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{\LARGE\strut{THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1918}}
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This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the \hyperlink{project-gutenberg-license}{Project Gutenberg License} included with
this ebook or online at {https://www.gutenberg.org/license}. If you
are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
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\noindent
Title: The Best Short Stories of 1918
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       and the Yearbook of the American Short Story
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Author: Various
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Release Date: May 06, 2012 {[}EBook \#39635{]}
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Language: English
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Character set encoding: UTF-8
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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1918 ***
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Produced by Walt Farrell, Bill Yeiser, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
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This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.
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{\Large\strut{SHORT STORY}}
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{\Large\strut{EDWARD J. O’BRIEN}}
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{\normalsize{ EDITOR OF “THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1915,”}}
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{\Large\strut{BOSTON}}
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{\Large\strut{SMALL, MAYNARD \& COMPANY}}
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{\normalsize{ PUBLISHERS}}
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Copyright, 1918, by The Boston Transcript Company.\par

Copyright, 1918, by The New York Tribune, Inc.\par

Copyright, 1918, by The Frank A. Munsey Company, Harper \& Brothers, The
Story-Press Corporation, Dodd, Mead \& Company, Inc., The Curtis Publishing Company,
The Atlantic Monthly Company, Charles Scribner’s Sons, The Pictorial Review
Company, The Stratford Journal, The Century Company, and P. F. Collier \& Son, Inc.\par

Copyright, 1919, by Achmed Abdullah, Edwina Stanton Babcock, Charles Caldwell
Dobie, George Humphrey, Arthur Johnson, Sinclair Lewis, Harrison Rhodes,
Fleta Campbell Springer, Wilbur Daniel Steele, Edward C. Venable, Mary Heaton
O’Brien, Frances Gilchrist Wood, William Dudley Pelley, Gordon Hall Gerould, Katharine
Holland Brown, Burton Kline, Mary Mitchell Freedley, Katharine Prescott
Moseley, and Julian Street.\par

Copyright, 1919, by Small, Maynard \& Company, Inc.\par

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{\Large\strut{TO ARTHUR JOHNSON}}
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{\Large\strut{BY WAY OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT}}
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{\noindent}
Grateful acknowledgment for permission to include
the stories and other material in this volume is made to
the following authors, editors, publishers, and literary
agents:\par

To the Editor of The All-Story Weekly, The Frank A. Munsey
Company, Harper and Brothers, The Story-Press Corporation,
the Editor of The Bookman, Dodd, Mead \& Company, Inc., The
Curtis Publishing Company, The Atlantic Monthly Company,
Charles Scribner’s Sons, The Pictorial Review Company, The
Stratford Journal, The Century Company, P. F. Collier \& Son,
Inc., Captain Achmed Abdullah, Miss Edwina Stanton Babcock,
Mr. Charles Caldwell Dobie, Mr. George Humphrey, Captain
Arthur Johnson, Mr. Sinclair Lewis, Mr. Harrison Rhodes, Mrs.
Fleta Campbell Springer, Mr. Wilbur Daniel Steele, Mr. Edward
C. Venable, Mrs. Mary Heaton O’Brien, Mrs. Frances Gilchrist
Wood, Captain Gordon Hall Gerould, Miss Katharine Holland
Brown, Mr. Burton Kline, Mrs. Mary Mitchell Freedley, Miss
Katharine Prescott Moseley, Mr. Julian Street, and Mr. Paul R.
Reynolds (on behalf of Mr. William Dudley Pelley).\par

Acknowledgments are specially due to {\itshape{The Boston Evening Transcript}}
and {\itshape{The New York Tribune}} for permission to reprint the
large body of material previously published in their pages.\par

I shall be grateful to my readers for corrections, and particularly
for suggestions leading to the wider usefulness of this annual
volume. In particular, I shall welcome the receipt, from authors,
editors, and publishers, of stories published during 1919 which
have qualities of distinction, and yet are not printed in periodicals
falling under my regular notice. Such communications may be
addressed to me at {\itshape{Bass River, Cape Cod, Massachusetts}}.\par

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E. J. O.\par}
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\begin{itemize}
\item[] {\noindent}
\hyperlink{introduction}{INTRODUCTION}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{id2}{THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1918}\par

\begin{itemize}
\item[] \hyperlink{a-simple-act-of-piety}{A SIMPLE ACT OF PIETY}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{cruelties}{CRUELTIES}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{buster}{BUSTER}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{the-open-window}{THE OPEN WINDOW}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{blind-vision}{BLIND VISION}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{imagination}{IMAGINATION}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{in-maulmain-fever-ward}{IN MAULMAIN FEVER-WARD}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{the-fathers-hand}{THE FATHER’S HAND}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{the-visit-of-the-master}{THE VISIT OF THE MASTER}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{in-the-open-code}{IN THE OPEN CODE}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{the-willow-walk}{THE WILLOW WALK}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{the-story-vinton-heard-at-mallorie}{THE STORY VINTON HEARD AT MALLORIE}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{the-toast-to-forty-five}{THE TOAST TO FORTY-FIVE}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{extra-men}{EXTRA MEN}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{solitaire}{SOLITAIRE}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{the-dark-hour}{THE DARK HOUR}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{the-bird-of-serbia}{THE BIRD OF SERBIA}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{at-ishams}{AT ISHAM’S}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{de-vilmartes-luck}{DE VILMARTE’S LUCK}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{the-white-battalion}{THE WHITE BATTALION}\par
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\item[] \hyperlink{the-yearbook-of-the-american-short-story-january-to-october-1918}{THE YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}\par

\begin{itemize}
\item[] \hyperlink{addresses-of-american-magazines-publishing-short-stories}{ADDRESSES OF AMERICAN MAGAZINES PUBLISHING SHORT STORIES}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{the-biographical-roll-of-honor-of-american-short-stories}{THE BIOGRAPHICAL ROLL OF HONOR OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{the-roll-of-honor-of-foreign-short-stories-in-american-magazines}{THE ROLL OF HONOR OF FOREIGN SHORT STORIES IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{the-best-books-of-short-stories-of-1918-a-critical-summary}{THE BEST BOOKS OF SHORT STORIES OF 1918: A CRITICAL SUMMARY}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{volumes-of-short-stories-published-january-to-october-1918-an-index}{VOLUMES OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918: AN INDEX}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{the-best-sixty-american-short-stories}{THE BEST SIXTY AMERICAN SHORT STORIES}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{articles-on-the-short-story-january-to-october-1918}{ARTICLES ON THE SHORT STORY, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{magazine-averages-january-to-october-1918}{MAGAZINE AVERAGES, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{index-of-short-stories-in-books-january-to-october-1918}{INDEX OF SHORT STORIES IN BOOKS, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}\par

\item[] \hyperlink{index-of-short-stories-published-in-american-magazines-january-to-october-1918}{INDEX OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}\par
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Note.}} The order in which the stories in this volume are
printed is not intended as an indication of their comparative
excellence; the arrangement is alphabetical by authors.\par

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{\noindent}
In reviewing once more the short stories published in
American periodicals during the year, it has been interesting,
if partly disappointing, to observe the effect
that the war has had upon this literary form. While I
believe that this effect is not likely to be permanent, and
that the final outcome will be a stiffening of fibre, the
fact remains that the short stories published during the
past ten months show clearly that the war has numbed
most writers’ imaginations. This is true, not only of war
stories, but of stories in which the war is not directly or
indirectly introduced. There has been a marked ebb this
year in the quality of the American short story. Life
these days is far more imaginative than any fiction can
be, and our writers are dazed by its forceful impact.
But out of this present confusion a new literature will
surely emerge, although the experience we are gaining
now will not crystallize into art for at least ten years, and
probably not for longer. If this war is to produce
American masterpieces, they will be written by men of
middle age looking back through the years’ perspective
upon the personal experience of their youth. Such work,
to quote the old formula, must be the product of “emotion
remembered in tranquillity.”\par

Not long ago Mr. Van Wyck Brooks, the keenest of
the younger critics, was pointing out to us the value of
a usable past. Such a usable past has clearly failed us in
this emergency, but the war is rapidly creating a new one
for us, if we have the vision to make use of it. During
the past four years English writers have had such a past
to fall back upon, when their minds failed before the
stupendous reality of the present, and so they have come
off better than we on the whole. It was such a usable
past, to point out the most signal instance of it, that inspired
Rupert Brooke’s last sonnets, which will always
stand as the perfect relation of a noble past to an unknowable
present.\par

But if we are to make our war experience the beginning
of a usable past, we must not sentimentalize it
on the one hand, nor denaturalize it objectively on the
other. Yet that is precisely what we have been doing for
the most part, even in the better war stories of the past
year. The superb exception is Wilbur Daniel Steele’s
“The Dark Hour,” published last May in {\itshape{The Atlantic
Monthly}}.\par

I can do no better than to refer the reader to Henry
Seidel Canby’s two admirable articles during the past
year, in which he has developed these points far more
adequately than I can pretend to do here. In his essay,
“On a Certain Condescension Towards Fiction,” published
in {\itshape{The Century Magazine}} last January, and in the
companion article entitled “Sentimental America,” published
last April in {\itshape{The Atlantic Monthly}}, he has diagnosed
the disease and suggested the necessary cure.
While I am not a realist in my sympathies, and while
the poetry of life seems to me of more spiritual value
than its prose, I cannot help agreeing with Professor
Canby that our literary failure, by reason of its sentimentality,
is rooted in a suppressed or misdirected
idealism, based on a false pragmatism of commercial
prosperity, and insisting on ignoring the facts instead of
facing and conquering them.\par

To repeat what I have said in these pages in previous
years, for the benefit of the reader as yet unacquainted
with my standards and principles of selection, I shall
point out that I have set myself the task of disengaging
the essential human qualities in our contemporary fiction
which, when chronicled conscientiously by our literary
artists, may fairly be called a criticism of life. I am not
at all interested in formulæ, and organized criticism at
its best would be nothing more than dead criticism, as
all dogmatic interpretation of life is always dead. What
has interested me, to the exclusion of other things, is the
fresh living current which flows through the best of our
work, and the psychological and imaginative reality
which our writers have conferred upon it.\par

No substance is of importance in fiction, unless it is
organic substance, that is to say, substance in which the
pulse of life is beating. Inorganic fiction has been our
curse in the past, and bids fair to remain so, unless we
exercise much greater artistic discrimination than we
display at present.\par

The present record covers the period from January to
October inclusive, 1918. During the past ten months I
have sought to select from the stories published in
American magazines those which have rendered life
imaginatively in organic substance and artistic form.
Substance is something achieved by the artist in every
act of creation, rather than something already present,
and accordingly a fact or group of facts in a story only
attain substantial embodiment when the artist’s power of
compelling imaginative persuasion transforms them into
a living truth. The first test of a short story, therefore,
in any qualitative analysis is to report upon how vitally
compelling the writer makes his selected facts or incidents.
This test may be conveniently called the test of
substance.\par

But a second test is necessary if the story is to take
rank above other stories. The true artist will seek to
shape this living substance into the most beautiful and
satisfying form, by skilful selection and arrangement
of his material, and by the most direct and appealing
presentation of it in portrayal and characterization.\par

The short stories which I have examined in this study,
as in previous years, have fallen naturally into four
groups. The first group consists of those stories which
fail, in my opinion, to survive either the test of substance
or the test of form. These stories are listed in the yearbook
without comment or a qualifying asterisk. The
second group consists of those stories which may fairly
claim that they survive either the test of substance or the
test of form. Each of these stories may claim to possess
either distinction of technique alone, or more frequently,
I am glad to say, a persuasive sense of life in them to
which a reader responds with some part of his own experience.
Stories included in this group are indicated in
the yearbook index by a single asterisk prefixed to the
title.\par

The third group, which is composed of stories of still
greater distinction, includes such narratives as may lay
convincing claim to a second reading, because each of
them has survived both tests, the test of substance and
the test of form. Stories included in this group are indicated
in the yearbook index by two asterisks prefixed
to the title.\par

Finally, I have recorded the names of a small group
of stories which possess, I believe, an even finer distinction—the
distinction of uniting genuine substance and artistic
form in a closely woven pattern with such sincerity that
these stories may fairly claim a position in our literature.
If all of these stories by American authors were republished,
they would not occupy more space than five novels
of average length. My selection of them does not imply
the critical belief that they are great stories. It is simply
to be taken as meaning that I have found the equivalent
of five volumes worthy of republication among all the
stories published between January first and October
thirty-first, 1918. These stories are indicated in the yearbook
index by three asterisks prefixed to the title, and
are listed in the special “Rolls of Honor.” In compiling
these lists, I have permitted no personal preference or
prejudice to influence my judgment consciously for or
against a story. To the titles of certain stories, however,
in the “Rolls of Honor,” an asterisk is prefixed, and this
asterisk, I must confess, reveals in some measure a
personal preference. It is from this final short list that
the stories reprinted in this volume have been selected.\par

It has been a point of honor with me not to republish
an English story, nor a translation from a foreign author.
I have also made it a rule not to include more than one
story by an individual author in the volume. The general
and particular results of my study will be found explained
and carefully detailed in the supplementary part
of the volume.\par

The Yearbook for 1918 contains three new features.
I have compiled an index of all short stories published in
a selected list of volumes issued during the year; another
index is devoted to critical articles on the short story,
and noteworthy reviews published in English and American
magazines and newspapers this year; and I have
added exact volume and page references to the index of
short stories published in American magazines.\par

As in past years it has been my pleasure and honor to
associate this annual with the names of Benjamin Rosenblatt,
Richard Matthews Hallet, and Wilbur Daniel
Steele, whose stories, “Zelig,” “Making Port,” and
“Ching, Ching, Chinaman,” seemed to me respectively
the best short stories of 1915, 1916, and 1917, so it is my
wish this year to dedicate the best that I have found in
the American magazines as the fruit of my labors to
Arthur Johnson, whose stories, “The Little Family,”
“His New Mortal Coil,” and “The Visit of the Master”
seem to me to be among the finest imaginative contributions
to the short story made by an American artist this
year.\par

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{\Large\strut{THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1918}}
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{\Large\strut{A SIMPLE ACT OF PIETY}}
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{\scshape{By}} ACHMED ABDULLAH\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{The All-Story Weekly}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by The Frank A. Munsey Co.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by Achmed Abdullah.}}}}\par}
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His affair that night was prosy. He was intending
the murder of an old Spanish woman around the
corner, on the Bowery, whom he had known for years,
with whom he had always exchanged courteous greetings,
and whom he neither liked nor disliked.\par

He did kill her; and she knew that he was going to
the minute he came into her stuffy, smelly shop, looming
tall and bland, and yellow, and unearthly Chinese from
behind the shapeless bundles of second-hand goods that
cluttered the doorway. He wished her good evening in
tones that were silvery, but seemed tainted by something
unnatural. She was uncertain what it was, and this very
uncertainty increased her horror. She felt her hair rise
as if drawn by a shivery wind.\par

At the very last she caught a glimmer of the truth in his
narrow-lidded, purple-black eyes. But it was too late.\par

The lean, curved knife was in his hand and across her
scraggy throat—there was a choked gurgle, a crimson
line broadening to a crimson smear, a thudding fall—and
that was the end of the affair as far as she was
concerned.\par

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A minute later Nag Hong Fah walked over to the
other end of Pell Street and entered a liquor-store which
belonged to the Chin Sor Company, and was known as
the “Place of Sweet Desire and Heavenly Entertainment.”
It was the gathering-place for the Chinese-born
members of the Nag family, and there he occupied a seat
of honor because of his wealth and charity and stout
rectitude.\par

He talked for about half an hour with the other members
of his clan, sipping fragrant, sun-dried Formosa tea
mixed with jessamine-flowers, until he had made for
himself a bullet-proof alibi.\par

The alibi held.\par

For he is still at liberty. He is often heard to speak
with regret—nor is it hypocritical regret—about the
murder of Señora Garcia, the old Spanish woman who
kept the shop around the corner. He is a good customer
of her nephew, Carlos, who succeeded to her business.
Nor does he trade there to atone, in a manner, for
the red deed of his hands, but because the goods are
cheap.\par

He regrets nothing. To regret, you must find sin in
your heart, while the murder of Señora Garcia meant no
sin to him. It was to him a simple action, respectable,
even worthy.\par

For he was a Chinaman, and, although it all happened
between the chocolate-brown of the Hudson and the
murky, cloudy gray of the North River, the tale is of
the Orient. There is about it an atmosphere of age-green
bronze; of first-chop chandoo and spicy aloe-wood;
of gilt, carved statues brought out of India when
Confucius was young; of faded embroideries, musty
with the scent of the dead centuries. An atmosphere
which is very sweet, very gentle—and very unhuman.\par

The Elevated roars above. The bluecoat shuffles his
flat feet on the greasy asphalt below. But still the tale
is of China—and the dramatic climax, in a Chinaman’s
story, from a Chinaman’s slightly twisted angle, differs
from that of an American.\par

To Nag Hong Fah this climax came not with the
murder of Señora Garcia, but with Fanny Mei Hi’s laugh
as she saw him with the shimmering bauble in his hands
and heard his appraisal thereof.\par

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She was his wife, married to him honorably and truly,
with a narrow gold band and a clergyman and a bouquet
of wired roses bought cheaply from an itinerant Greek
vendor, and handfuls of rice thrown by facetious
and drunken members of both the yellow race and the
white.\par

Of course, at the time of his marriage, a good many
people around Pell Street whispered and gossiped. They
spoke of the curling black smoke and slavery and other
gorgeously, romantically wicked things. Miss Edith
Rutter, the social settlement investigator, spoke of—and
to—the police.\par

Whereas Nag Hong Fah, who had both dignity and a
sense of humor, invited them all to his house: gossipers,
whisperers, Miss Edith Rutter, and Detective Bill Devoy
of the Second Branch, and bade them look to their hearts’
content; and whereas they found no opium, no sliding
panels, and hidden cupboards, no dread Mongol mysteries,
but a neat little steam-heated flat, furnished by
Grand Rapids via Fourteenth Street, German porcelain,
a case of blond Milwaukee beer, a five-pound humidor of
shredded Kentucky burlap tobacco, a victrola, and a fine,
big Bible with brass clamp and edges and M. Doré’s
illustrations.\par

“Call again,” he said as they were trooping down the
narrow stairs. “Call again any time you please. Glad
to have you—aren’t we, kid?” chucking his wife under
the chin.\par

“You bet yer life, you fat old yellow sweetness!”
agreed Fanny; and then—as a special barbed shaft
leveled at Miss Rutter’s retreating back: “Say! Any
time yer wanta lamp my wedding certificate—it’s
hangin’ between the fottygraphs of the President and
the Big Boss—all framed up swell!”\par

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He had met her first one evening in a Bowery saloon,
where she was introduced to him by Mr. Brian Neill, the
owner of the saloon, a gentleman from out the County
Armagh, who had spattered and muddied his proverbial
Irish chastity in the slime of the Bowery gutters, and who
called himself her uncle.\par

This latter statement had to be taken with a grain of
salt. For Fanny Mei Hi was not Irish. Her hair was
golden, her eyes blue. But otherwise she was Chinese.
Easily nine-tenths of her. Of course she denied it. But
that is neither here nor there.\par

She was not a lady. Couldn’t be—don’t you see—with
that mixed blood in her veins, Mr. Brian Neill
acting as her uncle, and the standing pools of East Side
vice about her.\par

But Nag Hong Fah, who was a poet and a philosopher,
besides being the proprietor of the Great Shanghai Chop
Suey Palace, said that she looked like a golden-haired
goddess of evil, familiar with all the seven sins. And he
added—this to the soothsayer of his clan, Nag Hop Fat—that
he did not mind her having seven, nor seventeen,
nor seven times seventeen bundles of sin, as long as she
kept them in the sacred bosom of the Nag family.\par

“Yes,” said the soothsayer, throwing up a handful of
painted ivory sticks and watching how they fell to see if
the omens were favorable. “Purity is a jewel to the
silly young. And you are old, honorable cousin—”\par

“Indeed,” chimed in Nag Hong Fah, “I am old and
fat and sluggish and extremely wise. What price is
there in purity higher than there is contained in the happiness
and contentment of a respectable citizen when he
sees men-children playing gently about his knees?”\par

He smiled when his younger brother, Nag Sen Yat,
the opium merchant, spoke to him of a certain Yung
Quai.\par

“Yung Quai is beautiful,” said the opium merchant,
“and young—and of an honorable clan—and—”\par

“{\itshape{And}} childless! {\itshape{And}} in San Francisco! {\itshape{And}} divorced
from me!”\par

“But there is her older brother, Yung Long, the head
of the Yung clan. He is powerful and rich—the richest
man in Pell Street! He would consider this new marriage
of yours a disgrace to his face. Chiefly since the
woman is a foreigner!”\par

“She is not. Only her hair and her eyes are foreign.”\par

“Where hair and eyes lead, the call of the blood follows,”
rejoined Nag Sen Yat, and he reiterated his warning
about Yung Long.\par

But the other shook his head.\par

“Do not give wings to trouble. It flies swiftly without
them,” he quoted. “Too, the soothsayer read in the
painted sticks that Fanny Mei Hi will bear me sons.
One—perhaps two. Afterward, if indeed it be so that
the drop of barbarian blood has clouded the clear mirror
of her Chinese soul, I can always take back into my
household the beautiful and honorable Yung Quai, whom
I divorced and sent to California because she is childless.
She will then adopt the sons which the other woman
will bear me—and everything will be extremely satisfactory.”\par

And so he put on his best American suit, called on
Fanny, and proposed to her with a great deal of dignity
and elaborate phrases.\par

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“Sure I’ll marry you,” said Fanny. “Sure! I’d
rather be the wife of the fattest, yellowest Chink in New
York than live the sorta life I’m livin’—see, Chinkie-Toodles?”\par

“Chinkie-Toodles” smiled. He looked her over approvingly.
He said to himself that doubtless the painted
sticks had spoken the truth, that she would bear him men-children.
His own mother had been a river-girl, purchased
during a drought for a handful of parched grain;
and had died in the odor of sanctity, with nineteen Buddhist
priests following her gaily lacquered coffin, wagging
their shaven polls ceremoniously, and mumbling
flattering and appropriate verses from “Chin-Kong-Ching.”\par

Fanny, on the other hand, though wickedly and lyingly
insisting on her pure white blood, knew that a Chinaman
is broad-minded and free-handed, that he makes a good
husband, and beats his wife rather less often than a white
man of the corresponding scale of society.\par

Of course, gutter-bred, she was aggressively insistent
upon her rights.\par

“Chinkie-Toodles,” she said the day before the wedding,
and the gleam in her eyes gave point to the words, “I’m
square—see? An’ I’m goin’ to travel square. Maybe
I haven’t always been a poifec’ lady, but I ain’t goin’ to
bilk yer, get me? But—” She looked up, and suddenly,
had Nag Hong Fah known it, the arrogance, the
clamorings, and the tragedy of her mixed blood were in
the words that followed: “I gotta have a dose of freedom.
I’m an American—I’m white—say!”—seeing
the smile which he hid rapidly behind his fat hand—“yer
needn’t laugh. I {\itshape{am}} white, an’ not a painted
Chinese doll. No sittin’ up an’ mopin’ for the retoin of
my fat, yellow lord an’ master in a stuffy, stinky, punky
five-by-four cage for me! In other woids, I resoive for
my little golden-haired self the freedom of asphalt an’
electric lights, see? An’ I’ll play square—as long as
you’ll play square,” she added under her breath.\par

“Sure,” he said. “You are free. Why not? I am an
American. Have a drink?” And they sealed the bargain
in a tumbler of Chinese rice whisky, cut with Bourbon,
and flavored with aniseed and powdered ginger.\par

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The evening following the wedding, husband and wife,
instead of a honeymoon trip, went on an alcoholic spree
amid the newly varnished splendors of their Pell Street
flat. Side by side, in spite of the biting December cold,
they leaned from the open window and brayed an intoxicated
pæan at the Elevated structure which pointed at the
stars like a gigantic icicle stood on end, frozen, austere—desolate,
for all its clank and rattle, amid the fragrant,
warm reek of China which drifted from shutters and
cellar-gratings.\par

Nag Hong Fah, seeing Yung Long crossing the street,
thought with drunken sentimentality of Yung Long’s
sister whom he had divorced because she had borne him no
children, and extended a boisterous invitation to come up.\par

“Come! Have a drink!” he hiccuped.\par

Yung Long stopped, looked, and refused courteously,
but not before he had leveled a slow, appraising glance at
the golden-haired Mei Hi, who was shouting by the side
of her obese lord. Yung Long was not a bad-looking man,
standing there in the flickering light of the street-lamp,
the black shadows cutting the pale-yellow, silky sheen of
his narrow, powerful face as clean as with a knife.\par

“Swell looker, that Chink!” commented Fanny Mei
Hi as Yung Long walked away; and her husband, the
liquor warming his heart into generosity, agreed:\par

“Sure! Swell looker! Lots of money! Let’s have
another drink!”\par

Arrived at the sixth tumbler, Nag Hong Fah, the poet
in his soul released by alcohol, took his blushing bride
upon his knee and improvised a neat Cantonese love-ditty;
but when Fanny awakened the next morning with
the sobering suspicion that she had tied herself for life to
a drunkard, she found out that her suspicion was unfounded.\par

The whisky spree had only been an appropriate celebration
in honor of the man-child on whom Nag Hong
Fah had set his heart; and it was because of this unborn
son and the unborn son’s future that her husband rose
from his tumbled couch, bland, fat, without headache or
heartache, left the flat, and bargained for an hour with
Yung Long, who was a wholesale grocer, with warehouses
in Canton, Manila, New York, San Francisco,
Seattle, and Vancouver, British Columbia.\par

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Not a word was said about either Yung Quai or Fanny.
The talk dealt entirely with canned bamboo sprouts and
preserved leeches, and pickled star-fruit, and brittle
almond cakes. It was only after the price had been
decided upon and duly sealed with the right phrases and
palm touching palm—afterwards, though nothing in
writing had passed, neither party could recede from the
bargain without losing face—that Yung Long remarked,
very casually:\par

“By the way, the terms are cash—spot cash,” and he
smiled.\par

For he knew that the restaurant proprietor was an
audacious merchant who relied on long credits and future
profits, and to whom in the past he had always granted
ninety days’ leeway without question or special agreement.\par

Nag Hong Fah smiled in his turn; a slow, thin, enigmatic
smile.\par

“I brought the cash with me,” he replied, pulling a
wad of greenbacks from his pocket, and both gentlemen
looked at each other with a great deal of mutual respect.\par

“Forty-seven dollars and thirty-three cents saved on
the first business of my married life,” Nag Hong Fah
said to his assembled clan that night at the Place of Sweet
Desire and Heavenly Entertainment. “Ah, I shall have
a fine, large business to leave to the man-child which my
wife shall bear me!”\par

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And the man-child came—golden-haired, blue-eyed,
yellow-skinned, and named Brian in honor of Fanny’s
apocryphal uncle who owned the Bowery saloon. For
the christening Nag Hong Fah sent out special invitations—pink
cards lettered with virulent magenta and bordered
with green forget-me-nots and purple roses; with an
advertisement of the Great Shanghai Chop Suey Palace
on the reverse side. He also bestowed upon his wife a
precious bracelet of cloudy white jade, earrings of green
jade cunningly inlaid with blue feathers, a chest of carved
Tibetan soapstone, a bottle of French perfume, a pound of
Mandarin blossom tea for which he paid seventeen dollars
wholesale, a set of red Chinese sables, and a new Caruso
record for the victrola.\par

Fanny liked the last two best; chiefly the furs, which
she wore through the whirling heat of an August day, as
soon as she was strong enough to leave her couch, on an
expedition to her native pavements. For she held fast
to her proclaimed right that hers was the freedom of
asphalt and electric light—not to mention the back parlor
of her uncle’s saloon, with its dingy, musty walls covered
with advertisements of eminent Kentucky distilleries and
the indelible traces of many generations of flies, with its
gangrened tables, its battered cuspidors, its commingling
atmosphere of poverty and sloth, of dust and stale beer,
of cheese sandwiches, wet weeds, and cold cigars.\par

“Getta hell outa here!” she admonished a red-powdered
bricklayer who came staggering across the
threshold of the back parlor and was trying to encircle
her waist with amatory intent. “I’m a respectable
married woman—see?” And then to Miss Ryan, the
side-kick of her former riotous spinster days, who was
sitting at a corner table dipping her pretty little up-turned
nose into a foaming schooner: “Take my tip,
Mamie, an’ marry a Chink! That’s the life, believe me!”\par

Mamie shrugged her shoulders.\par

“All right for you, Fan, I guess,” she replied. “But
not for me. Y’see—ye’re mostly Chink yerself—”\par

“I ain’t! I ain’t! I’m white—wottya mean callin’
me a Chink?” And then, seeing signs of contrition on
her friend’s face: “Never mind. Chinkie-Toodles is
good enough for me. He treats me white, all right, all
right!”\par

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Nor was this an overstatement of the actual facts.\par

Nag Hong Fah was good to her. He was happy in
the realization of his fatherhood, advertised every night
by lusty cries which reverberated through the narrow,
rickety Pell Street house to find an echo across the street
in the liquor-store of the Chin Sor Company, where the
members of his clan predicted a shining future for father
and son.\par

