OUR OLD MOTHER ADVOCATE SCRATCHES HER GRAY HEAD

Somehow we knew that if ever Mother Advocate dared to scratch her head, things would happen. Mother Advocate scratched her head. . . .

Then Stephen Leacock Esq. (not so much the purveyor of "Nonsense Novels" as the Professor of Political Economy), moved by the Ancient Dame's merry gesture, gave his "Canadian Ec.A." cuts for a month and thought audibly about "College Dormitories." To be sure, his tongue would persist almost suavely, in finding his cheek, and his left eye indulge its habitual wink, but for the greater part of two pages Professor Leacock voices irrefutable solemnities:

"If I were founding a university--and I say it with all the seriousness of which I am capable (just think of that!)--I would found first a smoking room; then when I had a little more money in hand I would found a dormitory; then after that, or more properly with that, a decent reading room and a library. After that, if I still had money over that I couldn't use, I would hire a professor and get some textbooks."

Fund Committees, hear! hear! We propose as the first incumbent of the Cozy Chair in the Department of Dormitories, Stephen Leacock Esq. (not so much the professor of Political Economy as the Purveyor of "Nonsense Novels.")

Enigma Left Unsolved

It is proof of exquisite editorial tact that C. J. Schern Jr. should be the next man to scratch his head and wonder "Why the Professor Leaves his Holly Wreaths in the Window until they Wither." It is proof of even more exquisite tact that Mr. Schern refrains from any solution of the enigma. He tells us why a professor buckles up his overshoes; but he does not tell us why "It has been a custom from time immemorial to hang in--to hang in their win--." It were better not.

Mr. Denby, however, is not as discreet. His "professional pryer--in" (the roles are reversed) is forced to witness the horror of rhyming "ethics" with "anaesthetics!" Then, very decently, he succumbs.

And we wander. Let us return to prose and confess at once that "My Uncle Henry," with his "thin, pale face and faded blue eyes," his immaculately bald head and his "quick, fussy gestures," plays fast and loose not only with his nephew's affections, but with our own. There is, in Stoddard Colby's portrait of the strange codger, a touch of whimsical, wistful drollery that recalls the delicate nuances and half-tones of Lamb. We think of the reminiscent Charles and his "Poor Relations," and that is praise enough. Mr. Colby has achieved the unusual in penetrating through the outward and visible accidents to the essential Uncle Henry of us all.

Clever Parody on Lamb

The gentle-hearted Charles is delightfully evident in Mr. Ladd's "Deductions from the Death and Burial of Two Pigs." A delicious phantasy this! We trim our leg-o'-mutton sail and are off for the El Dorado of Roast Pig--which is none other than Old Man Pratt's farmhouse, over to Grennell's Green. Son Jake greets us at the door with a huge grin. And there is Bid, the heavy hired girl. And Ma Pratt. And Pa Pratt. And we all pull up chairs together. "Pitch in, everybody. . . . It looks richer than burnt gold, and it tastes like maple honey boiled on the sunside of a cloud with cocoanuts disolved in it!"

It is quite a jump from D. T. McCord's "The Ups and Downs of Skiing," to Mr. R. Emerson's "Religion--Past, Present, and Future." After a brief, dizzy excursion into space we wake up in bed to find only one limb out of a possible four functioning properly. Then Mr. Emerson comes along and prescribes a rather ambitious, eloquent, inaccurate order of Religion. We refuse to swallow.

Poetry "Clear and Piercing"

But the poetry is tonic; to quote from Mr. McLane's admirable review of Masefield's "Enslaved," it is "piercing, clear poetry." F. W. MacVeagh's "Poem" is a brilliant bit of repression, phrased with that quiet, haunting conciseness which E. A. Robinson has celebrated. Mr. McLane's "Anniversary" is tender dedication to Fadeless Love and Beauty. In "A Symbol" Mr. La Farge sails the old glamorous seas to Xanader, quite as his swashbuckling Pirate does in "Santa Spirita Harbor." Merle Colby magically weaves the burthen and repetand of "Days Falling," or in "The Singer" takes up the old ballad cry of the Poet and the Passerby with deft and unprovocative ease. . . .

Somehow we knew if ever Mother Advocate dared to scratch her head things would happen. Mother Advocate scratched her head.