nsume every word of the text, but to omit the larger part of the
notes.

* * *

In the nature of things it is possible that the 1914 crop of gift-books
for boys may not be a bumper one as far as quantity is concerned, but
Mr. HENRY NEWBOLT has already removed any danger of a famine. Indeed, he
has done more than that, for, if quality can (as it should) be
considered a satisfactory substitute for bulk, there is no reason why
1914 should not be remembered as a year in which the palates of
discerning boys were most delightfully tickled. I find a difficulty in
preventing my congratulations upon _The Book of the Blue Sea_ (LONGMANS)
from being fulsome. To begin with, the title itself is simply
irresistible. Then, before you even get to the preface, there are some
verses, "The Song of the Larboard Berth," which cry "halt" so
arrestingly that after I had got by them and was fairly revelling in the
entrancing pages that follow I kept on going back to have another look
at

"When moonlight flecks the cruiser's decks
And engines rumble slow ..."

To a nicety Mr. NEWBOLT knows how to reproduce the spirit of the sea and
of adventure thereon, and whether he is writing of EDWARD PELLEW, JOHN
FRANKLIN, DAVID FARRAGUT, or of Trafalgar, it is only possible to escape
from his grip when he endeavours to be a little edifying. Boys may
conceivably resent this tendency to point out what they can see
extraordinarily well for themselves, but all the same they will admit
their heavy debt to him. _The Book of the Blue Sea_ (I must write that
again), excellently illustrated by Mr. NORMAN WILKINSON, had better be
confiscated forthwith by parents who do not wish their sons to become
sailors. And in the end I am left wondering whether the Admiralty,
overburdened by clamorous applicants, would not be wise to intern Mr.
NEWBOLT in one of those camps where no ink or paper is provided,
because, if he repeats this performance, we shall want a dozen new naval
colleges and hundreds and hundreds more ships.

* * *

_Shifting Sands_ (LANE) reads like a book with a purpose from which the
purpose has been by some oversight omitted. When a young person fails to
"find herself" (as the phrase used to go) there should surely be
provided some foil to her instability, either implicit in the behaviour
of other characters or expressed in the meditations of the author. Even
if the author only means to tell us that human life is all like this,