Rude, “they will endure; if not, all the laudation in the world would not save them from oblivion.” The same may well be written of Catholic literature. Whether for children or grown-up men or women, as a Catholic critic, whose only aim has been to gain an audience for my fellow Catholic writers whose works can bear a favorable comparison with the best contemporary thought, I ask that the best shall be given, and that given, it shall be joyfully received; that trash shall not fill the book-cases, lie on the parlor-tables, be puffed in our weeklies, and genius and sacrifice be forgotten. I ask that the works of Stoddard, Johnston, Egan, Roche, Azarias, Lathrop, Tabb, Miss Repplier, Guiney, Katherine Conway, Mrs. Blake, find a welcome in each Catholic household, and that the Catholic press make their delightful personalities known to our rising generation. Of their best they have given. Shall they die before we acknowledge it? AGNES REPPLIER. A friend of mine, a dweller in the city, a lover of red bricks, one to whom the sound of the dray-cart merrily grinding on the pavement is sweeter music than a burst of woodland song, has tardily conceded that the Adirondacks, on a summer day, is pleasant. I value his testimony and record it with pleasure. Let us be thankful for small favors when cynics are the donors. For me these woods, lakes and crystal streams hold an indescribable charm. They are the true abode of man. Here is liberty, while the city is but a cage, with its thousands uttering the plaintive cry of Sterne’s prisoned starling, “I cannot get out.” For the hum of wheels we have the songs of birds, the music of waterfalls, the purr of mountain brooks and the harmonies of the winds playing through the thousand different species of trees, each one differing in melody, but combining in one grand symphony. Orchestras are muffled music when compared to nature’s lute. The pipes of Pan is but a poet’s struggle to embody in speech such a symphony. For the city’s smells, that not even a Ruskin could paint, albeit they are far from elusive, we have the mountain air that has dallied with the streams and stolen the fragrance of a thousand clover fields. Every man to his taste. There is no disputing of this. Lamb loved bricks and Wordsworth such scenes as ours; yet, Lamb would be as sadly missed from our libraries as Wordsworth. Swing my hammock in the shade of yonder pines, good Patsy. A robin is piping his sweetest notes to his brooding spouse, the Salmon river runs at my feet, biting the sandy shore, laughing loud when a saucy stone falls in its current. From over the hills comes the scent of new-mown hay; bless me! this is pleasant. To add to this enjoyment you have brought a book—something bright, you tell me. I’ll soon see. And gliding into my hammock, I said my first good morning to Agnes Repplier. It was a breezy good morning, one of those where the hand unconsciously goes out as much as to say: Old fellow,