The former was prospering. The responsibilities of
fatherhood had brought an added zest and tang to his
keen, bartering Mongol brain. Where before he had
squeezed the dollar, he was now squeezing the cent. He
had many a hard tussle with the rich Yung Long over
the price of tea and rice and other staples, and never did
either one of them mention the name of Yung Quai, nor
that of the woman who had supplanted Yung Quai in
the restaurant-keeper’s affections.\par

Fanny was honest. She traveled the straight and narrow,
as she put it to herself. “Nor ain’t it any strain on
my feet,” she confided to Miss Ryan. For she was happy
and contented. Life, after all, had been good to her,
had brought her prosperity and satisfaction at the hands
of a fat Chinaman, at the end of her fantastic, twisted,
unclean youth; and there were moments when, in spite of
herself, she felt herself drawn into the surge of that
Mongol race which had given her nine-tenths of her
blood—a fact which formerly she had been in the habit
of denying vigorously.\par

She laughed her happiness through the spiced, warm
mazes of Chinatown, her first-born cuddled to her breast,
ready to be friends with everybody.\par

It was thus that Yung Long would see her walking
down Pell Street as he sat in the carved window-seat of
his store, smoking his crimson-tassled pipe, a wandering
ray of sun dancing through the window, breaking into
prismatic colors, and wreathing his pale, serene face with
opal vapors.\par

He never failed to wave his hand in courtly greeting.\par

She never failed to return the civility.\par

Some swell looker, that Chink. But—Gawd!—she
was square, all right, all right!\par

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A year later, after Nag Hong Fah, in expectation of
the happy event, had acquired an option on a restaurant
farther up-town, so that the second son might not be
slighted in favor of Brian, who was to inherit the Great
Shanghai Chop Suey Palace, Fanny sent another little
cross-breed into the reek and riot of the Pell Street
world. But when Nag Hong Fah came home that night,
the nurse told him that the second-born was a girl—something
to be entered on the debit, not the credit, side
of the family ledger.\par

It was then that a change came into the marital relations
of Mr. and Mrs. Nag Hong Fah.\par

Not that the former disliked the baby daughter, called
Fanny, after the mother. Far from it. He loved her
with a sort of slow, passive love, and he could be seen on
an afternoon rocking the wee bundle in his stout arms
and whispering to her crooning Cantonese fairy-lilts: all
about the god of small children whose face is a candied
plum, so that the babes like to hug and kiss him and, of
course, lick his face with their little pink tongues.\par

But this time there was no christening, no gorgeous
magenta-lettered invitations sent to the chosen, no happy
prophecies about the future.\par

This time there were no precious presents of green
jade and white jade heaped on the couch of the young
mother.\par

She noticed it. But she did not complain. She said
to herself that her husband’s new enterprise was swallowing
all his cash; and one night she asked him how the new
restaurant was progressing.\par

“What new restaurant?” he asked blandly.\par

“The one up-town, Toodles—for the baby—”\par

Nag Hong Fah laughed carelessly.\par

“Oh—I gave up that option. Didn’t lose much.”\par

Fanny sat up straight, clutching little Fanny to her.\par

“You—you gave it up?” she asked. “Wottya
mean—gave it up?”\par

Then suddenly inspired by some whisper of suspicion,
her voice leaping up extraordinarily strong: “You mean
you gave it up—because—because little Fanny is—a
{\itshape{goil}}?”\par

He agreed with a smiling nod.\par

“To be sure! A girl is fit only to bear children and
clean the household pots.”\par

He said it without any brutality, without any conscious
male superiority; simply as a statement of fact. A
melancholy fact, doubtless. But a fact, unchangeable,
stony.\par

“But—but—” Fanny’s gutter flow of words floundered
in the eddy of her amazement, her hurt pride and
vanity. “I’m a woman myself—an’ I—”\par

“Assuredly you are a woman and you have done your
duty. You have borne me a son. Perhaps, if the omens
be favorable you will bear me yet another. But this—this
girl—” He dismissed little Fanny with a wave of
his pudgy, dimpled hand as a regrettable accident, and
continued, soothingly: “She will be taken care of. Already
I have written to friends of our clan in San
Francisco to arrange for a suitable disposal when the
baby has reached the right age.” He said it in his mellow,
precise English. He had learned it at a night-school,
where he had been the pride and honor of his class.\par

Fanny had risen. She left her couch. With a swish-swish
of knitted bed-slippers she loomed up on the ring
of faint light shed by the swinging petroleum lamp in
the center of the room. She approached her husband, the
baby held close to her heart with her left hand, her right
hand aimed at Nag Hong Fah’s solid chest like a pistol.
Her deep-set, violet-blue eyes seemed to pierce through
him.\par

But the Chinese blood in her veins—shrewd, patient—scotched
the violence of her American passion, her
American sense of loudly clamoring for right and justice
and fairness. She controlled herself. The accusing
hand relaxed and fell gently on the man’s shoulder. She
was fighting for her daughter, fighting for the drop of
white blood in her veins, and it would not do to lose her
temper.\par

“Looka here, Chinkie-Toodles,” she said. “You call
yerself a Christian, don’t yer? A Christian an’ an American.
Well, have a heart. An’ some sense! This ain’t
China, Toodles. Lil Fanny ain’t goin’ to be weighed an’
sold to some rich brother Chink at so many seeds per
pound. Not much! She’s gonna be eddycated. She’s
gonna have her chance, see? She’s gonna be independent
of the male beast an’ the sorta life wot the male beast
likes to hand to a skoit. Believe me, Toodles, I know
what I’m talkin’ about!”\par

But he shook his stubborn head. “All has been settled,”
he replied. “Most satisfactorily settled!”\par

He turned to go. But she rushed up to him. She
clutched his sleeve.\par

“Yer—yer don’t mean it? Yer can’t mean it!” she
stammered.\par

“I do, fool!” He made a slight, weary gesture as if
brushing away the incomprehensible. “You are a woman—you
do not understand—”\par

“Don’t I, though!”\par

She spoke through her teeth. Her words clicked and
broke like dropping icicles. Swiftly her passion turned
into stone, and as swiftly back again, leaping out in a
great, spattering stream of abuse.\par

“Yer damned, yellow, stinkin’ Chink! Yer—yer—Wottya
mean—makin’ me bear children—yer own children—an’
then—” Little Fanny was beginning to
howl lustily and she covered her face with kisses. “Say,
kiddie, it’s a helluva dad you’ve drawn! A helluva
dad! Look at him—standin’ there! Greasy an’ yellow
an’— Say—he’s willin’ to sell yer into slavery to
some other beast of a Chink! Say—”\par

“You are a—ah—a Chink yourself, fool!”\par

“I ain’t! I’m white—an’ square—an’ decent—an’—”\par

“Ah!”\par

He lit a cigarette and smiled placidly, and suddenly
she knew that it would be impossible to argue, to plead
with him. Might as well plead with some sardonic,
deaf immensity, without nerves, without heart. And
then, womanlike, the greater wrong disappeared in the
lesser.\par

“Ye’re right. I’m part Chink myself—an’ damned
sorry for myself because of it! An’ that’s why I know
why yer gave me no presents when lil Fanny was born.
Because she’s a girl! As if that was my fault, yer fat,
sneerin’ slob, yer! Yah! That’s why yer gave me no
presents—I know! I know what it means when a
Chink don’t give no presents to his wife when she gives
boith to a child! Make me lose face—that’s wottya call
it, ain’t it? An’ I thought fer a while yer was savin’ up
the ducats to give lil Fanny a start in life!\par

“Well, yer got another guess comin’! Yer gonna do
wot I tell yer, see? Yer gonna open up that there new
restaurant up-town, an’ yer gonna give me presents!
A bracelet, that’s what I want! None o’ yer measly
Chink jade, either; but the real thing, get me? Gold an’
diamonds, see?” and she was still talking as he, unmoved,
silent, smiling, left the room and went down the creaking
stairs to find solace in the spiced cups of the Palace of
Sweet Desire and Heavenly Entertainment.\par

She rushed up to the window and threw it wide. She
leaned far out, her hair framing her face like a glorious,
disordered aureole, her loose robe slipping from her
gleaming shoulders, her violet eyes blazing fire and
hatred.\par

She shouted at his fat, receding back:\par

“A bracelet, that’s what I want! That’s what I’m
gonna get, see? Gold an’ diamonds! Gold an’ diamonds,
yer yellow pig, yer!”\par

It was at that moment that Yung Long passed her
house. He heard, looked up, and greeted her courteously,
as was his wont. But this time he did not go straight on
his way. He looked at her for several seconds, taking in
the soft lines of her neck and shoulders, the small, pale
oval of her face with the crimson of her broad, generous
mouth, the white flash of her small, even teeth, and the
blue, sombre orbit of her eyes. With the light of the
lamp shining in back, a breeze rushing in front past the
open window, the wide sleeves of her dressing-gown
fluttered like immense, rosy butterfly-wings.\par

Instinctively she returned his gaze. Instinctively,
straight through her rage and heartache, the old thought
came to her mind:\par

Swell looker—that Chink!\par

And then, without realizing what she was doing, her
lips had formed the thought into words:\par

“Swell looker!”\par

She said it in a headlong and vehement whisper that
drifted down, through the whirling reek of Pell Street—sharp,
sibilant, like a message.\par

Yung Long smiled, raised his neat bowler hat, and
went on his way.\par

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Night after night Fanny returned to the attack, cajoling,
caressing, threatening, cursing.\par

“Listen here, Chinkie-Toodles—”\par

But she might as well have tried to argue with the
sphinx for all the impression she made on her eternally
smiling lord. He would drop his amorphous body into
a comfortable rocker, moving it up and down with the tips
of his felt-slippered feet, a cigarette hanging loosely
from the right corner of his coarse, sagging lips, a cup
of lukewarm rice whisky convenient to his elbow, and
watch her as he might the gyrations of an exotic beetle
whose wings had been burned off. She amused him.
But after a while continuous repetition palled the amusement
into monotony, and, correctly Chinese, he decided
to make a formal complaint to Brian O’Neill, the Bowery
saloon-keeper, who called himself her uncle.\par

Life, to that prodigal of Erin, was a rather sunny
arrangement of small conveniences and small, pleasant
vices. He laughed in his throat and called his “nephew”
a damned, sentimental fool.\par

“Beat her up!” was his calm, matter-of-fact advice.
“Give her a good old hiding, an’ she’ll feed outa yer
hand, me lad!”\par

“I have—ah—your official permission, as head of
her family?”\par

“Sure. Wait. I’ll lend ye me blackthorn. She
knows the taste of it.”\par

Nag Hong Fah took both advice and blackthorn.
That night he gave Fanny a severe beating and repeated
the performance every night for a week until she subsided.\par

Once more she became the model wife, and happiness
returned to the stout bosom of her husband. Even Miss
Rutter, the social settlement investigator, commented
upon it. “Real love is a shelter of inexpugnable peace,”
she said when she saw the Nag Hong Fah family walking
down Pell Street, little Brian toddling on ahead, the
baby cuddled in her mother’s arms.\par

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Generously Nag Hong Fah overlooked his wife’s petty
womanish vanities; and when she came home one afternoon,
flushed, excited, exhibiting a shimmering bracelet
that was encircling her wrist, “just imitation gold an’
diamonds, Chinkie-Toodles!” she explained. “Bought
it outa my savings—thought yer wouldn’t mind, see?
Thought it wouldn’t hurt yer none if them Chinks hereabouts
think it was the real dope an’ yer gave it to me”—he
smiled and took her upon his knee as of old.\par

“Yes, yes,” he said, his pudgy hand fondling the intense
golden gleam of her tresses. “It is all right. Perhaps—if
you bear me another son—I shall give you a
real bracelet, real gold, real diamonds. Meanwhile you
may wear this bauble.”\par

As before she hugged jealously her proclaimed freedom
of asphalt and electric lights. Nor did he raise the
slightest objections. He had agreed to it at the time of
their marriage and, being a righteous man, he kept to his
part of the bargain with serene punctiliousness.\par

Brian Neill, whom he chanced to meet one afternoon in
Señora Garcia’s second-hand emporium, told him it was
all right.\par

“That beatin’ ye gave her didn’t do her any harm, me
beloved nephew,” he said. “She’s square. God help
the lad who tries to pass a bit o’ blarney to her.” He
chuckled in remembrance of a Finnish sailor who had
beaten a sudden and undignified retreat from the back
parlor into the saloon, with a ragged scratch crimsoning
his face and bitter words about the female of the species
crowding his lips. “Faith, she’s square! Sits there with
her little glass o’ gin an’ her auld chum, Mamie Ryan—an’
them two chews the rag by the hour—talkin’ about
frocks an’ frills, I doubt not—”\par

Of course, once in a while she would return home a
little the worse for liquor. But Nag Hong Fah, being a
Chinaman, would mantle such small shortcomings with
the wide charity of his personal laxity.\par

“Better a drunken wife who cooks well and washes
the children and keeps her tongue between her teeth,
than a sober wife who reeks with virtue and breaks the
household pots,” he said to Nag Hop Fat, the soothsayer.
“Better an honorable pig than a cracked rose
bottle.”\par

“Indeed! Better a fleet mule than a hamstrung horse,”
the other wound up the pleasant round of Oriental metaphors,
and he reënforced his opinion with a chosen and
appropriate quotation from the “Fo-Sho-Hing-Tsan-King.”\par

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When late one night that winter, a high wind booming
from the north and washing the snow-dusted Pell Street
houses with its cutting blast, Fanny came home with
a jag, a chill, and a hacking cough, and went down
with pneumonia seven hours later, Nag Hong Fah was
genuinely sorry. He turned the management of his
restaurant over to his brother, Nag Sen Yat, and sat by
his wife’s bed, whispering words of encouragement,
bathing her feverish forehead, changing her sheets, administering
medicine, doing everything with fingers as
soft and deft as a woman’s.\par

Even after the doctor had told him three nights later
that the case was hopeless and that Fanny would die—even
after, as a man of constructive and practical brain,
he had excused himself for a few minutes and had sat
down in the back room to write a line to Yung Quai, his
divorced wife in San Francisco, bidding her hold herself
in readiness and including a hundred dollars for transportation—he
continued to treat Fanny Mei Hi with the
utmost gentleness and patience.\par

Tossing on her hot pillows, she could hear him in the
long watches of the night breathing faintly, clearing his
throat cautiously so as not to disturb her; and on Monday
morning—he had lifted her up and was holding her
close to help her resist the frightful, hacking cough that
was shaking her wasted frame—he told her that he had
reconsidered about little Fanny.\par

“You are going to die,” he said placidly, in a way,
apologetically, “and it is fitting that your daughter should
make proper obeisance to your departed spirit. A child’s
devotion is best stimulated by gratitude. And little Fanny
shall be grateful to you. For she will go to a good
American school and, to pay for it, I shall sell your possessions
after you are dead. The white jade bracelet,
the earrings of green jade, the red sables—they will
bring over four thousand dollars. Even this little
bauble”—he slipped the glittering bracelet from her thin
wrist—“this, too, will bring a few dollars. Ten, perhaps
twelve; I know a dealer of such trifles in Mott
Street who—”\par

“Say!”\par

Her voice cut in, raucous, challenging. She had
wriggled out of his arms. An opaque glaze had come
over her violet-blue eyes. Her whole body trembled.
But she pulled herself on her elbows with a terrible,
straining effort, refusing the support of his ready hands.\par

“Say! How much did yer say this here bracelet’s
worth?”\par

He smiled gently. He did not want to hurt her
woman’s vanity. So he increased his first appraisal.\par

“Twenty dollars,” he suggested. “Perhaps twenty-one.
Do not worry. It shall be sold to the best advantage—for
your little daughter—”\par

And then, quite suddenly, Fanny burst into laughter—gurgling
laughter that shook her body, choked her throat,
and leaped out in a stream of blood from her tortured
lungs.\par

“Twenty dollars!” she cried, “Twenty-one! Say,
you poor cheese, that bracelet alone’ll pay for lil Fanny’s
eddycation. It’s worth three thousand! It’s real, real—gold
an’ diamonds! Gold an’ diamonds! Yung Long
gave it to me, yer poor fool!” And she fell back and
died, a smile upon her face, which made her look like a
sleeping child, wistful and perverse.\par

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A day after his wife’s funeral Nag Hong Fah, having
sent a ceremonious letter, called on Yung Long in the
latter’s store. In the motley, twisted annals of Pell Street
the meeting, in the course of time, has assumed the character
of something epic, something Homeric, something
almost religious. It is mentioned with pride by both
the Nag and the Yung clans; the tale of it has drifted
to the Pacific Coast; and even in far China wise men
speak of it with a hush of reverence as they drift down
the river on their painted house-boats in peach-blossom
time.\par

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Yung Long received his caller at the open door of his
shop.\par

“Deign to enter first,” he said, bowing.\par

Nag Hong Fah bowed still lower.\par

“How could I dare to?” he retorted, quoting a line
from the “Book of Ceremonies and Exterior Demonstrations,”
which proved that the manner is the heart’s inner
feeling.\par

“{\itshape{Please}} deign to enter first,” Yung Long emphasized,
and again the other gave the correct reply: “How should
I dare?”\par

Then, after a final request, still protesting, he entered
as he was bidden. The grocer followed, walked to the
east side of the store and indicated the west side to his
visitor as Chinese courtesy demands.\par

“Deign to choose your mat,” he went on and, after
several coy refusals, Nag Hong Fah obeyed again, sat
down, and smiled gently at his host.\par

“A pipe?” suggested the latter.\par

“Thanks! A simple pipe of bamboo, please, with a
plain bamboo mouthpiece and no ornaments!”\par

“No, no!” protested Yung Long. “You will smoke
a precious pipe of jade with a carved amber mouthpiece
and crimson tassels!”\par

He clapped his hands, whereupon one of his young
cousins entered with a tray of nacre, supporting an opium-lamp,
pipes and needles and bowls, and horn and ivory
boxes neatly arranged. A minute later the brown opium
cube was sizzling over the open flame, the jade pipe was
filled and passed to Nag Hong Fah, who inhaled the gray,
acrid smoke with all the strength of his lungs, then returned
the pipe to the boy, who refilled it and passed it
to Yung Long.\par

For a while the two men smoked in silence—men of
Pell Street, men of lowly trade, yet men at whose back
three thousand years of unbroken racial history, racial
pride, racial achievements, and racial calm, were sitting
in a solemn, graven row—thus dignified men.\par

Yung Long was caressing his cheek with his right
hand. The dying, crimson sunlight danced and glittered
on his well-polished finger-nails.\par

Finally he broke the silence.\par

“Your wife is dead,” he said with a little mournful
cadence at the end of the sentence.\par

“Yes.” Nag Hong Fah inclined his head sadly; and
after a short pause: “My friend, it is indeed reasonable
to think that young men are fools, their brains hot and
crimson with the blinding mists of passion, while wisdom
and calm are the splendid attributes of older men—”\par

“Such as—you and I?”\par

“Indeed!” decisively.\par

Yung Long raised himself on his elbows. His oblique
eyes flashed a scrutinizing look and the other winked a
slow wink and remarked casually that a wise and old man
must first peer into the nature of things, then widen his
knowledge, then harden his will, then control the impulses
of his heart, then entirely correct himself—then establish
good order in his family.\par

“Truly spoken,” agreed Yung Long. “Truly spoken,
O wise and older brother! A family! A family needs
the strength of a man and the soft obedience of a woman.”\par

“Mine is dead,” sighed Nag Hong Fah. “My household
is upset. My children cry.”\par

Yung Long slipped a little fan from his wide silken
sleeves and opened it slowly.\par

“I have a sister,” he said gently, “Yung Quai, a childless
woman who once was your wife, O wise and older
brother.”\par

“A most honorable woman!” Nag Hong Fah shut his
eyes and went on: “I wrote to her five days ago, sending
her money for her railway fare to New York.”\par

“Ah!” softly breathed the grocer; and there followed
another silence.\par

Yung Long’s young cousin was kneading, against the
pipe, the dark opium cubes which the flame gradually
changed into gold and amber.\par

“Please smoke,” advised the grocer.\par

Nag Hong Fah had shut his eyes completely, and his
fat face, yellow as old parchment, seemed to have grown
indifferent, dull, almost sleepy.\par

Presently he spoke:\par

“Your honorable sister, Yung Quai, will make a most
excellent mother for the children of my late wife.”\par

“Indeed.”\par

There was another silence, again broken by Nag Hong
Fah. His voice held a great calmness, a gentle singsong,
a bronze quality which was like the soft rubbing of an
ancient temple gong, green with the patina of the swinging
centuries.\par

“My friend,” he said, “there is the matter of a
shimmering bracelet given by you to my late wife—”\par

Yung Long looked up quickly; then down again as he
saw the peaceful expression on the other’s bland features
and heard him continue:\par

“For a while I misunderstood. My heart was blinded.
My soul was seared with rage. I—I am ashamed to
own up to it—I harbored harsh feelings against you.
Then I considered that you were the older brother of
Yung Quai and a most honorable man. I considered that
in giving the bracelet to my wife you doubtless meant to
show your appreciation for me, your friend, her husband.
Am I not right?”\par

Yung Long had filled his lungs with another bowlful
of opium smoke. He was leaning back, both shoulders
on the mat so as the better to dilate his chest and to keep
his lungs filled all the longer with the fumes of the kindly
philosophic drug.\par

“Yes,” he replied after a minute or two. “Your indulgent
lips have pronounced words full of harmony and
reason. Only—there is yet another trifling matter.”\par

“Name it. It shall be honorably solved.”\par

Yung Long sat up and fanned himself slowly.\par

“At the time when I arranged a meeting with the
mother of your children,” he said, “so as to speak to her
of my respectful friendship for you and to bestow upon
her a shimmering bracelet in proof of it, I was afraid of
the wagging, leaky tongues of Pell Street. I was afraid
of scandal and gossip. I therefore met your wife in the
back room of Señora Garcia’s store, on the Bowery.
Since then I have come to the conclusion that perhaps
I acted foolishly. For the foreign woman may have misinterpreted
my motives. She may talk, thus causing you
as well as me to lose face, and besmirching the departed
spirit of your wife. What sayeth the ‘Li-Ki’? ‘What is
whispered in the private apartments must not be shouted
outside.’ Do you not think that this foreign woman
should—ah—”\par

Nag Hong Fah smiled affectionately upon the other.\par

“You have spoken true words, O wise and older
brother,” he said rising. “It is necessary for your and
my honor, as well as for the honor of my wife’s departed
spirit, that the foreign woman should not wag her
tongue. I shall see to it to-night.” He waved a fat,
deprecating hand. “Yes—yes. I shall see to it. It is a
simple act of family piety—but otherwise without much
importance.”\par

And he bowed, left the store, and returned to his house
to get his lean knife.\par

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{\scshape{By}} EDWINA STANTON BABCOCK\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{Harper’s Magazine}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by Harper and Brothers.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by Edwina Stanton Babcock.}}}}\par}
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The bell tinkled as Mrs. Tyarck entered the little
shop. She looked about her and smiled pityingly.
The dim cases and counters were in dusty disarray, some
cards of needlework had tumbled to the floor, a drawer
showing a wrinkled jumble of tissue-paper patterns
caught the last rays of the setting sun.\par

“Of all the sights!” was Mrs. Tyarck’s comment.
“She needs some one to help her. She needs new taste.
Them buttons, now, who’d buy ’em? They belong to the
year one.”\par

Scornfully the shopper eyed the shelves where were
boxes of buttons dating back to periods of red and black
glass. There were transparent buttons with lions crouching
within; there were bronze buttons with Japanese
ladies smiling against gay parasols; speckled buttons with
snow, hail, and planetary disturbances occurring within
their circumscribed limits, and large mourning buttons
with white lilies drooping upon their hard surfaces.
Each box had a sample button sewn on its cover, and
these sample buttons, like eyes of a bygone century, glimmered
watchfully.\par

Mrs. Tyarck penetrated a screen of raw-colored
worsteds suspended in fat hanks from a sort of clothes-line
stretched above the counter. She sought the proprietor
of the little shop. In the back of the store, barricaded
by a hodge-podge of scattered merchandise, was a door
leading to a private room. Toward this door she directed
a commanding voice:\par

“Frenzy! Frenzy Giddings! How long I got to wait
here?”\par

There was an apologetic stir in the back room, the genteel
click of a spoon in a saucer, soft hurried creakings,
then a bony hand pushed back a faded curtain. Miss
Frances Giddings, known among her acquaintances as
“Frenzy,” peered from the privacy of her kitchen into
the uncertainties of the shop.\par

“I shall be with you presently.”\par

When the tall figure finally emerged, her feet shuffled
in carpet-slippered indecision, her glasses glimmered irresolutely.
In another woman there might have been, out
of recognition of Mrs. Tyarck’s impatience, bustling haste
and nervous despatch. In Miss Frenzy Giddings there
was merely slow, gentle concern.\par

“I am at a loss to explain my unreadiness,” said the
punctilious, cracked voice. “Usually on prayer-meeting
nights I am, if anything, in advance of the hour, but to-night
I regret exceedingly that, without realizing the extent
of time, I became over-absorbed in the anxieties of
my garden. Now select the article you desire and I will
endeavor to make amends.”\par

“What ails your garden?” asked Mrs. Tyarck, carelessly
adding, “I come in for some new kitchen toweling;
that last I got down to the other store was slazy.”\par

Miss Frenzy, with careful inefficiency, lifted down and
arranged on a dusty counter three bolts of toweling.
With deliberation as unconscious as it was accustomed,
she unwrapped the three, the cracked voice explaining,
“The perturbation to which I allude is the extraordinary
claims made upon me by rose-worms.”\par

Mrs. Tyarck, peering in the dim light, carefully examined
the toweling. She pulled a few threads from one
bolt and, with the air of one who protects herself against
systematic fraud, proceeded ostentatiously to chew them.\par

“This here toweling gone up any?” The threads of
the assayed linen still lingered on her thin lips as she
decided. “If it’s the same price it was, I’ll take two
yards.” Then, returning to the question of lesser importance,
“Well, I can’t help you none with them worms
until you tell me whether they’re chewers or suckers.”\par

Miss Frenzy, putting on a second pair of glasses over
those she habitually wore, now essayed the project of cutting
off the two yards of toweling.\par

“Chewers or—er—ahem, suckers? I really cannot
say. Shall you be astonished at my negligence when I
tell you that I have not yet taken the measures to determine
whether these worms are, as you so grotesquely
term them, chewers or—er—ahem, suckers?”\par

Mrs. Tyarck laughed sarcastically. “For Heaven’s
sake, Frenzy Giddings! it’s a wonder to me you know
{\itshape{anything}}, the time you take with your words! You ain’t
acquainted with your own stock, I see, for here you’ve
cut me off two yards of the twenty-cent when I asked for
the ten-cent. Well, it’s your mistake, so I’ll take it as
if ’t wuz what I’m payin’ for; but look here, Frenzy, you’ve
no call to be wool-gatherin’ {\itshape{your}} time of life.”\par

The rough criticism had no effect upon the native elegance
of the old shopkeeper. She smiled at Mrs.
Tyarck’s outburst with an air of polite, if detached, sympathy.
Dropping her scissors, she turned to the window,
poking her head between hanging flannel nightgowns to
remark:\par

“Pleasant weather and many taking advantage of it;
were I not occupied I, too, should promenade.”\par

Mrs. Tyarck meanwhile creaked about the little store
on a tour of inspection. Some especially frivolous sets
of “Hair Goods” underwent her instant repudiation.
“I wear my own, thank God!” she exclaimed, adding,
“it’s good enough for Tyarck and me.” Picking up a
cluster of children’s handkerchiefs, she carried them to
the window for more complete condemnation, muttering:
“Ark-animals and butterflies! Now what’s all {\itshape{that}} foolishness
got to do with the nose?” As Mrs. Tyarck stood
apostrophizing the handkerchiefs there was a whir outside
the store, the toot of a claxon, a girl’s excited laugh,
the flash of a scarlet jersey and tam-o’-shanter. The two
women, lowering their heads after the furtive fashion
that obtains in country districts, took the thing in. They
stared after the automobile.\par

“Pleasure-riding, I see,” remarked the near-sighted
Miss Frenzy. “Young folks appreciate the automobiles;
the extreme velocity seems peculiarly to gratify their
fancy!”\par

Mrs. Tyarck pursed up her lips; she looked with narrow
speculation after the pair, her thin face hardening.\par

“Them two is going out to the Forked Road Supper
House,” she prophesied. “No daughter of mine
wouldn’t be allowed to set foot in that place. Well,
you’re lookin’ at two of a kind. That red sweater of hern
won’t help her none.”\par

Miss Frenzy, now sorting change in slow pensiveness,
demurred. “She is young,” she remarked. “She entered
the store recently for some scarlet wool for that
very jersey” (Miss Frenzy was at pains to avoid the
word “sweater”), “and I observed her young cheeks—quite
like peaches, yes,” insisted Miss Frenzy, sentimentally,
“quite like peaches—I could wish that she should
be careful of her complexion and not ride too extensively
in the cold air.”\par

“There’s more to be thought of than complexions,
these days,” said the other woman, coldly. There was
relentless judgment in her face, but she went on: “Well,
’tain’t meetin’-time yet. Say I step back and take a look
at them worms ’n’ see ef there’s anything I can
recommend.”\par

