d yet dignified; a book that one could
wish that every American might know.

Also concrete and specific are the chapters from Mr. Ralph D. Paine and Mr.
Burton J. Hendrick. In "Bound Coastwise" Mr. Paine has treated, with
knowledge, sympathy, and imagination, an important phase of our commercial
life. As an example of narrative-exposition, matter-of-fact yet touched
with the romance of those who "go down to the sea in ships," the excerpt is
thoroughly admirable. Mr. Hendrick, in entertaining and profitable wise,
tells the story of what he considers "probably America's greatest
manufacturing exploit."

Dr. Finley "starts the imagination out upon the road" and "invites to the
open spaces," especially to those undisturbed by "the flying automobile."
"Walking," he says eagerly, "is not only a joy in itself, but it gives an
intimacy with the sacred things and the primal things of earth that are not
revealed to those who rush by on wheels."

In "Old Boats" Mr. Walter Prichard Eaton, in a manner of writing that has
of late years won him a large place in the hearts of readers, thoughtfully
contemplates the abandoned farmhouse, and lingers wistfully beside the
beached and crumbling craft of the "unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea." Few
can read, or, better, hear read, his closing paragraph without thrilling to
that "other harmony of prose." That such a cadenced and haunting passage
should have been published as recently as 1917 should assure the doubter
that there is still amongst us a taste for the beautiful. "I live inland
now, far from the smell of salt water and the sight of sails. Yet sometimes
there comes over me a longing for the sea as irresistible as the lust for
salt which stampedes the reindeer of the north. I must gaze on the unbroken
world-rim, I must feel the sting of spray, I must hear the rhythmic crash
and roar of breakers and watch the sea-weed rise and fall where the green
waves lift against the rocks. Once in so often I must ride those waves with
cleated sheet and tugging tiller, and hear the soft hissing song of the
water on the rail. And 'my day of mercy' is not complete till I have seen
some old boat, her seafaring done, heeled over on the beach or amid the
fragrant sedges, a mute and wistful witness to the romance of the deep, the
blue and restless deep where man has adventured in craft his hands have
made since the earliest sun of history, and whereon he will adventure,
ardently and insecure, till the last