William Griffiths was born at Memphis, Missouri, on the fifteenth of February 1876, and received his education at the public schools. He has been a "newspaper man" and magazine editor, and has produced a number of books in verse and prose, of which the best example is _City Pastorals_, originally published in 1915, revised and reissued in 1918. The title of this book appears to be a paradox; but its significance is clear enough after one has read a few pages. It is an original and interesting way of bringing the breath of the country into the town. The scene is a New York Club on a side street; the year is 1914; the three speakers are Brown, Gray, Green; the four divisions are Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter. The style is for the most part rimed stanzas in short metre, which go trippingly on the tongue. Grace and delicacy characterize the pictures of the country that the men bring back to the smoky city from their travels. Occultly through a riven cloud The ancient river shines again, Still wandering like a silver road Among the cities in the plain. On far horizons softly lean The hills against the coming night; And mantled with a russet green, The orchards gather into sight. Through apples hanging high and low, In ruddy colours, deeply spread From core to rind, the sun melts slow, With gold upcaught against the red. And here and there, with sighs and calls, Among the hills an echo rings Remotely as the water falls And down the meadow softly sings. A wind goes by; the air is stirred With secret whispers far and near; Another token--just a word Had made the rose's meaning clear. I see the fields; I catch the scent Of pine cones and the fresh split wood, Where bearded moss and stains are blent With autumn rains--and all is good. An air, arising, turns and lifts The fallen leaves where they had lain Beneath the trees, then weakly shifts And slowly settles back again. While with far shouts, now homeward bound, Across the fields the reapers go; And, with the darkness closing round, The lilies of the twilight blow. Many of the other poems in this volume, that follow the _City Pastorals_, are interpretations of various individuals and of various nationalities. Mr. Griffith has a gift for the making of epigrams; and indeed he has studied concision in all his work. It may be that this is a result of his long years of training in journalism; he must have silently implored the writers of manuscripts he was forced to read to leave their damnable faces and begin. Certain it is, that although he can write smoothly flowing music, there is hardly a page in his whole book that does not contain some idea worth thinking about. His wine of Cyprus has both body and bouquet.