A very dainty little book has been produced by Mr. Oscar Wilde and Mr. Walter Crane, The stories are not very strong as to plot, but the style is delightful, easy, and flowing, and never ' precious’. The covert humour is of that better kind which comes so near to tears, The stories are scarcely for children, but rather for their grown-up admirers. What has a child to do with the rose which is perfected by the nightingale's self-sacrifice, who, for lore's sake, 'leans her breast until a thorn', and, dying, is absorbed into tho most beautiful rose in the world? Even the story of the selfish giant whose trees languish while the children are excluded, a story which ends with a suggestion of the legend of St. Christopher, is scarcely for children. But the great unsuitability lies in the note of wasted goodness, which is struck with a powerful hand. Virtue should never fail of its reward in a child's story; whereas Mr, Oscar Wilde has let his imagination play among the sad realities of life. The story of the miller in particular, with the fine talk about friendship and his cruel usage of his little friend, touches the deeper pathos of life: and when the generous devotion and self-forgetfulness of Hans ends in a swift and unheroic death---as the world counts heroism,---we recognise the irony of fate, which has no existence for a child. The self-importance of the miller and also of the Remarkable Rocket is full of clever hits at coxcombs, Mr. Oscar Wilde must have conceived the story of the Happy Prince as he sat one day in the enclosure which surrounds the Albert Memorial in Kensington Gardens, But our Golden Prince has not yet found out a way to make us happy by the disposal of his burnished surface. There are some of us who wish he would.