CHARLES J. FINGER, according to Lewis Gannett, has "a gusto and zest for the good things of life." Whether or not that has anything to do with his having seven children, have more than a little to do with Charles J. Finger and his literary work. It was they who moved him to write the host of juvenile stories which won him some reputation as an author; and now, because he thinks it's awfully nice to read to the kiddies round the fireside on a cold winter's night, he has written a hodge-podge mumbledy-jumbledy guide to English and American literature, so other people will known what to read to their own dear brats. At least, that is the only visible purpose in his latest opus, "After the Great Companions"--unless he wrote it just for the fun of thinking over on paper what he had read. It is not criticism; it can scarcely even be dignified by the vague name "appreciation"; it is merely a "Names and Numbers of all the Players"; a guide-book, and a poor one at that.

Mr. Finger is gray-haired, and a bit wrinkled, and a good deal be-paunched; one would think him old enough to have learned not to take himself seriously. But, alas, he seems to feel in his way-down-deepmost soul that he has a personality, and likewise--or therefore--a message for humanity. That personality is composed of seven children, a penchant for beefsteak and good liquor, and the capacity to take pleasure in reading. One regrets, when reading "After the Great Companions," that he chose to discourse on literature and progeny rather than on food and drink; but no doubt he will sooner or later favor the world with a volume entitled "How to Raise Seven Children on Beefsteak and Corn Liquor, or Short Walks "Twixt Distillery and Abattoir."

Mr. Finger is probably a nice enough old gentleman, and no one suspects him of not meaning well. We can sympathize with him for wanting to tell people how many books he has read and how nice they all were, and in sympathy we can forgive much. We can wink at his little knack of splitting infinitives and misusing words; we can smile tolerantly when he tells us that Edmund Burke was a Democrat and "A Vindication of Natural Society" the most sincere expression of his political philosophy; we can, with an effort, keep our gorge down when he says he can never forget a certain line in "Kubla Khan" and proceeds to mangle its beauty by misquotation. But when, after rising in a valiant crescendo of commonplace through pages and pages of the quintessential trite, he comes forth with the astounding conclusion that "Literature is Life," we can only throw down the book and gasp for air.

Of course, "After the Great Companions" isn't wholly a bad book. It is rather nicely bound, printed on good paper, and has less than 300 pages.