There seems some lack of proper respect in describing as a pot-boiler a story that, when no longer in its first youth, can enjoy a second blooming at ten shillings and sixpence net, in its own cardboard box, and embellished with any quantity of the liveliest coloured pictures. Yet I fear that this is my impression about _The Money Moon_ (SAMPSON LOW). I have liked Mr. JEFFREY FARNOL'S other work too well to be able to accept this at its present sumptuous face-value. You remember no doubt how _George Bellew_, having been jilted by the girl of his original choice, set out upon a walking tour; how on the first day of this expedition he fought a bloody battle with a carter, about nothing in particular, and arrived at a village with the significant name of Dapplemere. You will not have forgotten that at Dapplemere there lived a small boy, who talked as boys do in books but nowhere else; a lavendery old lady-housekeeper whose name (need I remind you?) was _Miss Priscilla_; and a maiden as fair as she was impoverished. You recall too how all these charming people took _George_ to their expansive hearts, and welcomed him as the ideal hero, without apparently once noticing that he must at the moment (on the author's own showing) have had a swollen nose and probably two black eyes. No, I repeat my verdict. The whole thing is too easy. I understand, however, that in America, where _The Money Moon_ is at present shining more brightly than with us, there exists a steady demand for this rather saccharine fiction. So let us leave it at that. * * * There must be many persons (I am one of them myself) who, when confronted with a topical burlesque of _Alice in Wonderland_, would confess to a little regret. The book is such a treasured joy that one hates to have any hands, even the cleverest, laid upon it. Yet the deed is so often done that there is clearly a large public that does not share this view. Therefore a welcome seems assured for what is certainly, so far, the wittiest of the attempts, _Malice in Kulturland_ (THE CAR ILLUSTRATED), written by HORACE WYATT, with pictures by TELL. The ingenuity with which the parodists have handled their task makes me wish that my personal prejudice had allowed me to appreciate it more whole-heartedly. Especially neat is the transformation of the _Cheshire Cat_ into a _Russian Bear_, seen everywhere in the wood (there is a clever drawing of this). You remember how, at _Alice's_ request, the _Cat_ kindly obliged with a gradual disappearance from tail to grin? The _Bear_ does the same, "beginning with an official statement, and ending with a rumour, which was still very persistent for some time afterwards." Mr. WYATT has certainly a pretty turn of wit, which I shall look to see him developing in other and more virgin fields. * * * * *