The thin figure of the shopkeeper preceding her, and
Mrs. Tyarck casting looks of disparagement on all she
passed, the two took their way into the little garden.
Here, enclosed by high palings, shut away from everything
but sun and air, was Miss Frenzy’s kingdom, and
here there came a sudden change in her manner. She
did not lose the careful elegance of the polite shopkeeper,
but into gesture and voice crept an authority, the subtle
sense of ownership and power invariably felt by those
who own a bit of land, who can make things grow.\par

“Step judiciously,” she admonished her visitor; “my
cucumber-frames are somewhat eliminated by the tall
verdure: here and there I have set out new plants. I
should deplore having my arrangements disturbed.”\par

Mrs. Tyarck sniffed. “You and your garden!” she
ejaculated; but she resolutely made her way, eyes squinting
with curiosity. Settling her hat, whose black wing
stuck out with a virtuous swagger, Mrs. Tyarck gave herself
all the married woman’s amusement over the puttering
concerns of a spinster.\par

Soon, however, as the two women stole farther into the
dense square of growing things, the envy of the natural
flower-lover crept into her sharp comments. “My!” she
said, jealously—“my! ain’t your white duchy doin’
good? Say, look at them gooseberries! I suspect you
don’t have no particular use for ’em?” It was said of
Mrs. Tyarck that she was skilful at paving the way for
gifts of any kind. She made this last suggestion with a
hard, conscious laugh.\par

All around the little garden was a fence like the high
fences in London suburbs. Close against it honeysuckle
poured saffron cascades, a mulberry-tree showed the beginning
of conical fruitage. Blackberry vines sprayed
white stars over a sunny bit of stone wall. Amid a patch
of feathery grasses swayed the prim carillons of canterbury-bells;
soft gaieties of sweet-williams and phlox were
massed against the silvery weather-boarding of Miss
Frenzy’s kitchen. As the two women, skirts held high,
paused in front of the white-rose bush the indefatigability
of the chewers and suckers was revealed. Already
thousands of young rose leaves were eaten to the green
framework. Miss Frenzy, with a sudden exclamation,
bent to a branch on which were clusters of dainty buds.\par

“Ah-ah! {\itshape{Millions!}}” she whispered. Then, tremulously
defying the worms: “{\itshape{No, no, no! How dare
you? Hi, hi, hi!}} there’s another! Ugh! Look here!
Mercy! See that spray!”\par

With every ejaculation, shudderingly emitted, the bony
hand went out like lightning, plucked something gingerly
from a leaf, gave it a swift, vindictive pinch, and abhorrently
tossed it away.\par

“That’s right,” nodded Mrs. Tyarck. “Squeeze ’em
and heave ’em—it’s about all you can do. They’ll try to
take advantage of you every time! There’s no gratitude
in worms! They ain’t pertikler. It don’t mean nothing
to them that roses is pretty or grows good. They want to
eat. Squeeze ’em and heave ’em! It’s all you can do!”\par

There was a distant tinkle of the store bell. Miss
Frenzy, absorbed in her daily horror, did not hear this.
“Ugh! Ugh!” she was moaning. Again the long hand
went out in a capturing gesture. “There—there! I
told you so; quantities more, {\itshape{quantities}}! Yet last night
I was under the impression that I had disposed of the
greater majority.”\par

Mrs. Tyarck’s attention was diverted from the rose-worms
and concentrated on the deserted shop. “I heard
the bell,” warned that accurate lady. Then, reprovingly:
“Don’t you never have any one to keep store when you’re
out here? You’ll lose custom, Frenzy. What’s more,
if you ain’t careful, you’ll lose stock. Ivy Corners ain’t
what it used to be; there’s them Eastern peddlers that
walks around as big as life, and speakin’ English to fool
everybody; and now, with the war and all, every other
person you see is a German spy.”\par

As she spoke a large form appeared in the back doorway
of Miss Frenzy’s shop and a primly dressed woman
entered the garden. She had a curiously large and blank
face. She wore a mannishly made suit of slate-gray,
wiry material, and her hat had two large pins of green
which, inserted in front, glittered high on her forehead
like bulbous, misplaced eyes. This lady carried a netted
catch-all distended with many knobby parcels and a
bundle of tracts. As she saw the two in the garden she
stretched her formless mouth over the white smile of recently
installed porcelain, but the long reaches of her face
had no radiance. The lady was, however, furnished with
a curious catarrhal hawking which she used parenthetically,
like comment. What she now had to say she prefaced
with this juridic hawking.\par

“Well, there ain’t no responsibility here, I see! Store
door open, nobody around! Them two young ones of
Smedge’s lookin’ in at the things, rubbin’ their dirty
hands all over the glass case, choosin’ what’s their favorite
dry-goods! All I can say is, Frenzy, that either
you trust yourself too much or you expect that Serapham
and Cherabum is going to keep store for you.”\par

Mrs. Tyarck turned as to a kindred spirit, remarking,
with a contemptuous wink: “Frenzy’s rose-worms is on
her mind. Seems she’s overrun with ’em.”\par

Mrs. Capron, the newcomer, strode up the little path
to the scene of action, but at the sharp exclamation of
Miss Frenzy she halted.\par

“Have a care!” said the gaunt shopkeeper, authoritatively.
She waved a bony hand in ceremonious warning.
“I should have warned you before,” explained Miss
Frenzy, “but the impediment in your way is my cat-trap.
It would seem that I am systematically pestered with
marauding cats. The annoyance continuing for some
time, I am obliged to originate devices that curtail their
penetrations.”\par

Mrs. Capron, indignantly whisking her skirt away from
a strange-looking arrangement of corset steels and barrel
staves connected by wires, strode into some deep grass,
then gave vent to a majestic hawk of displeasure:\par

“What’s this I got on my shoes? Fly-paper? For
the land’s sake! Now how in the name of Job do I get
that off?”\par

Mrs. Tyarck, ingratiatingly perturbed, came to the rescue
of her friend; the two wrestled with adhesive bits of
paper, but certain fragments, affected by contact, fulfilled
their utmost prerogative and were not detachable. When
they were finally prevailed upon to leave the shoe of Mrs.
Capron, they stuck with surprising pertinacity to the
glove of her friend. The outcries of the two ladies were
full of disgust and criticism.\par

“Well, Frenzy Giddings! You need a man in here!
Some one to clean up after you. All this old paper ’n’
stuff around! It’s a wonder you don’t get into it yourself,
but then {\itshape{you}} know where to step,” they said,
grudgingly.\par

Miss Frenzy hardly heard them; she was still peering
carefully under the leaves and around the many clusters
of babyish rosebuds. “Ah-ah!” she was still saying,
shudderingly. Out went her hand with the same abhorrent
gesture. “After all my watchfulness! Another,
and another!”\par

Mrs. Capron, indignant over this indifference to her
fly-paper discomfort, now sought recognition of the damages
she had sustained:\par

“I dun’no’ will this plaguey stuff ever come off my
mohair! Well, I’ll never set foot in {\itshape{here}} again! Say,
Frenzy, I can send up one of my boys to-morrow and
he’ll clean up for you, fly-paper and all, for ten cents.”\par

For a moment Miss Frenzy hesitated. She stood tall
and sheltering over the rose-bush, the little shawl thrown
over her shoulders lifted in the breeze. She looked something
like a gray moth: her arms long and thin like antennæ,
her spectacled eyes, gave her a moth’s fateful look
of flutter and blindness before light and scorching flame.\par

“You are most kind, but”—with a discouraged sigh—“it
cannot be done.”\par

“It can’t be done?” hawked Mrs. Capron.\par

Mrs. Tyarck turned a sharp look of disapproval
around the little garden, saying in a low tone, “It’s reel
sloven in here; she’d ought to do something for it.”\par

“Yes,” insisted Mrs. Capron, “you want cleaning up
in here; that’s what. That seedy grass! Them ragged
vines! Your flowers overrun you—and that there fly-paper—”\par

Miss Frenzy sought to change the subject. With an
air of obstinacy that sat curiously upon her, she directed
the attention of her visitors to a young tree shooting up
in green assurance.\par

“My mystery,” she announced, with gentle archness.
“Not planted by human hands. Undoubtedly a seed
dropped by a bird in flight. A fruit-tree, I suspect—possibly
cherry, but whether wild or of the domestic species
remains to be seen; only the fruit will solve the enigma.”\par

Mrs. Capron and Mrs. Tyarck regarded the little tree
carelessly. “Wild,” they pronounced as one woman,
adding: “Wild cherry. When it’s big, it will dirty your
yard something fearful.”\par

“I had a friend,” related Mrs. Tyarck. “Her husband
was a Mason. Seems she had a wild cherry-tree into her
yard and she could never lay out a piece of light goods
for bleachin’ without fear of stains, and then the flies and
the sparrers racketin’ around all summer—why, it nearly
druv her crazy!”\par

Miss Frenzy ignored these comments. “My mystery,”
she repeated, with reflecting eyes. “The seed dropped
by a bird in flight. Only the fruit will solve the enigma.”
With an air of ceremonious explanation, Miss Giddings
turned to the two visitors. “I should acquaint you,” she
remarked in soft courtesy, “with the fact that, much as
I regret the necessity of the fly-paper, it is, as you might
say, {\itshape{calculated}}.”\par

“Calculated!” With a gasp Mrs. Tyarck took off and
began to polish her glasses; she kept two hard little eyes
fixed on the speaker.\par

Mrs. Capron forgot to hawk. “{\itshape{Calculated?}}”\par

“It is to arrest the depredations of ants,” confessed
Miss Frenzy. She looked from one to the other with
great dignity, supplementing: “I have long suffered
greatly from the onslaughts of ants, both red and black.
With the fly-paper, judiciously placed, I have hoped to
curtail their activities.”\par

It had grown a little grayer of twilight; the two visitors,
trapped as it were within the high board enclosures,
fenced all about with sweeps of tangled vine, the pale
glimmering of ghostly blossoms, felt uncomfortable.
With slow suspicion they moved away from one so
frankly the author of gin and pitfall; from one who could
so calmly admit that bits of fly-paper dribbling about her
garden paths were “calculated.” “Who was it,” whispered
Mrs. Tyarck, darkly—“who was it once said that
Frenzy was sort of odd?” The two visitors moved instinctively
toward a way of exit. With one more sigh
Miss Frenzy reluctantly followed them. As they cast
about in their minds for means of final reproof, she
paused at the kitchen door. There, where a rain-barrel
stood under a leader, was a bit of soap in a flower-pot
saucer; seizing it, the old shopkeeper began vigorously
washing her hands.\par

“Five waters,” sighed Miss Frenzy—“five waters,
before I can feel that my hands are in any degree
cleansed!”\par

The others stood watching her. Instantly they seized
the opportunity.\par

“Well, I should think so.” Mrs. Capron hawked her
superior virtue. “I’m glad to hear you say that, Frenzy.
Nice work indeed you’ve been doin’ with them hands!
Murderin’ and slayin’! Why can’t you live and let live
(unless, of course, it’s rats or mosquitoes)? Now you
go and get the blood of them innercent worms on your
shoulders! Why couldn’t you let ’em go on feedin’
where their Creator wanted ’em to feed?”\par

They looked at her.\par

“All them different cruelties,” they commented—“fly-paper
to track them ignorant ants onto, and that
there trap for cats.... Well, you got more spots onto
your soul than soap can take off. ‘Thou shalt not kill,’
it says. Why”—this burst of feeling from Mrs.
Tyarck—“why, it’s all I can do to set foot on a
spider!”\par

“And look at me with wasps!” exclaimed Mrs. Capron.
“How many wasps I’ve let go for their enjoyment
of life, even though, for all I know, next thing they
might sting me or one of mine.”\par

Mrs. Capron, getting warm and virtuous, sat down in
the kitchen doorway. Opening the netted catchall, she
took out therefrom a bundle of tracts. This lady was the
important local officer of many humanitarian societies
and lost no opportunity to improve the morale of her
community. The tract she selected for Miss Frenzy was
of an impressive blue with the title, “Deal Tenderly with
the Humble Animals that Cannot Speak.”\par

“Now think of them ants,” exhorted Mrs. Capron.
She looked hard at Miss Frenzy Giddings. “Think
of them thoughtless ants runnin’ onto that fly-paper
and not able to call out to the others what’s happened
to ’em!”\par

“You’re like me,” said Mrs. Tyarck. Taking her
handkerchief, she wet it in the rain-barrel and obsequiously
attempted to rub off a slight fly-paper stickiness
still on the mohair of her friend. “You’re like me.
I’m that tender-hearted I can’t even boil a lobster. I
was so from a child. Come time the kettle boils it’s
Tyarck always has to put the lobster in—me all of a
tremble!”\par

“And flies,” suggested Mrs. Capron—“there’s a
many thinks that flies has got souls (though not the
Board of Health). But even flies—look at me! I keep
sugar and molasses for ’em in their own saucer, and if
they come to their last end that way, why, they must die
likin’ it, and it’s what they chose for theirselves.”\par

Mrs. Capron drew the string of her netted catchall
tight. She hawked, drew her upper lip down over the
lower, and buttoned up the tight-fitting coat of mohair.\par

“Them cruelties of yourn will haunt you, Frenzy,”
summed up both ladies; “there’s verses in the Bible for
just such things,” exclaimed the visitors together; then
they all went in, the two friends turning their attention to
Miss Giddings’s household arrangements, offering her
advice and counsel as to her clothes and the management
of her kitchen range.\par

There were no more words about the cruelties except
that that night in the long, wandering prayer in which
Mrs. Capron, as leader of the meeting, had ample opportunity
to score against any one whom she fancied delinquent,
or against whom she had a private grudge, she inserted
into her petition:\par

“And from all needless cruelties, keep us, O Lord.
The bird that hops onto our sill”—Mrs. Capron did not
specify whether sparrow or nightingale, but she implored
fervently—“help us to remember it’s one of Thy birds
and set no snare for it, and the—er—the innercent
creepin’ things mindin’ their own business and praisin’
Thee—defend ’em from our impident croolties ... help
us to live and let live and refrain from all light-minded
killin’ and irreligious trap-settin’.”\par

Little Johnnie Tyarck, sitting big-eared and thin-faced
alongside of his mother’s angular orisons, rubbed puzzled
eyes. Johnnie wondered if Mrs. Capron, always severe
in her attitude toward boys, could possibly have learned
about those twenty-five hop-toads he had corralled in a
sewer-pipe, carefully stopping up the ends of the pipe
with mud and stones. The interned hop-toads had
haunted Johnnie—and yet—and yet— Well, there was
something insolent and forthputting about hop-toads—they
breathed with their stomachs, had morose mouths,
and proved themselves crassly superfluous and useless in
the general scheme. Some one, it had seemed to Johnnie,
should discipline hop-toads.\par

Behind Johnnie’s wispy little head was the grizzled
one of Mr. Bloomby, the ragman. Mr. Bloomby, it was
understood, was invariably haled to prayer-meeting by
Mrs. Bloomby, a person of extreme virtue.\par

As Mrs. Capron’s prayer to be defended from cruelties
proceeded, Mr. Bloomby became rather hot under the
celluloid collar he had extracted from recent collections
of rags—he wondered if it could have possibly got
round that he had once built a fire, a small but provocative
fire, under a recalcitrant mule in order to persuade
the mule to draw a load which he, Mr. Bloomby, deemed
entirely adapted to the mule’s capacity. Mr. Bloomby
mentally confronted the inexperienced Supreme Being
with data as to mules and the way a mule would try to
get even with you.\par

But there was one person on whom Mrs. Capron’s
prayer made little, if any, impression. Miss Frances
Giddings bowed her sallow face into her wobbly, gloved
hand. “Five waters must I pass my hands through, O
Lord,” she prayed, “but never will I neglect Thy roses!”
Into her mind swept clouds of fresh, heavenly bloom.
With a dedication to beauty that she did not know was
pagan, she lost herself in the dream of eternal gardening.\par

Nevertheless, the story of Frances Giddings’s “cruelties”
got about. There was much discussion over the
dark revelations made by Mrs. Capron and Mrs. Tyarck.
Morning wrappers conferred in basements; lead-wrapped
crimps met in cellars; in church there were eyeglasses
that glittered judgment. Just how was the village of Ivy
Corners to look upon a person whose backyard was full
of contraptions—this one for cats, that one for locusts;
pitfalls for inquiring chickens, fly-paper for migrating
ants! Under the amazing elasticity of village imagination
it was finally evolved and told with indrawn breath
that there had been cruelty like that “in the family.” A
Giddings, ancestor of Miss Frances, forgotten till now,
but revamped for especial significance, was said to have
been “dog-catcher,” and in this governmental disguise
to have inflicted incredible torments upon the stray animals
of his impounding. Then came horrified descriptions
of Miss Frenzy, head tied up, a flaming wad of
newspaper on a broom, attacking the diaphanous intrenchments
of caterpillars. These recitals, all working
up to an hysterical crescendo, were pounded like so many
coffin-nails in the final burial of a shy, gentle personality.
Little by little the impression grew stronger that Miss
Frenzy, though still out of jail, was both cruel and
“queer,” and between these judgments and her sensitive
appreciation of them, the tall, stooping figure was
seen less and less among intimate gatherings of Ivy
Corners.\par

Months passed before another name came up for discussion;
this time it was the name of the girl in the scarlet
cap and sweater; a poor enough little country name;
a name hardly destined for tragedy, but when the older
townswomen had finished with it, it had become a foul
thing—fouler, poor defenseless young name, than the
great red-ember names of Catherine de’ Medici or the
Empress Faustine. When autumn dragged its gritty
brown leaves into the gutters of Ivy Corners this name,
too, had become nearly buried. The little scarlet coat had
vanished from the town, but every door-knob seemed to
be aware of its history, every window was alert and cold
to face it down. White curtains, carefully tied back,
seemed to wait primly for the moment when they also
would be called to impress themselves upon any one
who should be so bold as to try to win their immaculate
favor.\par

Yet one winter night when the wind-blown trees
seemed to try to claw the stars out of the sky, the girl in
the scarlet coat did come back. There was a push at
Miss Frenzy’s door, the little shop bell jumped with a
scared jangle. It was almost midnight; shadows shivered
under the electric lights and the village streets were
empty; a prickling drift of snow sifted past the blue
bleakness of the windows. Things were at the relentless
hour; a second desperate pull sent the store bell into a
frightened spasm.\par

“Who’s there?” quavered Miss Frenzy. She sat up;
then, looking like a nut-colored Persian in her strange-figured
wrapper, she got out of bed and held high the
lamp that burned all night on her chair. The cold made
her gray face quiver, but she shuffled bravely into the
store where the street light still flickered its bleak
question.\par

On the shop floor lay a figure. Its abandon had a stark
quality, as if it had been buffeted and abandoned to unappeased
tortures of the elements. The old spinster,
lamp in hand, leaned shivering over it. It was a little
scrap of life’s tragedy that had blown like a dead leaf in
Miss Frenzy’s path; she was not prepared for it. “Not
dead? Not dead?” she quavered. Well, yes, it was
dead. Miss Frenzy could see animation, the thing we
call “life,” but even she knew that it was dead youth,
with all its fairy powers lost, that she looked upon. She
bent closely to stricken lips that muttered a tuneless kind
of song:\par

“{\itshape{The night train.... If I go back, if I go back ...}}”
There was a long silence and then the young voice
chanted, deliriously, “{\itshape{In Miss Frenzy’s garden ... the
fences are high ...}}”\par

The girl’s body lay with the stamp of primal woe fixed
indelibly upon it. It was wastage in the social scheme,
yet it had something of torn petal, of wind-blown butterfly,
of wings that had been frozen while fluttering at the
very center of the flower of life. Protest dragged at
Miss Frenzy’s heart.\par

“{\itshape{Young}},” muttered the cracked voice. “{\itshape{Young.}}”
The tears tore to the near-sighted eyes. Out of the old
maid’s defeated being came the curious sense of being
true to something; of loyalty to hidden forces life had
hitherto kept her from recognizing. As she might have
raised a vestal virgin struck down by her flame she raised
the piteous form. Staggering to her deserted bed, Miss
Frenzy laid the girl in its warmth. She drew off the
wrecked red clothing, she made a hot drink and got it
somehow between the locked lips. “There, there!”
sobbed Miss Frenzy. She knew that “There, there” was
what mothers said to their hurt children, and yet she was
not a mother—and this—oh, this was not a child!\par

When at last the exhausted frame shuddered down to
sleep the old storekeeper moved away, shutting the bedroom
door. She went back into the shop and roamed
restlessly hither and yon. The electric light had gone out
and dawn was stealing in. On every hand some article
of woman’s clothing interrogated her. Lace collars, immaculate
in their set pattern, swayed fastidiously from
her absent touch; the cards of buttons eyed her curiously;
bolts of smooth, conventional satin ribbon conveyed calm
judgments. With a frightened look, she turned out the
lamp and sat sleepless at the store window....\par

All that winter Miss Frenzy held her little fort alone;
her gentle face grew sterner, her careful speech more and
more stilted. To all inquiries, curious, suave, or critical,
she returned the invariable statement:\par

“I have long been in need of an assistant. This young
girl is bright and willing; her friends have, most regrettably,
cast her off—” A dark flush would come into
Miss Frenzy’s face as she forced herself to add: “It appears
that she has had a sad experience.... I intend to
befriend her.”\par

An attitude like this held by a character already under
the ban of local disapproval seemed to have only one significance
for the leaders of thought in Ivy Corners. It
conveyed to such leaders blatant immorality, the countenancing
of a sinner who should be made to pay the full
penalty for a misstep. Mrs. Tyarck, head held high, was
theatrically outraged. With superb ostentation she took
to patronizing the “other” dry-goods shop, where, in
order to put down vice, she bought things of which she
disapproved, did not want, or already possessed duplicates.
At this store she made gloomy remarks, such as,
“Ef we ain’t careful we’ll be back ag’in in Godom and
Sommarah.” No one noticed the slight inaccuracy of
pronunciation, but the angle of the wing on Mrs.
Tyarck’s hat proclaimed to the world at large the direction
of her virtuous sentiments.\par

Mrs. Capron, however, laid a loftier plan of attack.
Entering the little shop of an evening, she would plant
herself before the counter, sigh heavily, and produce
from the knobby catch-all a tract. This she would hand
to the drooping girl in attendance, saying, solemnly,
“{\itshape{There is things, young woman, as will bear thinkin’
on.}}” Several days later the methodical Mrs. Capron
would return with another tract, commanding, as one in
authority, “Give that to your mistaken benefactor.” She
would then hawk once with juridic deliberation, stare
into the stricken young face, and majestically depart.\par

But spring, which, when it brings the surge of sap in
the trees, also brings back something like kindness and
pity in the withered human heart, came to Ivy Corners
with its old tender ministry, until the very tufts of grass
between the village stones had an air of escape from confining
limitations; and until the little store’s isolation was
pierced by one or two rays of human warmth. The minister’s
wife called. One or two mothers of large families
invented shopping errands in order to show some measure
of interest in the young life Miss Frenzy was helping
back to usefulness and sanity. The girl’s shamed eyes,
eyes that would probably never again meet the world’s
with the gaze of square integrity, often rested like tired
birds in looks of sympathy and encouragement. Such
persons as displayed these qualities, however, were
sharply disapproved by the more decided voices in village
conclaves.\par

“There is things which has limits,” criticized Mrs.
Tyarck. This lady, in her effort to convey her idea of
sustained condemnation, even went so far as once more
to enter the little shop to inquire the price of some purple
veiling hanging seductively in the window. Miss Giddings
herself waited on the shopper; the girl sat near by
cutting fresh paper for the shelves.\par

“I ain’t here because I’m any the less scandalized,”
began Mrs. Tyarck in a loud whisper. “Your own reputation
was none too safe, Frenzy, that you should go and
get a Jezebel to keep store for you. Are you goin’ to reduce
that veilin’ any? I know it’s loud, but Tyarck
always wants I should dress young.”\par

Then there was short silence. The veiling was measured
and cut off. Miss Giddings wrapped up the purple
net without speaking. Under her glasses her eyes shot
fire, her long face was suffused, but she spoke no word.
Mrs. Tyarck leaned over the counter, her face poked between
rows of hanging black stockings, taking on a look
of bland counsel.\par

“It’s on account of them cruelties of yours,” she
explained—continuing with ostentatious secrecy, “you
ain’t in no position to take up for this girl, Frenzy.”\par

Then the whispers grew louder and louder until they
were like hisses. Mrs. Tyarck’s head darted forward like
a snake’s. At last in the back of the store the girl’s head
fell forward, her weak shoulders were shaken by helpless
sobs.\par

The hands of the old shopkeeper fumbling with the
package trembled, but Miss Frenzy appeared outwardly
calm. Before counting out change, however, she paused,
regarding the shopper musingly.\par

“Pardon me. Did I rightly hear you use the word
‘cruelties’?” she questioned. To an onlooker her manner
might have seemed suspiciously tranquil.\par

“Yes—cruelties,” repeated the other, patronizingly.
“There’s no use denying it, Frenzy—there’s that fly-paper
loomin’ up before you! There’s them cat-traps
and killin’ devices, and, as if it wasn’t bad enough, what
must you do but go and take up with a girl that the whole
town says is—”\par

There was a sudden curious cessation of the speaker’s
words. This was caused by a very sudden action on the
part of Miss Giddings. Desperately seizing on a pair of
the hanging black stockings, she darted with incredible
swiftness around the end of the counter. With a curious
sweep of her long arms she passed the black lengths
around the shopper’s mouth, effectively muffling her.\par

“Cruelties!” gasped the old shopkeeper. “Cruelties
indeed! You will {[}gasp{]} be so good {[}gasp{]} as to take
the word cruelties and go home and reflect upon it.”\par

“Hey?” gasped Mrs. Tyarck. “Hey? Now, now,
now!” Over the black gag her eyes looked frightened
and uncomprehending. She suddenly saw herself in the
grasp of the heaver and squeezer, of the chewers and
suckers, and was full of consternation. “You’ve no call
to get excited, Frenzy,” she mumbled through the cottony
thicknesses of stocking; then, as she worked her
mouth out of its leash, “I’ll have the law on you, Frenzy
Giddings!”\par

“Leave the store!” was Miss Frenzy’s sole response.
She said it between set jaws. She suddenly let go of the
stockings and they dropped to the floor. She picked up
the parcel of purple veiling and cast it through the door
into the gutter. She stood, tall and withering, pointing
with inexorable finger; then, as Mrs. Tyarck, the gag
removed, began to chatter fierce intimations of reprisal
the old shopkeeper’s eyes again flashed.\par

“Cruelties!” repeated Miss Frenzy, dwelling scornfully
upon the word—“cruelties! Yes, I understand
your reference.” She kept on pointing to the open door.
“You refer to the worms, to those creatures that ate and
defaced helpless roses; tender young things that couldn’t
help themselves.... Very well. I am still, as it were,
inexorable toward worms! So,” with a shrill, excited
laugh, “I still heave them and squeeze them. Therefore
depart—worm! Leave the store!”\par

“{\itshape{Worm?}}” questioned Mrs. Tyarck, faintly. This lady
had suddenly lost all her assurance, the very upstanding
wing in her hat became spiritless. She looked aghast,
puzzled. Her eyes, like those of a person in a trance,
wandered to the package of purple veiling lying outside
in the gutter, and she tried to rally. “Worm! Now look
here, Frenzy Giddings, I don’t know whether it’s assault
and battery to call a person such names, or whether
it’s slander, but I tell you the law has had people up for
saying less than ‘worm.’”\par

“But I said ‘worm,’” repeated the old shopkeeper,
firmly—“worms, contemptible and crawling, chewers
and suckers of reputations; you and Mrs. Capron, the
whole town (with lamentably few exceptions) are a nest
of small, mean, crawling, contemptible worms....
Worms, I repeat, worms!”\par

“Frenzy Giddings!” whispered the shocked Mrs.
Tyarck. She stood frozen in horror under the last hissing,
unsparing indictment, then turned and fled. As she
scuttled, almost whimpering, through the door she was
followed by the ceaseless, unsparing epithet, “Worm!”\par

The shopkeeper’s protégée found her stiff and still unyielding,
bowed over the counter, her forehead reddened
with shame, her hands twisted together in self-loathing.\par

“Get me some hot tea, my dear,” gasped Miss Frenzy.
She still shook and her voice was as the voice of a dying
person. The fine raiment of courtesy and punctilious
speech that she had all her life worn had been torn from
her by her own fierce old hands; in her own gentle eyes
she was hopelessly degraded. Yet she smiled triumphantly
at the anxious young face of the girl as she proffered
the steaming tea. “Young,” muttered Miss
Frenzy, her eyes following the movements of the other.
“Young.”\par

At last she roused herself and went slowly toward the
door of the little private room, the girl hurrying to assist
her. She paused, took the dark young head between her
wrinkled hands, and kissed it. “I called her a ‘worm,’
my dear,” said Miss Frenzy. “It was a regrettable
circumstance, but she accused me of cruelties—cruelties?... I
called her a ‘worm.’” The old shopkeeper’s
eyes twinkled. “On the whole, I am glad I did
so.”\par

Later, when the roses came again and the two sat with
their sewing in the little garden, Miss Frenzy cheerfully
remarked upon the entire absence of rose-worms. “Without
conceit,” she remarked—“without conceit, I should
be inclined to say that the Lord has endorsed my activities.”
She looked affectionately at the slender figure sewing
near the honeysuckle and called attention to the
young cherry-tree shooting up in green assurance.\par

