I am reminded by a Boston newspaper of the continued existence of a belief that criticism of books and other things more or less remotely connected with literature is largely a matter of prejudice and that the imprints on title pages determine the authors’ fate. Yet the same article goes on to quote the _Chip-Munk_ firm as proof that merit will win sometimes in spite of such drawbacks. It seems to me the instance proves too much. * * * * * And here, just at the last, I want to set down what I have just read in a delightful book written by Katherine Cheever Meredith—Johanna Staats—because it seems to fit one’s mood at this time of year. This is it: “Oh, I play with Miss Gray Blanket and I play with Fanny.” “Fanny? The little girl?” “Yes. After it’s dark, you know, I play with her. Then I talk to her. She never answers. But I play she’s so tired she can’t. Of course I can’t play _that_ when it’s light. For then I could _see_ that she wasn’t there. But in the dark she _might_ be.” “Exactly,” responded Poole abstractedly. He was thinking that many men and women indulge in the same game. Sometimes with their faith in each other; but more often, though, with their creeds. FANFARRONADE. Let no man deem himself of Fate the King, Or challenge Fortune with a voice defiant— A tiny pebble in a shepherd’s sling Once overthrew a proud and boastful giant. CLARENCE URMY. NOTHING BUT LEAVES. It was one of those November days when the wind swoops down the mountain sides, bringing an avalanche of leaves—disked oak leaves—and then leaving them for a moment in the valley basin, gathers them in her mighty hands and tosses them again almost to the mountain tops. Chris found a sympathy in the dizzy, whirling, swirling leaves. His hopes had withered so, and now a girl’s changeful hand had been as reckless with him as was the wind with these: like wrath in death and envy afterwards. Poor Chris’s spiritual kingdom was suffering the nature of an insurrection, for though he loved her he was too proud to tell her she had misjudged him. The dissipation of his hopes now was tinged with regret, just as the wanton winds seem to us ruthless as we remember when these leaves were planes and green, not disked and brown. Mockingly came the dance of leaves around his feet—each like a thing alive—to beckon him here, there, to elude him, to laugh at him. “It’s too hard to bear!” groaned Chris, between his teeth. “How could she believe it! How could she!”