Of all the volumes of mediocre verse that Coffin has turned out in the last ten to fifteen years, this one is about his poorest and feeblest. It is as always a eulogy of Maine and of life on the one-horse farm. The poems, if poems they can be called, follow a loose pattern of the seasons and the months and their appropriate activities. The one redeeming feature is the foreword in which Coffin declares, with some passion, his opposition to the mechanization and standardization of our days. Only for his audience, which is a conservative one.