The Old Game, by Samuel G. Blythe. [George H. Doran Company, New York.] A temperance tract by a man who knows; minus sanctimoniousness and plus a punch.
Dramatic Portaits, by P. P. Howe. [Mitchell Kennerley, New York.] One man’s opinion of the modern dramatists. A “shelf book” for occasional reference.
Billy and Hans, by W. J. Stillman. [Thomas B. Mosher, Portland, Maine.] A charming story of the most temperamental of pets, the squirrel. A Mosher book bound in a cover dark enough to stand wear. A distinct relief from the Alice blue and pale old rose of Mr. Mosher’s more delicate periods.
Billy, by Maud Thornhill Porter. [Thomas B. Mosher, Portland, Maine.] The true story of a canary bird. One of those little documents written for the enjoyment of a family circle and read on winter evenings. Bright, human, and personal.
The Social Significance of the Modern Drama, by Emma Goldman. [Richard G. Badger, Boston.] Miss Goldman discusses Ibsen, Strindberg, Sudermann, Hauptmann, Wedekind, Maeterlinck, Rostand, Brieux, Shaw, Galsworthy, Stanley Houghton, Githa Sowerby, Yeats, Lenox Robinson, T. G. Murray, Tolstoy, Tchekhof, Gorki, and Andreyev, outlining the plays of each and emphasizing their relation to the problem of modern society. She is the interpreter here rather than the propagandist, and her interpretations are not academic discourses. They give you the plays partly by quotation, partly in crisp narrative, and they are not the kind of interpretations that make the authors wish they had never written plays. Whether you like Emma Goldman or not, you will get a more compact and comprehensive working-knowledge of the modern drama from her book than from any other recent compilation we know of.
DEDICATED
TO THAT HISTORIC MOMENT
WHEN
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
THE GREAT AMERICAN CHANTECLIER
SHALL AWAKE
TO FIND
THE SUN HIGH IN HEAVEN
AND THAT
HE
HAD CROWED NOT
A CHANGE OF PRICE
With the August issue, the sixth month of our very flourishing life, we have decided to make one important change in The Little Review. We are reducing the subscription price to $1.50 a year, and that of single copies to 15 cents. There will be no change in size or appearance. Those whose subscriptions have already been paid on the former basis will be continued for another half year.
Our reason for doing so is this: We have discovered that a great many of the people whom we wish to reach cannot afford to pay $2.50 a year for a magazine. It happens that we are very emphatic about wanting these people in our audience, and we believe they are as sincerely interested in The Little Review as we are stimulated by having them among our readers. Therefore we are going to become more accessible.
With characteristic lack of modesty we wish also to make another announcement. Our success so far has exceeded even our own hopes—and it may be remembered that they were rather high. As for our practical friends who warned us against starting a literary magazine, even their dark prophecies of debt and a speedy demise have had to dissolve before our statements that we have paid our bills with what The Little Review has earned in its six months of existence, that we are free of debt, that we even have money in the bank, and a subscription list that acts like a live thing!