could not improve upon them; and yet the reader
has only to turn to the text to see the incredibly
early age at which such expressions came into the
author's mind.

Where childhood betrays genius is in the mounting
up of detail. Inadequate lines not infrequently
jar a total effect, as when, in the poem of
the star pulling the moon, she suddenly ends,
"Mr. Moon, does he make you hurry?" Or,
speaking of a drop of water:

"So it went on with its life
For several years
Until at last it was never heard of
Any more."

This is the perennial child, thinking as children
think; and we are glad of it. It makes the whole
more healthy, more sure of development. When
the subconscious mind of Hilda Conkling takes a
vacation, she does not "nod," as erstwhile
Homer; she merely reverts to type and is a child
again.

I think too highly of these poems to speak of
the volume as though it were the finished achievement
of a grown-up person. Some of the poems
can be taken in that way, but by no means all.
The child who writes them frequently transcends