This, it is fair to presume, was paid for “at the regular rates” for such matter, and published as an example of praiseworthy song, notwithstanding the fact that mighty few of _Duncey’s_ million subscribers could depose and say whether a jasmine star is sweet or sour, or whether it would be necessary, in order to get the full benefit of its flavor, to peel it and slice it as one would an apple, or suck it like a lemon. It would also be difficult to explain to the satisfaction of a hypercritical person why, “with every grief far banished,” any one could have the faintest shadow of an excuse for possessing an aching heart; or, that point cleared up, how the aching heart aforesaid could still be timothy. But these are trifles that ought not to be permitted to embarrass the sweet singer. I mention them only to illustrate the unfairness with which Mr. Yeats has been treated. Mr. Peck is in vogue, to a certain extent, while Mr. Yeats is not. Ergo: Yeats and his muse must not fool around in the salley garden. This matter disposed of, Sophie M. Almon-Hensley is chided for asseverating that My ship’s in the bay, The glad, blue bay, The wind’s from the west, And the waves have a crest, But my bird’s in the nest, And my ship’s in the bay. “It must,” says _Duncey’s_ astute critic, “be a consolation to the writer of these inspired lines to know that her various possessions are where they belong. After all, there is nothing like having a place for everything and everything in its place.” Which may be witty as well as true, but why ridicule Sophie M. Almon-Hensley on one page and on the next laud Robert Louis Stevenson—God rest his soul—for such verses as these: Through all the pleasant meadow side The grass grew shoulder high, Till the shining scythes went far and wide, And cut it down to dry. These green and sweetly smelling crops They led in wagons home, and so on. No one is likely to suppose for a moment that the scythes went up and down, or that the grass was cut up to soak, or that the green and sweetly smelling crops were led away from home in top buggies. Yet, from an artistic standpoint, Stevenson was justified in acquainting us with the details of the operation, which fact makes the attack upon Sophie M. Almon-Hensley particularly aggravating.