y from America. The hills
around, which stand up darkly against a speckle of stars, are all
discussed for you. One of them is called _Katzenbuckel_, and
doubting that your German may not be able to cope with this quite
simple compound, he proceeds to illustrate. He squats in the middle
of the street, arching his back like a cat in a strong emotion,
uttering lively miaowings and hissings. Then he springs, like the
feline in fury, and leaps to his feet roaring with mirth. "You
see?" he cries. "A cat, who all ready to spring crouches, that is of
our beautiful little mountain the name-likeness."

Yes, if Bergdoll has been staying in Eberbach, the good Herr Leutz
will know all about it.

[Illustration]

MR CONRAD'S NEW PREFACE

Joseph Conrad, so we learn from the March _Bookman_, has written a
preface to a cook book about to be published by Mrs. Conrad.

We like to think about that preface. We wonder if it will be
anything like this:

I remember very well the first time I became aware of the deep and
consoling significance of food. It was one evening at Marlow's, we
were sitting by the hearth in that small gilded circle of firelight
that seems so like the pitiful consciousness of man, temporarily and
gallantly relieved against the all-covering darkness. Marlow was in
his usual posture, cross-legged on the rug. He was talking.... I
couldn't help wondering whether he ever gets pins and needles in his
legs, sitting so long in one position. Very often, you know, what
those Eastern visionaries mistake for the authentic visit of
Ghautama Buddha is merely pins and needles. However. Humph. Poor
Mrs. Marlow (have I mentioned her before?) was sitting somewhere in
the rear of the circle. I had a curious but quite distinct
impression that she wanted to say something, that she had, as people
say, something on her mind. But Marlow has a way of casting
pregnancy over even his pauses, so that to speak would seem a quite
unpardonable interruption.

"The power of mind over matter," said Marlow, suddenly, "a very odd
speculation. When I was on the _Soliloquy_, I remember one evening,
in the fiery serenity of a Sourabaja sunset, there was an old
serang...."

In the ample drawing room, lit only by those flickering gleams of
firelight, I seemed to see the others stir faintly--not so much a
physical stir as a half-divined spiritual uneasiness. The Director
was sitting too close to the glow, for the fire had deepened and