Oh, there is no spring in Cambridge, the sky is wet and gray, But it's blossom time at the Shubert, chez Messrs, Lee and J. For a bit of Old Vienna is houseguest for the day.

Almost as infallible as the perennial crocus, "Blossom Time" has bloomed again. And the Shuberts' latest edition of this old dependable lacks little of the sure-fire appeal with which it has warmed up staid Bostonians seven times in the last twenty years. The colorful costumes, glittering jewelry, chic frock coats and top hats, tinkling wine glasses and gay laughter are all there--set to melodies the world hasn't forgotten in 120 years, and isn't likely to in another thousand.

Of course, the plot is just as inconsequential as ever, and as usual it doesn't matter. You don't go to be gripped by the stirring pathos of the story-book romance of Franz Schubert and Mitzi Kranz, to weep for unrewardtd genius when the handsome, worthless Baron Schober steals the girl away and ruins Franz's inspiration so he can't finish the Unfinished Symphony. Rather you go to forget this cold cruel world and settle back for three delightful acts of life to the strains of Schubert. Hence you overlook a lot of unconvincing acting, and laugh off a lot of beery buffoonery as largely irrelevant pleasantry. The only strict demand to be made is for good singing, and Everett Marshall, Frank Hornaday, Marie Nash and Martha Errolle give Schubert a very fair treatment. If you like light operetta, and it's a dreadful boor who doesn't "Blossom Time" is among the best.