Judge — February 17, 1923 — page 23: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

delight of gardens” in England long ago. She found many quaint pictures to illus- trate it, too, and many pictures that show what three centuries have done—some- times very little except to increase the size and beauty of the trees. If you can tell a winking mary-bud from a white throated sparrow, you will enjoy this charming book. It is going to cost me about $200, by Tha ady started to knot gare Tador style. ‘OR DESERTS, they sound good to- » with the mercury coquetting and no coal in the cellar! The 130F. in| Death Brush Perkins, with zerc glass sometimes re: Valley, according to F who went there on vacation, with another woman, and wrote a book about | it, called “The White Heart of Mojave,” (Boni & Liveright). She went in a motor car, too. We expected, when we began this book, to find it la com- posed of the usual humors resulting from the efforts of females to run a motor car. Instead, we found it a true, eloquent, if not very subtle appreciation of that wonderful Southern land, ending with the naked, glory of Death Valley. It was a br: adventure these two women embarked upon, but they were reckless—they had just finished ‘up a suffrage campaign. The cynical may say it was no wonder they appreciated the desert. A YEAR AGO we read a little book called f sser Marco Polo.” by Don Byrne, and we were captivated by his spell. We have just read his latest no’ “The Wind Bloweth” (The Century C and once more we find his pages whis, ing beauty. His hero is an Ulster Scot, born in the hills of Antrim, but he speaks the Irish of Synge and Lady Gregory his soul is the dreaming soul of the Cel In the story of his growth and world wanderings and adventures in search of spiritual fulfillment. we think Mr. Byrne more successful at. the beginnings than toward the end. That may be because his style is a bit overwrought, scious, and he forgets a bit the rar, sustained narrative. Howe hook is an adventure in beauty, his face is lifted toward the upland he rather above the Antrim dales. Pure Juvce, by Rebecca West (George H. Dera Co.), although a long novel (quite too long, in fact), in. the | realistic manner, scems to us beautiful— beautiful because of the fidelity of its portrait of a woman's life, beautiful be- cause that woman's story gives us a keen, vivid sense of emotional life in ourselves, -autiful because Miss West's style is so . So nervous, so razor-edged, and able at times of a restrained anc r eloquence. It is the style of a crat of letters, to be sure. But | before we break off this review to_pre- pare our lectu t the Rand School, we will confess that both in literature and life aristocracy has certain merits which appeal to the fastidious. PR nad “Quite a cynic, isn’t he?” “Why, he's so cynical he even suspects his own cynicism is a pose!” to gather this witch to his breast; | kiss, and then to crush out life from the small, lithe body. But he must not move a muscle—he dare not take the risk of discov ery there was the other girl—and yet—What nameless danger lay be’ fore him in this underworld den of forgetfulness? Never before were there such mystery tales, id mere excitement and adventure, re rich with the secrets of Chinese religious f » of robber bands of India, of wily opium smugglers, of wizards of all countries. in Rohmer knows society in high places; knows the lowest dens of the great cities; all he knows the my: | have come out of the Orient. He will take — s fas » homes of aristocracy to the — ready |lowest of Limehouse dives—from Ej —from China to Piccadil will carry you breathlessly ‘thrilled frou page to page. 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