some good spirits get to work with all diligence. Let us not wait for the civilizing influence of jazz and music memory contests to make our treasurers of these old, rude, virile songs ashamed of their heritage. Every Southern university ought to have at least one faculty member who would make it his chief interest to collect such things. And, furthermore, they ought to be not only collected and put in books to stand on library shelves. They ought to be sung by concert singers, school children, choruses. They ought to be known and loved, in their traditional melodies. Why do we need to give all our favor to the "Song of the Volga Boatmen" and "O Sole Mio," when we have good folk songs of our own right near us? If we neglect them, we are a contrary and heedless generation.
The book I have been attempting to read is not a child's book,* nor is it fit for children, but it has a great deal of childishness about it. I refer to The Second American Caravan. The correct adjective to apply to it is, I think, "puerile." Most of its sixty contributors might easily be catalogued, from their showing here, as perverse imps, telling dirty stories in a frowzy backyard--crude imps with unformed minds, imps without prankishness or dignity, imps with a dull, insistent way of exposing their own hurts.
One of the first offerings, a fragment of a novel by Jonathan Leonard, tells a drab, unintelligible story of a____________________