Terested in letters and in life, the work of a fastidious

and yet a very robust artist. But the book is fairly certain to be
misunderstood of the people. The publishers' own announcement describes
it as
"perhaps chiefly for youth," a description with which I disagree. The
obtuse are capable of seeing in it nothing save a bread-and-butter
imitation of "The Jungle Book."
The woodland and sedgy
lore in it is discreet and attractive. Names of animals abound in it.
But

it is nevertheless a book of humanity. The author may
call his chief characters the Rat, the Mole, the Toad,--they are human
beings, and they are meant to be nothing but human beings. Were it
otherwise, the spectacle of a toad going through the motor-car craft
would be merely incomprehensible and exasperating. The superficial
scheme of the story is so childishly naive, or so daringly naive, that
only a genius could have preserved it from the ridiculous. The book

is an urbane exercise in irony at the expense of the English character
and of mankind. It is

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