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not born New Zealander. He wrote for an oversea public, if he wrote for any, and his native flowers and birds take English names, wherever he can find an analogy. In the ardent patriotism of such verse as that of Arthur H. Adams, and in several other poems in this volume, one recognizes a more filial sound which may be expected to permeate the poetry of Maoriland in the future.

Later writers have brought new possibilities into landscape poetry, also, by introducing a personal tone. Of these none captures the very spirit and perfume of the Bush better than Mrs. James Glenny Wilson; and Hubert Church, although he deals more often with other subjects, holds a worthy place by reason of the delicacy of his treatment and the originality of his language. (More New Zealand verse is rendered impossible by its hackneyed verbiage than from any other cause.) Another development is the little dainty vignette of bush and bird which Johannes Andersen has made his own. The group of town verses—in praise of our little cities that are not large enough to be a blight nor old enough to mingle awe with the love of them—is one that might have been considerably enlarged, had space and proportion permitted. And besides these, the land itself comes by glimpses into verse which cannot strictly be called scenic verse-up-country rhymes, songs of