But when we turn from the sad sincerity of “Black Sheep” to the brighter atmosphere of the other tales, we find nothing very genuine or convincing about the happier children who figure in them. “Drums of the Fore and Aft” is an exceedingly clever story, and Lew and Jakin may be typical British drummer boys, but to the uninitiated reader they seem a trifle over-drawn both for good and evil. They know so much and talk so marvelously; they are so very bad and so very upright; and they insert such a bewildering number of “bloomin’s” into their conversation, that, like the eternal “well” with which Mr. Howells’s women begin all their sentences, the word loses its _vraisemblance_ through unbearable repetition. “His Majesty the King,” even when we forgive him his cumbersome title which destroys all good-fellowship at once, is a child dear to story-writers, and consecrated to their uses for many years, but so exceedingly rare in every-day-life that he has to be taken strictly on faith; while “Wee Willie Winkie” is even more unveracious in his character. These wonderful babes, with their sense of honor, and chivalry, and manhood, these Bayards in pinafores, these miniature editions of King Arthur and Sir Launcelot rolled into one, are picturesque possibilities only when we have forgotten what an earthly little animal a real boy is. Willie Winkie rides into a forbidden and dangerous country to protect and rescue a woman nearly old enough to be his mother. He is keenly and conscientiously distressed because, having been told to keep within doors, he has thus “bwoken” his “awwest;” but he feels it his paramount duty to pursue and guard from evil the able-bodied betrothed of his father’s friend. When Miss Allardyce accommodates herself to circumstances by promptly wrenching her ankle, and the pair are surrounded by ruffians of the skulking, cowardly Indian type whom Mr. Kipling paints with such generous scorn, we are gravely told: “Then rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, child of the Dominant Race, aged six and three-quarters, and said briefly and emphatically, ‘_Jao!_’” What “_Jao_” means is lost to our occidental ignorance, but the effect is magical. The twenty armed men thus confronted and defied are awed into milder measures, and finally routed with shame, while the hero of the hour restores the prostrate heroine unharmed—save for the wrenched ankle—to her lover’s anxious embraces.