Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1927-08-02
NEW BOOKS
AT RANDOM
/. C.. NJ.
VOICES UNDERNEATH. Ernestine
Cobern Boyer. The Stratford Co.

Cobern Boyer. The Stratford Co.
A handful Of verses for you, picked
I'D by their author seemingly at ran
dom-from a flying cloud or an Au-
tumn noon or some understanding
corner of flowers and shade where
Pan sits applying. Gathered In the
main however. from the great COM
mon sum of illusions by way of which
the human makes shift to get along
with the hit-or-miss pattern OF life
vouchsafed him by the good God and
at which he snatches here and there
in his desperate need Of light ana
leading. "Sophisticate" Is the mod
ern and unmeaning name applied 10
verse of this cast.
1t is an odd fact that poets, big
and little, in wide range of time
and individual diversity, are pretty
sure to come together in positive
agreement that the game is long
way from being worth the candle.
What game and what candle? Why,
the game of life and its thereafter,
the candle of poetic striving and
achievement. The idea might, OF
course, be expanded to include every
mans instructive resistance to the
notion of complete personal annihlla-
tion-but that's a story as big as all
creation and the next world thrown
in. The immediate business here IS
a look-in upon the poet In his urge
to live beyond his own temporal span
by way of a potent address to pos
terity through means more enduring
than a mere assemblage of flesh and
blood could achieve in the fieeting
passage Of years allotted to him. And
we-the modern wise guys-know the
futility of such dream. We know
that Shakespeare, counted the great
est of them all, is as dead as a
doornail, save for the lying preten-
sions Of few culture candidates.
You should, right here, listen in upon
James Branch Cabell, that surprising
ly honest, astute, suave, back-bracing
man, as he talks about the game and
the candle from the viewpoint of
some Of the real poets Of long ago.
Particularly interesting Is he in his
talk about one William Congreve OF
a couple Of hundred years ago. ITO
art this William Congreve gave whole
hearted allegiance until he was a
young fellow of 20. At that age Con-
grove died, as an artist" To be sure
he lived for 80 years longer, but only
as an idler. "At 20 Congreve was
the most famous and most widely
admired writer of an age distinguished
in letters, and at 20 he put aside
literature forever, like coat Of last
years cut. One perceives that
this spruce gambler for Immortality
found the game not worth the candle"
And there is Wycherley, too, who
says: There was a time when I, too,
was foolshly intent to divert the
leisure hours Of posterity." IN
deed to all of us who have essayed
the word-game, at which one plays
for a dole Of remembrance in our for.
mer lodgings after the sheriff has
hailed us thence, there comes at times
a dispiriting doubt as to whether the
game is worth the candle" And that
which is so clearly true of the great
poets of the past Is equally true of
the lessor ones of the moment-the
little brown birds twittering of life
in its unfulfillments and in its general
shortage between aspiration and
achievement, between promise and
pay. Yet, they are a gallant group,
these modern songsters, making the
best of the bargain, throwing off in
laughter that which might reasonably
be called matter for tears. 'Voices
Underneath" is gay and competent
and not to be fooled, not so that you
can notice it.
FORGET ME-NOTS. Eleanor Dolly
warden Bell. The Stratford Co.
Not melancholy, the general vein of
these verses, but reminiscent instead,
with just the touch Of sadness that
backward looking Is sure to bring.
Here are verses in a wide range-the
seasons, holidays, poems Of religious
content, songs Of twilight and dawn
oil y,3yfcioal In Codonco and rhvrno all
projected in a clear sense Of both the
spirit and form Of verse. Among them
all like the one beginning like this:
There's little river flowing
With its waters seldom clear,
And the shore Is not attractive.
But to me tits very dear.
I have watched its waters rising,
Seen 1t when the tide was low;
Often turned from fairer pictures
To watch Potomac waters flow.
X y X y
BACK HOME. Anne Campbell.
Barse & Hopkins.
Tiny, but stocky, this book Of poems.
Pictorial, rather than reflective in
aim, these verses are even more sub
stantial in effect than the mere sur
face spread of the painter is able to
produce. Here. added to the two d.
mansions of the picture, Is the third
one, giving concrete body to these be-
loved and remembered things back
home"-Main Street on Saturday
Night" Grandma" 1.-THE Chicken
Pie Supper" SHOWED In" and Lone
some." The seasons run round here
with February Thaw," Harvest
Moon" Homecoming Week." Burn
ing Stumps." Following the Plow."
Cider Time" october Nights" and
Halloween"
Clearly Of the Riley tribe is this
minstrel of all sorts of homely and
country life and little familiar jab
at the lord of creation as well:
wedding Sugar Bets:
Baby's in the shade.
Kicking up his heels,
Through the leafy glade,
Scented Summer steals.
Mother on her knees.
Weeds industriously
Father oversees,
Busy as can be.
Little Brother Bill,
Little Sister Sue,
Wedding hard until
All the work Is through.
Up above the sky.
Cloudless is, and clear,
Birds are flying high,
Bees are droning near.
Haven't time to see
Beauties all around,
For we have to be
Looking at the ground.
You'll love the feel of "Woodsy
Places:
There are woodsy places,
Stars look down
On the silent spaces
Far from town.
There are fragrant meadows
And I know
Where in leafy shadows
Green ferns grow.
When the twilight fingers