T HE DEBUT OF Minou Drouet in London has led me
to read S me of her poems during the last few days. I was unacquainted with them before, and, after looking at them tor a bit, came to the conclusion that, strictly on internal evidence, any doubts about their authorship should be dis- missed. They are the kind of poems that a child might write —rather a precocious child, it is true—and their merit is not so superlative as to make any hypotheses of maternal or literary influences necessary. The poems are very promising and even touching, but, as might be expected, they are more or less unformed. A number of letters are published along with them which participate in a strange stylistic make-believe —Minou Drouet has succeeded in writing like a grown-up in every respect, and the result is a little embarrassing. What- ever one may think of the writing, there is surely no necessity for the vie sentimentale of a small girl of eight to be put down in print? .
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