“My mystery!” announced Miss Frenzy. “Not
planted by human hands. The seed doubtless dropped
by a bird in flight. Whether the fruit will be sweet or
bitter is to me a matter of pleasing conjecture.”\par

\penalty-300%
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\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\scshape{By}} KATHARINE HOLLAND BROWN\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{Scribner’s Magazine}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by Katharine Holland Brown.}}}}\par}
\end{verse}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Lucien, Mrs. Bellamy’s impeccable chauffeur,
brought me home from Mrs. Bellamy’s bridge that
green-gold summer afternoon of 1914. Looking down
from the cliff road, all Gloucester Harbor was a floor of
rippled amethyst. When we turned into the forest drive
the air breathed deep of pine fragrance, heady as new
wine.\par

“How few people are driving to-day, Lucien! Yet
it’s so perfect—”\par

“One driver approaches, mademoiselle.” Lucien’s
solid gray shape bore hard on the wheel. The big car
swerved, shot half-way up the bank. I screamed. Past
us like a streak of white lightning tore a headlong white
monster, muffler cut out, siren whooping. Its huge
wheels grazed our hubs; with a roar, it shot round the
curve, plunged down the steep grade toward Gloucester,
and vanished. Its shriek rang back to us like the shriek
of a lost soul.\par

“Lucien! That car must have been making eighty
miles an hour!”\par

“Mademoiselle speaks truth.” Lucien, frankly shaken,
took off his cap and wiped a very damp brow. “It is the
car of the great Doctor Lake, he who is guest of Madame
Hallowell, at Greenacres.”\par

“Doctor Lake! That stodgy old specialist!” I was a
bit shaken myself. “Nonsense. He never ventures out
of a crawl.”\par

“Pardon, mademoiselle. It is the car of Doctor Lake.
But at the wheel sat not monsieur the doctor. Instead,
there sat, and drove”—here Lucien forgot himself completely—“that
demon boy.”\par

“Buster!” I groaned. For there was only one demon
boy on all Cape Ann, and that was my second cousin
Isabella O’Brien’s only son, Richard Parke O’Brien, rechristened
Buster since the days of his tempestuous infancy.
Isabella (born Sears and Brattle Street, but she
ran away and married Octavius O’Brien, descendant of
an unknown race, at eighteen, and has lived ever since in
the wilds of Oklahoma)—Isabella, I say, had sent her
child to visit Aunt Charlotte and myself, while she and
her Octavius went camping in the Yosemite. From her
letters we had inferred that she needed a vacation from
her Civic League work. Later, we came to realize that
her base secret aim had been to win a vacation from
Buster. What we two sedate Back Bay spinsters had
endured from that unspeakable child!\par

Octavius O’Brien is a large, emphatic man with large,
emphatic ideas as to the rearing of children. Buster once
summarized his father’s method in a few simple words.\par

“Here in New England, when I want to learn how to
do anything, you and Aunt Charlotte say: ‘Dear me,
Richard, wait till you grow up. Then you’ll understand.’
Down in Oklahoma, dad just gives me a check and says:
‘Go to it.’”\par

Such eclecticism bears startling fruits. The maddening
thing about Buster’s activities was that his blackest
crimes, once sifted down, proved not to be crimes at all.
Merely the by-products of his inquiring disposition. Although,
to quote Aunt Charlotte, if your house is burnt
down over your head, it matters little to you whether it
was fired for malice or from a scientific desire to see how
long it would take to burn.\par

To-day, as we drove on, I looked back on the summer.
As a rule, our months at the shore are compact of slow
and tranquil days, but this season had fled past like a
demented moving-picture film. Buster had arrived at
9 {\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{A. M.}} the 8th of June. By noon he had made his presence
felt. During the next five days he took the gas-range
apart, to see how it worked, and put it together
again, but inaccurately, so that it blew up and all but
annihilated a perfectly good cook. I had to raise Louisiana’s
wages three dollars a week. He drained all the
water out of the fountain pool, to see how long it would
take to refill it; then, at sight of a wayfaring organ-grinder
he rushed away, to bribe the man to open up his
instrument and let him see how its harmonious innards
worked. Thus, he left nine fat, venerable goldfish to
flop themselves to a miserable end. To be sure, he sniffled
audibly at dinner that night and almost declined dessert;
which didn’t bring back aunt’s beloved Chinese carp,
alas! He tried to teach Gulliver, the Leonards’ Great
Dane, to do German police-dog stunts. Gulliver, who is
young, obedient, and muddle-headed, took his training
seriously to heart and made breath-taking leaps at the
Leonards’ gardener’s throat, to the up-blown pride of
both Buster and the gardener. Unhappily, he saw fit to
show off his new accomplishment on an irascible New
York banker, to whom Commodore Leonard was trying
his best to sell his early Pullman place at Beverly Farms.
As Buster hotly declared, if the banker hadn’t squealed
and acted such a sissy, Gulliver would have stopped with
a mere snap at his lapel. But his cries so excited the
poor pup that by the time the horrified commodore came
to his aid most of the banker’s raiment was in tatters, to
say nothing of his dignity. Commodore Leonard lost his
one chance of the year to unload that white elephant of a
house. At that, he congratulated himself because the
banker didn’t sue him for damages.\par

Subdued and chastened, Buster took himself off to the
harbor to seek diversion among the ancient mariners
who had already found in him a stimulating audience.
He spent, I judge, a pleasant afternoon. He rode back
on the Magnolia ’bus just at dinner-time. He did not
return alone. Proudly he strode up the steps, one eye
cocked over his shoulder at the bland and tarry skipper
who swaggered, all too jovially, behind. Eagerly he ran
to the palsied Aunt Charlotte.\par

“Aunt Charlotte, this is my friend, Captain Harrigan,
of the {\itshape{Lottie Foster}}. The captain has come to dinner
and to spend the evening, and he’s promised to tell us
all his adventures and draw the plans for my racing
yacht, when I get one, and teach me how to make her
torpedo-proof and—and everything! Cap Harrigan,
meet Aunt Charlotte!”\par

Well, as Aunt Charlotte and I agreed later, we were
bound and helpless. The child was so brimful of glad
hospitality. You couldn’t strike him in the face by rebuffing
his friend. But oh, the hours that followed! As
Louisiana put it later, the genman wasn’t plumb drunk,
but he cert’ny was happy drunk. The instant dinner was
ended Aunt Charlotte fled up-stairs, locked her door, and
pushed the bureau against it. I stayed on deck, a quaking
Casabianca, till 11 {\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{P. M.}} Then, by way of a mild suggestion,
I turned down the lights; and Captain Harrigan,
now in mellow tears at the reminiscences of his own
boyhood, kissed my hands and took a fervent leave.\par

“But Richard, child! The man was intoxicated!
Disgustingly intoxicated!”\par

“Gosh, was he? Well, he was bully and interesting,
anyhow. Look at all those sailors’ knots he’s taught me.
And the story he told about crossing the equator the first
time, and the one about the admiral who was always three
sheets to the wind and wouldn’t tie his shoe-strings—what
does three sheets to the wind mean, anyhow? And
he’s showed me how to read a compass and all about
sextants and transits, too. Gee, I bet I could steer a
dreadnought, after what he’s taught me to-night.”\par

“He certainly was full of information. But don’t invite
any more drunken sailors to the house, dear. Bring
your friends home whenever you wish, but make sure
first that they’re sober.”\par

“Well, I will. Though I kind o’ hate to ask ’em.”\par

With that I let the matter drop. You could not blame
the child. Back of every calamity that he brought upon
us lay his ravenous curiosity, his frantic longing to know
how the world was made and ruled. But to-day was
different. No hunger for knowledge could warrant a
boy of fifteen in seizing the sacrosanct car of the most
famous of Boston specialists, and going joy-riding down
the Gloucester hills. Buster should be seriously rebuked.\par

Incidentally, I’d been playing bridge all afternoon
with two stern dowagers and one irritable maiden lady,
all crack players, while I’m a hopeless amateur. I had
on a tea-rose crêpe de chine and the waitress had spilled
coffee on it. Further, I was wearing brand-new patent-leather
slippers. Yes, Buster would receive his full
deserts.\par

Buster pranced home at dusk, afire with triumph from
his crested red head to his comically massive young feet.
Pallid and grave, Aunt Charlotte and I confronted him
on the piazza.\par

“H’lo, Cousin Edith. Say, is dinner ready? Cracky,
I could eat a whole barbecue!”\par

“Richard! Where is Doctor Lake’s car?”\par

Buster gasped slightly, but his jauntiness never
flinched.\par

“Over at Mrs. Hallowell’s garage, of course.”\par

“You have just left it there. Richard, don’t you realize
what a lawless thing you have done? To take another
person’s car without permission—”\par

“I did too have permission!” Buster’s red crest
reared. His black eyes flamed. “I had her opened up,
and was studying the engine—gee, some peach!—and I
told the doctor’s chauffeur that I’d bet him a box of
Gibraltars I could take that car clear to Doctor Lake’s
Boston office and back in two hours and not get pinched.
And he said, ‘I’m from Saint Joe, son. You gotta show
me.’ So I jumped aboard, and I’d beat it down the
drive before he could say boo. And I made it in one
hour and fifty-seven minutes, though I had to waste ten
minutes, and a dollar besides, on the doctor’s mutt of a
doorman—making him understand why he must sign
his name to a card saying I’d reported there at five sharp.
The big dummy, I don’t believe the real reason has
dawned on him yet. But you oughter seen that chauffeur
wilt when I whizzled her in, two minutes ago!”\par

“I feel wilted myself. When I think of the apologies
I must make to Doctor Lake—”\par

“Apologies? What for? He ought to be delighted.
It was a corking speed test for his car. Down that stem-winder
cliff, let me tell you, she just naturally hung on by
her eyebrows.”\par

“Richard, the chauffeur did not mean to give you permission.
You know that.”\par

“W-Well. What if he didn’t?”\par

“Richard, you are inexcusable.” Aunt Charlotte
ruffled her feathers and dashed into the fray. Whereat
Richard exploded.\par

“Gee, ain’t it fierce? Ain’t it, now! How’s a fellow
to learn about cars and engines and things if folks won’t
ever give him a chance to try ’em out? And I’ve got to
find out how to do things and make things and run
things; I’ve {\itshape{got}} to know!”\par

His solid fists clinched; his voice skittered comically
from a bass bellow to an angry treble crow. I choked.
He was so exactly like a pin-feathered young Shanghai
rooster, hotly contending his right to live his own life,
against two glum, elderly hens. But that didn’t deter
me from marching him over to Madam Hallowell’s later.\par

“Nonsense, my dear Miss Edith!” Thus Doctor
Lake, just a bit too Olympian in large white waistcoat
and eminent calm. “It was my chauffeur’s doing. He
will answer to me. I beg you, give the matter no more
thought.”\par

None the less, in his bland eye lurked a yearning to
seize on Buster and boil him in oil. Buster saw that
look.\par

“Grown-up folks are so darn stingy!” he mused bitterly
as we went away. He aimed a vicious kick at the
box hedge. “You’d think any man would be glad to
let a fellow take his car to pieces and study it out, then
test it for speed and endurance, ’specially when the fellow
has never owned anything better than a measly little
runabout in all his life. But no. There he stands, all
diked out like a cold boiled owl, with his eyes rolled up
and his lip rolled out—‘My chauffeur will answer to
me.’ When, all the time, he’d lick the hide off me if he
just dasted. Old stuffed shirt!”\par

“You need not speak so disrespectfully—”\par

“I wouldn’t—if folks wasn’t so disrespectful to me.”
His eyes began to flash again, his sullen under-lip to
quiver. “‘Learn it all,’ they tell you. ‘Investigate
every useful art.’ That’s what everybody pours down
your throat, teachers, and relations, an’ all the rest of ’em.
How do they s’pose I’m going to learn about things if
they lock everything up away from me? And I’ve got
to find out about things; I’ve {\itshape{got}} to know!”\par

I didn’t say anything. What was the use? You might
as well scold an active young dynamo for wanting to
spark. But mild little Aunt Charlotte was quite sputtery,
for her.\par

“Isabella and her Octavius have reared their child to
have the tastes of a common mechanic. It is too ridiculous.
Richard needs to understand problems of finance,
not of cogs and axle-grease. If only American parents
would adopt the German methods! {\itshape{They}} teach their
children what is best for them to know. They don’t permit
their young people to waste time and money on wild-goose
flights.”\par

“N-no.” I shivered a little. For some reason, the
annual percentage of school-boy suicides in Prussia
flashed through my mind. When you multiplied that by
a nation— “But perhaps it’s as well that we give our
boys more rope.”\par

“To hang themselves with?” sniffed Aunt Charlotte.
I subsided.\par

So did Buster, for some weeks—weeks so peaceful,
they were all but sinister. Across the ocean, a harebrained
student murdered a reigning duke and his duchess.
It made the newspapers very unpleasant reading
for several days. Across the harbor, the yacht-club gave
the most charming dinner dance of the year. Down East
Gloucester way, a lank and close-mouthed youth from
Salem had set up a shack of a hangar and was giving
brief and gaspy flights to the summer populace at five
dollars a head. Whereat Buster gravitated to East
Gloucester, as the needle to the pole. He bribed Louisiana
to give him his breakfast at seven; he snatched a
mouthful of lunch in the village; he seldom reached home
before dusk.\par

“Richard, you are not spending your allowance in
aeroplane rides?”\par

“Say, listen, Cousin Edie. Where’d I get the coin
for five-dollar jitney trips? I’m overdrawn sixty dollars
on my allowance now, all on account of that beanery
down the harbor—”\par

“The beanery? You haven’t eaten sixty dollars’
worth of beans!”\par

Buster jumped. He turned a sheepish red.\par

“Gosh, I forgot. Why—well, you see, the boss at
that joint has just put in the grandest big new oven ever—iron
and cement and a steam-chamber and everything.
One day last week he had to go to Boston, and I asked
him to let me fire it for him. It was the most interesting
thing, to watch that steam-gauge hop up, only she
hopped too fast. So I shut off the drafts, but I wasn’t
quick enough. There were forty-eight pounds of beans
in the roaster, and they burnt up, crocks and all, and—well,
between us, we hadn’t put enough water in the
boiler. So she sort of—er—well, she blew up. I wired
dad for the money, and he came across by return mail.
Dad’s a pretty good sport. But I’ll bet he doesn’t loosen
up again before Labor Day.”\par

Well, I was sorry for the baker. But Buster, penniless,
was far less formidable than Buster with money in his
purse.\par

The green and golden days flowed on. The North
Shore was its loveliest. But the newspapers persisted in
being unpleasant. Serbian complications, amazing pronunciamentos,
rumors that were absurd past credence;
then, appalling, half-believed, the winged horror-tale of
Belgium. Then, in a trice, our bridge-tables were pushed
back, our yacht dinners forgotten. Frowning, angrily
bewildered, we were all making hurried trips to the
village and heckling the scared young telegraph-operator
with messages and money that must be cabled to
marooned kinsfolk at Liverpool or Hamburg or Ostend.
“This moment! Can’t you {\itshape{see}} how important it is?”
A day or so more and we were all buying shoes and
clothes for little children and rushing our first boggled
first-aid parcels to the wharf. And, in the midst of all
that dazed hurly, up rose Mrs. John B. Connable. Aglow
with panicky triumph, she flung wide the gates of Dawn
Towers, her spandy-new futurist palace, to the first
bazaar of the Belgian relief!\par

As one impious damsel put it, Belgium’s extremity
was Mrs. Connable’s opportunity. Seven weary years,
with the grim patience of stalwart middle age and seventeen
millions, has Mrs. John B. labored to mount the
long, ice-coated stair that leads from a Montana cow-camp
to the thresholds of Beacon Hill. Six cruel seasons
have beheld her falter and slip back. But on this, the
seventh, by this one soaring scramble, she gained the topmost
gliddery round. A bazaar for the Belgians? For
once, something new. And Dawn Towers, despite its
two-fisted châtelaine, was said to be a poet’s dream.\par

Well, we went. All of us. Even to Madam Hallowell,
in lilac chiffon and white fox fur, looking like the Wicked
Fairy done by Drian; even to Aunt Charlotte, wearing
the Curtice emeralds, her sainted nose held at an angle
that suggested burnt flannel. I’ll say for Mrs. Connable
that she did it extremely well. The great, beautiful house
was thrown open from turret to foundation-stone. Fortune-tellers
lurked in gilded tents; gay contadinas sang
and sold their laces—the prettiest girls from the Folies
at that; Carli’s band, brought from New York to play
fox-trots; cleverest surprise of all, the arrival, at five
o’clock, of a lordly limousine conveying three heavenborn
“principals,” a haughty young director in puttees, a
large camera. Would Mrs. Connable’s guests consent
to group themselves upon the beach as background for
the garden-party scene of “The Princess Patricia”—with
Angela Meadow, from the Metropolitan, as the
Princess, if you please, and Lou-Galuppi himself as the
villain?\par

Mrs. Connable’s guests would. All the world loves a
camera, I reflected, as I observed Madam Hallowell drift
languidly to the centre-front, the chill Cadwalladers from
Westchester drape themselves unwittingly but firmly in
the foreground, the D’Arcy Joneses stand laughingly
holding hands in the very jaws of the machine. But
Doctor Lake was the strategist of the hour. Chuckling
in innocent mirth, he chatted with the radiant Angela
until the director’s signal brought the villain swaggering
from the side-lines; then, gracefully dismayed, he stepped
back at least six inches. If the camera caught Angela
at all, the doctor would be there—every eminent inch of
him.\par

“Ready—camera!”\par

The joyous chatter stilled. On every face fell smug
sweetness, as a chrism. Clickety-click, click-click—\par

Then, amazingly, another sound mingled with that
magic tick, rose, drowned it to silence—the high, snarling
whine of a swift-coming aeroplane.\par

“Keep your places, please! Eyes right!”\par

Nobody heard him. Swung as on one pivot, the garden-party
turned toward the harbor, mazed, agape.
Across that silver water, flying so low its propeller
flashed through diamond spray, straight toward the
crowd on the beach it came—the aeroplane from East
Gloucester.\par

“There, I {\itshape{knew}} he’d butt in just at the wrong minute!
I ordered him for six, sharp!” Mrs. Connable’s voice
rang hotly through the silence. “Hi, there! Land
farther down the beach; we ain’t ready for you. Go on,
I tell you! Oh, oh, my gracious goodness me! He’s
a-headin’ right on top of us—”\par

That was all anybody heard. For in that second,
pandemonium broke. The great, screaming bird drove
down upon us with the speed of light, the blast of a
howitzer shell. Whir-r-rip! The big marquee collapsed
like a burst balloon. Crash! One landing-wheel grazed
the band-stand; it tipped over like a fruit-basket, spilling
out shrieking men. Through a dizzy mist I saw the
garden-party, all its pose forgot, scuttle like terrified ants.
I saw the scornful Cadwalladers leap behind an infant
pine. I saw D’Arcy Jones seize his wedded wife by her
buxom shoulders and fling her in front of him, a living
shield. I saw—can I believe?—the august Doctor
Lake, pop-eyed and shrieking, gallop headlong across
the beach and burrow madly in the low-tide sands. I saw—but
how could my spinning brain set down those thousand
spectacles?\par

However, one eye saw it all—and set it down in cold,
relentless truth—the camera. True to his faith, that
camera-man kept on grinding, even when the monster
all but grazed his head.\par

Then, swifter even than that goblin flight, it was all
over. With a deafening thud, the aeroplane grounded
on a bed of early asters. Out of the observer’s seat
straddled a lean, tall shape—the aviator. From the
pilot’s sheath leaped a white-faced, stammering boy.
White to his lips; but it was the pallor of a white flame,
the light of a glory past all words.\par

“H’lo, Cousin Edie! See me bring her across the
harbor? Some little pilot!” Then, as if he saw for the
first that gurgling multitude, the wrecked tent, the over-turned
band-stand: “Gee, that last puff of wind was
more than I’d counted on. But she landed like thistledown,
just the same. Just thistledown!”\par

I’ll pass over the next few hours. And why attempt
to chronicle the day that followed? Bright and early, I
set forth to scatter olive-branches like leaves of Vallombrosa.
Vain to portray the icy calm of the Misses Cadwallader,
the smiling masks which hid the rage of the
D’Arcy Joneses. Hopeless to depict the bland, amused
aplomb of Doctor Lake. To hear him graciously disclaim
all chagrin was to doubt the word of one’s own
vision. Could I have dreamed the swoop of that mighty
bird, the screech of a panic-stricken fat man galloping
like a mad hippopotamus for the shelter of the surf?\par

As for Mrs. John B. Connable—hell hath no fury
like the woman who has fought and bled for years to
mount that treacherous flight; who, gaining the last
giddy step, feels, in one sick heartbeat, the ladder give
way from under. I went from that tearful and belligerent
empress feeling as one who has gazed into the dusk fires
of the Seventh Ledge.\par

“We’ll have to give a dinner for her, and ask the
Cadwalladers and Cousin Sue Curtice and the Salem
Bronsons. That will pacify her, if anything can.” Thus
Aunt Charlotte, with irate gloom. There are times when
Aunt Charlotte’s deep spiritual nature betrays a surprising
grasp of mundane things.\par

“Especially if we can get that French secretary, and
Madam Hallowell. Now I’m off to soothe the aviator.
Where did I put my check-book?”\par

The aviator stood at his hangar door, winding a coil
of wire. His lean body looked feather-light in its taut
khaki; under the leathern helmet, his narrow, dark eyes
glinted like the eyes of a falcon hooded against the sun.
Blank, unsmiling, he heard my maunder of explanation.
Somehow his cool aloofness daunted me a bit. But when
I fumbled for my checkbook, he flashed alive.\par

“Money? What for? Because the kid scraped an
aileron? Forget it. I ain’t puttin’ up any holler. He’s
fetched an’ carried for me all summer. I’m owin’ him,
if it comes down to that.”\par

“But Richard had no right to damage your machine—”\par

“Well, he never meant to. That squally gust put him
off tack, else he’d ’a’ brought her down smooth’s a
whistle. For, take it from me, he’s a flier born. Hand,
eye, balance, feel, he’s got ’em all. And he’s patient
and speedy and cautious and reckless all at once. And
he knows more about engines than I do, this minute.
There’s not a motor made that can faze him. Say,
he’s one whale of a kid, all right. If his folks would
let me, I’d take him on as flyin’ partner. Fifty-fifty at
that.”\par

I stiffened a trifle.\par

“You are very kind. But such a position would hardly
be fitting—”\par

“For a swell kid like him?” Under his helmet those
keen eyes narrowed to twin points of light. “Likely not.
You rich hill folks can’t be expected to know your own
kids. You’ll send him to Harvard, then chain him up
in a solid-mahogany office, with a gang of solid-mahogany
clerks to kowtow to him, and teach him to make
money. When he might be flyin’ with me. Flyin’—with
me!” His voice shook on a hoarse, exultant note.
He threw back his head; from under the leathern casque
his eyes flamed out over the world of sea and sky, his
conquered province. “When he might be a flier, the
biggest flier the world has ever seen. Say, can you beat
it? {\itshape{Can}} you beat it?”\par

His rudeness was past excuse. Yet I stood before him
in the oddest guilty silence. Finally—\par

“But please let me pay you. That broken strut—”\par

“Nothing doing, sister. Forget it.” He bent to his
work. “Pay me? No matter if my plane did get a
knock, it was worth it. Just to see that fat guy in white
pants hot-foot it for deep water! Yes, I’m paid.
Good-by.”\par

Then, to that day of shards and ashes, add one more
recollection—Buster’s face when Aunt Charlotte laid it
upon him that he should never again enter that hangar
door.\par

“Aunt Charlotte! For Pete’s sake, have a heart!
I’ve got that plane eatin’ out of my hand. If that
plaguy cat’s-paw hadn’t sprung up—”\par

“You will not go to East Gloucester again, Richard.
That ends it.” Aunt Charlotte swept from the room.\par

“Gee!” Buster’s wide eyes filled. He slumped into
the nearest chair. “Say, Cousin Edie! Ain’t I got one
friend left on earth?”\par

“Now, Richard—”\par

“Can’t you see what I’m tryin’ to put over? I don’t
expect Aunt Charlotte to see. She’s a pippin, all right,
but that solid-ivory dome of hers—”\par

“{\itshape{Richard!}}”\par

“But you’re different. You aren’t so awful old. You
ought to understand that a fellow just has to know about
things—cars, ships, aeroplanes, motors, everything!”\par

“But—”\par

“Now, Cousin Edith, I’m not stringin’ you. I’m
dead in earnest. I’m not tryin’ to bother anybody; I’m
just tryin’ to learn what I’ve got to learn.” He leaped
up, gripped my arm; his passionate boy voice shrilled;
he was droll and pitiful and insolent all in a breath.
“No, sirree, I ain’t bluffin’, not for a cent. Believe me,
Cousin Edith, us fellows have got to learn how everything
works, and learn it quick. I tell you, we’ve {\itshape{got}} to
know!”\par

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Well.... All this was the summer of 1914. Three
years ago. Three years and eight months ago, to be
exact. Nowadays, I don’t wear tea-rose crêpe frocks nor
slim French slippers. Our government’s daily Hints for
Paris run more to coarse blue denim and dour woollen
hose and clumping rubber boots. My once-lily hands
clasp a scrubbing-brush far oftener than a hand at bridge.
And I rise at five-thirty and gulp my scalding coffee in
the hot, tight galley of Field Hospital 64, then set to
work. For long before the dawn they come, that endless
string of ambulances, with their terrible and precious
freight. Then it’s baths and food and swift, tense minutes
in the tiny “theatre,” and swifter, tenser seconds
when we and the orderlies hurry through dressings and
bandagings, while the senior nurse toils like a Turk alongside
and bosses us meanwhile like a slave-driver. Every
day my heart is torn open in my breast for the pain of
my children, my poor, big, helpless, broken children.
Every night, when I slip by to take a last peep at their
sleepy, contented faces, my heart is healed for me again.
Then I stumble off to our half-partitioned slit and throw
myself on my bunk, tired to my last bone, happy to the
core of my soul. But day by day the work heaps up.
Every cot is full, every tent overflowing. We’re short
of everything, beds, carbolic, dressings, food. And yesterday,
at dusk, when we were all fagged to exhaustion,
there streamed down a very flood of wounded, eight
ambulance-loads, harvest of a bombed munitions depot.\par

“We haven’t an inch of room.”\par

“We’ve got to make room.” Doctor Lake, sweating,
dog-tired, swaying on his feet from nine unbroken hours
at the operating-table, took command. “Take my hut;
it’ll hold four at a pinch. You nurses will give up your
cubby-hole? Thought so. Plenty hot water, Octave?
Bring ’em along.”\par

They brought them along. Every stretcher, every
bunk, every crack was crowded now. Then came the
whir of a racing motor. One more ambulance plunged
up the sodden road.\par

“Ah! {\itshape{Grand blessé!}}” murmured old Octave.\par

“{\itshape{Grand blessé!}} And not a blanket left, even. Put
him in the coal-hole,” groaned the head nurse.\par

“Nix on the coal-hole.” Thus the muddy young
driver, hauling out the stretcher with its long, moveless
shape. “This is the candy kid—hear me? Our crack
scout. Escadrille 32.”\par

“Escadrille 32?” The number held no meaning for
me. Yet I pushed nearer. {\itshape{Grand blessé}}, indeed, that
lax, pulseless body, that shattered flesh, that blood and
mire. I bent closer. Red hair, shining and thick, the
red that always goes with cinnamon freckles. A clean-cut,
ashen young face, a square jaw, a stubborn, boyish
chin with a deep-cleft dimple.\par

Then my heart stopped short. The room whirled
round me.\par

“Buster!” I cried out. “You naughty, darling little
scamp! So you got your way, after all. You ran off
from school, and joined the escadrille—oh, sonny-boy,
don’t you hear me? Listen! Listen!”\par

The gaunt face did not stir. Only that ashy whiteness
seemed to grow yet whiter.\par

“We’ll do our best, Miss Preston. Go away now,
dear.” The head nurse put me gently back. I knew too
well what her gentleness meant.\par

“But Doctor Lake can save him! Doctor Lake can
pull him through!”\par

“Doctor Lake is worn out. We’ll have to manage
without him.”\par

“Don’t you believe it!” I flamed. Then I, the greenest,
meekest slavey in the service, dashed straight to the
operating-room, and gripped Doctor Lake by both wrists
and jerked him bodily off the bench where he crouched, a
sick, lubberly heap, blind with fatigue.\par

“No, you sha’n’t stop to rest. Not yet!” I stormed
at him. Somehow I dragged him down the ward, to my
boy’s side. At sight of that deathlike face, the limp,
shivering man pulled himself together with all his weary
might.\par

“I’ll do my level best, Miss Edith. Go away, now,
that’s a good girl.”\par

I went away and listened to the ambulance-driver.
He was having an ugly bullet scratch on his arm tied up.
He was not a regular field-service man, but a young
Y. M. C. A. helper who had taken the place of a driver
shot down that noon.\par

