MR

When the poisoned Bowery bum turned out to be a missing Senator, Lt. Weigand was glad that Mr. and Mrs. North were not involved. Then he found that they knew the murdered man -- and were just wacky enough to put their own heads into a noose trying to untangle this bizarre, baffling case.

This is called horror. I wouldn't call it horror in the least; and I wouldn't say that it's plotted very well; but the premise is extremely intriguing philosophically and morally speaking.

Although I have always loved Moorcock's work, and these are fine stories, I believe that a buyer's warning should be attached. The only Aubec story is one that was already in a previous Elric book,and is about 12 pages long, and the rest of the volume is filled with other old short stories. All good, but nothing new, as I was hoping when I bought the book.

If readers live paycheck to paycheck, the jokes on them. This humourous guide to barely getting by includes ways to get out from under and start saving.

The title says it all. "Mr. Britling Sees It Through" ... gosh, it's almost a parody of a H.G. Wells title. It's the story of how Mr. Britling makes it through World War One; although I should point out that he never once leaves England nor even, so far as I can remember, his study.

Look, I really liked this book, and I wish I could give it a higher rating; and Wells is a good enough writer to ensure that the book has some good things in it (Mr. Britling's "affair" with a theatrically emotional woman is hilarious); but in all fairness I must say that (a) Not all that much happens - I know Mr. Britling has a son at the front, but the resulting tension isn't enough to build a novel out of, and (b) There's something a touch self-indulgent about Mr. Britling's armchair angst, and so as a result (c) Wells sometimes misses the point of his own fable. But if anyone has any desire at all to read this book, I say, give in to it.

Finley Peter Dunne was famed both for his sportswriting, covering the Chicago White Sox, and for his humorous columns featuring the imaginary
saloonkeeper, Mr. Dooley, who would spout his "wisdom" in a broken Irish brogue. Dunne had been writing these essays for nearly a decade when the
Spanish-American War came and his (and Mr. Dooley's) criticism of it, as an imperialist enterprise, won him a national readership, plaudits from
intellectuals, and friendship with folks like Mark Twain and, improbably, with arch-imperialist Teddy Roosevelt.

The essays rely heavily on wringing humor from dialect, something that got laughs more reliably in that era of minstrel shows and the like. What's most
interesting today about their politics is that they're of a piece with Conrad's Heart of Darkness and Orwell's Shooting an Elephant, in that they're
anti-imperialist because of the effect it will have on the colonizers, rather than the colonized. Here's a representative sample:

**Wan iv the worst things about this here war is th' way it's makin' puzzles f'r our poor, tired heads. Whin I wint into it, I thought all I'd have to
do was to set up here behind th' bar with a good tin-cint see-gar in me teeth, an' toss dinnymite bombs into th' hated city iv Havana. But look
at me now. Th' war is still goin' on; an' ivry night, whin I'm countin' up the cash, I'm askin' mesilf will I annex Cubia or lave it to the Cubians?
Will I take Porther Ricky or put it by? An' what shud I do with the Ph'lippeens? Oh, what shud I do with thim? I can't annex thim because I
don't know where they ar-re. I can't let go iv thim because some wan else'll take thim if I do. They are eight thousan' iv thim islands, with a
popylation iv wan hundherd millyon naked savages; an' me bedroom's crowded now with me an' th' bed. How can I take thim in, an' how on
earth am I goin' to cover th' nakedness iv thim savages with me wan shoot iv clothes? An' yet 'twud break me heart to think iv givin' people I
niver see or heerd tell iv back to other people I don't know. An', if I don't take thim, Schwartzmeister down th' sthreet, that has half me thrade
already, will grab thim sure.

