Judged by the contents of ["I'm A Stranger Here Myself"], Mr. Nash is about halfway on his journey [from Park Avenue to Main Street]. He is getting closer and closer to the fundamental stuff of middle-class American life, and farther away from the artificialities which prompted his first work. He will never be in the same league with Edgar Guest, but he has definitely taken up with the suburbanite who catches the 5:15, and will no more be seen among those folks, who, as he himself testifies, eat opium for breakfast.

The category into which Mr. Nash fits as a writer becomes more clear with each collection of his work. Between the pages of a book, piled one on the other, his verses reveal him as a modern counterpart of the eighteenth century essayist, regarding the elemental traits of human personality as the important and enduring things of life...