“Well, you see, that kid took the air two hours ago
to locate the battery that’s been spilling shells into our
munitions station. He spotted it, and two others besides.
Naturally, they spotted him. He scooted for
home, with a shrapnel wound in his shoulder, and made
a bad landing three miles back of the lines, and broke his
leg and whacked his head. Luckily I wasn’t a hundred
yards away. I got him aboard my car and gave him
first aid and started to bring him straight over here.
Would he stand for that? Not Buddy. ‘You’ll take
me to headquarters first, to report,’ says he. ‘So let her
out.’\par

“No use arguing. I let her out. We reported at headquarters,
three miles out of our way, then started here.
Two miles back, a shell struck just ahead and sent a rock
the size of a paving-brick smack against our engine.
The car stopped, dead. Did that faze the kid? Not so
you could notice it. ‘You hoist me on the seat and let
me get one hand on the wheel,’ says he, cool’s a cucumber.
‘There isn’t a car made but will jump through
hoops for me.’ Go she did. With her engine knocked
galley west, mind you, and him propped up, chirk as a
cherub, with his broken leg and his smashed shoulder,
and a knock on his head that would ’a’ stopped his clock
if he’d had any brains to jolt. Skill? He drove that car
like a racer. She only hit the high places. Pluck? He
wrote it.\par

“We weren’t fifty yards from the hospital when he
crumpled down, and I grabbed him. Hemorrhage, I
guess. I sure do hope they pull him through. But—I
don’t believe—”\par

Soon a very dirty-faced brigadier-general, whom I
used to meet at dances long ago, came and sat down on
a soap-box and held my hands and tried to comfort me,
so gently and so patiently, the poor, kind, blundering
dear. Most of his words just buzzed and glimmered
round me. But one thought stuck in my dull brain.\par

“This isn’t your boy’s first service to his country,
Miss Edith. He has been with the escadrille only a
month, but he has brought down three enemy planes,
and his scouting has been invaluable. He’s a wonder,
anyhow. So are all our flying boys. They tell me that
the German youngsters make such good soldiers because
they’re trained to follow orders blindfold. All very well
when it comes to following a bayonet charge over the
top. But the escadrille—that’s another story. Take
our boys, brought up to sail their own boats and run
their own cars and chance any fool risk in sight. Couple
up that impudence, that fearlessness, that splendid curiosity,
and you’ve got a fighting-machine that not only
fights but wins. All the drilled, stolid forces in creation
can’t beat back that headlong young spirit. If—”\par

He halted, stammering.\par

“If—we can’t keep him with us, you must remember
that he gave his best to his country, and his best was a
noble gift. Be very glad that you could help your boy
prepare himself to bestow it. You and his parents gave
him his outdoor life and his daring sports and his fearless
outlook, and his uncurbed initiative. You helped
him build himself, mind and body, to flawless powers
and to instant decisions. To-day came his chance to
give his greatest service. No matter what comes now,
you—you have your royal memory.”\par

But I could not hear any more. I cried out that I
didn’t want any royal memories, I wanted my dear, bad,
self-willed little boy. The general got up then and
limped away and stood and looked out of the window.\par

I sat and waited. I kept on waiting—minutes on
gray minutes, hours on hours.\par

Then a nurse grasped my shoulders, and tried to tell
me something. I heard her clearly, but I couldn’t string
her words together to make meaning. Finally, she drew
me to my feet and led me back to the operating-room.\par

There stood Doctor Lake. He was leaning against the
wall and wiping his face on a piece of gauze. He came
straight to me and put out both big, kind hands.\par

“Tell me. You needn’t try to make it easy—”\par

“There, there, Miss Edith. There’s nothing to tell.
Look for yourself.”\par

Gray-lipped, whiter than ashes, straight and moveless
as a young knight in marble effigy, lay my boy. But a
shadow pulse flickered in that bound temple, the cheek I
kissed was warm.\par

“No,” said Doctor Lake very softly. “He won’t die.
He’s steel and whipcord, that youngster. Heaven be
praised, you can’t kill his sort with a hatchet.”\par

He leaned down, gave Buster a long, searching look.
His puffy, fagged face twisted with bewilderment, then
broke into chuckles of astonishment and delight.\par

“Well, on my word and honor! I’ve just this moment
recognized him. This {\itshape{blessé}} is the imp of Satan who
used to steal my car up the North Shore. He’s the chap
who steered that confounded aeroplane into the
garden-party.... I’ve always sworn that, let me once lay
hands on that young scalawag, I’d lick the tar out of
him!”\par

“Well, here’s your chance,” snivelled I.\par

He did not hear me. He had stooped again over
Buster. Again he was peering into that still face. Over
his own face came a strange look, mirthful, then deep
with question, profoundly tender; then, flashing through,
a gleam of amazing and most piteous jealousy, the bitter,
comic jealousy of the most famous of all middle-aged
American surgeons for insolent, fool-hardy, glorious
youth.\par

Then he turned and went away, a big, dead-tired,
shambling figure. And in that instant my boy’s heavy
eyes lifted and stared at me. Slowly in them awoke a
drowsy sparkle.\par

“Hello, Cousin Edith. When did you blow in?”\par

I didn’t try to speak. I looked past him at Doctor
Lake, now plodding from the room. Buster’s eyes followed
mine. Over his face came a smile of heaven’s own
light.\par

“Old stuffed shirt,” sighed Buster with exquisite content.
He turned his gaunt young head on the pillow;
he tucked a brawny fist under his cheek. Before I could
speak he had slipped away, far on a sea of dreams.\par

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{\scshape{By}} CHARLES CALDWELL DOBIE\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{Harper’s Magazine}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by Harper and Brothers.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by Charles Caldwell Dobie.}}}}\par}
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“It happened just as I have said,” Fernet reiterated,
tossing the wine-dregs from his glass.\par

The company at the table looked instinctively toward
the kitchen. Berthe was bringing a fresh pot of coffee.
They all followed Fernet’s example, lifting their empty
glasses for her to serve them in their turn.\par

The regular boarders of the Hôtel de France, after the
fashion of folks who find their meal a duty to be promptly
despatched, had departed, but the transients still lingered
over their {\itshape{café noir}} and cognac in the hope that something
exciting might materialize.\par

As the sound of Fernet’s voice died away, a man who
had been sitting in an extreme corner of the room scraped
back his chair and rose. Fernet looked up. The man
was a hunchback, and, instead of paying for his meal and
leaving, he crossed over and said to Fernet, in the most
perfect French imaginable:\par

“I see, my young fellow, that you are discussing something
of interest with your friends here. Would it be
impertinent for me to inquire into the subject?”\par

Fernet drew out a chair for the newcomer, who seated
himself.\par

“By no means. We were discussing a murder and
suicide. The murdered man was an Italian fisherman
who lodged at the Hôtel des Alpes Maritimes, the suicide
was a musician named Suvaroff.”\par

“Ah,” said the hunchback, cracking his fingers. “Why
a murder and suicide? Why not two murders?”\par

“Because,” returned Fernet, pompously, “it was abundantly
proved to the contrary. This man Suvaroff suffered
from neuralgia; the Italian fisherman was given to
playing the accordion at all hours of the night. Suvaroff
was, in addition, a musician—a high-strung person.
The Italian’s playing was abominable—even his landlady
says as much. In short, Suvaroff deliberately killed
this simple-minded peasant because of his music. Then,
in a fit of remorse, he killed himself. I leave it to any
one here to dispute the fact. Besides, I was on the coroner’s
jury. I should know what I am talking about.”\par

“Oh, without doubt,” agreed the hunchback, smiling
amiably. “But, as I remember, the knives in both cases
were plunged hilt-deep into the backs of the victims. One
does not usually commit suicide in this fashion.”\par

Fernet coldly eyed the curiously handsome face of his
antagonist. “It seems you know more about this thing
than a coroner’s jury,” he sneered.\par

“It seems I do—granting that such an important item
was left out of the evidence.”\par

“Then, my good sir, will you be good enough to tell
me who {\itshape{did}} kill Suvaroff, since you do not admit that he
died by his own hand?”\par

The hunchback cracked his fingers again. “That is
simple enough. Suvaroff was killed by the same person
who stabbed the Italian.”\par

“And who might that be, pray?”\par

The hunchback rose with a malignant smile. “Ah, if
I told you that you would know as much as I do, my
friend.”\par

And with that he walked calmly over to the proprietor,
put down thirty-five cents for his meal upon the counter,
and without another word left the room.\par

A silence fell upon the group. Everybody stared
straight ahead, avoiding the eye of his neighbor. It was
as if something too terrifying to be remarked had passed
them.\par

Finally, a thick-set man at Fernet’s right, with a purple
wart on his cheek, said, uneasily, “Come, I must be
going.”\par

The others rose; only Fernet remained seated.\par

“What,” said another, “haven’t you finished?”\par

“Yes,” returned Fernet, gloomily, “but I am in no
hurry.”\par

He sat there for an hour, alone, holding his head between
his hands. Berthe cleared off the soiled plates,
wiped the oilcloth-covered tables, began noisily to lay the
pewter knives and forks for the morning meal. At this
Fernet stirred himself and, looking up at her, said:\par

“Tell me who was the hunchback who came and sat
with us? Does he live here—in San Francisco?”\par

“His name is Flavio Minetti,” she replied, setting the
lid back upon an uncovered sugar-bowl. “Beyond that
I know nothing. But they tell me that he is quite mad.”\par

“Ah, that accounts for many things,” said Fernet,
smiling with recovered assurance. “I must say he is
strangely fascinating.”\par

Berthe looked at him sharply and shrugged. “For my
part, he makes me shiver every time I see him come in
the door. When I serve him my hand shakes. And he
continually cracks his fingers and says to me: ‘Come,
Berthe, what can I do to make you smile? Would you
laugh if I were to dance for you? I would give half my
life only to see you laughing. Why are you so sad?’ ... No,
I wish he would never come again.”\par

“Nevertheless, I should like to see him once more.”\par

“He comes always on Thursdays for chicken.”\par

“Thanks,” said Fernet, as he put on his hat.\par

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Fernet walked directly to his lodgings that night. He
had a room in an old-fashioned house on the east side of
Telegraph Hill. The room was shabby enough, but it
caught glimpses of the bay and there was a gnarled
pepper-tree that came almost to its windows and gave
Fernet a sense of eternal, though grotesque, spring.
Even his landlord was unusual—a professional beggar
who sat upon the curb, with a ridiculous French poodle
for company, and sold red and green pencils.\par

This landlord was sitting out by the front gate as Fernet
entered.\par

“Ah, Pollitto,” said Fernet, halting before the old man
and snapping his fingers at the poodle who lay crouched
before his master, “I see you are enjoying this fine warm
night.”\par

“You are wrong,” replied the beggar. “I am merely
sitting here hoping that some one will come along and
rent my front room.”\par

“Then it is vacant?”\par

“Naturally,” replied the old man, with disagreeable
brevity, and Fernet walked quickly up to his room.\par

“Why do I live in such a place?” he asked himself,
surveying the four bare walls. “Everything about it is
abominable, and that beggar, Pollitto, is a scoundrel. I
shall move next week.”\par

He crossed over to the window and flung it open. The
pepper-tree lay before him, crouching in the moonlight.
He thought at once of Flavio Minetti.\par

“He is like this pepper-tree,” he said, aloud, “beautiful
even in his deformity. No, I would not trade this
pepper-tree for a dozen of the straightest trees in the
world.” He stepped back from the window, and, lighting
a lamp, set it upon a tottering walnut table. “Ah,
André Fernet,” he mused, chidingly, “you are always
snared by what is unusual. You should pray to God that
such folly does not lead you to disaster.”\par

He went to the window and looked out again. The
pepper-tree seemed to be bending close to the ground, as
if seeking to hide something. Presently the wind parted
its branches and the moonlight fell at its feet like a silver
moth before a blackened candle.\par

André Fernet shivered and sighed. “Yes,” he repeated,
again and again, “they are alike. They both are
at once beautiful and hideous and they have strange secrets....
Well, I shall go on Thursday again, and
maybe I shall see him. Who knows, if I am discreet he
may tell me who killed this ridiculous musician Suvaroff.”\par

And with that he suddenly blew out the light.\par

On the next Thursday night, when Fernet entered the
dining-room of the Hôtel de France his glance rested immediately
upon Flavio Minetti. To his surprise the
hunchback rose, drawing a chair out as he did so, and
beckoning Fernet to be seated next him. For a moment
Fernet hesitated, Berthe was just bringing on the soup.\par

“What! Are you afraid?” she said, mockingly, as
she passed.\par

This decided Fernet. He went and sat beside Minetti
without further ado.\par

“Ah, I was expecting you!” cried the hunchback, genially,
as he passed the radishes.\par

“Expecting {\itshape{me}}?” returned Fernet. His voice trembled,
though he tried to speak boldly.\par

“Yes. Women are not the only inquisitive animals in
the world. What will you have—some wine?”\par

Fernet allowed Minetti to fill his glass.\par

Other boarders began to drift in. Minetti turned his
back upon Fernet, speaking to a new-comer at his left.
He did not say another word all evening.\par

Fernet ate and drank in silence. “What did I come
for and why am I staying?” he kept asking himself.
“This man is mocking me. First of all, he greets me as
if I were his boon companion, and next he insults me
openly and before everybody in the room. Even Berthe
has noticed it and is smiling. As a matter of fact, he
knows no more than I do about Suvaroff’s death.”\par

But he continued to sit beside the hunchback all
through the meal, and as fruit was put on the table he
touched Minetti on the arm and said, “Will you join me
in a {\itshape{café royal}}?”\par

“Not here ... a little later. I can show you a place
where they really know how to make them. And, besides,
there are tables for just two. It is much more
private.”\par

Fernet’s heart bounded and sank almost in one leap.
“Let us go now, then,” he said, eagerly.\par

“As you wish,” replied Minetti.\par

Fernet paid for two dinners, and they reached for their
hats.\par

“Where are you going?” asked Berthe, as she opened
the door.\par

Fernet shrugged. “I am in his hands,” he answered,
sweeping his arm toward Minetti.\par

“You mean you will be,” muttered the hunchback, in
an undertone.\par

Fernet heard him distinctly.\par

“Perhaps I had better leave him while there is yet
time!” flashed through his mind. But the next instant
he thought, contemptuously: “What harm can he do
me? Why, his wrist is no bigger than a pullet’s wing.
Bah! You are a fool, André Fernet!”\par

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They stepped out into the street. A languorous note
was in the air; the usual cool wind from the sea had not
risen. A waning moon silvered the roof-tops, making a
pretense of hiding its face in the thin line of smoke above
Telegraph Hill.\par

The hunchback led the way, trotting along in a fashion
almost Oriental. At the end of the second block he
turned abruptly into a wine-shop; Fernet followed. They
found seats in a far corner, away from the billiard-tables.
A waiter came forward. They gave their orders.\par

“Be sure,” said Minetti to the waiter, “that we have
plenty of anisette and cognac in the coffee.”\par

The man flicked a towel rather contemptuously and
made no answer.\par

“Now,” Minetti continued, turning a mocking face
toward Fernet, “what can I do for you, my friend?”\par

Fernet was filled with confusion. “I ... you ...” he
stammered. “Really, there is nothing. Believe
me—”\par

“Nonsense,” interrupted Minetti. “You wish to know
who killed Suvaroff. But I warn you, my friend, it is a
dreadful thing to share such a secret.”\par

He looked at Fernet intently. The younger man shuddered.
“Nevertheless, I should like to know,” Fernet
said, distinctly.\par

“Well, then, since you are so determined—it was I
who killed him.”\par

Fernet stared, looked again at the hunchback’s puny
wrists, and began to laugh. “{\itshape{You!}} Do you take me for
a fool?” And as he said this he threw back his head and
laughed until even the billiard-players stopped their game
and looked around at him.\par

“What are you laughing at?” asked the hunchback,
narrowing his eyes.\par

Fernet stopped. He felt a sudden chill as if some one
had opened a door. “I am laughing at you,” he
answered.\par

“I am sorry for that,” said Minetti, dryly.\par

“Why?”\par

The hunchback leaned forward confidentially. “Because
I kill every one who laughs at me. It—it is a little
weakness I have.”\par

The waiter came with two glasses of steaming coffee.
He put them down on the table, together with a bottle of
cognac and a bottle of anisette.\par

“Ah, that is good!” cried the hunchback, rubbing his
hands together. “The proprietor is my friend. He is
going to let us prepare our own poison!”\par

Fernet felt himself shivering. “Come,” he thought,
“this will never do! The man is either mad or jesting.”
He reached for the anisette.\par

“Let me pour it for you,” suggested Flavio Minetti.
“Your hand is shaking so that you will spill half of it on
the floor.”\par

The hunchback’s voice had a note of pity in it. Fernet
relinquished his hold upon the bottle.\par

“Don’t look so frightened,” continued Minetti. “I
shall not kill you here. The proprietor is a friend of
mine, and, besides—”\par

“What nonsense!” cried Fernet, with a ghastly smile.
“But I must confess, you did make my blood run cold
for a minute.”\par

Minetti stirred some cognac into his glass. “And,
besides,” he finished, coldly, “I give everybody a sporting
chance. It adds to the game.”\par

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That night André Fernet was restless. He lay on his
bed looking out at the blinking lights of the harbor. “I
must stop drinking coffee,” he muttered to himself.\par

Finally he fell asleep, and when he did he had a strange
dream. It seemed that the pepper-tree outside his window
suddenly began to move in the night breeze and its
long green boughs became alive, twisting like the relentless
tentacles of a devil-fish. Its long green boughs became
alive, crawling along the ground, flinging themselves
into the air, creeping in at André Fernet’s open
window. He lay upon the bed as he had done earlier in
the evening, watching the harbor lights. Slowly the
green boughs writhed over the faded carpet, scaled the
bedpost and fell upon the bed. André Fernet waited,
motionless. He felt the green tentacles close about his
legs, clasp his hands, slide shudderingly across his throat.
Yet he made no move to free himself. It was only when
he felt a breath upon his cheek that he turned slightly,
and instead of the tentacle-like boughs of the pepper-tree
he fancied himself staring down at the hands of Flavio
Minetti.... He awoke with a start. The sun was pouring
in at the open window. He got up quickly. A noisy
clatter issued from the passageway. Fernet opened his
door. Two men were carrying a trunk up the stairs.
Pollitto, the beggar, walked behind.\par

“Ah, I see you have rented your front room,” said
Fernet, stepping out.\par

“Yes,” returned the other. “It was taken as early
as six o’clock this morning—by a hunchback.”\par

Fernet stopped breathing. “A hunchback? Was his
name Flavio Minetti?”\par

“Yes. How did you know?”\par

Fernet tried to smile. “He is a friend of mine,” he
answered, as he walked back into his room. “Perhaps it
would be better if I moved away,” he thought. “I do
not like this room. Heaven knows why I have stayed
this long. Is this fellow Minetti really mad or merely
making sport of me? I should not like to have him think
that I am afraid of him. As for his story about Suvaroff,
that is, of course, ridiculous. If I thought otherwise I
should go at once to the.... No, it is all a joke! I
shall stay where I am. I shall not have it said that a
little, mad, puny, twisted fellow frightened André Fernet
out of his lodgings. Besides, it will be curious to watch
his little game. What a beautiful morning it is, after all!
And the pepper-tree—how it glistens in the sun! I
should miss that pepper-tree if I moved away. But I
must stop drinking {\itshape{cafés royal}}. They upset one. I do
not know whether it is the coffee, or the cognac, or the
anisette, or all three. Of course, that dream I had toward
morning means nothing—but such dreams are unpleasant.
I hate this place. But I shall not move now. No,
I shall wait and see what happens.”\par

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Fernet did not see Minetti for some days. Indeed, he
had dismissed the whole thing from his mind, when, one
night, returning home early to get out of a drizzle, who
should stop him on the stairway but the hunchback.\par

“Ah, so here you are!” called out Fernet, gaily, in
spite of his rapidly beating heart. “I have been waiting
for you to call on me ever since I heard that you were
lodging under the same roof.”\par

“I have been busy,” replied the hunchback, laconically.\par

Fernet threw open his bedroom door and waved
Minetti in.\par

“Busy?” he echoed, as he struck a light. “And what
do you find that is so absorbing, pray?”\par

“You know my specialty,” replied Minetti, flinging off
his cap.\par

Fernet looked up sharply. A malignant look had crept
into the hunchback’s face.\par

“Oh, there is no doubt of it, he is quite mad!” said Fernet
to himself. Then aloud: “Yes, I have been wanting
to talk to you more about this. Take a seat and I shall
make some coffee. For instance, do you always employ
the knife in despatching your—”\par

“Scarcely,” interrupted Minetti, quickly. “Slow poison
has its fascinations. There is a very delicate joy
in watching a gradual decline. It is like watching a
green leaf fading before the breath of autumn. First
a sickly pallor, then a yellowing, finally the sap dries
completely, a sharp wind, a fluttering in the air, and
it is all over. I have tried nearly every slow way—except
mental murder. I fancy that, too, would be
exquisite.”\par

“Mental murder.... I do not understand.”\par

Minetti stretched himself out and yawned. “Accomplishing
the thing without any weapon save the mind.”\par

Fernet picked up the coffee-pot and laughed. “Why,
my dear fellow, it is too absurd! The thing cannot be
done. You see I am laughing at you again, but no
matter.”\par

“No, as you say, it is no matter. You can die only
once.”\par

Fernet’s laughter stopped instantly. He went on with
his preparation for coffee. Minetti changed the subject.\par

It turned out that there was no sugar in the cracked
bowl. Fernet was putting on his hat to go out for some,
when the hunchback stopped him.\par

“Sugar will not be necessary,” he said. And as he
spoke he drew a vial from his vest pocket and laid it
upon the table beside the cups. “You know what these
are, of course.”\par

“Saccharine pellets?” inquired Fernet as he threw
aside his hat.\par

Minetti replied with a grunt. Fernet poured out the
coffee, set a spoon in each saucer, laid three French rolls
upon a blue plate. Then he sat down.\par

“Permit me!” said Minetti, reaching for the vial and
rolling a tiny pellet into his palm.\par

Fernet held up his cup; the hunchback dropped the
pellet into it. Then he corked the vial tightly and laid it
aside.\par

“You forgot to serve yourself,” said Fernet.\par

“So I did!” answered Minetti, nonchalantly. “Well,
no matter. I very often drink my coffee so—without
sweetening.”\par

Fernet drew back suddenly. Could it be possible
that.... The hunchback was staring at him, an ironical
smile was on his lips. Fernet shuddered.\par

“Drink your coffee!” Minetti commanded, sneeringly.
“You are on the verge of a chill.”\par

Fernet obeyed meekly. He felt for all the world like
an animal caught in a trap. He tried to collect his
thoughts. What had the hunchback been talking about?\par

“Slow poison!” muttered Fernet, inaudibly to himself.\par

“What is that you are saying?” demanded the other.\par

“You were speaking of slow poison. How do you go
about it?”\par

“Oh, that is easy! For instance, once in London I
lodged next door to my victim. We became capital
friends. And he was always calling me in for a bite of
something to eat. Nothing elaborate—a bun and a cup
of tea, or coffee and cake. Very much as we are doing
now. He died in six months. It is no trick, you know,
to poison a man who eats and drinks with you—especially
drinks!”\par

As he said this the hunchback reached for the coffee-pot
and poured Fernet another cupful. Then he uncorked
the vial again and dropped a pellet into the steaming
liquid.\par

“I do not think that I wish any more,” protested
Fernet.\par

“Nonsense! You are still shivering like an old woman
with the palsy. Hot coffee will do you good.”\par

“No,” said Fernet, desperately, “I never drink more
than one cup at a sitting. It keeps me awake, and next
morning my hand shakes and I am fit for nothing. I
need a steady hand in my business.”\par

“And what may that be, pray?”\par

“At present I am a draftsman. Some day, if I live
long enough, I hope to be an architect.”\par

“If you live long enough? You forget that you have
laughed at {\itshape{me}}, my friend.”\par

Fernet tried to appear indifferent. “What a droll fellow
you are!” he cried, with sudden gaiety, rubbing his
hands together. And without thinking, he reached for
his coffee-cup and downed the contents in almost one
gulp. He laid the cup aside quickly. He could feel the
sweat starting out upon his forehead.\par

“There, you see,” said Minetti, “the coffee has done
you good already. You are perspiring, and that is a
good sign. A hot drink at the right moment works
wonders.”\par

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The next morning Pollitto stopped Fernet as he swung
out the front gate to his work.\par

“What is the matter with you?” exclaimed the beggar,
in a surprised tone.\par

“Why ... what?” demanded Fernet, in a trembling
voice. “Do I look so ...? Pray, tell me, is there anything
unusual about me?”\par

“Why, your face.... Have you looked at yourself
in the glass? Your skin is the color of stale pastry.”\par

Fernet tried to laugh. “It is nothing. I have been
drinking too much coffee lately. I must stop it.”\par

It was a fine morning. The sun was shining and the
air was brisk and full of little rippling breezes. The bay
lay like a blue-green peacock ruffling its gilded feathers.
The city had a genial, smiling countenance. But Fernet
was out of humor with all this full-blown content. He
had spent a wretched night—not sleepless, but full of
disturbing dreams. Dreams about Minetti and his London
neighbor and the empty sugar-bowl. All night he
had dreamed about this empty sugar-bowl. It seemed
that as soon as he had it filled Minetti would slyly empty
it again. He tried stowing sugar away in his pockets,
but when he put his hand in to draw out a lump a score
or more of pellets spilled over the floor. Then he remembered
saying:\par

“I shall call on Minetti’s London neighbor. Maybe
he will have some sugar.”\par

He walked miles and miles, and finally beat upon a
strange door. A man wrapped in a black coat up to his
eyebrows opened to his knock.\par

“Are you Flavio Minetti’s London neighbor?” he demanded,
boldly.\par

The figure bowed. Fernet drew the cracked sugar-bowl
from under his arm.\par

“Will you oblige me with a little sugar?” he asked,
more politely.\par

The black-cloaked figure bowed and disappeared.
Presently he came back. Fernet took the sugar-bowl
from him. It struck him that the bowl felt very light.
He looked down at his hands. The bowl had disappeared;
only a glass vial lay in his palm. He removed
the cork—a dozen or more tiny round pellets fell out.
He glanced up quickly at Minetti’s London neighbor; a
dreadful smile glowed through the black cloak. Fernet
gave a cry and hurled the vial in the face of his tormentor.
Minetti’s London neighbor let the black cloak fall,
and André Fernet discovered that he was staring at himself....
He awakened soon after that and found that
it was morning.\par

When he brushed his hair his hand had shaken so that
the brush fell clattering to the floor. And he had spilled
the cream for his morning coffee over the faded strip of
carpet before the bureau. It had ended by his eating no
breakfast at all. But he had drunk glass after glass of
cold water.\par

After Pollitto’s words he trembled more and more like
a man with the ague, and before every saloon-door
mirror he halted and took a brief survey of his face.
Pollitto was right—his skin was dead and full of unhealthy
pallor. It was plain that he could not work in
his present condition. His trembling fingers could
scarcely hold a pencil, much less guide it through the
precise demands of a drafting-board. He decided to go
to the library and read. But the books on architecture
which always enthralled him could not hold his shifting
attention. Finally in despair he went up to the librarian
and said:\par

“Have you any books on poison?”\par

The woman eyed him with a cold, incurious glance.\par

“Historical or medical?” she snapped out, as she went
on stamping mysterious numbers in the pile of books before
her.\par

“Both!”\par

She consulted a catalogue and made a list for him.\par

He sat all day devouring books which the librarian had
recommended. He did not even go out for lunch. He
read historical and romantic instances with a keen, morbid
relish; but when it came to the medical books his
heart quickened and he followed causes and effects
breathlessly. By nightfall he had a relentless knowledge
of every poison in the calendar. He knew what to expect
from arsenic or strychnine or vitriol. He learned which
poisons destroyed tissues, which acted as narcotics, which
were irritants. He identified the hemlock, the horse-chestnut,
the deadly toadstools. In short, he absorbed
and retained everything on the subject. It seemed that
the world teemed with poisons; one could be sure of
nothing. Even beautiful flowers were not to be trusted.\par

He was so upset by all he had read that he could
scarcely eat dinner. He went to an obscure {\itshape{pension}} in a
wretched basement, where he was sure he would be unknown,
and, after two or three mouthfuls of soup and a
spoonful of rice boiled with tomato, he rose, paid for his
meal, and went out to tramp up and down past the
tawdry shops of middle Kearny Street. He was trotting
aimlessly in the direction of Market Street when he felt
a tug at his coat-sleeve. He turned. Minetti was smiling
genially up at him.\par

“Come,” said the hunchback, “what is your hurry?
Have you had coffee yet? I was thinking that—”\par

Fernet’s heart sank at once. And yet he managed to
say boldly: “I have given up drinking coffee. You can
see for yourself what a wretched complexion I have.
And to-day I have scarcely eaten.”\par

“Pooh!” cried Minetti. “A cup of coffee will do you
good.”\par

Fernet began to draw away in futile terror. “No!” he
protested, with frightened vehemence. “No, I tell you!
I won’t drink the stuff! It is useless for you to—”\par

Minetti began to laugh with scornful good-humor.
“What has come over you?” he drawled, half-closing his
eyes. “Are you afraid?”\par

And as he said this Fernet glanced instinctively at the
puny wrists, no bigger than a pullet’s wing, and replied,
boldly:\par

