It is a thing rarely accomplished to write a book that a child can read with interest and pleasure and his elders find instruction and profit in as well. By a curious fate "Gulliver's Travels," which Swift, in his disgust for mankind, wrote as a universal panacea, and of which only the mature mind can always see the bearing and application, has become a story for children, and the ridicule of English politics by the giant king and the comparisons to prove the inferiority of men to brutes are all passed over and unnoticed. So, too, "Robinson Crusoe," which so charms and delights the young, has ceased to be more than glanced at by the grown. Fables seem to belong to that class of literature which all can read and each age derive its own satisfaction from.

Mr. Wilde's "Tales," though couched in the form of children's stories, are more of the nature of fables, and consequently, while they fulfil all the requirements of the former they at the same time discharge the functions of the latter. Written in simple and at times poetical language, they are replete with instruction, and it is such as must be evident even to the mind of a boy or a girl of average intelligence. Apart altogether from its didactic purpose, the work, merely from an art point of view, is delightful; the descriptions of nature it contains and their fidelity and beauty would show, if no other evidence was obtainable, that Mr. Oscar Wilde has true literary talent.

The first story, from which the collection takes its name, is admirable in its conception. "High above the city on a tall column stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with leaves of fine gold; for eyes he had two bright sapphires and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt." A little swallow, who, when his friends had gone to Egypt, had stayed behind for his love, a beautiful river reed, in his selfishness deserts her. "She has no conversation," he said, "and she is always flirting with the wind. I admit she is domestic, but I love travelling and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also." He flies from her, and, coming to town, rests on the statue, but is disturbed by the weeping of the Happy Prince.

The Prince, looking from his high place, sees all the ugliness and all the wretchedness of the city, and his leaden heart is grieved. In a conversation with the selfish little swallow, he converts the latter, and makes him become his messenger of good. To the poor needle-woman, struggling to finish the lady's ball dress, that her fevered little son may have bread to eat, his envoy brings the ruby of the sword-hilt; to the impoverished writer one of the sapphire eyes, and to a little match-girl the other, while bit by bit the golden covering he gives away to relieve the needy. For, says the Prince, of all the marvellous stories, the most marvellous is the suffering of men and of women; "there is no mystery so great as misery."

The little swallow, going hither and thither, sees "the rich making merry, and the beggars sitting at their gates." He flies into dark lanes, and "sees the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets." And his little heart learns the luxury of doing good, and, refusing to go away to Egypt to avoid the cold winter, he devotes himself to the cause of charity, and at last lays down his life, dying at the Prince's feet. Then the Mayor and Town Councillors, coming along to inspect the statue, declare it has become shabby since all its ornamentation is gone, and the Art Professor at the University pronounces it to be no longer useful since it is no longer beautiful. So the figure is pulled down and condemned to be melted down for metal, and because the dead bird was found there a proclamation is ordered forbidding birds to die there in future. A fitting commentary on the recognition which the world gives to those who devote all they have, and even their very lives, to the cause of others.

In another equally excellent tale, called "The Devoted Friend," there is a very good hit at the style of a certain well-known novelist. "You are quite behind the age," said the water-rat. "Every good story-teller nowadays starts with the end, and then goes on to the beginning, and concludes with the middle. That is the new method. I heard all about it the other day from a critic who was walking round the pool with a young man. He spoke of the matter at great length, and I'm sure he must have been right, for he had blue spectacles and a bald head; and whenever the young man made any remark he said 'Pooh!'"

In the last of the collection, "The Remarkable Rocket," who, proving a failure at the Court fireworks, is thrown into a pond and there catches cold, so that he becomes hoarse. "What a delightful voice you have," the frog says, on hearing him.

Indeed, the book is filled with such tit-bits of humour. "I am so clever," says one speaker, "that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying." "Then you should certainly," is the reply, "lecture on philosophy." A pleasanter book for light reading could not well be imagined. It is a treat for young and old.