THE DESERT SONG

It is at this time of year, or any other for that matter, that everyone feels called upon to comment on the tugidity of theatrical Boston. The general concession of opinion seems to be that they do these things much better abroad and that the name doldrums was conceived in honor of the local Riaito. As a matter of fact the theatrical season in Boston is not as good as it used to be--and it never was. Granted that Booth once trod those boards and that the Stupidities of 1927 now makes merry in the hallowed footsteps, the discerning must remember that such is not only a local condition. Other cities, Detroit for one, which are larger than Boston receive worse treatment from the nimble hands of the booking agent. And one worthy, if sporadic, stock company, a Repertory Company-- which is only a rose by any other name--and some in different permanent groups are always lurking in the background.

Boston has created a name for itself by showing extreme reluctancy to allow any musical show, good or bad, to leave town. The name of Jack Donahue would cause a riot where Modjeska and the Barrymores doing card tricks would not even excite a ripple. Small favors should be accepted gratefully; certainly there is an absence of really good drama but there are arid spots in every menu. Announcement of the coming of a Shakespearean company for a month's stay should hearten the gloomy and serve as an indicator, perhaps, for the future months. In the meantime it is not necessary wholly to damn the merry-merry, which is, to some, a bone on which to gnaw during a famine.