Third of these photographic studies is “The Little Girl from Town,” an exquisite picture of childhood embroidered in tiny, colourful stitches. It reminds the chairman of nothing so much as a treasured piece of tapestry, bought years ago in Bath, in which thousands of stitches portray a small girl, her dog, her parrot, and her flowers. Patricia’s beauty and helplessness, set off by the hardier country children’s assurance, emphasized by her seeming victory, her pitiful failure, in saving the calf--this slight theme the author has embellished with a wealth of detail. As in the grimmer realism of “The Killers,” dialogue does most of the work. The minute accuracy of its transcription reads like a stenographic report edited by an artist. In this story, “quiet and penetrating,” to quote Mr. Ramsay, and in “Eminence” (see page xxii), whose chief character is a relative of Patricia’s, Miss Suckow has surpassed her former writing. Interesting by way of comparison for similarity of theme is Nels Anderson’s “Old Whitey” (see page xxxi). Elisabeth Cobb Chapman’s “With Glory and Honour,” which shares with “Night Club” the element of setting, uses the setting for a different purpose. Hal Levering, who has denied his race, learns by a humiliating lesson what every man of every race must learn, that individual fulfilment depends upon race, pride in race, acceptance of racial possibilities. The work of Irvin Cobb’s daughter, “With Glory and Honour,” itself a happy testimonial to inheritance, reveals individual power that promises well. In suggestion, choice of detail, and rhythm, the story might be the accomplishment of a master. In “He Man,” Marjory Stoneman Douglas not only tells the experiences of six in a fallen plane ending in the death of all but two, not only describes a struggle with the sea that lasted two days and nights; she achieves victory for endurance and fortitude, no less tokens of manhood than sportsmanship and courage. By vivid pictures, by the wind in the wires, by the omnipresence of the menacing sea, the author brings near the plight of those on the craft. Beautiful writing, forceful writing, carries the story; for example, “Stars were quivering in the enormous rondure of the sky that overhead took on a strange metallic blue and cast upon them a faint luminance that was less than light and only a little less than dark.” Isn’t that worthy to set beside “L’obscure clarté, qui tombe des etoiles,” and Milton’s light that served to render darkness visible?