I've been wondering a great deal lately whether there is a masculine and feminine literature after one is grown up. I know there was for me as a child. When a story like Camp Mates began in Harper's Young People I regretted that it was not something by Lucy C. Lillie, who wrote of adorably nice little girls. But possibly if I had ever gone out for long walks and camped for the day in the open as my own little lad does now, I too would have read Camp Mates. A man not undistantly related to me by marriage confessed the other day that he was fondest of stories telling of castaways on desert islands. "It's a thing I'd like to do myself--have a try at an island," he said, eagerly. "With your wife?" I asked, tentatively. He nodded, and gulped his dinner, and then immediately repented: "With no woman," he said, firmly; "they bring civilization, and I'd want it wild." Well, I don't blame him. It's appalling to think of how many men would measure up to a desert island test--would procure by hook or crook some manner of sustenance. And I can think of few, very few women (among whom I do not include myself) whom I should select as companions if I were thus stranded. I mean, of course, as far as their resourcefulness is concerned. Perhaps that is why, in stories of adventure, the woman is left behind, inevitably; or, if she is washed up on the shore by the waves, proves an encumbrance, delightful or otherwise. And it is all a matter of training--not, as our novelist would have us believe, a deplorable lack of brains and stamina. THE EDUCATION OF GIRLS