"It ain't that I'm afraid iv not doin' th' r-right thing in th' end, Hinnissy. Some mornin' I'll wake up an' know jus' what to do, an' that I'll do. But
'tis th' annoyance in th' mane time. I've been r-readin' about th' counthry. 'Tis over beyant ye'er left shoulder whin ye're facin' east. Jus'
throw ye'er thumb back, an' ye have it as ac'rate as anny man in town. 'Tis farther thin Boohlgahrya an' not so far as Blewchoochoo. It's near
Chiny, an' it's not so near; an', if a man was to bore a well through fr'm Goshen, Indianny, he might sthrike it, an' thin again he might not. It's a
poverty-sthricken counthry, full iv goold an' precious stones, where th' people can pick dinner off th' threes an' ar-re starvin' because they
have no step-ladders. Th' inhabitants is mostly naygurs an' Chinnymen, peaceful, industhrus, an' law-abidin', but savage an' bloodthirsty in
their methods. They wear no clothes except what they have on, an' each woman has five husbands an' each man has five wives. Th' r-rest
goes into th' discard, th' same as here. Th' islands has been ownded be Spain since befure th' fire; an' she's threated thim so well they're now
up in ar-rms again her, except a majority iv thim which is thurly loyal. Th' natives seldom fight, but whin they get mad at wan another they
r-run-a-muck. Whin a man r-runs-a-muck, sometimes they hang him an' sometimes they discharge him an' hire a new motorman. Th'
women ar-re beautiful, with languishin' black eyes, an' they smoke see-gars, but ar-re hurried an' incomplete in their dhress. I see a pitcher
iv wan th' other day with nawthin' on her but a basket of cocoanuts an' a hoop-skirt. They're no prudes. We import juke, hemp, cigar
wrappers, sugar, an' fairy tales fr'm th' Ph'lippeens, an' export six-inch shells an' th' like. Iv late th' Ph'lippeens has awaked to th' fact that
they're behind th' times, an' has received much American amminition in their midst. They say th' Spanyards is all tore up about it.

"I larned all this fr'm th' papers, an' I know 'tis sthraight. An' yet, Hinnissy, I dinnaw what to do about th' Ph'lippeens. An' I'm all alone in th'
wurruld. Ivrybody else has made up his mind. Ye ask anny con-ducthor on Ar-rchy R-road, an' he'll tell ye. Ye can find out fr'm the papers;
an', if ye really want to know, all ye have to do is to ask a prom'nent citizen who can mow all th' lawn he owns with a safety razor. But I don't
know."**

There are some mild chuckles there and you get a sense of how the Mr. Dooley character enabled him to prick America's civilizing pretensions rather gently. On the other hand, Mr. Dooley seems
right, even know, not to know what we should have been doing in places like the Philippines and Cuba. The former seems to have benefitted significantly from our involvement, even if its people
resented us, and the latter would certainly have fared better had we gotten reinvolved as recently as forty years ago. Yet, if you look at how ambivalent we all are about the prospects for
democratizing the Middle East and about whether that's even a fit role for the U.S., you have to wonder if we can ever resolve the tension between our desire to "do good" and out fear of being
morally tainted by our involvement with cultures so clearly "other". One's admiration for Mr. Dunne ends up being tempered by the knowledge that what he's making fun of something that's actually
rather admirable in our national character, our uneasiness over our role as the world's crusader for peace and democracy.

This book suffers from a lack of chronological treatment, and tells nothing about the personal life of its subject. But it is still enjoyable reading, tho I wished I had had at hand as I read it a set of the U.S. Reports of U.S. Supreme Court cases. It is amazing that Justice Miller thought nothing of sitting on cases argued before the Court by his brother-in-law! Some things have improved over the yeaars, and I am confident nothing like that happens any more.

Titchmarsh is a familiar figure in English gardeningcircles---he is a presenter on Gardeners' World and (I think) GroundForce. This story centers around a young gardener, Rob MacGregor, who is a true son of the soil. His father is a Scottish-born nurseryman and he was trained to the profession from boyhood, culminating in a university degree in horticulture. In addition, he is handsome and a devil with women. When he gets his own tv show, he runs afoul of make-believe gardeners who talk the talk but don't walk the walk. That is, they are television personalities first and foremost, who only dabble---as dillettantes---in gardening. Rob makes two enemies, Bertie Lightfoot and Guy D'Arcy, and there is a lot of behind-the-scenes jealousy that the reader knows just has to be real. But the story isn't that grabbing. It's competently written, but not that interesting. Rob's involvement with two women promises hot stuff, but that doesn't really happen, either. For weekend gardeners who want a look at the lives and doings of gardening pros, on and off the job.

Ths story is very entertaining and exciting but the only weak point is the story's too short.The alphabet was printed so big that I can finish reading whole page less then a minute.If the alphabet size be smaller and the story be longer,I'll give it a full star.

Another novel by the American novelist Winston Churchill, distantly related, whose fame was such at the turn of the century that Winston SPENCER Churchill promised to use his middle name to distinguish himself. Belongs with CONISTON, THE CRISIS, A FAR COUNTRY, etc. -R. Langworth, Editor, FINEST HOUR, The Churchill Center, www.winstonchurchill.org