As one runs to the window at the first sound of a fire alarm, so do my literary legs become active whenever I see an article by “Cyrano” in our daily papers. “Cyrano” always writes interestingly on interesting subjects and in the matter of literary style is many degrees higher than the average newspaper writer. I commenced to cut out and preserve these “Cyrano” articles and regretted I had not done so earlier, and I also regretted for readers in general, that these admirable essays (yes, most of them were really entitled to be called essays) were to be dead and buried in newspaper files. Time came when I discovered who “Cyrano” was—a friendly fellow whom I found wrote poetry (excellent verse too) had had a novel published, a play or two, and was author of an almost famous appreciation of England, called “Home.” Yes, I met Alan Mulgan and appreciated the man as much as his work.

However, these “Cyrano” essays are not destined to be dead and buried. The best of them have now been published by Dent's under the title of “First With the Sun.” Thirty-four essays are included in the book, ranging from the first on the passing of the old Ionic (by no means, however, the best in the book—more of a newspaper article) to one entitled “Smells.” Regarding the latter all will agree with Mulgan that the smell of a burning bit of dead tea-tree will “make your heart strings crack” no matter how far you may wander from New Zealand. Although vastly different in style from an earlier New Zealand collection from Dent's (the difference between a long beer and a cocktail) these “Cyrano” essays will appeal to everybody. I particularly liked the splendid tribute to G.K.C. and the retrospect on the one time popular cult of “Dooleyisms.” There is fact, fun and fancy in the book. About forty line drawings by Olivia Spencer-Bowen illustrate the text.

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Discussing great Australian novels in the February issue I overlooked the greatest of them all, Henry Handel Richardson's trilogy, “The Fortunes of Richard Mahoney.” At the same time I notice that in a lengthy article on the same subject in “The British Annual of Literature,” Edith Fry fails to mention “All That Swagger,” “Landtakers,” “Pageant” and “Tiburon.”

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The art of Russell Clark, whose work I have been lauding for the past decade (some claimed I was over enthusiastic), is given pride of place in the latest number of “Art in New Zealand.”

Russell Clark has taken his place as one of the leading and most interesting artists of the Dominion. In colour plates and black and white reproduc

A bookplate from the Dutch Indies.

tionand an accompanying article by J. Shelley, full justice is paid to his genius. In the same issue of the quarterly is included an article on the art of modern Germany (with a water colour reproduction by Hitler), verse, art notes and other features.

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Several fine reference books have been written on the Dominion's bird life. Buller's massive work is the standard book of reference, and was followed by Hutton & Drummond's book, and in 1930 by W. R. B. Oliver's work. Guthrie-Smith has also contributed valuable information to our bird library. Now we have a popular and beautifully produced account of the bird life of New Zealand in Mona Gordon's “The Children of Tane” (Dent, London). The whole story has been co-ordinated in an unusual way. It is well illustrated, has an index, a glossary, maps, etc. This brief notice is from a “proof copy” of the book.

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I read recently, for the first time, of the poetry and life of Maurice C. Fields, a young Negro who, in August last, was drowned at Long Island. In Maurice Fields, America has lost one of her most promising poets. He was only twenty years of age when he was drowned, and the few verses of his published gave promise of rare genius. He was a brilliant scholar and linguist, and wrote his poems under extreme nervous strain. The foreboding note of death was present in most of his verse. In the poem, “Song At Seventeen,” there is something unforgettably sad in the poet's seeming eagerness, his “impatience to know the truth of God's design”:

I shall tread the pathway to the sun,
And find the vale where the rivers run,
Where the hills rise nimbused in a cloud—
Humbly quiescent — yet perversely proud ….
And I'll not sit with a wheezing breath
Or folded hands to await slow death.
My heart's impatient to know the truth
Of God's design, so I'll spurn my youth.
This petty morsel of life's repast,
I'll bolt it down; then prepare to fast.
Vine-leaves in hair, grape stains on face,
I'll race shocked Death to our trysting place.

I found this in a book of newspaper cuttings under the heading of “With Apologies to Omar”:—

Alas, that hopes should vanish ‘ere the rose,

When Youth with his MS. does not enclose
An envelope with a twopenny stamp,
To return his inspiration whence it flows!