Los Angeles herald. [microfilm reel] (Los Angeles [Calif.]) 1900-1911, 1908-12-21

on to the shelves of bird lovers.
Olive Thorne Miller of Los Angeles
| has taken infinite pains in her charm
ing and valuable work entitled Inc
| Bird Our Brother" The author cites
hundreds of high authorities, and the
appendix itself il a first class catalogue
| appendix itself is a first class catalogue
| life that are worth reading WINE
many scientific references are made the
book is by no means dry reading. In
fact it is handled in so charming a
manner that it is impossible for the
most casual scanner of stray volumes
to dip into it without being held IN
definitely by the delightful text. Let us
quote paragraph:
even an adult bird can and OFTEN
does learn a song not his own when cir
cumstances give him an opportunity to
study another score, as l nave told
elsewhere. l have heard and seen a
common English sparrow out OF the
streets sing the canary song perfectly,
and better than the canary himself,
because of his richer voice; and, what
was not so strange, considering the
reputation of the family, 1 have heard
a mockingbird do the same thing, exc
cutting the whole song exactly as the
canary does and not in the snort
clause, disjointed way in which this
bird usually sings. The sparrow had
the street, carefully nursed by SYM
pathetic woman and placed in a cage
near a singing canary, and while re-
covering from his accident he occupied
his leisure in cultivating his voice. The
mocl1ingbird lived in a cage beside a
roomful of canaries, separated from
them only by a wire gauze partition.
With the fun loving nature characters
tic of the bird nothing could delight
him more than to perfect himself IN
the song of his small neighbors, ana
then. while they were in the full blast
of singing-fifty of them together-to
break in upon them with their own
notes in his much louder and hne voice.
This always silenced them instantly,
apparently in amazement, put the I'M
pulse to join in the song soon became
Irresistible, and IN another moment the
whole house was ringing with the
The Bird Our Brother. By Olive
Thornton Miller. Boston: Houghton'
Miffn & Co.
The little girl moved YEARLY down
the long street with its dark rows OF
tenement houses, one looking exactly
like the other and indicating by their
dismal similarity that they also shell
tered human beings, leading, one ex-
actly like the other, a monotonous
routine life, minute for minute. and
score for score, void of all ideal pleas
ures." She finds herself suddenly at
the end of the wharf, looking into the
water as it laps the framework with
caressing hands A ferryboat, with Its
many lighted windows, floated by like
a phantom1"a vision of our life, sc
full of delusion, so beautiful, and yet
nothing but a passing show transpar-
ant glass and artificial light" Then
- fO he
There you have it; in this the first OF
the series of short stories Sadikichi
Hartmann has published under the IT,
tie of "Schopenhauer in the Air" Inc
great modern note, not of individual
but of collective failure-the failure OF
the herd-the collapse of all the fond
dreams into the reality of the pen-the
monotonous routine of lives exactly
like each other, devoid of ali ideal
pleasures"
Again we are brought to the river.
but now it is a romance That died
a-bornin'-the magnolia Blossoms"
Although in her presence ''my worship
of nature had changed into that of hui
manity and / longed to lose myself in
lady's dress became accidentally dis
arranged.
How hopelessly indecent all sex rela-
lions are in our nerveless, colorlesS age!
Everything is SO suggestive, so nope
lessly risque in a woman's dress; II
two buttons of her waist are open or If
she lifts her skirts we feel embarrassed,
for everything in nature is so cruelty
distorted by modern dress, by our
habits, by the arts, the brutality of
men, and the vanity Of women them
selves. Everywhere immaculate lilies,
with debauchery in the depths of their
chalices."
The gamut of disgust-the disgust of
a poet-with the collective failure of
modern life.
we are in the lighthouse, making
merry with the children over their
Christmas tree. But the hour of mildly
exhilarating joy soon pals and the ca
denees of the winds and waves outside
call with Irresistible voices. We step
out on the platform to inhale the storm
and a seagul dashes toward the Ian
terms Turing light like solitary hu-
man soul rushing blindly toward hap
piness" In a moment 1t lies writing
at our feet. "Stooping to touch the
soft white down of the unfortunate
bird, who only moment before mad
been so full of vigorous joy, a feeling
of despair came over me- reallzlng that
all this endeaVor to create something
beautiful in this world of rising and
falling waves and bowling winds was
sheer vanity"
The poet by inclination, "but sadly
crippled by journalism" is about to
say farewell, the summer holiday
passed in the cottage by the sea hav-
ing come to an end. She had accom-
panied him on all his rambles and
now they sit sadly on the porch steps.
Why did he go? HE surely would
have been able to arrange matters so
as to delay his departure; yet such is
life 1t had been understood from the
start that he would leave on such and
such a Sday, so that both took it for
granted that it had to be. The con-
ventions and duties of life have so
firm q grasp on most of us that they
are more powerful than our deepest
emotions. We cannot get away from
ourselves. We simply drift as rud-
derless boat to whatever shore the cur
rents of routine life may lead u.s."
Again the cry of revolt against the
monotonous duty, the disciplined drill
of the herd.
So one could go on from story to
story, but we push to the last, that of
1.-THE Practice Clavier," the disillus-
toned virtuoso, who locks and throws
away the key of his piano, that he
may no longer contaminate his art by
playing for the mob.
",ro play a certain piece at a GER
tain fixed moment What barbarisml
Was that art? To play for the delec-
tation of whimpering girls who have
not vet lived life. And then this
straining for technical accomplish
ment. To make finger and arm exer-
cises for eight hours every day ano
10 produce great volumes of noise
mechanically, but deprived of poetry
and feeling. Always to push ones owr