HERE again, glossy and gorgeous, is The Saturday Book — the adult
equivalent of doll or clockwork-train, a safe last-minute buy as a Christmas present for the literate. A compendium such as this, which aims at having a little bit of something for every- body, runs the risk of being formless and scrappy. This particular volume is saved from that fate by using the services of several able journalists, who all have some- thing to say as well as knowing how to say it. Among so much talent it would be invidious (or wouldn't it ?) to pick out plums for special admiration. But the photo- graphed extracts from Sir Edward Marsh's , Little Book, in which his numerous poetic friends have in the last 40 years inscribed their poems, are pages of much more than ephemeral interest: Sir Max Beerbohm's astringent contribution would force a laugh even on the most awful of Boxing Days. For the rest . . . well, for the rest there is the rest of the book, and very agreeable too.
E. C. H.
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