“Afraid? Of what? I told you last night I need a
steady hand in my business, and to-day I have not been
able to do any work.”\par

Minetti’s mirth softened into genial acquiescence.
“Well, maybe you are right. But I must say you are not
very companionable. Perhaps the coffee you have been
drinking has not been made properly. You should take
{\itshape{something}}. You do look badly. A glass of brandy?...
No?... Ah, I have it—coffee made in the Turkish
fashion. Have you ever drunk that?”\par

“No,” replied Fernet, helplessly, wondering all the
time why he was foolish enough to tell the truth.\par

“Well, then,” announced the hunchback, confidently,
“we shall cross over to Third Street and have some
Turkish coffee. I know a Greek café where they brew a
cup that would tempt the Sultan himself. Have you ever
seen it made? They use coffee pounded to a fine powder—a
teaspoonful to a cup, and sugar in the same proportion.
It is all put in together and brought to a boil. The
result is indescribable! Really, you are in for a treat.”\par

“If it is sweetened in the making,” flashed through
Fernet’s mind, “at least we shall have no more of that
pellet business.”\par

“Yes—the result is quite indescribable,” Minetti was
repeating, “and positively no bad effects.”\par

And as he said this he slipped his arm into Fernet’s
and guided him with gentle firmness toward the Greek
café in question. Fernet felt suddenly helpless and incapable
of offering the slightest objection.\par

A girl took their orders. She had a freckled nose and
was frankly Irish. Naturally, she did not fit the picture,
and Fernet could see that she was scornful of the whole
business.\par

“Two coffees ... medium,” Minetti repeated, decisively.
“And will you have a sweet with it? They sell
taffy made of sesame seeds and honey. Or you can have
Turkish delight or a pastry dusted with powdered sugar.
Really they are all quite delicious.”\par

Fernet merely shrugged. Minetti ordered Turkish
delight. The girl wiped some moisture from the marble
table-top and walked toward the coffee-shelf.\par

“So you were not able to work to-day?” Minetti
began, affably. “How did you put in the time?”\par

“At the library, reading.”\par

“Something droll? A French novel or—”\par

“Books on {\itshape{poison}}!” Fernet shot out with venomous
triumph. “I know more than I did yesterday.”\par

“How distressing!” purred Minetti. “Ignorance is
more invulnerable than one fancies. Of course we are
taught otherwise, but knowledge, you remember, was the
beginning of all trouble. But you choose a fascinating,
subject. Some day when we get better acquainted I shall
tell you all I know about it. Poison is such a subtle thing.
It is everywhere—in the air we breathe, in the water we
drink, in the food we eat. And it is at once swift and
sluggish, painful and stupefying, obvious and incapable
of analysis. It is like a beautiful woman, or a great joy,
or love itself.”\par

Fernet glanced up sharply. The hunchback had slid
forward in his seat and his eyes glowed like two shaded
pools catching greedily at the yellow sunlight of midday.
Fernet shuddered and looked about the room. Groups
of swarthy men were drinking coffee, or sipping faintly
red draughts of cherry syrup and sweet soda. At a
near-by table a group of six shuffled cards and marked
their scores upon a slate. And, of course, there were
those who played backgammon, rattling the dice and
making exaggerated gestures as they spurred on their
adversaries with genial taunts.\par

The girl came back carrying cups of thick steaming
coffee and soft lemon-colored sweetmeats speared with
two tiny silver forks. She set the tray down. Minetti
reached for his coffee greedily, but Fernet sat back in his
seat and allowed the waitress to place the second cup
before him. As she did so the table shook suddenly and
half of the hot liquid spilled over on the marble tabletop.
Fernet jumped up to escape the scalding trickle;
the girl gave an apologetic scream; Minetti laughed
strangely.\par

“It is all my fault!” cried the hunchback. “What
stupidity! Pray be seated. My young woman, will you
give the gentleman this coffee of mine? And get me
another.”\par

“Pardon me,” Fernet protested, “but I cannot think
of such a thing!” And with that he attempted to pass
the coffee in question back to Minetti. But the hunchback
would have none of it. Fernet broke into a terrified
sweat.\par

“He has dropped poison into it!” he thought, in sudden
panic. “Otherwise why should he be so anxious to
have me drink it? He kicked the table deliberately, too.
And this cup of his—why was it not spilled also? No,
he was prepared—it is all a trick!”\par

“Come, come, my friend,” broke in Minetti, briskly,
“drink your coffee while it is still hot! Do not wait for
me. I shall be served presently. And try the sweetmeats;
they are delicious.”\par

“I am not hungry,” replied Fernet, sullenly.\par

“No? Well, what of that? Sweetmeats and coffee
are not matters of hunger. Really, you are more droll
than you imagine!” Minetti burst into a terrifying
laugh.\par

“He thinks I am afraid!” muttered Fernet.\par

And out of sheer bravado he lifted the cup to his lips.
Minetti stopped laughing, but a wide smile replaced his
diabolical mirth. The girl brought fresh coffee to the
hunchback. He sipped it with frank enjoyment, but he
did not once take his gaze from Fernet’s pale face.\par

“Well,” thought Fernet, “one cup of poison more or
less will not kill me.... It is not as if he has made up
his mind to finish me at once. He is counting on the exquisite
joys of a prolonged agony.” And he remembered
Minetti’s words: “It is like watching a green leaf fading
before the breath of autumn. First a sickly pallor, then
a yellowing, a sharp wind, a fluttering in the air....”
He tossed off the coffee in one defiant gulp. “He thinks
that he has me in his power. But André Fernet is not
quite a fool. I shall go away to-morrow!”\par

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They went home as soon as Minetti finished his coffee.
Fernet felt a sudden nausea; by the time he reached his
lodgings his steps were unsteady and his head reeled.
Minetti was kindness itself.\par

“Let me help you into bed,” he insisted. “You must
have a congestion. Presently I shall heat some water
and give you a hot gin.”\par

Fernet was too sick to protest. Minetti started the
gas-stove and filled the kettle and went into his room for
gin. Fernet dragged himself out of his clothes and
crawled in between the sheets. Minetti came back. Fernet
lay with his eyes half-closed, shivering. Finally the
water boiled, and the hunchback brought Fernet a huge
tumbler of gin and water with bits of lemon-peel and
cloves floating in it. It tasted so good that Fernet forgot
his terror for the moment. But when the tumbler was
empty he felt helpless; he could scarcely lift his arms; so
he lay flat upon his back, staring up at the ceiling. He
tried to recall scraps of what he had been reading all
afternoon. What was the name of the poison that left
one paralyzed? He could not remember. He found his
movements becoming more and more difficult; he could
scarcely turn in bed. Minetti brewed another toddy.
Fernet could not hold the glass! He tried to push the
tumbler away from his lips, but his efforts were useless.
Minetti hovered above him with a bland, gentle smile,
and Fernet felt the warm liquid trickling into his mouth
and down his throat. In the midst of all this he lost consciousness....
Once or twice during the night Fernet
had a wakeful interlude. Whenever he opened his eyes
he saw Minetti sitting before the open window, gazing
down at the twisted pepper-tree.\par

“Yes, they are both alike!” passed dimly through his
mind. “They both are at once beautiful and hideous and
they have strange secrets! It is no use, I must go away—to-morrow.”\par

In the morning Minetti was standing by the bed. “I
have sent for the doctor,” he said. But his voice sounded
far away.\par

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The doctor came shortly after ten o’clock. He was a
little wizened, dried-up old man with a profound air.\par

“He is a fraud!” thought Fernet. “He knows
nothing!”\par

“Ah,” said the doctor, putting a sly finger against his
sharp nose, “our friend here has a nervous collapse. He
should have a nurse!”\par

“A nurse!” exclaimed Minetti, with indignation.
“And, pray, what do you call me? Do you not think
that—”\par

“Well, we shall see! we shall see!” replied the doctor,
rubbing his hands together. “But he will need all
sorts of delicacies and—”\par

Minetti moistened his lips with sleek satisfaction.
“You cannot name a dish that I am not able to prepare.”\par

“How about a custard? To-day he should eat something
light.”\par

“A custard is simplicity itself,” answered the hunchback,
and he cracked his fingers.\par

Minetti went out with the doctor, and came back
shortly, carrying eggs and a bottle of vanilla extract and
sugar. Fernet lay helpless, watching him bustling about.
Finally the delicacy was made and set away in a pan of
water to cool. At noon Minetti brought a blue bowl filled
with custard to the bedside. It looked inviting, but Fernet
shook his head.\par

“I am not hungry,” he lied.\par

The hunchback set the bowl down on a chair so that
Fernet gazed upon it all day. The hunchback did not
leave the room. He sat before the open window, reading
from a thick book. Toward nightfall Fernet said to him:\par

“What do you find so interesting?”\par

Minetti darted a sardonic glance at his patient. “A
book on {\itshape{poison}}. I did not realize that I had grown so
rusty on the subject. Why, I remember scarcely enough
to poison a field-mouse!”\par

He rose and crossed over to the bedside. “Do you not
feel ready for the custard?”\par

Fernet cast a longing eye upon the yellow contents of
the blue bowl.\par

“No. To tell the truth, I never eat it.”\par

Minetti shrugged.\par

“But I should like a glass of water.”\par

The hunchback drew water from the faucet. Fernet
watched him like a ferret.\par

“At least,” thought Fernet, “he cannot drop poison
in the water secretly. It is well that I can see every move
he makes at such a time. I should not like to die of
thirst.”\par

A little later Minetti removed the bowl and threw out
its contents. Fernet looked on with half-closed eyes.\par

“What better proof could I have?” he mused. “If
the custard were harmless he would eat it himself. I
must get away to-morrow.”\par

But the next day he felt weaker than ever, and when
the doctor came Minetti said, in answer to questions:\par

“I made a delicious custard yesterday and he ate every
bit.... An oyster stew? ... with milk? I shall see
that he has it at noon.”\par

“God help me!” muttered Fernet. “Why does he lie
like this? I must get the doctor’s ear and tell him how
things stand. I shall eat nothing—nothing! Thank
Heaven I can drink water without fear.”\par

At noon the oyster stew was ready. But Fernet would
have none of it. “Oysters make me ill!” he said.\par

Minetti merely shrugged as he had done the previous
day, and set the savory dish upon a chair before the bed.
It exuded tantalizing odors, until Fernet thought he
would go mad with longing. Toward evening Minetti
threw out the stew. And as before, when the doctor
called the hunchback said:\par

“He ate a quart of stew and there were plenty of oysters
in it, I can tell you. Do you think that a chicken fried
in olive-oil would be too hearty?”\par

Fernet groaned. “This is horrible—horrible!” he
wept to himself. “I shall die like a starving rat with
toasted cheese dangling just beyond reach. God help
me to rouse myself! Surely the effects of the poison he
has given me must soon wear off.... There he is,
reading from that big book again. Perhaps he is contriving
a way to put poison in my water even though I
am able to watch him when he draws me a drink....
Poison—poison everywhere. It can even be administered
with the prick of a needle. Why did I read about
it? Chicken fried in olive-oil ... what torture!”\par

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The chicken fried in olive-oil was a triumph—Fernet
knew all this by the wisps of appetizing fragrance which
drifted from the sizzling pan. Minetti made a great stir
over the preparations. The tender flesh had to be rubbed
thoroughly with garlic and well dusted with salt and
pepper. And a quarter of a bottle of yellow-green olive-oil
was first placed in the pan. When everything was
ready and the chicken cooked to a turn, Minetti carried it
to Fernet with a great flourish. Fernet gritted his teeth
and turned his face away. He did not have the courage
to invent an excuse. Minetti laid it on the chair as usual.
For two hours Fernet was tortured with the sight of
this tempting morsel, but at the sound of the doctor’s
step upon the stair the hunchback whisked away the
chicken.\par

“His appetite?” Minetti said, echoing the doctor’s
query. “Why, one could not wish for better! Only this
morning he despatched a chicken as if it had been no
more than a soft-boiled egg. As a matter of fact, he is
always hungry.”\par

“Well, well,” beamed the doctor, “that is the best of
signs, and it happens that way very often in nervous
cases. You are a capital nurse, my good man, and by the
end of the week, if you keep feeding him up in this fashion,
he should be as hearty as a school-boy.”\par

At that moment Minetti was called down-stairs by his
landlord. Fernet struggled to lift himself; the doctor
bent toward him.\par

“This hunchback,” Fernet gasped, “he is trying to
poison me. Already I have drunk four or five of his concoctions,
and that is why I am in this condition ... helpless.
And he is lying when he says that I have eaten.
I have touched nothing for three days.”\par

The doctor laid the patient back upon the pillow.\par

“Poison you, my friend? And for what reason?”\par

“Because I laughed at him. In God’s name, Doctor, see
that you keep a straight face in his presence or else—”\par

The doctor patted Fernet’s hand and straightened the
sliding bedclothes. By this time Minetti had come back.
The doctor and the hunchback whispered together in a
far corner. Minetti laughed and tapped his head. At
the door Fernet heard the doctor say:\par

“Just keep up the good work and the idea will pass.
It happens that way very often in nervous cases. I
shall not look in again until the first of next week
unless....”\par

Fernet groaned aloud.\par

“I must get away to-morrow.... I must get away
to-morrow!” he kept on repeating.\par

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By the end of the week the smell of food held no
temptations for Fernet. Minetti stopped cooking. And
when a glass of water was drawn from the faucet Fernet
had difficulty in forcing his vision to answer the strain
of a searching gaze.\par

“When my sight fails me,” Fernet thought, dimly,
“I shall either die of thirst or take the consequences.”\par

When the doctor finally came again Fernet closed his
eyes and pretended to be asleep.\par

“He seems thinner,” remarked the doctor, as if he had
made an important discovery.\par

“Well, to tell the truth,” replied the hunchback, “he
has lost his appetite. I have fed him milk and eggs,
but—”\par

“There is nothing to do but be patient,” said the doctor.
“Medicine will do him no good. Just rest and
food. Even a little starvation will not hurt him. People
eat too much, anyway.”\par

At this Fernet opened his eyes and broke into a laugh
that startled even Minetti. The doctor looked offended.\par

“Well, he is in your hands,” the old fraud said, pompously,
to the hunchback. “Just keep up the good
work—”\par

Fernet laughed again.\par

“He is hysterical,” proclaimed the doctor, with an air
of supreme wisdom. “It happens that way very often in
nervous cases.”\par

And he walked out with great solemnity.\par

“Ah, I have offended him!” thought Fernet. “Well,
now they will finish me—{\itshape{together}}!”\par

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There followed days of delicious weakness. Fernet lay
for the most part wrapt in the bliss of silver-blue visions.
It seemed as if years were passing. He built shining
cities, received the homage of kings, surrendered himself
to the joys of ripe-lipped beauties. There were lucid intervals
shot through with the malignant presence of
Minetti and the puttering visits of the doctor. But these
were like waking moments between darkness and dawn,
filled with the half-conscious joy of a sleeper secure in
the knowledge of a prolonged respite. In such moments
Fernet would stir feebly and think:\par

“I must get away to-morrow!”\par

And there would succeed almost instantly a languid
ecstasy at the thought that to-morrow was something remote
and intangible that would never come.\par

At times the hunchback seemed like nothing so much
as a heartless gaoler who, if he would, might open the
door to some shining adventure. Gradually this idea
became fixed and elaborated. Fernet’s sight grew dimmer
and dimmer until he followed the presence of
Minetti by the sounds he made.\par

“He is jingling something,” Fernet would repeat,
weakly. “Ah, it must be his keys! He is searching for
the one that will set me free!... Now he is oiling the
lock.... He has shut the door again. I am to be held
awhile longer.... I am a caged bird and just beyond
is the pepper-tree. It must be glistening now in the sunlight.
Well, let him lock the door, for all the good it will
do him. Is not the window always open? When the
time comes I shall fly out the window and leave him here—alone.
Then we shall see who has the best of this
bargain.”\par

And all the silver-blue visions would steal over him
again, to be pierced briefly by the arrival of the wizened
doctor.\par

“It is he who keeps me here!” Fernet would say to
himself. “If it were not for him I could fly away—forever.
Well, presently even he will lose his power.”\par

One day a strange man stood at his bedside. Minetti
was there also, and the old fraud of a doctor. The strange
man drew back the covers and put his ear to Fernet’s
fluttering heart and went through other tiresome matters....
Finally he smoothed back the covers again,
and as he did so he shook his head. He spoke softly,
but Fernet heard him distinctly.\par

“It is too late.... You should have called me
sooner. He wishes to die.... There is nothing to be
done.”\par

“Yes, yes—it happens this way very often in nervous
cases.”\par

“I have done my best. I have given him food and
drink. I have even starved him. But nothing seemed to
do any good.”\par

“No,” said the stranger; “it is his mind. He has
made up his mind that.... You can do nothing with a
man when....”\par

Fernet closed his eyes.\par

“A man! They think I am a man. What stupidity!
Can they not see that I am a bird?... They have gone
out. He is locking the door again.... I can hear the
keys jingle.... Well, let him lock the door if it
gives him any pleasure. The window is open and
to-night....”\par

The footsteps of the departing visitors died away. A
chuckling sound came to André Fernet and the thump of
ecstatic fists brought down upon a bare table-top. The
voice of Flavio Minetti was quivering triumphantly like
the hot whisper of a desert wind through the room:\par

“Without any weapon save the mind! Ha! ha! ha!”\par

Fernet turned his face toward the wall. “He is laughing
at {\itshape{me}} now. Well, let him laugh while he may....
Is not the window open? To-morrow I shall be free ... and
he?... No, {\itshape{he}} cannot fly—he has a broken
wing.... The window is open, André Fernet!”\par

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{\vl {\noindent}
{\scshape{By}} MARY MITCHELL FREEDLEY\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{The Century Magazine}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by The Century Company.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by Mary Mitchell Freedley.}}}}\par}
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\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Four months of pleasant meetings led to the superficial
intimacy that war makes possible, so that I regretted
the moving of the hospital and the need of a rest
which took me to Paris.\par

It was there, one dreary evening in late November, that
Marston’s name was brought to my dim little apartment,
with the request that, if possible, I receive him at once.
I was about to sit down to a lonely dinner, and the prospect
of his company delighted me. Then he came into
the room.\par

I had last seen him with his friend Esmè as they stood
together waving me good-by, the rich, heavy summer sunshine
all about them, though something more than a trick
of golden light flooded their faces. They were both
vitally alive in widely different ways; and yet they
strangely seemed to be merely parts of each other. Esmè
was an erratic dreamer and seer of visions, and lacked
always, even in the unimportant aspects of living, any
sense of the personal, the concrete; Marston, in curious
contrast, was at all times practical, level-headed, full of
the luster of life.\par

The man who stood hesitatingly just inside my door
was not Marston, but some stone-sculptured image of the
gay, glad boy I had known.\par

The cry I could not choke broke through his terrible
immobility, and he spoke, the words sounding unreal, as
though he had memorized them for a lesson and rehearsed
their very intonation.\par

“I had to come. I had to tell some one. Then I will
go away. I don’t know where; just away. You knew
him, knew I loved him. Will you let me tell you? Then I
will go away.”\par

It flashed across my mind in the second before I found
words that I had half wondered why Esmè was not with
him. It seemed impossible that even their bodies could
be separated.\par

I tried to lead him to the fire and remove his overcoat,
but he pushed me from him.\par

“No, no; don’t touch me. You don’t know, don’t
understand. I’ve hunted two weeks trying to find some
one—you, any one who knew us to whom I could tell
it.” He hesitated, and I waited. His voice took on a curious
quality of childlike appeal as he went on: “You know
I loved him, know I’d given my life for his, don’t you?”
Such phrasing was utterly unlike Marston, but I had seen
their friendship in all the glory of its intensity, and I
knew no sacrifice would have been too great. I assured
him of this, and, remembering my nursing, insisted that
he eat, promising to listen to anything he wanted to
tell me.\par

We sat facing each other across the spread table, but
neither of us thought of the food after the first few
mouthfuls. Twice in the early part of his story I filled
his glass with claret, but I cannot recollect his drinking
any.\par

“You must think this strange of me, but I’m not really
mad, not now. You see, I’ve lived with the horror ever
since they gave me leave—just afterward, trying to find
some one I could talk to, some one who would help me go
on and finish the things we’d—\par

“I want to make it all as clear as possible, but I’ve got
to tell it my own way, and that isn’t clear.\par

“Do you remember Brander? We brought him over
once or twice. He was a mighty decent sort of fellow.
Somehow, though, I hated his being such friends with
Esmè, I’d been his only one for so long, you see. Brander
was born in India, and somehow Esmè found it out; from
hearing him curse in a dialect, I think. They used to talk
some unheard-of jargon to each other and enjoyed it.\par

“Well, one day Brander got smashed in a fight up the
lines, along the British front, and was dying. He kept
asking for Esmè, calling his name, and when Esmè got
word of it, of course he started at once. He took one of
the baby Nieuports; they’re fast, and not much of a target
from below. He knew the Germans had a masked
battery which he’d have to cross.\par

“I thought I’d like to see him across the enemy country,
so I let him get a good start, and then I went up. I
lost sight of him in a cloud-bank, and must have flown
beyond him, for when I cleared it, he was behind and
below me, and coming toward him a big German fighting-plane.\par

“Esmè’s wasn’t a fighting-machine, and he should have
tried to get away; but he must have seen the German a
second after I did and judged it too late. He fired his
revolver once, then suddenly seemed to lose control of his
machine, and dropped to the level of the other. He must
have thought he was done for and made his decision on
the instant, counting it better to try to ram the German
plane and go down to death together than to take the
millionth chance of landing and let the enemy escape. He
went head on at the other, and they fell, woven as one
machine, just inside the German lines.\par

“Somehow I got back to our fellows; God knows I
wish I hadn’t.\par

“Every man in our escadrille paid in his own way unconscious
tribute to Esmè’s memory. We were awfully
and justly proud of him,—it’s something to have died
for France,—but for all of us the fun, the excitement, of
the work had gone, been snuffed out. No one turned
corkscrew somersaults, Esmè’s great stunt; no one did any
of his special tricks any more, not even to show off before
the new men.\par

“We got one of those French immortelle wreaths, tied
to it his name and the number of the machine he was driving
and dropped it inside their lines. The next morning
just at sunrise one of their men flew over our hangars and
threw down a stone. Painted on it in German was,
‘Your dead sends thanks’! That’s just like them, brutal,
and the last word on their side.\par

“There’s always work to be done in war, each day’s
effort to be made, and the mercy of constant doing helped
me. I used to try to forget the fighting and the horrors
and go back to the old days.\par

“Esmè never was like other men in certain ways—all
the early things that were unconsciously part of him, I
suppose. Even as a little shaver at school he couldn’t be
made to understand the ‘why’ of a school-boy’s code.
He used to rush headlong into anything and everything,
and he generally came out on top. He did the most outrageous
things calmly, unthinkingly, and we always made
excuses, forgave him, because he was Esmè. At college
the men were sometimes rather nasty to him, partly
because he couldn’t understand their points of view;
and he used to stare a minute and then loll away. He
never hurried,—perhaps it was his Oriental blood,—but
he always got there, and could make his very lolling
an insult.\par

“I used to wonder just what it was that made Esmè a
great aviator. He was a phenomenally good pilot, although
he himself never seemed to realize his remarkable
ability. His losing control of his machine that day was
inexplicable. But one can’t tell. That high up the slightest
thing uncounted on means death. Those days after—\par

“A month went by. One morning our anti-aircrafters
started, and we rushed to see what was doing, and there,
just a blot against the unclouded sky, was a plane turning
corkscrew somersaults one after another as it came lower
and lower. I went mad for a few minutes; {\itshape{only}} Esmè
could turn corkscrews in such a way. I got the captain,
and begged him to give orders for our gunners to stop.
I must have made him feel the certainty of the wild thing
I believed, for he gave the order. It was one of our own
machines, in it Esmè, alone—Esmè in the flesh before
us, drawn and haggard and old, but Esmè.\par

“At first he couldn’t speak. We called it strain; perhaps
in any other man we shouldn’t, even in our minds,
have given it its real name—emotion. He was like a
girl. When I put my arm across his shoulders in the old,
familiar way, he began to weep silently.\par

“The fellows were awfully decent and drifted away out
of kindness, leaving him alone with me. We went to our
tent, the one we’d shared together, and there, after a little
while, he told me how it all happened.\par

“When the two machines fell together in a tangled
heap, by some miraculous chance he was unhurt. The
German was dead before they landed, he thought.\par

“Then began the slow, torturing weeks. They kept at
him day and night, night and day. They never left him
alone, not just guards, but some one always near him
whose only business it was to {\itshape{watch}} him.\par

“He was a marked man. The Germans knew him to
be our best, perhaps the best aviator in all the Allied
armies, and they needed him. They tried every sort of
hellish torture on him, things one mustn’t think about, to
get him to take up one of their photographers over the
French trenches, knowing he could do certain notorious
tricks which would prove him our man and so render
the taking of the necessary pictures comparatively safe.
He stuck it out, growing weaker and weaker, until the
order came that he was to take up their man in his own
machine (they’d used their diabolical skill to reconstruct
it), or— Perhaps if it had been an order to shoot
him then and there, his courage would have held out;
but the other— He was broken, weakened, driven; he
gave in.\par

“They’d taken photographs for miles along the French
and British fronts when Esmè noticed the strap which
held the camera man was loosened. The man was busy
adjusting the films for a new set. Esmè pulled, the strap
gave way; he lurched the machine suddenly, and turned
it over,—his famous somersault trick,—and then, without
looking back or down, made for our camp.\par

“Sometimes one forgets to guard one’s expression. I
suppose mine showed the horror I couldn’t help feeling.
He put his hand out to touch me, but I jumped up and
moved away. ‘Marston,’ he said, ‘what’s the matter?
Aren’t you glad? There wasn’t any other way but to
give in to them. {\itshape{You}} don’t know what it’s like to feel
yourself dying by inches, a little piece more every day, all
the time knowing you can’t die {\itshape{enough}}, and then the
chance to be free once more, in the air, clean; you only
fifty miles away, and one man between us—one man.
What was his life among so many? It’s war, Marston;
war.’\par

“I failed him then. I didn’t stop to think of his overwrought
condition, mentally and physically. He simply
wasn’t responsible. I had a quick vision of the way the
other men would take it, of how I’d try and try to explain
Esmè’s action because it was Esmè’s, and all the time I’d
know the explanations weren’t any good. We have a
code all our own; no rules, no mention ever made of its
interpretation—just an aviator’s honor.\par

“Now, looking back, I can’t think why Esmè’s dropping
the man out seemed so hideous. It did, though, and I
failed him. He wanted to hear me say the words of welcome
he’d counted on, and I just stood and looked at
him. He was making queer, whimpering little noises,
with his mouth wobbling all over his face, and I watched
him. He was suffering, and I looked on.\par

“After a while the whimperings turned into words,
and the words started with giggles. ‘A-aren’t you g-glad,
Marston? A-aren’t you g-glad? A-aren’t you?’\par

“I turned on him, all the friendship and the memories
of the years behind swept away. I didn’t know what I
was saying. I’m not sure now; something about the
things one doesn’t do, that it wasn’t war the way we
fought it to drop a man thousands of feet who was only
doing his duty. It was murder. Over and over I said it—that
word murder. He wasn’t my friend; he was a
murderer!\par

“I went out of the tent to escape his staring, pleading
eyes—child’s eyes. Even while I was saying the words
I knew he didn’t understand. He had done what he
thought justifiable, necessary, he wanted to get back to
me, and I called him a murderer.\par

“Once just as I started for the mess to get him something
to eat I thought I heard him call my name; but I
went on. I needed more time.\par

“I was gone perhaps ten minutes. When I reëntered
the tent it was empty. Esmè was nowhere about, but I
didn’t think of looking for him then, for I thought he’d
probably joined one of the other men. Later I got worried,
and we started a search. He wasn’t in our camp.
No one had seen him.\par

“We waited and wondered. I prayed. Then I found
a little scribbled note knocking about among my things.\par

“We never found any trace even of him or the smallest
clue, just the note; that’s all I have left of Esmè. Here
it is:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
‘You’ve tried to tell me your opinion of the trick I played on an
enemy. In any other arm of the service what I did would have gone,
been all right, been smart. Isn’t that what you meant, Marston? But
with our boys, because we’ve chosen to have a different, a higher
standard, because we fight cleanly, what I did was—dirty. Well, I
understand. You and the other men {\itshape{are}} different; I’m not, but I can
pay. I’m going back. Don’t try to stop me before I reach their lines.
You can’t. I go to render unto Cæsar. A life for a life. To give them
at least my death, since I can no longer offer even that proudly to
France.’\par}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“There has been bravery and heroism in the war, but
Esmè went back; he knew to what—yet he went.\par

“God grant he is dead! I tried to make words express
an inexpressible thing. All my life to live out—remembering,
knowing I killed my friend!”\par

Perhaps Marston went on speaking; I don’t know. I
only remember the broken stem of his glass, the stain
that was spreading slowly over the white cloth, and the
dripping, dripping red of his hands.\par

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{\vl {\noindent}
{\scshape{By}} GORDON HALL GEROULD\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{Scribner’s Magazine}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by Gordon Hall Gerould.}}}}\par}
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\vs{1}
{\noindent}
As I gave my coat and hat to the boy, I caught sight
of Orrington, waddling into the farther reaches of
the club just ahead of me. “Here’s luck!” I thought
to myself, and with a few hasty strides overtook him.\par

