(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
I have the feeling that when Mr. RUDYARD KIPLING called his new volume _A
Diversity of Creatures_ (MACMILLAN) he was rather taking the word out of my
mouth, or the sword out of my hand, or whatever one does for the confusion
and discomforting of critics. Because it is just the extreme diversity of
the tales herein which, while providing (as they say) something for all
tastes, makes it very hard to appraise the book as a whole. In form it
follows the KIPLING convention, endeared to us by so much pleasure, of
sandwiching prose and verse, the poems echoing the idea of the tale that
has preceded them, and themselves likely to prove for many the most
attractive pages of the book. As for the stories, here we get diversity
indeed; and not of theme alone. It is, of course, almost impossible for
anything signed by Mr. KIPLING to be wholly commonplace, but I am bound to
admit that there is at least one of the collection (which, pardon me, I do
not mean to name) that makes a notable effort in that direction. Also there
are two of which one can honestly say that no other pen could have written
them with anything like such finished art--_The Village that Voted the
Earth was Flat_, which one might call a fantasia upon Publicity, and (to my
mind the best thing in the volume) _My Son's Wife_, an exquisitely humorous
and cunning study in the Influence of Landed Estate upon a Modern. If this
definition strikes you as obscure, read the story and you will understand.
For the rest, as I said above, all tastes are catered for; so that the
rival schools who admire Mr. KIPLING most as the creator of _Plain Tales_,
or _Stalky_ or _Puck_, will each receive encouragement and support; while,
if there be those who prefer the pot-boiler undisguisable, they too will
not find themselves altogether neglected.
* * * * *
I do wish our publishers would grasp the great truth that praise of their
own wares needs (to say the least of it) most careful handling. What they,
or some anonymous admirer, say on the cover of _The Worn Doorstep_ (HODDER
AND STOUGHTON) is that they should like to shout its merits from the
housetop. Possibly; but let me protest that it is for me, and not for them,
to do the shouting, if any; which said, I will proceed to admit that the
book is one of considerable charm. It is told in the form of letters (never
to be posted, since they are from a young wife to her soldier-husband,
presumed to have been killed before the opening of the book). Miss MARGARET
SHERWOOD thus reverts to a convention more popular some few years ago than
with our present-day romanticists. The matter of her tale shows how the
young wife in question found consolation in befriending others, especially
in the love affairs of a Belgian refugee couple, to whom she opens her home
and heart. A very pretty idea, developed with many dainty and amiable
touches. Perhaps (I set down no dogmatic verdict on the point) the cynical
or impatient may find its sweetness something too drawn out. On the other
hand, there are many "gentle readers," probably a vast majority, to whom
its appeal will prove entirely successful. And as they can be trusted to
spread its merits in the right quarters there will be no need for the
publishers to shout, either from the house-top or anywhere else, which (as
I suggested above) is as it should be.
* * * * *
When we are introduced to _Margaret Grenfield_, the heroine of _Fetters on
the Feet_ (ARNOLD), she is living with some Quaker cousins and spending
most of her time in mending stockings. So many people make stockings who
refuse absolutely to mend them that I imagine there must be something
peculiarly unattractive in this work of restoration, and it was a fortunate
day for _Margaret_ when the pedantic young man of the house proposed to
marry her. After this we discover that she has both a history and a will of
her own. She leaves the Quakers, and goes as secretary to a lady who holds
eccentric if broadminded views on every conceivable subject, and the change
of atmosphere, however delightful in various ways, was too much for
_Margaret's_ peace of mind. The young Quaker was an obstinate wooer and
followed her up, but his chances of success, which were never rosy, grew
dimmer and dimmer as _Margaret_, freeing herself of shackles, gradually
began to see life as a whole instead of through the eye of a darning-
needle. In the end MRS. FRED REYNOLDS tells us that "the day dawned. The
whole earth sang and sparkled in the glad light of it," which is her way of
saying that _Margaret_ had found happiness. But all the same I fancy that
introspection had become such a habit of this heroine that she is still
likely to have days when the dawn is grey and no birds sing.
* * * * *
"He was also the first officer to make a successful flight from the
deck of a British warship, and on one occasion he changed an aeroplane
propeller blade whilst flying 2,000ft. above the sea."--_Evening
Paper._
The above extract has been forwarded by the members of a R.F.C. mess, who
are anxious to know what happened when he stopped his engine.
* * * * *
"Wanted, for a Farmhouse, Middle-Aged Person to look an Old Lady;
lifting and light duties."--_Newcastle Daily Journal._
We doubt if there will be much response. Most middle-aged persons nowadays
prefer to look like flappers.
* * * * *