CLYDE LINE-SUNDAY AFTERNOON.

The harbor swell, that surge of long grey miles,
Eddies and sucks at the kelp on dock-yard piles;
A battered tramp, of ancient, old-world lines,
Against the string-piece shoves her nose and whines
And frets for freedom. Nor can shadow hide
The paint, which peeling open on her side
In gaining sores, shows in the outer skin
The sluggish inactivity within;

Brown rust-paths with their ever trickling streams
Of bilge link port to wave; senile, she dreams
Of blue lagoons—of alien slips-world marts,
While from some open hatch-way faintly starts
The smell of drying fruit. A rat, half-seen,
Gains by a rope the under-wharf's cool green;
The wharf-planks, splintered by the rending feet
Of great draft horses, in the pulsing heat
Of breathless noon begin to ooze black lines
Of tar which creep in wav'ring, strange designs;
And everywhere the droning high-pitched hum
Of green-backed carrion flies that loudly come
Zigzagging a crazy course in endless quest
To light and rise and finally sink to rest,
A murmurous throng which films the overflow
Of gum, spilled on a truck two days ago.....

Deane Whittier Colton.

AN IMMODEST PROPOSAL.

I ALWAYS like to read play reviews. In nine cases out of ten it saves me two dollars. Then there is some peculiar quality about a play review that makes one feel somehow that the writer has really seen the play. This is probably what makes for the attraction. To feel that the man who wrote the article sat through two and a half hours of-well, it varies— which you have escaped, is a source of inward satisfaction. The clever reviewer invariably leaves one with this feeling. Somehow in reading a book review I never have the same sensation. I used to read a great many book reviews and this fact bothered me. I would sit back, close my eyes and try to imagine the reviewer toiling along somewhere about page 365, the thick black type slipping eternally on and on, and the maddening necessity staring him in the face of crawling with it-on and on-to the thick black stupid end. But this picture failed to present itself to my mind. Instead, I would have a most singular vision.

In this vision I would see the reviewer. Strangely enough he was always the same, a tall, thin, angular gentleman with large, sprawly hands and a phenomenally small head. He would step out of the void, but managed in some way to give the impression of being on a stage. As for the book, I never saw much of it for this reason. As soon as he appeared he would place it upon a small table in the background. Then he would hastily lower a curtain of mist (which I took to be gauze or some other stuff) in front of it. Next, standing before this curtain he would pull a second curtain of the same material down between himself and the audience. The entire performance took place with both curtains down. It was almost impossible to pierce through with the eye to the book that reposed in the background, but behind the outer curtain one could see the weird, shadowy figure gesticulating grotesquely, his long arms moving in fantastic sweeps and unfoldings, the effect of the whole magnified and distorted by the mist.

The book, as I have said, was almost completely concealed. If, however, one attempted to strain for a glimpse through both curtains the result was most disconcerting. The figure would thrash about much more violently than usual, going through all sorts of absurd measures to distract one's attention. If this violence failed he had other tricks. For instance, he would stand perfectly still. Then when this extraordinary proceeding had drawn one's notice he would slowly raise one arm and twirl his fingers. The effect was fascinating, his hands were so very large. It invariably succeeded in attaining its object.

The most singular thing about this vision was its recurrence. It came time after time. I couldn't read a review without seeing the long gentleman with the dark hair (I forgot to say that he had dark hair) and the perpetual air of a magician about to roll up his sleeves-although he never did really roll up his sleeves. With the first paragraph I could see him lower the curtain in front of the book quietly, reverentially almost. Then, rubbing his hands, he would turn toward the audience with his half-apologetic professional smile, pull the second curtain down hastily (as though the less attention this attracted the better!) and the show would commence.

It was its recurrence naturally that bothered me. I became intensely curious about the whole thing finally. I cast about for an explanation. There did not seem to be a single clue, I thought for a long while-unless-it was a brilliant thought—it was in the book that lay there in the background. So at last I took my courage in both hands and, after reading a review in which my tall friend went through more than the ordinary contortions, I purchased the book myself and investigated.

