the United States, and is announced by its editor as an
"American 'Petticoat' Number"; a title which might possibly bear
replacement by something rather less colloquial. "Over the Edge of the
World," a poem by Olive G. Owen, is correct in construction and
appropriate in sentiment, deriving much force from t