It is always good luck to run upon Harvey Orrington
during the hour when he is loafing before dinner. In
motion he resembles a hippopotamus, and in repose he
produces the impression that the day is very hot, even in
midwinter. But one forgets his red and raw corpulency
when he has settled at ease in a big chair and begun to
talk. Then the qualities that make him the valuable man
he is, as the literary adviser of the Speedwell Company,
come to the surface, and with them those perhaps finer
attributes that have given him his reputation as a critic.
Possibly the contrast between his Falstaffian body and his
nicely discriminating mind gives savor to his comment
on art and life; but in any case his talk is as good in its
way as his essays are in theirs. Read his “Retrospective
Impressions” if you wish to know what I mean—only
don’t think that his colloquial diction is like the fine-spun
phrasing of his essays. He inclines to be slangy in
conversation.\par

I overtook Orrington, as I say, before he had reached
his accustomed corner, and I greeted him with a becoming
deference. He is fifteen years my senior, after all.\par

“Hello,” he said, turning his rather dull eyes full upon
me. “Chasing will-o’-the-wisps this afternoon?”\par

“I’ve been pursuing you. If you call that—”\par

“Precision forbids! It can’t have been will-o’-the-wisps.”
Orrington shook his head with utter solemnity.
“I don’t know just what their figure is, but I’m sure it’s
not like mine. Come along and save my life, won’t you?”\par

“With pleasure. I hoped you might be free.”\par

“Free as the air of a department-store elevator—yes.
I’ve got to meet Reynolds here. He’s waiting for me
yonder. You know Reynolds?”\par

“Yes, I know him.”\par

Every one knows Reynolds, I need hardly say—every
one who can compass it. The rest of the world knows his
books. Reynolds makes books with divine unconcern
and profuseness: almost as a steel magnate makes steel.
He makes them in every kind, and puts them out with a
fine flourish, so that he is generally regarded as master
of all the literary arts. People buy his output, too, which
is lucky for Reynolds but perhaps less fortunate for literature;
they buy his output—that is the only word to use—by
the boxful, apparently. An edition in his sight is
but as the twinkling of an eye before it is sold out. One
can’t wonder that Reynolds is a little spoiled by all this,
though he must have been a good fellow to begin with.
He’s really a kind-hearted and brave man now, but he
takes himself too seriously. He is sometimes a bore.
Only that he would never recognize the portrait I am
making of him, I should hardly dare to say what I am
saying. Physically, he is undistinguished: he looks like
a successful lawyer of a dark athletic type who has kept
himself fit with much golf and who has got the habit of
wearing his golfing-clothes to town. It is his manner
that sets him apart from his fellows.\par

“I’m glad you know him.” Orrington chuckled as we
drew near the corner where Reynolds was already seated.
“I’d hate to be the innocent cause of your introduction.”\par

Reynolds rose and extended gracious hands to the two
of us. “You add to my pleasure by bringing our friend,”
he said to Orrington.\par

I fear that I acknowledged the compliment by looking
foolish. It was Orrington’s corner that we were invading,
if it was any one’s, and, in any case, Reynolds doesn’t
own the club.\par

“I need tea to support my anæmia,” said Orrington
gruffly. “If the rest of you wish strong drink, however,
I’m not unwilling to order it. They’ve got a new lot of
extremely old Bourbon, I am informed, that had to be
smuggled out of Kentucky at dead of night for fear of a
popular uprising. I should like to watch the effect of it
on one or both of you.”\par

“I’m willing to be the subject of the experiment,” I
said. “What about you, Reynolds?”\par

Reynolds cocked his head slightly to one side.
“Though I dislike to deprive our good friend of any æsthetic
pleasure, I think I will stick to my own special
Scotch. I do not crave the dizzy heights of inebriety.”\par

“First time I ever knew you to be afraid of soaring,
Reynolds,” commented Orrington. “I trust you won’t
let caution affect your literary labors. It is one of the
biggest things about you, you know, that you aren’t
afraid to tackle any job you please. Most of us wait
about, wondering whether we could ever learn to manage
the Pegasus biplane, but you fly in whatever machine is
handy.”\par

“Perhaps you think I adventure rashly.” It was
neither question nor positive statement on the part of
Reynolds, but a little compounded of both. He seemed
hurt.\par

“Not at all.” Orrington’s tone was heartily reassuring.
“You get away with it, and the rest of us get nowhere
in comparison.”\par

“I have always believed,” said Reynolds, “that a
proper self-confidence is a prime requisite for literary
success. In all seriousness, I am sure both of you will
agree with me that none of us could have reached his
present position in the world without some degree of
boldness. We have seized the main chance.”\par

“Then it got away from me,” I felt impelled to say.
I could see no reason for accepting the flattery that Reynolds
intended.\par

“You may believe it or not, as you please, Reynolds,
but I’m incapable of seizing anything.” Orrington
paused to direct the waiter, but went on after a moment,
with a teacup in his fat hand. “As a matter of fact, I’ve
never collared anything in my life except a few good
manuscripts. Some mighty bad ones, too.” He chuckled.\par

“Ah! You know the difference between the good and
the bad better than any one else in the country, I fancy.
I always feel diffident when I send copy to you.” Reynolds
somehow conveyed the impression, rather by his
manner than by his words, of insufferable conceit. He
made you certain that he was ready to challenge the assembly
of the Immortals in behalf of anything he wrote.\par

“Oh, you’re in a position to dictate. It’s not for us
to criticise,” Orrington answered very quietly. “By the
way, I ventured to suggest our meeting here partly because
I wished to know when your new book would be
ready. Speedwell’s been worrying, and I told him I’d
see you. Thought it would bother you less than a letter
or coming round to the office.”\par

“My book!” Reynolds struck an attitude and
wrinkled his forehead. “My dear fellow, I wish I
knew.”\par

Orrington set down his cup and looked at Reynolds
quizzically. “You must know better than anybody else.”\par

“It’s a question of the possibilities only.” Reynolds
lifted his head proudly. “I will not fail you, Orrington.
I have never yet left any one in the lurch, but I have been
exceedingly busy of late. You can’t realize the pressure
I am under from every side. So many calls—my time,
my presence, my words! I must have a fortnight’s clear
space to get my copy ready for you. Within the month,
I feel sure, you shall have it.”\par

“That’ll do perfectly well. We don’t wish to bother
you,” said Orrington briefly, “but you know as well as
I do that the public cries for you. Speedwell gets restive
if he can’t administer a dose once in so often.”\par

“What is the book to be?” I ventured to ask.\par

Reynolds bridled coquettishly. It was too absurd of a
fellow with his physique and general appearance: I had
difficulty in maintaining a decent gravity. “My book!”
he said again. “It isn’t precisely a novel, and it isn’t
precisely anything else. It is a simple story with perhaps
a cosmic significance.”\par

“I see.” I didn’t, of course, but I couldn’t well say
less. I knew, besides, pretty well what the book would
be like. I had read two or three of Reynolds’s things.
The mark of the beast was on them all, though variously
imprinted.\par

“By the way of nothing,” said Orrington suddenly, “I
had an odd experience to-day.”\par

“Ah! do tell us,” urged Reynolds. “Your experiences
are always worth hearing. I suppose it is because your
impressions are more vivid than those of most men.”\par

Orrington pursed his mouth deprecatingly and lighted
a cigarette. “There’s no stuff for you fellows in this.
You couldn’t make a story out of it if you tried. But it
gave me a twinge and brought back something that happened
twenty years ago.”\par

“What happened to-day?” I asked, to get the story
properly begun.\par

“Oh, nothing much, in one way. I’ve been talking
with a young chap who has sent us a manuscript lately.
The book’s no good, commercially—a pretty crude performance—but
it has some striking descriptive passages
about the effects of hunger on the human body and the
human mind. They interested me because I thought they
showed some traces of imagination. There isn’t much
real imagination lying round loose, you know: nothing
but the derived and Burbankized variety. So I sent for
the fellow. He came running, of course. Hope in his
eye, and all that sort of thing. I felt like a brute beast
to have to tell him we couldn’t take his book, though I
coated the pill as sweetly as I could.\par

“He took it like a Trojan, though I could see that he
was holding himself in to keep from crying. He was a
mere boy, mind you, and a very shabby and lean one. I
noticed that while I talked encouragingly to him, and I
finally asked what set him going at such a rate about
starvation. I might have known, of course! The kid
has been up against it and has been living on quarter
rations for I don’t know how many months. There
wasn’t an ounce of imagination in his tale, after all: he
had been describing his own sensations with decent accuracy—nothing
more than that.”\par

“Poor fellow!” I interrupted. “We ought to find him
some sort of job. Do you think he’d make good if he
had a chance?”\par

Orrington shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I don’t
know, I’m sure. I talked to him like a father and uncle
and all his elderly relations, and I asked more questions
than was polite. He’s in earnest at the moment,
anyhow.”\par

“But if he’s actually starving—” I began.\par

Orrington looked at me in his sleepy way. “Oh, he’s
had a good feed by this time. You must take me for a
cross between a devil-fish and a blood-sucking bat. I
could at least afford the luxury of seeing that he
shouldn’t try to do the Chatterton act.”\par

Reynolds took a sip of whiskey, then held up his glass
to command attention. “Dear, dear!” he said slowly,
with the air of settling the case. “It’s a very great pity
that young men without resources and settled employment
try to make their way by writing. They ought not
to be encouraged to do so. Most of them would be better
off in business or on their fathers’ farms, no doubt; and
the sooner they find their place, the better.”\par

“Still, if nobody made the venture,” I objected, “the
craft wouldn’t flourish, would it? I think the question
is whether something can’t be done to give this particular
young man a show.”\par

“I’ve sent him to Dawbarn,” said Orrington almost
sullenly. “He wants a space-filler and general utility
man, he happened to tell me yesterday. It’s a rotten
job, but it will seem princely to my young acquaintance.
I shall watch him. He might make good and pay back my
loan, you know.”\par

“It does credit to your heart, my dear Orrington—grub-staking
him and getting him a job at once.” Reynolds
frowned judicially. “I doubt the wisdom of it,
however. A young man ought to succeed by his own
efforts or not at all. Of course I know nothing of this
particular case except what you’ve just told us, but I
can’t see from your account of him that he has much
chance to lift himself out of the ranks of unsuccessful
hack writers. You admit that he shows little
imagination.”\par

“Not yet; but he doesn’t write badly.”\par

“Ah! there are so many who don’t write badly, but
who never go beyond that.”\par

Orrington laughed, shaking even his heavy chair with
his heavier mirth. “Excuse me,” he murmured.
“You’re very severe on us, Reynolds. You mustn’t forget
that most of us aren’t Shakespeares. Indeed, to
be strictly impersonal, I don’t know any member of this
club—and we’re rather long on eminent pen-pushers—who
is. It won’t do any harm to give my young
friend his chance. To tell the truth, I think it’s a
damned sight better for him than the end of a pier and
the morgue.”\par

I wondered how the mighty Reynolds would take the
snub, and I feared a scene. But I knew him less well
than Orrington. He merely nursed his glass in silence
and looked sulky. After all, Orrington’s argument was
unanswerable.\par

To break the tension, I turned to Orrington with a
question. “What happened twenty years ago?” I asked.
“You said you were reminded of it.”\par

Orrington was silent for a minute as if deliberating.
He seemed to be reviewing whatever it was he had in
mind. “Yes, yes,” he said at last, “that’s more of a
story, only it hasn’t any conclusion. It’s as devoid of a
{\itshape{dénouement}} as the life-history of the youth whom Reynolds
wishes to starve for his soul’s good.”\par

“You are very unjust to me,” Reynolds protested.
“You speak as if I had a grudge against the young man,
whereas I was merely making a general observation. It
is no real kindness to encourage a youth to his ultimate
hurt.”\par

Orrington looked at him doubtfully. “I suppose not,”
he said after a moment’s pause. “I’ve often wondered
what happened in this other case I have in mind.”\par

“What was it?” asked Reynolds.\par

“It was a small matter,” Orrington began apologetically;
“at least I suppose it would seem so to any outsider.
But it was a big thing to me and presumably to
the other fellow involved. I never knew anything about
him, directly.”\par

“I thought you said you had dealings with the other
man,” I interjected.\par

“I did,” said Orrington, “but I never met him. It was
this way. I was editing a cheap magazine at the time, the
kind of thing that intends to be popular and isn’t. The
man who published it was on his uppers, the wretched
magazine was at death’s door, and I was getting about
half of my regular stipend when I got anything at all—something
like forty cents a week, if I remember correctly.
I was young, of course, so all that didn’t so much
matter. I was rather proud of being a real editor, even
of a cheap and nasty thing like—but never mind the
name. It died many years ago and was forgotten even
before the funeral. I suspect now that the publisher
took advantage of my youth and inexperience, but I
bear him no grudge. I managed to keep afloat, and I
liked it.\par

“Of course I had to live a double life in order to get
enough to eat—a blameless double life that meant all
work and no play. A fellow can do that in his twenties.
After office hours I got jobs of hack writing, and occasionally
I sold some little thing to one of the reputable
magazines. It was hard sledding, though—a fact I emphasize
not because my biography is interesting, but because
it has its bearing on the incident in question.\par

“Well, one fine day I got hold of a job that was the
best I’d ever landed. I suspect I apostrophized it, in the
language of that era, as a ‘peach.’ It was hack work,
of course, but hack work of a superior and exalted kind—the
special article sort of thing. I went higher than
a kite when I found the chance was coming my way.
I dreamed dreams of opulence. Good Lord! I even
looked forward to getting put up for this ill-run club
which we are now honoring by our gracious presences.”\par

Orrington stopped and shook with silent laughter till
he had to wipe his eyes. The joke seemed less good to
me than to him, for I had been only six months a member
of the club and had not yet acquired the proper Olympian
disdain of it. Reynolds smiled. I fancy that he still regards
the club as of importance. In spite of his vast renown,
he is never quite easy in his dignity.\par

“One has no business to laugh at the enthusiasms of
youth,” Orrington went on presently. “I suppose it’s
bad manners to laugh even at one’s own, for we’re not
the same creatures we were back there. It’s a temptation
sometimes, all the same. And I was absurdly set up, I
assure you, by my chance to do something of no conceivable
importance at a quite decent figure. But I never did
the job, after all.”\par

He nodded his head slowly, as if he had been some fat
god of the Orient suddenly come to torpid life.\par

“You don’t mean that you came near starving?” I
asked incredulously. The pattern of the story seemed to
be getting confused.\par

“No, no. I wasn’t so poor as that, even though I
gave up the rich job I’m telling you about. The point is
that I was chronically hard up and needed the money. I
couldn’t afford to do without it, but I had to. It was like
this, you see. On the very day the plum dropped into my
mouth, a story came into the office that bowled me over
completely. I hadn’t much experience then; but I felt
somehow sure that this thing wasn’t fiction at all, though
it had a thin cloak of unreality flung about it. It was a
cheerful little tale, the whole point of which was that the
impossible hero killed himself rather than starve to death.
It was very badly done in every respect, as far as I remember,
but it gave me the unpleasant impression that
the man who wrote it knew more about going without
his dinner than about writing short stories. Of course I
couldn’t accept the thing for my magazine, though I
could take most kinds of drivel. Our readers didn’t
exist, to be sure, but we thought they demanded bright,
sunshiny rubbish. I used to fill up our numbers with
saccharine mush, and I shouldn’t have dared print a
gloomy story even if it had been good.\par

“This wasn’t good. It was punk. But it bothered
me—just as the youngster’s book has been bothering
me lately. I suppose I’m too undiscriminating and
sentimental for the jobs I’ve had in life.”\par

“You!” Reynolds objected. “Every one’s afraid of
you. Haven’t I said that I tremble, even now, when I
send copy to you? It makes no difference that I have
the contract signed and every business arrangement
concluded.”\par

Orrington’s mouth twisted into a little grimace.
“That’s merely my pose, Reynolds, as you know perfectly
well. I’m the terror of the press because I have to
be to hold my job. Inside I’m a welter of adipose sentiment.
My physical exterior doesn’t belie me. While
dining, I quite prefer to think of all the world as well
fed; and, in spite of many years’ training, I can’t see
anything delightful in the spectacle of a fellow going
without his dinner because he’s ambitious. As a rule, I
prefer to discourage authors who are millionaires.
That’s a pleasant game in itself, but not very good
hunting. All of which is beside the point.\par

“I did hate, as a matter of fact, to turn down the little
story I speak of; and while I was writing a gentle note
that tried to explain, but didn’t, I had a brilliant idea.
I suppose I was the victim of what is known as a generous
impulse. I’ve had so little to do with that sort of
thing that I can’t be sure of naming it correctly, but I
dare say it could be described in that way. I said to
myself: ‘That son of a gun could do those special articles
just as well as I can, and it’s dollars to doughnuts he’ll
go under if he doesn’t get something to do before long.’\par

“If you’ve ever had anything to do with generous
impulses, you know that they’re easier to come by than to
put into practice. When I began to think what I should
lose by turning over my job to the other fellow, I balked
like an overloaded mule. After all, how could I be sure
that the man wasn’t fooling me? He might have imagined
everything he had written, after eating too much
{\itshape{pâté de foie gras}}. I should be a fool to give a leg up to
somebody who was already astride his beast. I couldn’t
afford to do it. You know how one’s mind would work.”\par

“I regret to say,” I put in, “that I can see perfectly
how my mind would have worked. It would have persuaded
me that I had a duty to myself.”\par

Orrington laughed quietly. “Don’t you believe it.
Your conscience or your softness—whatever you choose
to call it—would have played the deuce with your peace
of mind. Mine did. I tore up my note and went out
for a walk. Naturally I saw nothing but beggars and
poverty: misery stalked me from street to street. I
wriggled and squirmed for half a day or more, but I
couldn’t get away from the damnable necessities of the
story-writer.\par

“In the end I wrote him, of course—the flattering
note I had intended, and something more. I told him
about my fat job and said I was recommending him for
it. By the same mail I wrote to the people who’d offered
me the chance, refusing it. I said I regretted that I
couldn’t undertake the commission as I had expected,
but that I found my other engagements made it impossible.
I thought I might as well do the thing in grand
style and chuck a bluff while I was about it. I added that
I was sending a friend to them who would do the articles
better than I could hope to. I didn’t give the fellow’s
name, but I told them he’d turn up shortly.”\par

“What happened then?” I asked, for Orrington
lighted another cigarette and seemed inclined to rest on
his oars.\par

He turned his dull eyes on me and smiled a little
sadly. “What happened? Why, nothing much, as far
as I know. I suppose the other fellow got my job and
saved his body alive. I never inquired. I somehow
expected that he’d write to me or come to see me—he
had my address, you know—but he never did. I was
a little annoyed, I remember, at his not doing so after
I’d cut off my nose for him, which is probably why I
never tried to follow him up. I never even looked up
the articles when they were published. But I’ve often
wished I might meet the man and learn how he got on.”\par

“You’ve never seen his name?” I inquired. “He
can’t have done much, or you’d have spotted him.”\par

“I suspect,” said Orrington, “that he sent in that
story of his under a pseudonym and that he may have
done very well for himself since. What do you think,
Reynolds? I suppose you consider me a fool for my
pains, on the theory that no man ought to be helped
out.”\par

Reynolds had been silent for some time. As I looked
at him now I could see that he was a good deal impressed
by Orrington’s narrative. I wasn’t surprised, for I knew
him to be a generous fellow in spite of his foibles.\par

“Yes, how about it, Reynolds?” I said.\par

“It is a very affecting story,” he answered. “You
acted most generously, Orrington, though you make
light of it. I can’t believe that the young man realized
the sacrifice you made for him; otherwise his failure
to thank you, bad enough in any case, would be unspeakable.
He can’t have known.”\par

“But you insist that I’d better have let him alone,”
persisted Orrington, clearly with the intention of teasing
our magnificent acquaintance.\par

“That depends altogether on how it turned out, doesn’t
it? You can’t tell us whether the young man was worth
saving or not.”\par

Orrington laughed contentedly. “No. That’s the
missing conclusion, but I’m not sorry to have given him
a show. Besides, what I did wasn’t such a noble sacrifice,
after all. Having basked in your admiration for a
moment, I can afford to tell you. I’m not an accomplished
hypocrite, and I’d hate to begin at my age.
Let me tell you what happened.”\par

I felt aggrieved. Had Orrington been working on
our feelings for his private amusement merely? “You
said there wasn’t any conclusion,” I growled.\par

“Don’t get huffy,” Orrington returned imperturbably.
“The story hasn’t any ending, as I warned you. Only
my part in it turned out rather amusingly. I hope I
shouldn’t be fatuous ass enough to brag about the incident
if there were anything in it that demanded bouquets.
I suspect the bubble of noble actions often bursts just as
mine did.”\par

“What do you mean?” asked Reynolds—reasonably
enough, I thought.\par

“Only this,” Orrington went on. “It turned out that
the people who had offered to let me do the articles were
tremendously impressed by my turning them down. The
letter I wrote them must have been a corker. Somehow
or other they got the notion that I was a very busy man
and a person of importance. They ought to have known
better, of course, but they evidently adopted that silly
idea. They talked about me to their friends and cracked
me up as a coming man. The upshot of it was that I
began to be tempted with most flattering offers of one
sort and another—before long I had my choice of several
things. My self-constituted backers were rather
powerful in those days, so it was useful to be in their
good books. I left my moribund magazine and got so
prosperous that I began to grow fat at once. Serene
obscurity has been my lot ever since; and I’ve never got
rid of the fat.”\par

“That’s a happy ending,” I remarked lazily. “It’s
very like a real conclusion. What more do you want?”\par

“Oh, for the sake of argument, I’d like to prove that
I was right and that Reynolds’s theory is all wrong.”\par

“I’m exceedingly glad that it turned out so well for
you,” said Reynolds unctuously. “Then the young man
whom you assisted didn’t need to feel quite so much
under obligation to you as we’ve been thinking?”\par

I was outraged. Reynolds was a great gun in literature,
at least in the opinion of himself and a huge circle
of readers. He was also a dozen years older than I. At
the same time, I couldn’t allow him to disparage what
Orrington had done, merely because Orrington made
light of it.\par

“You will observe,” I said with some heat, “that the
effect on Orrington was purely secondary and fortuitous.
Orrington didn’t know he could possibly gain by it when
he took the bread out of his own mouth to feed the young
cur. I hope, for my part, that the fellow eventually
starved to death or took to digging ditches.”\par

Reynolds sat up very straight. His black eyes snapped
with anger. “He didn’t,” he burst out. “I happen to
know him.”\par

“You know him!” I exclaimed, while Orrington
goggled.\par

“Yes.” Reynolds had grown very red, but he looked
defiant. “Since I’ve been attacked like this, I may as
well tell you. Not that I think it’s anybody’s business
but my own. Orrington didn’t suffer by what he
did.”\par

“You don’t mean—” I began.\par

“I mean just what I say—no less and no more. I
was the man in question, and I admit that I ought to
have thanked Orrington for his kindness. I meant to, of
course; but I set to work at once on those articles that
have assumed such importance in our discussion, and I
was very busy. I had to make them as good as I knew
how. I assumed, naturally, that I had merely received a
useful tip from a man who didn’t care for the job. I’ve
always assumed that till this afternoon. I wanted the
job badly, myself.”\par

“Oh, well!” Orrington put in soothingly. “It doesn’t
matter, does it? I’ve explained that the incident really
set me on my feet. You don’t owe me anything, Reynolds.
If I’d been a complete pig and kept the chance
for myself, I’d probably have been much worse off for it.
You needed it much more than I did, evidently.”\par

To my surprise, Reynolds was not quieted by Orrington’s
magnanimous speech. Instead, he jumped up in a
passion and stood before us, clinching and unclinching
his fists like a small boy before his first fight.\par

“That isn’t the point,” he said in a voice so loud that
various groups of men scattered about the room looked
toward us with amusement. “I admit that I was glad
of the opportunity to do the articles, but I was by no
means in such straits as you suppose. So much for the
critical sense for which you have such a reputation!”
He turned on Orrington with a sneer.\par

Orrington remained very calm. He seemed in no
wise disturbed by the fury of Reynolds’s tirade, nor by
his insufferable rudeness, but puffed at a cigarette two
or three times before he replied. “It’s a poor thing,
critical sense,” he murmured. “I’ve never been proud
of what mine has done for me. But you must admit that
I paid you a pretty compliment, Reynolds, in believing
that your story was founded on real experience. I don’t
see why you need mind my saying that it wasn’t much
of a yarn. Nobody need be sensitive about something he
did twenty years back.”\par

“I don’t care a hang what you thought about the story
then, or what you think of it now,” Reynolds snapped.
“You might, however, grant the existence of imagination.
You needn’t attribute everything anybody writes
to actual experience. I never went hungry.”\par

So that was where the shoe pinched! Reynolds insisted
on being proud of his prosperity at all stages. I
laughed. “You’ve missed something, then,” I put in.
“The sensation, if not agreeable, is unique. Every man
should feel it once, in a way. A couple of times I’ve run
short of provisions, and I assure you the experience is
like nothing else.”\par

“That’s different,” said Reynolds a little more quietly.
“I’m not saying that I owe nothing to Orrington. I
acknowledge that I do, and I admit that I ought to have
acknowledged it twenty years ago. I was anxious at the
time to get a start in the world of letters, and I was
looking for an opening. Orrington’s suggestion gave
me my first little opportunity; but it certainly didn’t save
my life.”\par

“Then it was all imagination, after all,” Orrington
said gently. “What a mistake I made!”\par

“Of course it was all imagined!” Reynolds protested,
and he added naïvely: “I was living at home at the time,
and I had a sufficient allowance from my father.”\par

A twinkle crept into Orrington’s usually expressionless
eyes. “I must apologize to you, Reynolds, or perhaps
to your father, for so mistaking the circumstances
of your youth. You have, at all events, lived down the
opprobrium of inherited wealth. You’ve supported
yourself quite nicely ever since I’ve known you.”\par

“As I remarked earlier,” Reynolds went on pompously,
but in better humor, “I have never thought it wise for
young men to embark on the literary life without sufficient
means to live in comfort until they can establish
their reputations. In my own case I should never have
undertaken to do so.”\par

His declaration of principle seemed to restore him to
complete self-satisfaction, and it must have seemed to
him the proper cue for exit. As he was already standing,
he was in a position to shake hands with Orrington
and me rather condescendingly; and he took himself off
with the swagger of conscious invincibility. I think he
bore us no malice.\par

Orrington looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “I
told you I needed you to save my life,” he said. “I
hadn’t any notion, though, that this kind of thing would
happen. I’m sorry to have let you in for such a scene.”\par

“Oh, I don’t mind,” I answered. “It has been rather
amusing and—well—illuminating.”\par

Orrington chuckled. “The devil tempted me, and I
didn’t resist him unduly. As a matter of fact, it has been
quite as illuminating to me as to you. I’ve been wishing
for a dozen or fifteen years to try out the experiment.”\par

“What experiment?” I was puzzled.\par

“Oh, putting it up to Reynolds, of course. I’ve wondered
why he did it and why he didn’t do it and, moreover,
how he did it.”\par

“If you got light on a complication like that, you did
better than I did. Do you mind explaining?”\par

“Reynolds has explained sufficiently, hasn’t he? Of
course I knew long ago that he faked his story, but—”\par

“Then you knew it was Reynolds?” I interrupted.\par

“Knew? Of course I knew. Later, of course, much
later. I never inquired, as I told you, but I spotted him
after he made his first big hit. The man who had hired
him to do those articles bragged about it to me—said
he’d given him his start, but allowed me some credit for
establishing the connection. I blinked, but didn’t let on
I hadn’t known that Reynolds and my supposedly starving
young author were one and the same person. By
that time, of course, everybody was fully aware that
Reynolds had emerged from heavily gilded circles of
dulness. I don’t know why I’ve never had it out with
him before. I suppose I shouldn’t have sailed in to-day
if he hadn’t been so snippy about the boy of whom I
was telling you. I couldn’t stand that.”\par

“I’m afraid,” I ventured to say, “that it won’t do
Reynolds any special good.”\par

Orrington rose ponderously from his chair and spread
his hands in a fantastic gesture of disclaim. “Who am
I,” he asked, “to teach ethics to a genius who is also a
moralist—‘with perhaps a cosmic significance’? The
devil tempted me, I tell you, and I fell, for the sake of a
little fun and a little information. I’ve never known
Reynolds’s side of the story. Lord, no, it won’t do him
any good. All the same, it will take him a week to explain
to himself all over again just why he acted with
perfect propriety in not acknowledging my little boost.
I dare say his book may be a few days later on account
of it, and I shall have to nurse Speedwell through an
attack of the fidgets. A dreadful life, mine! No wonder
the business man is tired. You ought to thank God on
your knees every night that you haven’t been sitting all
day in a publisher’s office.”\par

He held out his hand very solemnly, and very solemnly
waddled across the big room, nodding every now and
then to acquaintances who smiled up at him as he passed.\par

