unharmed—save for the wrenched ankle—to her lover's anxious embraces.
This is very amusing, but a little absurd, and a little vulgar as well. It strikes that jarring note of provincialism which Matthew Arnold condemns with all the weight of his critical eloquence in Kinglake's "Invasion of the Crimea." "Wee Willie Winkie, child of the Dominant Race," is on a literary level with the description of Marshal St. Arnaud, cowed by "the majesty of the great Elchi's Canning brow and tight, merciless lips;" a style of writing bad enough in newspaper correspondence, but unpardonable in artistic fiction. How has it happened that Mr. Kipling, who tells us with such irresistible grace and simplicity the "Story of Muhammad Din," should stray into mock heroics when handling the children of his own nation, the jolly well-bred little English lads, to whom all picturesque posing is an art unknown.
Perhaps the trouble lies in the curious but highly esteemed fallacy that the child of fiction is expected to be always precocious and spright-
