unt;
its very fragility, in fact, constitutes its chief appeal. She has an
engaging gift of definition that, combined with a keen appreciation
of the obvious, makes her verses particularly susceptible to quotation.
For instance:--

The maiden asked, "What is a kiss?"
The poet wrote:
"Kisses are stamps that frank with bliss
Love's contract-note."

While for effectively studied simplicity it would be difficult to
match the lyrical gem to which Miss Gingham-Potts has given the
arresting title, "Farewell":--

The birds sing sweet in Summer;
The daisies hear their song;
But Winter's come, and they are dumb
So long.

I told my love in Summer,
So pure and brave and strong;
But frosts came on; my love is gone;
So long!

* * * * *

A new volume by the author of _Swings and Roundabouts_ is something
of an event; and in _Bottles and Jugs_ Mr. Ughtred Biggs makes another
fascinating raid on the garbage-bins of London's underworld. Mr. Biggs
is a stark realist, and his unminced meat may prove too strong for
some stomachs; but those who can digest the fare he offers will
find it wonderfully sustaining. Here is no condiment of verbiage, no
dressing of the picturesque. Life is served up high, and almost raw.
By way of illustration we cannot do better than quote from the opening
poem, "Bill's Wife," in which the calculated roughness of the rhythm
is redolent of the pervading atmosphere:--

At the corner of the street
Stands the Blue-faced Pig;
Outside a barrel-organ is playing
And the people are dancing a jig.

A woman waits there grimly;
Her eyes are set and her lips drawn thin;
For Bill, her man, is in the public,
Soaking his soul in gin.

Students of sociology might do worse than devote careful attention to
these gaunt chronicles of Slumland.

* * * * *

The following stanzas, taken from a poem entitled "Reconstruction,"
are a favourable example of Mr. Thor Pinmoney's somewhat unequal
genius:--

By strife we live, but boredom slays;
My mind from out this office strays
And takes me back to the spacious days
When I counted socks in Ordnance.

I hate my pen; I hate my stool;
What am I but a nerveless tool?
But we did not work by rote or rule
When I counted socks in Ordnance....

There are times even now when it really seems
I'm bac