A LITERARY CORNER

New Zealand Times, Volume XLIII, Issue 9966, 9 May 1918, Page 10

A LITERARY CORNER

(B-i.D.) ■'•'SOLDIERS TWO.” Chrystal Stirling. (New South "Wales Bookstall Company, Sydney.) This is a great idea. It is that when a. soldier of the King goes to the war, leaving wife and bairns behind, there are two soldiers—tho soldier man who fights in the lino of battle and tho soldier wife who endures, inspired both by tho great cause. But the great cause dpcs not prevent sorrow. In spite of tho great cause, the first soldier is filled with tho tender memories of bis home, and the second soldier, keeping the homo and tho children, is filled with yearning for th*o man who made the home, brought her to it a happy bride, and joyed with her in their children. Tho soldier man makes the supremo sacrifice; tho soldier woman is overwhelmed with grid; but ( from beginning to end there is never a single regret on either side of the strong fidelity to the great cause. Such is the great idea. It is carried out in a series of letters between tho ‘‘Soldiers Two.” The series begins on tho day he gets up from breakfast to enlist, and she takes up her duties by clearing the table and tidying tho house. It goes on through the camplife; it keeps up through tho days of the departure, of the arrival at the training camp in England; of the whole time at the iront, right to the bitter end, when the telegram “killed in action,” signed by the commanding officer, arrives at the home. The tenderness of these letters is exquisite. They are full of the little tilings that make home the greatest thing on earth for all men and women. They realise the hopes and joys of tho soldier life, its bravery, its endurance, its enterprise; beside these runs the strong current of love and hope and duty; over all is the impending shadow of sorrow; and the end comes in the -üblime simplicity of grief bravely rndured. One of the tenderest, noblest books sf the war. “•NINETY-SIX HOURS’ LEAVE." Stephen McKenna. (Methuen and Co., 36, Esses street, Tv ,C., London.) 'the author of “Sonia” and “The Sixth Sense” has exerted his masterly qualities of construction, characterbuilding, brilliancy of dialogue, and dramatic treatment of adventure to great purpose in this book. Three offi:ers—a wild young subaltern, and two jtaid men of the world—come home For four days’ leave eager for the enjoyment of “Blighty.” How it became necessary for the youngster to impersonate a foreign Prince; how he fell in love with a charming young lady when so engaged; how the real Prince unexpectedly arrived; how ho was dogged by anarchists thirsting for his blood; how the two friends of the luckless pretender, aided by a young naval officer of the sort one find’s on the bridges of destroyers, helped him in the ensuing difficulties—all this, and what came of it, is told with great skill and humour. You begin at the beginning, alert, you go ahead with alacrity. You simply cannot skip a line, and you are sorry when you arrive at the last page, though you cannot deny that the book has been a bracing tonic —especially if ' business has been,.with you harder than usual. Tile treatment of the feather-headed youngster in bis numerous irresponsibilities by the older men makes a vivid picture of life, to which the accurate type studies give a reality as convincing as they are delightful. »FAmES~AND‘FUSILIERS.’’ Robert Graves. (TV. Heinemann, 21, Bedford street, London, TV.C. 2.) Poetry in irrepressible mood goes sweeping by. Regiments come and go; battles Care up in vast atmospheres of sound and flame; men spend eternities in the mud of trenches, and shorter hours in Blighty; dressing stations and ambulances and hospitals make a ghastly interchange. Such is war. But the making of verses goes on regardless of shell and sniper and gas and shrapnel, of mud, sun, rain, snow. Such are tho poets who sing on every front. Oh, the depth and the breadth, and the.. grace ac.d the humour, and tho tragedy of the cheerfulness of war I The singer s give us of thedx best, in grave and gay, from the poetry that soars to the doggerel that amuses And some there are you never can place exactly in their courses over the Empyrean traversing the noisy shell paths. Of the latter is Robert Graves, whose orbit is labelled “Fairies and Fusiliers.” Ho lias music in him and poetry; he has whims, quips,

