Now if KIPPER could be said to enjoy anything, it was the leaping of big obstacles when mounted on the stagbeetle. He thought nothing of taking a clump of dock leaves, or of flying or sailing over a thick bush of prickly gorze. It cannot be said that the stagbeetle enjoyed the jumping as much as his master did; but inasmuch as the gnome had broken him in at an early age, and never rode without a pair of stout hawthorn pricks on his heels and a bramble switch in his hand, the coal-black steed had to make the best of a bad job. One fine day, however, when KIPPER had partaken somewhat too freely of some fine wild honey, which he had found in an old oak, an accident occurred to the reckless, rash rider. On his way home he had to pass by Stoney Cross, and it so happened that the road was being mended, and a huge heap of granite lay by the wayside. Nothing would satisfy KIPPER but that he must leap this mound, and so he told the stagbeetle to put forth all his strength. The poor creature besought his master not to risk both their lives, but KIPPER was as hard as a pond after a six weeks frost. Gathering his rush-reins in his hands, and ramming the hawthorn pricks into the sides of the stagbeetle, he cried, "Hi! over," and went for the granite. The stagbeetle did his best, but just before he made his effort he faltered in his stride. The next moment he was kicking out with his hind legs, and his horns were sticking between two great stones on the top of the hard hillock; while a yard on the other side, among the moss and wild thyme, there was lying quite still the body of the luckless KIPPER. (_To be continued._) * * * * * THE ONE THING WANTING. A year ago my hand I tried, I wrote for you a verse or so, To sing your praises far and wide A year ago. And, though your nature scarce could grow More sweet, in you I then espied An incompleteness. I was slow To comprehend the thing denied To make you perfect. Now I know-- A bicycle you did not ride A year ago! * * * * * OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.--"_Boconnoc._" What a name! It is a "Romance of Wild Oatcake." It might almost be of Mild Oatcake. It is the story of an unprincipled boy, a flighty young married woman, and a sottish husband. The first third of the book is somewhat interesting, and pleasantly written. The second third is dull; and the last revives the reader's interest just a bit. But, on the whole, to quote _Sir Charles Coldstream_, in _Used Up_, "There's nothing in it." It is disappointing to those who expect much more than this from the author.--B. DE B.-W. * * * * *