Evening star., 1927-08-16

the maze.
or tragedy and crime and cynic
wrong,
Where blooms the goodness hell can
never blight
Where duty lifts its load in quiet
ways
Where hope, nestled in sorrow, sings
it's song,
Where toiling hands are grimed, but
honor bright
And another one:
"At ninety-one his zest Is still the same
Who seven decades ago a cub began;
A host of eager scribes have
passed the pale
Since first he scented scoops by
road and rail-
Since first he trod the writer's path
to fame.
The grind is good today; age cannot
tame
His native enterprise. not quench
That keeps him tracking Truth
DER hill and dale
At ninety.one!
The Nestor Of his craft, his city's
Is linked with his renown, and few
can claim
A landmark thus defying life's
long gale
A son like this one, happy, hearty
hale;
True sanctum devotee, who loves
the game
At ninety-one!'
y + ~
GREENWICH VILLAGE BLUES
Clement Wood. Henry Harrison
Not poetry, not even jingles-onlv
jangles instead. Interesting. though.
as sample Of the many crimes that
IN the name Of Greenwich Village are
perpetrated against-no, not against
art, against common sense instead
Yet, once In a long time the clownish
pOstur1ng here gives way to a moment
OF real grace. Smart Aleck takes a back
seat, while a slim youth sees the
White glory Of the almost blossomed
Pouring its yellow radiance from the
sky.
At this its holy hour OF silver noon.
while the gray miles Of beauty flick.
cred by.
White simmer Of the softer stars
beside,
Lifting unenvious faces from their
high
Dark mansions! Like a narrowed
heaven tide.
Beauty swept down upon the tired
earth,
Letting citing her silvery mantle brush the
And her soft silvery undertone of
mirth
Lie like blessing on the solitude,
Out of his unseen path the golden
Sent his far slimmering word, and
With distant glory every living one. J"
X X X X
SONGS FROM THE HEART OF A
BOY. Jesse L. Lasky, jr. Boni &
Liveright.
The refreshment of youth meets
one at the door of this thin little VOL
ume of verse. Just a boy of 10
very much in earnest as he patiently
works his feelings and thoughts on
many themes, sometimes into free
verse and again into rhyming ca
dences. Curiously free from play
and laughter is this, boys work. Not
single rollicking note nor a frisky
caper, such as young things can
hardly resist. is in evidence here.
This is obviously serious world
whose setting out by a budding poet
is no matter for mad and boisterous
glee. 1t may be that Lasky, jr.,
gambols now and then, somewhere,
but not in this demesne of the poetic
muse. BY and by when he has
learned to laugh, a little, at the
amazing game we are all driven into
playing, he will, if he still holds to
the actual work that he puts out in
this book, be a poet of light touch as
well as one of substantial purpose.
"Old Trails" is vivid and realistic
picture-mature in conception and
vigorous in tone:
1--WE are riding the old trails again.
Here ten thousand head Of cattle spent
the night,
Here the lonely watchers rode silent
horses round and round the
great herd.
And the stars were like dust in the
sky.
And the smell of the sage hung on
the warm breeze of the desert.
The men in the tarp breathe softly,
They each have watched before.
They know the stir of the great herd,
They have felt the loneliness and the
awful silence.
Now they are part Of the morning.
It's chilly. this damned mist, and
My lass rope is stiff as hell,
Voices of the morning,
And the song of dawn.
Now the same wind whistles
through the hOllows
OF an old cowskull.
Ten thousand footprints give echo,
And I see a cowboy roping clouds"
X X X X
DAWN STARS. Lucia Trent. Henry
Harrison.
In Lucia Trent personal experience
and feeling have widened to reach
world experience and feeling. A
hand, as delicate as it Is firm and
friendly, reaches out here to, bind the
two into a common life of innumerable
homely contacts. Lucia Trent in
these songs thinks with our thoughts.
looks out through our eyes and
gathers our own emotions up into
the web of her own singing. Listen
to this. She calls it "Experience":
"Once / laughed into the eyes of the
stars
With the Spring wind warm against
my lips;
Then sorrow came and touched me
With her finger tips.
I have no tears for sad things any
more,
For dreams that drift like petals. one
by one,
I want to weep when children