Once upon a time Mr. Wendell P. Garrison, the literary editor of The Nation, sent me a picture he had found in a catalogue of French books. It represented a very interesting scene. There were the Tar-Baby and Brother Rabbit as natural as life; but Brother Fox was missing. His place had been supplied by Brother Billy Goat, whose formidable horns and fierce beard seemed to add to the old episode a new danger for poor Brother Rabbit.

The picture was an advertisement of Les Contes de la VeillÉe, by FrÉdÉric Ortoli. After a while the book itself came to hand, forwarded no doubt by some thoughtful American tourist who had been interested in the Tar-Baby in French. The volume was examined, and in some sort relished, laid aside for future reference, and then forgotten.

But one night after supper the children of the household were suddenly missing. There was no romping going on in the hall. There were no voices to be heard on the lawn. There was no rippit taking place in the bedrooms. What could the matter be? Had the storm-centre moved in the direction of our innocent neighbors? The silence was so unusual that it created a sudden sense of loneliness.

But the investigation that followed showed that the youngsters had merely made a temporary surrender of their privileges. Their mother was reading to them some of the stories in M. Ortoli's book, and they were listening with an interest that childhood can neither affect nor disguise. I begged permission to make one of the audience.

"But you have writing to do," said one of the lads.

"It will disturb you," said one of the girls.

Nevertheless, the lady, who was and is the centre of this family circle, graciously made room for one more listener; and thus it happens that this little volume of M. Ortoli's stories is in the nature of a family affair. The lady, for the benefit of the intruder, was pleased to go over the stories again, and to read them more slowly, and thus they were put in their present form. Most frequently I have preserved the swift and piquant rendering, the fluent interpretation that fell from the lady's lips.

My apologies are perhaps due to M. Ortoli for a certain freedom of treatment that has been deemed necessary in some of the stories. I trust this has not been carried too far; but in some instances it has been necessary to English the characters and incidents as well as the text. Nevertheless, an effort has been made to preserve something of the individuality of M. Ortoli, and I think that at least the flavor of it will be found in the stories that follow.

J. C. H.

West End, Atlanta, Ga.

EVENING TALES