For some time now the well of American humour has been drying up. Benchley is dead, Perelman stale, Dorothy Parker no longer seems to favour us; only the cartoonists and one minor poet flow on happily. In his last book, Ogden Nash achieved at least one poem that seems likely to outlast the dust covers, A Carol for Children. The title poem of his new collection, The Private Dining Room, is certainly another. It ranks with the best of Betjeman in charming dexterity. The rhymes, though unexpected, have none of the coyness and artifice that often flaw this writer's work: only too tempting to read out loud, it is a sure-fire anthology piece one will always be glad to come across. The rest of the verses are much more uneven, some long build-ups to a pun, which don't bear much rereading, others, brilliant little epigrams such as Hi-ho...