Evening star., 1925-06-28
Reviews Of New Books

long days of sheer muscle pull and
short nights of complete oblivion
such are the joys that The Indian
Canoe" offers to boy and man. Offers
to woman, TOO. provided she be fash
ioned and inclined according to the
feminine mode of the moment. At
heart. this Is IL book for the fisherman.
You are not a hunter. maybe, not a
prey to the man vanity that finds it's
prime satisfaction In the unmanly pur.
suit of other animals of lesser equip
ment and therefore of hopeless handi-
cap. Nevertheless, the book offers
wood lore OF wide variety to one who
simply loves the feel Of the wild
places, to one who loses himself in
wonder and delight over the amazing
contrivances Of nature by way Of
which the plant and animal life of the
great forests has developed an econ.
omy of astonishing technic and effect.
This live record of the days of a Sum-
mer vacation is held together by sim
PIE incidents that give to, the whole
something of the lure of the story
itself, though this is not the leading
purpose of the account. Rather Is 1t
the simple and plain statement of
actual happenings that came along in
g.
with an Indian guide spent a happy
and healthful Summer in the stirring
and 1nvtgorating atmosphere of the
Maine woods. A book Of clear enjoy
ment for the one who must take his
out-farings secondhand, by way Of
such good adventure books as this one
indubitably will prove to be to you.
THE EIGHT FORTY.FIVE. BY
Robert M. Gay. Pictures by Wal
lis 4. Howe. Boston: The Atlantic
Monthly Press.
EXTRACTS gathered up from the
diary Of one John Skinner. COM
muter, this book turns out to be. The
commuter has proved to be a golden
mine to humorists of that genial stripe
who find laughter where, contrary
wise. the bilious and cynical writer
discovers cause a plenty for only
growlings and grousings and bitter in
vective. 1t Is without doubt a sub
Ject of two sides, this committing. A
very black side and another that
glints with mirth and jollity. This
Is a joyous record, the story of the
young married pair of unquenchable
optimism who take to the country for
the. free life. while the business end
OF the engagement remains anchored
to the city itself. You know the
story-the little house nestled among
greens. looking like a poem or a pic.
ture or any other delectahle unreal
thing. You know the ardor Of secur-
ing this treasure before 1t is snapped
up by another. Then, you remember
the slow waking up to leaky roofs. to
furnaces that refuse to function, to
hurried breakfasts and wild rushes for
the "8:45" to town, and the slow re-
turn on wretched trains packed to the
platforms. And the gaYden.making-
of course you've not forgotten that
The seeds that wouldn't sprout, the
ones that grew one thing while you
had so hopefully planted another. and
the hoeing and the wedding and the
watering. As clear as yesterday, all
Of 1t. This is an ambitious two, for
actually they buy lot and build a
house-ready to move in as we leave
them. So, YOU see, here is a COM
muter who refuses to lose his nerve,
one who goes on in unconquerable
gallantry clear through the course Of
the commuter out on to the side of a
matter that, all tried, proves to be a
sound experience as well as a laugh.
able and entertaining account of it.
Many a brother of the tribe will read
this story as his own and in the re-
miniscent laughter that more than one
sad experience gains when it is well
over.
FACE CARDS. BY Carolyn Wells, au.
thor of THE Fourteenth Key"
etc. New York: G. P. Putnam's
Sons.
You wouldn't believe it could have
happened in the plain and solid
state Of wooden nutmegs. But it did
or so the author declares. Now for
Burmah, or Java, or Borneo, or an
other distant region OF fabulous lore
and inconceivable circumstance, this
kind of thing might have done very
well, but brought into Connecticut or
even up to the st. Lawrence where
the story for a moment migrates, 1t
Is quite too incongruously exotic for
ready acceptance. Still, the reader of
mystery tales Is not Of the critical
sort. Like "a child he loves the story,
no matter what it asks him to believe.
Here is plain man who through wide
wanderings has created an absorbing
passion for masks-hidous things
brought from across the world where
they served at solemn rites, such as
human sacrifice and other gentle
heather ceremonies. Here he is in
ing over this grewsome junk while the
rest of the family-young wife,
daughter, and others, have house par
ties and other modern enjoyments
Then the man is murdered-so mys-
teriously that nobody has even the
ghost Of a notion about it, 1t might
have been the valet who did 1t, but
you know it wasn't, else he would not
have been the first one to come under
suspicion. Nor is it the mans maiden
sister, for she comes next. And so
the story goes on in a great to-do
over the Queen of Diamonds and the
King Of Hearts and the King of Clubs,
and so on till, with Kidnapping to en-
gross you, and another attempted
murder to keep your fright unallayed,
you finally are led right up to the
wicked person who really did it. Why
doesn't the next mystery writer put
the real criminal straight out in the
open to start with and then exercise
his good ingenuity in covering him up,
and in changing, your strong initial
bent against him. That could be
done-or SO it looks from here.