One of the best and best-loved treasuries of ro-
mance for young people (and all people who never
grow old), "The Boy's King Arthur," edited by
Sidney Lanier from old Sir Thomas Malory's leg-
ends of the Round Table knights, is here issued in
a slightly abridged edition with superb illustrations
by N. C. Wyeth. It is one of the uniform group
of books illustrated in color which has been so suc-
cessful.

The opportunity which the legends of Arthur
give to the great illustrator has been used by him
to the full; and all the greatest of the tales are
kept in this edition-those of Arthur, Launcelot,
Gareth and Linet, Galahad and Percival, and the
Quest of the Holy Grail.

A MOTOR FLIGHT ALONG THE FRONT

From "Towards the Goal," by Mrs. Humphry Ward

The morning was still bright when the motor arrived, but the frost had been keen, and the air on the uplands was biting. We speed first across a famous battle-field, where French and English bones lie mingled below the quiet grass, and then turn southeast. Nobody on the roads. The lines of poplar-trees fly past, the magpies flutter from the woods, and one might almost forget the war. Suddenly, a railway-line, a steep descent, and we are full in its midst again.

On our left an encampment of Nissen huts

-so called from their inventor, a Canadian officer-those new and ingenious devices. for housing troops, or labour battalions, or coloured workers, at an astonishing saving both of time and material. In shape like the old-fashioned beehive, each hut can be put up by four or six men in a few hours. . . .

But on this first occasion my attention is soon distracted from them, for as we turn a corner beyond the hut settlement, which I am told is that of a machine-gun detachment, there is an exclamation from D.

For there to our left, is a tank-the monster!—taking its morning exercise and practising up and down the high and almost perpendicular banks by which another huge field is divided. The motor slackens, and we watch the creature slowly attack a high bank, land complacently on the top, and then, an officer walking beside it to direct its movements, balance a moment on the edge of another bank equally high, a short distance away. There it is!-down!—not flopping, or falling, but all in the way of business, gliding unperturbed. London is full of tanks, of course- -on the films. But somehow to be watching a real one, under the French sky, not twenty miles from the line, is a different thing. We fall into an eager discussion with Captain F., in front, as to the part played by them in the Somme battle, and as to what the Germans may be preparing in reply to them. And while we talk, my eye is caught by something on the sky-line, just above the tank. It is a man and a plough-a plough that might have come out of the Odyssey-the oldest, simplest type. So are the ages interwoven; and one may safely guess that the plough— that very type !—will outlast many generations of tanks. But for the moment, the tanks are in the limelight; and it is luck that we should have come upon one so soon;