At first the whole thing was utterly incomprehensible. Then the revelation broke upon me. I couldn't believe it for a while. My trusting nature revolted. I hastened to attempt to verify it. I read other books-and the reviews!

It was true. The reviewers hadn't read the books, that was all. There was no other explanation. As I compared closely I could see the way it was done. Each man had a slightly different method. One, for instance, read the preface and skimmed hastily over the last part of the book. He was conscientious. Another had read the first and last chapters and looked

up the Author's telephone number. A third had remembered a previous book by the same man and read the chapter headings. In the end all joy in the reading of book reviews went from

me.

Now my nature is not utterly misanthropic and devoid of the milk of human kindness. I bear the reviewer no grudge and through no condemnation of mine would he be compelled to read such books as I chanced to investigate. Yet in my way I am selfish. The reading of book reviews has become a habit with me, a habit which I find it almost impossible to give up even though I realize the hollow mockery of the thing. Therefore I have thought the whole matter over and, after much pains, I have arrived at a solution. This solution (which I am going to offer here) is so simple that I wonder I did not hit upon it in the very beginning. By means of it the reviewer is relieved of reading the book, no hypocracy is practised as under the present system, and the review itself becomes infinitely more attractive than was ever possible before.

My idea is this. Why not, instead of reviewing the books, review merely the illustrations? No reviewer could possibly object to looking at the pictures, unless he were an artist, which I think is extremely improbable. The review itself would be done in this fashion. This is a review of a current novel, à book by that celebrated author, Mr. Lupert Penheim.

In Mr. Lupert Penheim's latest work, "What Next?", we have undoubtedly one of the best books of the year. Mr. Penheim's style has improved immensely since his "Wall Street from the Wall," has found itself, so to speak. The illustrations are by Harrison Blagg throughout! This is most remarkable when one considers Mr. Penheim's youth and his comparatively recent entrance into the field of literature. We always hesitate to predict the future but it would seem to auger a most brilliant career for this gifted young man.

The frontispiece is done in colors and depicts a boudoir scene. A man in dinner clothes is kneeling on the floor and peering anxiously beneath a dresser. A woman, a beautiful woman with dark hair, proud thin nostrils and bare slender arms, her dressing-gown caught lazily about her, stands gazing

with uplifted chin toward the door. Beneath are the words"Remember your promise, Hillory! My husband must not know!" Thus with characteristic skill Mr. Penheim strikes a popular note at the very beginning. What infinite possibilities are suggested! The imagination is aroused. What is the man searching for beneath the dresser? And, most important of all, Who is Hillory? We turn eagerly to page 33 opposite which we find the next illustration.

Here, as is typical of the Author's style-not a clue is suggested! Instead one is plunged still deeper into the absorbing mystery. It is a picture of a narrow street with a row of small dingy shops. Standing before one of these is an automobile. Below the picture we read the words—

"A limousine drew up to the curb."

Simply that. It is a beautiful example of Mr. Penheim's repression. Clean-cut, subdued but tense with dramatic power. Who is in the limousine? Burning with interest we turn to page 135.

What do we see here? A woman seated before a 'phone. It is the woman of the frontispiece. Her beautiful face expresses animation, an almost childish eagerness.

"To-night?" she murmured. "Yes-to-night!" Then she added wistfully—“Oh, it is adorable-blue and gold!”

I think when we read this we have an almost irresistible desire to murder Hillory. This is really a marvellous instance of Mr. Penheim's power. Without knowing who he is we have the desire to murder Hillory! Could anything be more daring and at the same time more perfect? What other American novelist could have produced the effect so skillfully, so subtly and yet so completely? Our interest in the story is now at white heat. In its depth of impenetrable mystery we perceive for the first time a thread of light. Hillory! She has not spoken his name but instinctively we know! Seizing upon this thread we build up with lightning rapidity a whole fabric as we turn quickly to page 210.

And here the supreme art of the story-teller comes to the fore. With a sweeping crash our elaborate fabric falls into a