THE sweet bird's throat itself (not to mention the harsher
homing note of an occasional aeroplane) was something of a distraction in the early part. Did the sweet artifice of the comedy seem a little shaky in the plain light of London ? But this was only for the shortest space. With dusk deepening, the the brilliant moon rising, and the lesser lamps below turning living grass and leaf into properties of amazing verisimilitude, and the birds, silent now, slipping like spies through the foliage, and foolish moths dancing like fireflies in time to the gestures of the players—nothing then could be more natural than to find Arden here. Om is converted as simply as was Duke Frederick coming to the skirts of the wild wood. Miss Mary Kerridge brings a pleasant vivacity to the part of Rosalind, Mr. Russell Thorndike bends to good comic effect under the weight of Touchstone's wisdom, and Mr. David Powell stands straight and melancholy under Jaques's. Mr. Robert Aitkins's production goes smoothly, May the weather meet his brave company half-way at
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