The ten thousand odd lines of this inspired poem are liberally enlivened with those characteristic flashes which Mr. Geek's previous efforts have led us to expect. Nothing could be happier than the following, descriptive of the hero's early days on the barrack-square:-- The Sergeant rolled his eyes toward the azure And called down curses on my bloody head... "You buzz about," his peroration ran, "Like a bluebottle in a sugar-bowl. Thank God we have a Navy!" and my feet, Turned outward, as they had been drilled to turn, At forty-five degrees or thereabouts, Itched to join issue with his swollen paunch; But I refrained. Or again:-- Fame, the skyscraper, hath a thousand floors; And some toil slowly upward, stair by stair, And stagger and halt and faint upon the way; Others, more fortunate, achieve the top At one swift elevation, by the lift. Mr. Geek, whatever his method of progression may have been, has certainly "achieved the top"--if indeed he has not gone over it. * * * * * In _Throbs_, Miss Gramercy Gingham-Potts reveals a depth of feeling and delicacy of expression that should secure her the right of entry to every art-calendar and birthday-book. Her Muse is, perhaps, a trifle anæmic, but to many none the less interesting on that account; 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.