ODDLY ENOUGH, by David McCord; Washburn and Thomas Cambridge, 1926. $2.50.

WITH the overshoe era upon us and snow upon the overshoe era, fires crackle in grates all too cognizant of Dickensian tradition in their inconstancy of warmth and books often encumber the knees of gentle souls who prefer their own lamp light to the colder luminaries of the winter heavens. No better book for such a purpose, no more delightful, distinguished, and never dull--to be precise, let's suggest that David McCord is an excellent essayist in the Hazlitt manner with a touch of Benchley at his best.

As Coles Philips would say, it's small enough to fit any girl's stocking as well as to rest upon her knee--a sentence which suggests that "Oddly Enough" is a very fine book. An arrangement in black. Mr. McCord in the words of Whistler implies that he has attempted a sortie into the field of etching. The implication may be accepted. His sortie is quite successful.

For Mr. McCord has developed a character in these tones and half tones, a kindly person who sees the amusing facets on our rough diamond of a world, would like to hock the diamond but remembering those facets keeps it and just never does take his trip to Europe. That trip to Europe, by the way, is one of the best of Mr. McCord's etchings. "I Never Go to Europe." Perhaps he saw Papa and Mama and little Mildred off. At least there's a nice irony in thinking so.

The other day, speaking of his play, an actor in the "Butter and Egg Man" repeated that often told truth: the best humor is that which can incite two to laughter and one to tears. Mr. McCord has discovered the art of humor. This character of his who spends "Half Hours at Sea." who knows a "Philosophy of Ceilings." is humorous in his revlation of pathos. Life to him is no grand grasp of the mighty but a daily contact with the desperately stupid rhythm of life as it is. And the order of his day is the discovery of the droll, pathetic fact that life is life not a great scientific revelation but an amusing gesture. So Coles Philips would be right to suggest this as a Christmas gift, and the author of the Copeland reader is right in including an essay from it among the lore of his Christmas gift. "Oddly Enough" may well be the first of a series not alone reminiscent of Hazlitt and Sterne and Addison and all the others necessary to make this review "literary" but even suggestive of the avowed success as a colloquial essayist of one David McCord.