Evening star., 1934-03-14
NEW BOOKS
AT RANDOM
FRUIT UNATTAINABLE. BY H. p.
Stoddard. Boston: The Stratford
MargWes Cermond.

StOoQaro. ooOtOu. Ane OustAoio
Co.
During the stress and storm and
! bitter cold which descended upon
Washington some weeks ago a gaunt
and shabby human being, awkwardly
| striving to make his way through the
hurrying throngs Of travellers who
form an incessant procession along
the concourse Of Union Station, stag
gered and fell. His collapse was due
to starvation and exposure. Upon
| examination, his scant and tattered
clothing was found to contain nothing
save q much worn, thumh-marked
volume of Keats.
On the same day that this tragic
incident occurred I came upon q bit
of verse, exquisite lines that might
| have been inspired by the pathetic
event recorded that morning. The
poem was entitled Neglect" and here
1t is:
He lived alone in q ramshackle hut
Beside the railroad yards, and cooked
| his meals
Before an open hre. His woolsey vest
Was scaled with bits Of food and
interlaced
| With tangled strands Of hemp. A
cylinder
OF rancid tallow stuck into the neck
OF an old whisky bottle brought to LIE
A cavalcade of sullen images
That stalked across the rude unfinish-
ed walls. -.
Huge rats skunk out from gloomy
| creviceS,
And nibbled at the refuse on the floor;
Upon the dusty beams. gray spiders
strung
Their dark festoons, while immemorial
| winds
Whined plaintively through cracks
beneath the sill.
We all agreed that he was rather queer,
His oddities provided idle talk
For smirking gossips Of the town,
and yet
As we discussed the legend that had
About his life, he sat alone and read
A thumb marked copy Of the Iltad.
4 -
| The author, Mr.. H. P. Stoddard.
happens to be native Washingtonian'
and upon inquiry I learned that he
/ had written q volume Of verse, which
had been published few months ago
| in the "Stratford Poets" series. OF
the thirty-four poems comprising the
| booklet it would be difficult to name
| the best, for every one Of them has
distinctive charm and beauty peculiar
! to its subject. Here Is one, inspired
by the Lincoln Memorial, which is
vibrant with the personality Of the
great, good man whose life held little
save sorrow:
! We wonder If the spirit of that gaunt.
Ungainly figure haunts this haIowed
spot;
II, when the stars burn dimly and the
| night
Enfolds its cloak about these colon
nades,
He climbs the polished steps and
Retraces with a calloused, awkward
hand
The magic words here carved with
steel-edged tool
That once were scrawled on faded en-
velope.
We wonder if the sculptured, clear-cut
form
OF beveled marble soothes his an
guished soul;
II tapering entablature and arch,
Machined by a precisionist, evokes
Serenity; or if he grimly yearns
For rugged cabin built Of unhewn
logs.
Along an entirely different line
there is one entitled "A Chinese Liv-
ing Room" which breathes Of life
and beauty and perfume:
Cool walls of fragrant sandalwood
where cling
Bright prints, ancestral scrolls; upon
the floor,
Clean rice mats, games Of fan-tan;
near a door,
In lacquered cage, cicadas trill and
sing,
Tended by dainty Lotus Moon, whose
gown,
OF gorgeous blue and ocher-yellow
dye,
Is like the wing Of tattered butter
fly,
Barbaric in design. Buddha's re-
Is kept alive in bowls Of jade and
stone
Where smoking incense burns;
dwarfed cedar trees
Grew patiently in sun-lit niche; q
breeze
Stirs sprays of apple blossom. All
alone,
An aged mandarin leaves curds and
| tea
To bow before a shrine on bended
knee.
"Agnostic," Ten Million Men,"
| "Rebirth," Fritz Kreisler Plays" and
many others merit a place, but there
is space for but one, and it is en-
titled Quest:
He searched for Truth in gilded hall,
But sham re-echoed wall on wall:
A hollow mockery.
He searched for Truth in wintry caves.
| And stumbled DER the mouldering
graves
| OF martyrs, gone before.
He searched for Truth in city street,
But there the deathless, rhythmic beat
OF progress stayed his step.
| Returning from a distant shore,
He sat within his humble door:
Truth nestled at his feet.
4
Washington has produced many
splendid writer's and poets, and Of all
of them it is justly proud. Not many
If its poets have surpassed In genuine
| tenderness and beauty Of expression
the work of Mr.. Stoddard.
Who Pays for All the
Broken Milk Bottles?
sVt,>