Regarding the merits of Irwin Russell’s verses one critic says: “They have all a swinging gait, and you can hear the rythmical pattering of the feet, and see the swaying of the darky figures in the walk round as you read.” Russell declared the pathos and humor in the character of the real old-fashioned negro of the South afforded an inexhaustible amount of material for both prose and poetry. Like Sidney Lanier, Russell was passionately fond of music, and became a remarkably skillful performer on the banjo. He died at the early age of twenty-six: suffering and sorrow and poverty were his till the last. The brief struggle ended in New Orleans, leaving his beautiful contributions to Southern dialect poetry for our heritage. TWELFTH NIGHT REVELS By Jane Feild Baskin Of all the so-called lighter plays of Shakespeare, there is none, perhaps, which has a greater charm of its own than “Twelfth Night; or, What You Will.” There is in its droll humor a spiciness, a piquancy, unsurpassed by any of the great dramatist’s own productions or those of his contemporaries. Open the volume where you will, and mingle for a time with the fantastic revelers of the play—what mirth, what laughter, what drollery is here! The spirit of the “Twelfth Night” is rampant. But we can better appreciate the aptness of the title if we see for ourselves the merry-making which of old universally prevailed at that season. In the modern work-a-day world of the present, but scant time is allotted that highest and holiest joy of the Christmastide, and long before “Twelfth Night,” which falls upon the sixth of the new month, we have soberly resumed the accustomed round of daily duties. From the busy, bustling world of to-day it is refreshing to turn back to the past again, and lose ourselves in the joyous abandon of the old-time festival. It is “Twelfth Night” in “Merrie England” in the days of the long ago, and the Christmas festivities have lingered on to find their culmination in the revels of this night. Truly we find here none of our modern haste in returning to the prosaic realities of life, and unconsciously we imbibe some of the mirth-prevailing spirit. How gay the shops in their holiday garb, and what a goodly store of frosted cakes the confectioner displays! It fairly makes one’s mouth water to see them, and catch a faint whiff of their spicy fragrance, for these are the “Twelfth Night” cakes of all sorts and sizes that will find their way into every home from the highest to the lowest. That little lad turns away regretfully from the huge frosted creation of the baker’s skill to the wee modest one of which his few jingling pence will soon make him the proud possessor, and then gives way good-naturedly to the bustling dame who makes a judicious selection from the varied assortment; and so the happy throng moves in and out, for “Twelfth Night” would scarce be “Twelfth Night” without the cake, the crowning glory of the feast.