The Daily Missoulian. [volume] (Missoula, Mont.) 1904-1961, 1917-02-20
Oh, Books
and
Bo0k-Lo1,ers

~~~~0 -
In small towns. one imagines, II.
brarians must be adept at ground
listening. Where funds are too small
to permit the purchase OF all books
buying must be largely determined by
borrowers wishes. II that be true,
Missoula readers have little liking, for
the frivolities of song. Such feeble
desires for poetry as exist here must
long have been drowned out by a
thunderous clamor for Harold Bell
Wright and Gene Stratton- Porter. AT
any rate the book buyers ears have
caught no more than a whisper so
faint as to be satisfied with a pocket
full Of contemporary poetry. Noyes,
Maseficld. Gibson. Unter,neyer, OPP
pcnhcirn-oh the list Of modern poets
whose works are not in the Missoula
library IS endless. Not even Edgar
fIee Masters, whose Spoon River
| Anthology" was almost a best seller, y
is represented. And Robert Service,
whose robust songs have won favor SO
universal that even railroad news
butchers sell them, is not in the COL
lection.
The few lovers OF poetry have. how
ever. been fortunate in the quality of
their meager portion. North of Bos-
ton" by Robert Frost, has recently
been placed on the library's shelves in
response to those faint desires for
poetry detected among the book Dor
rowers. North of Boston" Is a COL
lection Of short poems done in blank
verse 4 Of extraordinary beauty on
themes too subtle Tor treatment by an
artist Of less skill and insight than
Robert F'rosts proves himself to be.
The work Of few poets today shows
genius comparable to that which made
this volume. "MendinE WALL" "The
Death of the Hired Man." Home
Burial,"s THE Self Seeker in these
Frost contrives through exquisite
technique and keen vision to beautify
the commonplace or rather to reveal
Consider this from THE Death of the
Hired Man:
Part of moon was falling down the
west
Dragging the whole sky with it to the
hills.
Its light poured softly in her lap. She
And spread her apron to it, She put
out her hand
Among the harp-like morning glory
strings.
Taut with the dew from garden bed to
AS if she played unheard the tender.
ness
That wrought on him beside her in the
night.
Warren" she said, che has como
home to die:a
You needn't be afraid he'll leave YOU
this time"
Home" he Knocked gently.
Yes. what else but home?
home.
OF course he's nothing to us, any more
Than was the hound that came a
stranger to us
Out of the woods. worn out upon the
trail"
Home is the place where, when you
have to so there
They have to take you in"
| II should have called it
Something YOU somehow haven't to
| deserve"
| His gift for characterization in n
few deft strokes marks all of Frost s
work. In a phrase he reveals a life
time; with a dozen words he COM
pletes IA setting. What follows is from
"Honrr Burial:
IF you had any feelings. you that dug
With your own hand--how could
| you?--his little grave:
saw you from that very window
! MtklnS the EFaNcl leap ana leap IN
Leap up, like that, like that, and land
! so lightly
And roll back down the mound beside
| the hole.
l thought, Who is that man? / didn'!
know you.
And l crept down the stairs and ur
| the stairs
To look again. and still your spade
kept lifting.
Then you come in. I heard YOU
i rumbling voice
Out in the kitchen, and I don't know
why.
But l went near to see with my owl