Judge — April 26, 1930 — page 26: what you’re looking at

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

> Ura “Better lay off that, Cecil. Remem- ber the Kellogg Treaty.” “The day that I got the two lions and a rhinoceros ” + “Splendid, but sn't that sort of — “r, well, dangerous?” ConviviaL Party—Ash funny, I wake up an’ find myshelf up in a balloon. JUDGE AUDGING“ BOOKS “ Asenicay,” the life-story of A Plenty-coups, chief of Crows, as told to ‘Trader Linderman, will open your eyes further to the inner workings of the fast-sinking and mysterious Indian, Gapped perforce by restraining traditions which pre- vented the chief from telling all, it nevertheless reveals, behind the end- less fighting and hunting of the red days, the great dignity of the red- skin's mind and religion. Killing was his way of life. His. religion, know it for all time, was the worship of one God. Probably what kept him from becoming the master of this con- tinent was that he lacked a sense of His of the earth and cal fitness were almost classic. dhe survived, he couldn't worked in our factories. better he is pas however, is a monument. love have Maybe it is American,” And in a way, too, Michael Gold's “Jews Without Mon is an Ameri- can monument, since it deals with the story of those who inherited the land from the Indians. It is, however, the story of the Jews in the bad days, those horrible, nightmarish days spent the cauldron of the Lower East Side before the climb to financial heaven, Not that this picture been set down before, but Mr. Gold has done it with so much strength and godstruth detail, it will shake you to your withers. Gold has a none too savory reputation around the J. P. Mor, offices, and his bitter, wild grievances have been something of a pain in the neck in the past. But after this outpouring of the sweltering, dirty, poverty-bitten years our he: goes out to him. As our grandmother would say, there’s a reason for every- thing. Claire Spencer's “Gallows’ chard” is a sob ballad that comes moanin’ down from the hardbitten Scotch hills. It is played in a minor key with all the stops open, the words ng the tragedy of a Scotch god- dess who, too good for the community's male output, tries out a batch, and finding them but hollow legs, stomachs and heads, comes to a sad, sad end. Which leads you to believe that “Gal- lows’ Orchard” is no Scotch joke. Though not without power, poetry and other virtues too sophomoric to mention, it misses in that this goddess Or- 24 is too gosh-darned gawd She is too exaggerated; too strained ; too muc! thful copy of Lilith. the high priestess of Vassar. She isn’t a woman you'd care to. bring home to your mother, She’s a little too good ‘to live, and death comes in as a handy solution of her troubles. She dwarfs her men; swamps them with her ephemeral hoighty-toighti- ness, She turns them into tea-drinkers who sit around and discuss their weak- nesses, Willing to fight and die for her but not daring to risk a comment on her cooking. If one of them had only kicked her in the pants and saved the story! By the way, “Gallows’ Or- chard is one of the solemnities the Book of the Month Club has used to impress its. subscribers month since Joan Lowell laid them that egg. We prefer eggs to wormwood. almighty. ‘diner’s anfield” is about as ing as shooting craps with pins ing poker for hairnets, Start- th a character good for the best year and given of gamblers, gambling-house drat nbling-house personalities and a sideline on gambling philosophy, the author has chosen to lose himself in a barren maze of statistics that roll box- vars as far as your interest is con- cerned. One chapter in which “Bet- a-Million” Gates, “Lucky" Baldwin and other high-stake players holed is like it. Try someone. It’s a sixteen: more again, cylinder theme. N. B.—It has just occurred that when we recommend Clifford Orr's “Dartmouth Murders” we failed to ize that the central was, ldwyn’s two words, impossi- 1 college men are killed a needle shot into the brain through the base of the neck, Which could hardly affect the college men we kn . +. And here’s a_ best-selling title, no charge, for a story to be writ- ten around a York, Pa., grass-widder: “Hex W. . ++ Also for heaven's sake, don’t fail to get a copy of the most brilliant book of the year, by that curly-haired laddie with the wind of a million saxophone notes in his throat: Rudy Vallée’s “Vagabond Dreams Come True.” It'll make a handy implement to throw into the loud speaker when the croon comes. —Tep Suane comicbooks.com