depth.

Boston _Penseroso_: We find Mr. Dove Dulcet's new book rather baffling.
We take his poem "On Raiding the Ice Box" to be a paean in honor of the
discovery of the North Pole; but such a poem as "On Losing a Latchkey,"
is quite inscrutable. Our guess is that it is an intricate
psycho-analysis of a pathological case of amnesia. Our own taste is more
for the verse that deals with the gentler emotions of every day, but
there can be no doubt that Mr. Dulcet is an artist to be reckoned with.

A MARRIAGE SERVICE FOR COMMUTERS

(_Fill in railroad as required_)

[Illustration]

Wilt thou, Jack, have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together
in so far as the ---- Railroad will allow? Wilt thou love her, comfort
her, honor and keep her, take her to the movies, prevent the furnace
from going out, and come home regularly on the 5:42 train?"

"I will."

"Wilt thou, Jill, have this commuter to thy wedded husband, bearing in
mind snowdrifts, washouts, lack of servants and all other penalties of
suburban life? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor and keep
him, and let him smoke a corncob pipe in the house?"

"I will."

"I, Jack, take thee, Jill, to my wedded wife, from 6 P.M. until 8 A.M.,
as far as permitted by the ---- Railroad, schedule subject to change
without notice, for better, for worse, for later, for earlier, to love
and to cherish, and I promise to telephone you when I miss the train."

"I, Jill, take thee, Jack, to my wedded husband, subject to the
mutability of the suburban service, changing trains at----, to have and
to hold, save when the card club meets on Wednesday evenings, and
thereto I give thee my troth."

THE SUNNY SIDE OF GRUB STREET

[Illustration]

I often wonder how many present-day writers keep diaries. I wish _The
Bookman_ would conduct a questionnaire on the subject. I have a
suspicion that Charley Towne keeps one--probably a grim, tragic
parchment wherein that waggish soul sets down its secret musings. I dare
say Louis Untermeyer has one (morocco, tooled and goffered, with gilt
edges), and looks over its nipping paragraphs now and then with a
certain relish. It undoubtedly has a large portmanteau pocket with it,
to contain clippings of Mr. Untermeyer's letters to the papers taking
issue with the reviews of his books. There is no way for the reviewer to
escape that backfire. I knew one critic who was determined to review
one of Louis's books in such a