To be begotten quite alone, to owe his mind only to himself, to write (since it is a question of writing) with the certitude of achieving the true new wine, of an unexpected, original and inimitable flavor, that is what must be, to the author of _l'Écornifleur_ a legitimate motive of joy and a very weighty reason for being less troubled than others about posthumous reputation. Already, his _Poil-de-Carotte_, that so curious type of the intelligent, artful, fatalistic child, has entered into the very form of speech. The "Poil-de-Carotte, you must shut the hens in each evening" equals the most famous words of the celebrated como dies in burlesque truth, and he is at once Cyrano and Molière and will not be robbed of this claim. Originality being undeniably established, other merits of Jules Renard are distinctness, precision, freshness; his pictures of life, Parisian or rural, have the appearance of dry-point work, occasionally a little thin, but well circumscribed, clear and alive. Certain fragments, more shaded off and ample, are marvels of art, as for instance, _Une Famille d'Arbres_. "It is after having traversed a sun-parched plain that I meet them. "Because of the noise, they do not stand by the road's edge. They inhabit the unploughed fields, near a fountain, like lone birds. "From afar they seem inscrutable. When I approach, their trunks relax. They discreetly welcome me. I can repose and refresh myself, but I divine that they observe and mistrust me. "They live together, the oldest in the center, and the little ones, whose first leaves have just appeared, almost everywhere, without ever dispersing. "They take long to die, and they protect the standing dead until they fall to dust. "They caress each other with their long branches to be assured that they are all there, like the blind. They gesticulate with rage, if the wind puts itself out of breath trying to uproot them. But among themselves, no dispute. They only murmur agreement. "I feel that they should be my real family. I will forget the other. These trees by degrees will adopt me, and to merit this, I understand what must be known. "Already I know how to gaze at passing clouds. "I know, too, how to rest in a spot. "And I almost know how to be silent." When the anthologies will hail this page, they will hardly have an irony so fine and a poetry so true. LOUIS DUMUR.