cranks; depths of meaning, strange fancies; ingenuities scaling to the impossible with subtle climb. In me midst of war ho sing s of home landscapes as “poets dream by haunted stream.” And always he. sounds the cheerful net- dominating tho warworn soldier? of this British Empire for which they fight. To realise him it is best to quote him. Liston; TO AN UNGENTLE CRITIC. The groat sun sinks behind tho town Through a red. mist of \ oinay wine. , • But want's'the use of sotting down That _g.otT.ous blaze 'bemud uie town? YouT ouiy skip tho page, you’ll look Por newer p.cturos in tins book; You've read of sunsets rich as mine. A_ fresh wind fills the evening air With horrid crying of night birds. . . . But what reads new or curious there When cold winds fly across the air? You'd only frown; you'll turn the page. But,find no glimpse of your “New Ago Of Poetry” in my worn-out Words. Must winds that cut like blades of steel And sunsets swimming in Volnay, The holiest, cruellest pains I feel, Die stillborn, because old men squeal .For something new: “Write something new .* We’ve read this poem—that one too, And twelve more like ’em yesterday”? * No. no! my chicken. I shall scrawl g Just what I fancy as I strike it. Fairies and Fusiliers, and all. Old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl Across my verse in the classic way. And, sir, be careful what you say; There are old-fashioned folk still like it. “THE ASSAULT HEROIC.” Down, m lue mud X ray, Xrrou out uy my tong uay uu nve nuiujicti uajs arm nights, hive s-.eopj.eas ojiys unu n.guus, . . . mromn oimwmea, ana sot .me wnoro Dne aungouu or Despair XiOOil;* JUcaoiauj Ovfti, Drowning ana Uironvening mo vvion aspect nign. ana bicep— A most, maiign-mc keep. Ary ices tnat ray wirnin tmoured and made a am, D-ooted pna grinned ana cried: “To-day wo've kiued your pride; To-day your amour onus. We've murdered all your friends; ■ We've undermined Dy stearin Your happiness ana your health. Wo've taxon away your nope; Now you may droop una mope To misery and to death.” But with, my spear or laith, Scout fis an oaken rafter. With my round .shield of laughter. With my sharp tongue, like sword That speaks a bitter word, . I stood beneath tne wail And there defied them ail. ' The stones they cast 1 caught And aichemised with thought Duo such tumps ot gold As dreaming misers noid. The bearing oil they threw Fed in a shower oi dew. Refreshing me; the spear* Flew harmless by - my ears,,. Struck quivering in the sod: There, like the prophet's rod, Put loaves out, took firm root. And bore me instant fruit. ■My foes were all astounded, ' Dumbstricken and confounded, ‘ Gaping in a long row; They dared not thrust nor throw. Thus, then, I climbed a sleep Buttress and won the keep. And laughed and proudly blow My horn. “Stand to! Stand to! Wiihe up, sir! Here’s a new Attack! Stand to! Stand tol” NOT DEAD. ■ Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain, I know that David’s with me here again. All that is simple, happy, strong, he is. Caressingly I stroke Rough bark of the friendly oak. A brook goes bubbling by: the voice* is his. Turf burns with pleasant smoke; I laugh at chaffinch and at primroses. All tnat is simple, happy, strong, he is. Over the whole wood in a little while Breaks his slow smile. LETTER TO S. S. PROM MAMET’/ WOOD. ((Reminiscent of a Home in Wales.) You’ll see where in old Roman days, Before Revivals changed our ways. The Virgin ’scaped the Devil’s grab, Frinting her foot on a stone slab With hve clear toe-marks; and you’ll find The fiendish thumbprint close behind. You’ll see where Math, Mathonwy’s son, Spoke with the wizard Qiwydion And bad him for South Wales set out To steal that creature with the snout. That new-discovered grunting beast Divinely flavoured for the feast. No traveller yet has hit upon A wilder land than Meirion, For desolate hills and tumbling stones, Bogland and melody and bid bones. Fairies and ghosts are here galore, . And poetry most splendid, more Than can be written with' the pen Or understood by common men.