The cleverest part of this mirror-image foolery is the back cover--a mirror-image of the front. Still, Kent has some broadly likable sport with the phenomenon, intriguing to small children, of having a second, reflected self. Jim Jimmy James, wiling away a rainy day by making faces at himself in the mirror, spins around, takes a dizzy tumble. . . and, getting up, finds his reflection gone! A ""tired voice,"" from the closet behind the mirror, answers his call--and there sits his reflection: ""I always leave the mirror when you're not in front of it. . . But this time I didn't have the strength to get back in."" After that gratifying link-up, Jim Jimmy James' reflection (""I suppose my name must be James Jimmy Jim"") turns out to have limited potential: as a playmate, he can only do what Jim Jimmy James does. Annoyed, Jim Jimmy James throws a tantrum; so does you-know-who. Jim Jimmy James says he looks silly; he says you-know-who looks silly too. They lie down to rest and, just pretending to sleep, Jim Jimmy James catches his reflection snoring--a cartoony conceit (""I never knew I snored"") that also flouts the reflection-rule. Finally, racing his reflection past the mirror, Jim Jimmy James finds himself alone--at which point, providentially, it's stopped raining and he can go out to play ball. A passing amusement, along better-than-average cow-licked tyke lines.