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\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\scshape{By}} GEORGE GILBERT\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by The Story-Press Corporation.}}}}\par}
\end{verse}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Flood-time on Salwin River, Burma! {\itshape{Pouk}} trees
and {\itshape{stic-lac}} in flower. By day the rush, the roar of
water fretting at the knees of Kalgai Gorge, above which
the Thoungyeen enters the main current. And the music
of the elephants’ bells as they come along the track bound
down or mayhap up to work in the teak forests. By
night the languorous scent of the {\itshape{serai}} vines luring the
myriad moths, the wail of the gibbons, the rustle of the
bamboos chafing their feathery leaves together in the
winds that just falter between rest and motion.\par

At Kalgai the traders pause in going up or down, over
or across. From everywhere they come, and coming,
stay to chaffer, to chat, cheat, scheme, love—aye and
even slay! Why not? It’s life—raw life!\par

Take away the medicine. Give me rice curry and
chicken and fish cooked with green bamboo tips and
sourish-sweet {\itshape{pilou}} of river mussels. And then a whiff
of {\itshape{bhang}} or black Malay tobacco that the gypsies of the
sea smuggle in....\par

My name? Paul Brandon will do. My father was a
Stepney coster. Mother? Oh, a half-caste Mandalay
woman. Yes, they were married at the mission. He
took her home. I was born in London. But I ran away;
came East....\par

Don’t mind if I babble, ma’am. And forgive me if I
pull at the sheets. Or if the sight of a white woman, old,
patient, trying to be kind to me, makes me shy. When my
head clears, I’m white; when the fever mist comes over
my brain, I see things through my brown mother’s eyes.\par

Thanks for fixing the ice pack on my head. No, that
mark on my forehead is not from an old bruise. A
Karen-Laos woman put it there with her tattoo needles.
It has a meaning. It is the Third Eye of Siva.\par

Thanks for pulling-to the shade. Those bamboo things
the yellow and brown folk use are not shades. They
are full of holes where the weaving is that holds them
together. Why, you can see through them—see the most
unbelievable things....\par

Oh, yes, the mark on my forehead. A girl put it
there with her needles. Now that you touch it, it {\itshape{is}} sore.
Well, so would {\itshape{your}} head be sore if a giant python had
smashed his wedge-shaped head in death stroke against
your wrinkled brow, executing the Curse of Siva.\par

How long have I been in Maulmain?... A week?
Well, I won’t be here another. But it’s queer how a
man will drift—to his own people.\par

Thanks for the little morphine pills. Yes, I know what
they are. Give me a dozen, and they may take hold. A
man who has smoked {\itshape{bhang}}, black Malay tobacco and
opium, and who has drunk {\itshape{bino}} isn’t going to be hurt
by sugar pills. They only wake me up, steady me.\par

Why didn’t I know Pra Oom Bwaht was a liar?...\par

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Karen town on Thoungyeen River! Temple bells
chiming or booming through the mystic, potent dusk;
mynah-birds scolding in the {\itshape{thy-tsi}} trees. Frogs croaking
under the banyans’ knees in the mud. Women coming
to worship in the temples—women with songs on
their full red lips and burdens on their heads—and
mighty little else on them. And the fat, lazy priests and
the monks going about, begging bowls in hand, with
their {\itshape{cheelahs}} to lead them as they beg their evening
rice.\par

Thanks for the lime juice, ma’am. Let me talk. It
eases me.\par

To Karen town on Thoungyeen River—Karen town
with its Temple of Siva—I came long before the rains.
This year? Mayhap. Last? What do the dead years
matter now?\par

To Karen town I brought wire rods for anklet-making,
cloths, mirrors, sweetmeats—an elephant’s load. Once
there, I let my elephant driver go.\par

Three days of good trade I had, and my goods were
about gone, turned into money and antique carved silver
and gold work. At the close of the third day, as I sat in
front of the {\itshape{zana}}, smoking, smoking, smoking, listening
to the buzz of the women and children, Pra Oom Bwaht
came.\par

He was tall for a Karen man of the hills, all of five foot
two. The Karen plainsmen are taller. He sat a space
beside me in silence—sure mark of a man of degree
among such chatterers.\par

“Have you seen the temples of Karen?” he asked
finally.\par

Lazily I looked him over. He was sturdy—a brave
man, I thought. He had a cunning eye, a twisty mouth,
and in his forehead’s middle a black mark showing harsh
against his yellow skin.\par

“What’s that?” I asked him, touching the mark.
He winced when I did it.\par

“Dread Bhairava,” he said, using the Brahman word
for Siva, Queen of the Nagas. He was a snake-worshiper,
then. Mighty little of these people or their talk
or dialects I don’t know.\par

“Come with me, white trader?” he asked me. “I am
Pra Oom Bwaht.”\par

Idly I went. So, after visiting the other temples, we
came to the Temple of Siva, perched on its rocks, with
the river running near and its little grounds well kept.
It was the hour of evening worship. The worshipers,
mostly women, were coming in with votive offerings.\par

But among them all there was a Laos girl, shapely as
a roe deer, graceful, brown, with flashing black eyes and
shining black hair neatly coiled on top of her pretty head,
and with full red lips. As she passed, Oom Bwaht just
nudged me—pointed. She turned off at a fork of the
path, alone.\par

I glanced at Pra Oom Bwaht. His twisty mouth was
wreathed in a smile.\par

“She lives at the end of that little path,” he tempted.
“She is Nagy N’Yang.”\par

“Alone?”\par

“Alone.”\par

He nodded again and went away. I turned down the
side path after the Laos girl....\par

There was a full moon that night. About the middle
of the night we came up the path to the temple again,
the Laos girl and I.\par

“Come,” she had said to me when I had asked her for
my heart’s desire, “come to the temple, and I can prove
it is folly.”\par

So we came. The temple door was open. The priests
were gone—no one has to watch a Naga temple at night.
The dread of Siva is enough to protect it.\par

A rift in the temple roof let in a shaft of white moonlight.
It struck upon the image of Siva. The image was
seated on a white ox, carved of some white stone. A
sash around the image was made up of human heads; it
had six arms, each covered with carved snakes that were
so lifelike they seemed to writhe in the wavering light.
In the middle of the god’s forehead was the mark of the
third eye—the scar of Siva.\par

We went slowly down toward the image. Before it
was a huge chest. Nagy N’Yang motioned me to sit on
it. She sat beside me. Again I pleaded with her for
my heart’s desire.\par

She pushed me away.\par

“You are afraid to be near me,” I mocked.\par

“Hush,” she pleaded. “I am afraid—of yielding to
you.”\par

I moved to clasp her, my heart leaping at her confession.
She smote her little hands sharply together. I
heard a shuffling of softly shod feet in the passage
behind the image.\par

Wat Na Yang, chief priest of the temple, stood before
us with his yellow robes, his yellow skin, his hands calmly
folded across his paunch. “What seek ye, children?”
he asked.\par

“The way of love,” I laughed. I plunged my hand into
my robe and felt the gold against my middle.\par

In the great chest on which we sat something awoke
to life. I heard a stir, a rustle, a noise as of straining.\par

“Nagy speaks,” the priest warned.\par

I felt the Laos girl shudder by my side.\par

“What is it?” I asked. I stood up. A creeping
horror came over me.\par

Nagy N’Yang sprang up as I did and flung back the
lid of the great chest with a strength I had not expected.
Out over her shoulder shot a long coil, then another.
When she stood erect in the moon-glow, a great rock
python was wrapped about her matchless form. The
mark of Siva on her forehead gleamed against her ivory
brow like an evil blotch, yet it did not take from her
beauty, her alluring grace; nor did the immense bulk of
the python bear her down.\par

“The great serpent knows his own,” whispered the
yellow priest. He pointed with his fat forefinger. I saw
the red tongue of the python play over the ivory bosom
of the girl.\par

Yet I did not shudder. It seemed fitting. They were
so in harmony with their surroundings.\par

The eyes of the python blazed in the moon-glow
like rubies of the pigeon-blood hue, then like garnets,
then like glow-worms; then they sank to a lower range
of colors and finally to rest. He was asleep under
her caresses. She patted his wedge-shaped head, soothing
him. Ah, that it had been my head she thus
fondled!\par

Suddenly Nagy N’Yang seized the great serpent just
back of the head, uncoiled it from her with a free, quick
succession of movements and cast it into the great chest
again. Then, with a curious indrawing of the breath,
as if relieved from a nerve strain, she sat down on the
chest.\par

“Well have I seen,” I said to her. “But little do I
understand.”\par

“I may not wed,” she said. “I am Siva’s.”\par

“I can kill the snake—”\par

The thing in the chest stirred its coils uneasily.\par

“Be silent!” commanded the fat priest. “Would you
slay little N’Yang?”\par

I shuddered. A great bat came in through the rift that
let in the moon-glow. In the trees over the temple a
gibbon wailed in his sleep like a sick child—“{\itshape{Hoop-oi-oi-oi}}”!\par

Wat Na Yang extended his arm before him in a gesture
of dismissal.\par

“Go!” he commanded. Then he placed a heavy hand
on my shoulder.\par

Nagy N’Yang stood up, bowed her head and went
down the path the moonbeams made, went into the
shadow near the door, and out.\par

The fat priest sat down on the chest beside me. The
mottled terror in the chest was still again.\par

“She was wed,” the priest began, “but on her wedding-day
we claimed her. Her husband cannot claim her. But
if some one unwittingly kills the great python, she will
be free. It must be some one not a friend of the husband.
No one will kill the python here. She is temple-bound
for life—”\par

The bulk inside thrilled to life again. I heard the
scales rustling as the great coils rose and fell.\par

“Go, you!” he ordered. “The goddess likes you not.
Even if you take the girl, I can call her back or kill her
by touching her flesh with a single scale from the Naga
in the chest.”\par

He walked with me to the door. At the portal we
stood for a space, silent.\par

The tiled entrance was flooded with moonlight. In the
middle of it a cobra lay, stretched out, seemingly asleep—a
small cobra, deadly none the less.\par

“You see,” the gross priest said, pointing to the
deadly serpent there. “Nagy’s spirit watches you here,
too. But the girl she did not harm.”\par

Filled with some spirit of Western bravado I could not
stifle, I stepped close to the cobra and stamped on its
head.\par

“That for all scaly serpents!” I jeered at him. I
stood on the cobra’s head while it lashed out its life.\par

The fat yellow priest watched me, and I could see hatred
and horror struggle for mastery on his face.\par

Coming close to me he began to talk in long, rolling
sentences, of which I here and there caught a word.
But I caught the sense of what he was saying.\par

Oh, yes—the fat priest. It was there, in front of the
temple, that he put on me, in Sanskrit, the Curse of Siva,
ending:\par

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I laughed at him, threw a yellow coin at his face, kicked
the dead cobra into the door of the temple—and went
down the path toward the Laos girl’s hut.\par

At the hut door she sat, silent, wonderful.\par

“Come!” I commanded.\par

“Where?” she asked.\par

“To Kalgai town by Salwin River,” I answered. I
took her in my arms.\par

Yes, I took her! Why not? She was mine, wasn’t
she? Yes, I took her! Not down the Thoungyeen River
or the road along it. Why? We feared pursuit. Five
miles below Karen a little hill stream comes to the
Thoungyeen River. I never heard its name. We went
up that to its springs and then along to the Hlineboay
Chuang.\par

We traveled slowly, afoot, on cattle-back, on elephant-back—as
the hill-folk could take us, or as we cared
to go. Nagy N’Yang at first was moody, but as we
left her own village far behind and got among the
greater hills, she was gayer and gayer. I think when
we came to Shoaygoon Plains she was happy. I was.
It was in Shoaygoon {\itshape{zana}} that I let her tattoo my
forehead with the mark of Siva, to please her and
quiet her superstitious fears. It was wrong, yes, for all-whites;
but for me, with a brown mother? Mayhap
not....\par

And so we came to Kalgai in Kalgai Gorge, and the
rains were not yet come.\par

We were early. The traders’ huts were not filled.
Only a few were taken. A Eurasian here, a Russian
there, a Tibetan there, and yonder a Chinese.\par

So I had my choice of the best places and picked the
best house in the gorge—on the rock spit that juts into
the gorge’s biggest bend over the whirlpool.\par

The house we took was of teak beams and bamboo.
For a few gold coins I had its use, entire, with its mats,
pots, kettles.\par

There was a little shilly-shallying of trade, which I
did not get into. Traders came up and down and across.
I didn’t care for traffic just then.\par

Nagy N’Yang was happy, she told me. I believed
it. She went about her little household tasks neatly.\par

“After the big rains,” I told her, “we two take boat
for Maulmain and beyond.” I was due for a trip up past
Rangoon for temple brasses and carved ivory. The air
was heavy with the promise of the first of the rains.\par

“Where you go, I go,” she laughed, stuffing my mouth
with rice and fish.\par

She cuddled closer to me on the eating mat we had
spread out.\par

A shadow fell across the open doorway. She screamed.\par

It was Pra Oom Bwaht, who smiled down on us with
his twisty smile.\par

“Welcome,” I said.\par

He came in boldly and sat down.\par

“You went quickly from Karen,” he said simply.\par

I could feel my Laos girl wince as she leaned against
me. I clutched the dagger inside my robe.\par

Pra Oom Bwaht smiled his twisty smile.\par

“How come you here?” I demanded.\par

“Why should I not?” he asked. “Especially to see
my sister—” He pointed to Nagy N’Yang.\par

She sighed and laughed a little nervous laugh.\par

“I did not know,” I said, “that she was your sister.
You are welcome to our poor house.”\par

Pra Oom Bwaht smiled again, got up and stalked out.
As he went, the first patter of the rains came, beating up
the dust in the space before the door for a few seconds,
then laying it all in a puddle of mud again as a great
dash of fury came into the storm. But it was only the
first baby rain, not enough to make Kalgai whirlpool talk
out loud.\par

I turned to Nagy. She was staring out into the
storm.\par

“I didn’t know he was your brother,” I said to her.\par

“All Laos are brother and sister,” she replied.\par

Well, I’ve found it best to keep out of native feuds
and family jangles. “Some old village quarrel back of
it,” I thought.\par

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All night it rained, and in the morning the river was
talking to the cliffs in a louder voice. And the water was
up and coming. Bits of drift were floating.\par

Among the traders I found Pra Oom Bwaht settled in
a little hut off by himself. He had scant store of Karen
cloths, Laos baskets, some hammered brass. He was
sitting on a big box, and it was covered with a mat woven
of tree-cotton fiber. He arose to meet me and came to
the door.\par

“Let us chat here,” he said. “I like the sun better
than the shade.”\par

It was queer to deny me a seat beside him, I thought;
but I let it pass. I was not paying much attention to
details then.\par

So we sat in the doorway and watched the rain and
heard the river talking to Kalgai Gorge. Trade was
slack and would be until the greater rains came bearing
boats and rafts from above and over and beyond, from
up the river and the little rivers coming into it.\par

I could make nothing of Pra Oom Bwaht, I say. I left
him and went out to chaffer a bit.\par

“Who knows the Karen fool?” Ali Beg, just down
from Szechuan after trading rifles to Chinese Mohammedans
for opium, demanded of me from the door of
his own place.\par

“Why?” I asked.\par

“He trades like a fool, letting a rupee’s worth go for
a pice.”\par

“Let him,” I laughed, “so long as he keeps away from
me.”\par

“And yours?”\par

“Why do you ask that?”\par

“Come in and drink of tea with me,” he invited.\par

So I went in and we sat eye to eye, face to face, across
his little teakwood table, each squatting on his heels, and
drank tea and talked of many things.\par

“Now that we have said all the useless things, tell me
what is at the bottom of thy heart,” Ali demanded. Up
there the important things are kept for the dessert of the
talk.\par

He was an old friend, with his coal-black eyes, great
hairy arms and rippling black beard.\par

“Thus it was, heart of my soul,” I said, laying hold of
a lock of his beard up under his green turban, in token
of entire truth-telling. “Thus it was”—and I tugged
at the lock of beard. So I told him the tale, from the
time of my going to Karen until the time of my coming
to Kalgai town and the arrival of Pra Oom Bwaht.\par

He sat a long time in silence.\par

Then he reached into his robe and drew out a fine
dagger of Sikh smithy work, hammered, figured on the
blade, keen, heavy of hilt; in the tip of the handle a ball
of polished steel, hollow and filled with mercury. It was
a throwing knife.\par

“Take this,” Ali urged. “I taught thee how to cast
it at a foe years ago when we first went up the great
river together. I go from here to-night by boats toward
Maulmain. It will fall out with thee as it will fall out.”\par

I took the dagger because it was Ali’s gift, not because
I was afraid. Why should I fear anything that walked
on two legs or four? Even though it wore a tail or horns?\par

At nightfall I went back to my house on the rock spit.
The stream was roaring now—like a baby lion.\par

Nagy N’Yang was sitting in the open doorway as I
came up the path. I saw she had her chin in her hand
and was thinking deeply.\par

“I saw him,” I made answer to the question in her eyes.\par

“Did he receive you well?”\par

“Except that he did not have me to sit beside him on
his big trader’s box in his hut, but took me to the doorway
to talk. It was not friendly.”\par

“Aha!” Just like that—soft, thoughtful.\par

“But what do I care for him, with his Karen cloths or
hammered brass?” I chattered at her. “Come to me,
Sweet One of a Thousand Delights.”\par

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So the days and the evenings and nights went by, and
the greater rains followed the lesser. The river crept
up and up and up, roaring now to the cliffs, like old
lions.\par

Then came a day when on going home at eve I stooped
at the river’s brim near the house we had on the rock
spit, and felt of the water. It was chilled. “The flood
is full,” I thought. I had felt the snow-chill from the
Tibetan Himalayas in hoary Salwin’s yellow flood.
When that comes, the utmost sources of the world have
been tapped for flood water.\par

“The river will begin to fall to-morrow,” I told Nagy
N’Yang when I came into the place. “We will go soon
after, when the big trading is over.”\par

She smiled at me. Then she patted with her soft hand
the place where she had tattooed on my brow the mark of
the third eye of Siva. It was healed.\par

“I care not where we go, or if we go or stay, so long
as you are with me,” she whispered, close against my
side.\par

After the evening meal we sat in the doorway and
heard the river talking. Often the big whirlpool sighed
or moaned.\par

“It will almost cover our rock spit,” I said. I knew by
the lift of it by day and the noise of it by night that the
flood was a mighty one and would spend its chief force
that night.\par

She nodded and nestled closer to me.\par

Out of the shade before us a greater shade silently
loomed.\par

“I greet you, my sister and brother,” Pra Oom Bwaht
said, standing before us.\par

Nagy N’Yang shivered against my side. I felt the
dagger under my robe.\par

A single beam from our brazier inside struck across
his twisty face. He stretched out his hand toward Nagy
N’Yang.\par

“A gift for my sister,” he said.\par

She half reached her hand out, took it back, reached
again and took it back; then, as if impelled by a force
too strong to resist, reached again. Into her palm
dropped something that shone for a tiny space in the
yellow gleam of the brazier’s ray. She shut her hand—caught
it to her breast. I thought it was a tiny golden
bangle—then.\par

“Come,” said Pra Oom Bwaht. “Let us walk apart
for a moment. I have family matters to talk over. Your
husband will permit.”\par

I wanted her to protest, but she did not. She got up
calmly and went with him out onto the rock spit. I was
between them and the mainland. They could not go away
by river. No harm would come to her, it seemed.
“Some tribal custom to be attended to,” I thought. It
is best not to be too curious about such matters up among
the hills of Burma and Siam, ma’am. If you are, your
wife suffers, not you.\par

For a long time I could hear them talking out there
in the dark, with the river talking in between whiles.
Once I heard a sound like a great sigh or sobbing moan.
“The whirlpool at the river’s bed,” I thought, “taking in
a great tree or raft.”\par

Soon after that the back mat of the house lifted, and
I thought they had come in by that way. I sat, peering
into the gloom inside, ready to greet them, when something
crashed on to the back of my head and I forgot for
a time.\par

I came back to memory in a daze and feeling much
pain in my head. The brazier flared beside me. Bending
over me was Pra Oom Bwaht, with a knife in his hand.\par

“Son of a pig!” he said.\par

“Where is Nagy N’Yang?” I asked.\par

He smiled at me—his cursed twisty smile.\par

“On the river’s brink she waits, bound to a great teak
log lodged at the end of the spit,” he cried hoarsely.
“When the flood comes to its full, she will float away—”\par

I spat full into his face. I thought it would make him
slay me.\par

He wiped the spittle from his chops calmly. When an
Oriental takes an insult calmly, beware! There is more
to come.\par

“She was my wife,” he said, as if that explained everything.\par

“Was or is, it makes no difference to me,” I stormed.
“She is mine now.”\par

“She is Siva’s,” he jeered. “Think you that as she
swirls down into the whirlpool at the river’s bend the
great river python, mother of all the pythons, will not
take her? Placed I the yellow scale of Nagy in her hand
for naught?”\par

I shuddered. The legend of the great river python
at Kalgai Gorge had been told to me oft. It slept in the
great pool where the whirlpool formed in flood-time and
only came out for prey when the depths were stirred by
a monstrous flood such as this one, the natives said.\par

“Why did you tell me she was your sister?” I demanded.\par

“We made it up, she and I. She was wedded, as the
priest told you, but to me. I was listening in the bamboos
when you planned your trip here from Karen that night
after the priest cursed you from the door of Siva’s
temple. I heard him curse you and saw you turn down
the path to our hut. If you had slain the python in the
temple, without me helping, she would have been freed.
We planned that you should make love, a little. Enough
so you would kill the great snake and win her from it;
I to come after and take her. But you won her whole
heart, curse you—”\par

Up went his hand to slay. While he had raved and
chattered at me, my head had been clearing. As he
stiffened for the death stroke, I reached for the down-coming
hand and caught his wrist—the wrist whose
sinewy muscles were driving the knife home. I held his
arm back. He clutched for my throat with his other
hand. We strove, and I rolled him and came on top. Up
I surged, dragging him with me. With one awful thrust
I sent him crashing against the wall.\par

He had barely come to rest against the teak beams
before his hand went up and I dodged—just as his knife
whizzed past my ear. Plucking the great dagger of Ali
Beg from my bosom, I cast it, in the manner of the
Inner Mongolian Mohammedans. The great blade
plunged forward. I had pinned him to the wall as a
butterfly collector pins a specimen to a card in his collecting
box.\par

I stepped forward to get my dagger. Pra Oom Bwaht,
his throat full of blood, his heart seared with black hatred,
glared at me.\par

“The Curse of Siva remain on you and yours....”\par

So he died.\par

Plucking my dagger from him, I kicked over the glowing
brazier and raced for the rock spit’s end as he crashed
down—mere battered clay.\par

As I came to it, the last of the rain for the night
whipped my face, reviving me. The moon peeped forth.
There was no teak log there!\par

Another rift in the clouds made plain my error. The
flood was over all former flood-marks. The teak log,
as the moon’s second peep showed, was on the point of
rocks, but they were now in the stream, many paces from
the present shore-line. The log, caught on the jagged
stones, hung and swayed. It was just on the point of
going out. I could see a dark mass, midway of the log.
“It is Nagy N’Yang,” I thought. The hut was blazing
now from the brazier’s scattered coals, giving me plenty
of light.\par

I glanced about the rock spit. A few paces to the right
something black showed in the gloom. I went to it
quickly, hoping to find a boat. It was a great chest.
Feeling for the key or handle, I clutched a catch. I
turned it, threw up the lid, just as the moon came forth.\par

Out of the depths of the box reared a great python,
hissing horribly. I recoiled in terror. The box, as I
saw in the moon-glow, was the snake box of Karen temple,
the one in which Nagy N’Yang’s serpent had been
kept.\par

Pra Oom Bwaht had had it carried to Kalgai Gorge
and also to our rock spit that night to suit some of his
own black schemes of vengeance. His bearers had
carried the box unwittingly. While I trembled, the great
snake glided to the river’s brink and disappeared. I now
had the big chest and thought to use it as a rough boat
to rescue my love.\par

Then I turned to view the teak log again. I tugged
at the chest. It was too heavy for me. Another fitful
rift of moonlight came, and I saw the giant teak log
sway. Without waiting for more ill fortune, I plunged
into the river and swam through the swirling eddies for
the log.\par

I just made it. But at the touch of my numbed finger
on its root ends, it started. The mere touch was enough
to set it adrift. I clutched, caught a root fiber, held,
edged along the rootlet till I had a better hold, drew
myself up on to the root end of the huge log—and then
heard the sobbing moan of Kalgai whirlpool.\par

Already we were at the pool’s edge. The log began
to whirl and sway. I made a prayer for my Laos girl,
that she might be unconscious during the plunge below.
If she were, she would live, as she would not be breathing.
As for me, I felt I could hold my breath the two
minutes necessary. I often had seen the logs go down
the suck-hole and come up. The average time was two
minutes for that. What happened to them under the
pool I had no means of knowing. I hoped to be able to
cling to the log. The girl was bound fast.... The log
up-ended and went down!\par

We swirled through great depths, and often I felt us
hit against rocks and other logs in the lower silences.
At the pit’s bottom there seemed no sound, but on the
way down and up there was a great roaring. It seemed
that my lungs would burst. But I kept my breath, having,
as you see, great lung space. We began to rise, and
as I felt it, something slowed us down. I felt weak and
was about to drop off when something bound me to the
great log, pressing me tightly against the mass of roots.
So we shot into the moonlight.\par

I was wrapped in the folds of the mighty python, who
had thrown a coil about the tree-trunk in the lowest
depths of the pool! That immense weight it was that
had kept us from emerging sooner. We had come up
below the maelstrom upon emerging.\par

My right arm was free. I reached my belt with it and
found my dagger there. In the moonlight, over the coils
of the monster, I could see the ivory-white face of my
Laos girl as she lay out on the huge log like a crushed
lily. I could not tell if she still lived or had died.\par

The motion of reaching for my dagger aroused the
python. It thrust its head back toward my face, questing
with its tongue, that queer organ with which it sees in
the dark. I felt the darting, forked terror on my dripping
features. The python threw back its coil a bit and thrust
at my forehead with its wedge-shaped head, using the
python’s death stroke. I had still sense enough to draw
my head to one side, but not before the hornlike, rounded
head-front had dazed me with a glancing blow on the
brow, where the mark of Siva had been tattooed by
Nagy N’Yang.\par

Again I saw the beast draw back its head for a surer
stroke. As it struck, I held the dagger true in front of its
oncoming head. The force of the blow, not my strength,
caused the blade of the dagger to sink into the immense,
hard, tense neck-muscles, through and through. The
snake, furious with pain, stricken to death, in one awful
convulsive struggle cast itself into the raging Salwin,
taking the dagger of Ali Beg with it. Why it did not
take me down in its coils, I know not....\par

Yes, I {\itshape{am}} sweating now. I feel better. My head is
clearer....\par

I wish Nagy N’Yang were here to lay her cool, ivory-white
hand on my forehead where the python’s wedge-shaped
head crashed against mine—on the black mark
of Siva....\par

But my fever is breaking.\par

Yes, I feel easier, much easier....\par

Yes, that is all of my story....\par

What? Ali Beg found us together on a giant teak log
at the river’s bend at Maung Haut, where he had stopped
to trade? And, tightly clasped in Nagy’s hand was something
strange? Show it me!\par

It is the belly scale of a great river python.\par

{\itshape{Burn it! Hold the night taper flame to it! Ah, that
ends the fat priest’s evil spell!}}\par

Where is Ali Beg? Here! And Nagy? Here, too!!\par

Wheel our cots together, ma’am!\par

Only let me clasp her hand again. Thanks; {\itshape{it is warm;
she is alive}}!\par

No; we won’t go up-country again. Why? Because
when our first child comes, I want it born outside—out
from under the shadow of the dread Curse of Siva!\par

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{\vl {\noindent}
{\scshape{By}} G. HUMPHREY\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{The Bookman}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by Dodd, Mead, and Company.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by George Humphrey.}}}}\par}
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\vs{1}
{\noindent}
The Dean and I were sitting after dinner discussing
the shortage of students at Oxford since the war
began.\par

“You have no idea,” he was saying, “how strange it
is to lecture to a class of four or five when one has been
accustomed to forty or fifty. This morning, for instance....”\par

“Well, Dean,” I put in, “after the war there will be
no lectures on Latin poetry. The times are changing.”\par

The old man threw back his head, and his silvery beard
waved in the candle-light.\par

“Listen,” he began, “you remember the passage
where a father was trying to carve a picture of his son’s
death?”\par

“{\itshape{Bis patriae manus cecidere}},” I quoted. “Twice the
hands of the father fell. Icarus, was it not, for whom his
father had made wings, and who flew too near the sun
and fell down to earth?”\par

He nodded. “{\itshape{Bis patriae manus cecidere}}—twice the
father’s hands fell to his sides. In our village in the first
few months of the war, there came an old man, a refugee
from Alsace-Lorraine. By profession, he was a monument
carver, and out of the exercise of his craft he
had acquired a considerable familiarity with what one
might call Phœnix-Latin, the kind that is only called into
being when ‘Our Esteemed Fellow-Townsman’ dies.
He had all the pedant’s love for the language. Often he
would exchange tags with me when I met him in the
street.\par

“‘{\itshape{Quomodo es?}} How are you,’ he would laugh in
the tiny general store, to the mystification of the little
spectacled proprietress.\par

“‘{\itshape{Bene, domine}},’ was my grave answer,—‘Very
well, sir.’\par

“Soon he became very popular in the village, though
he was regarded as something of a crank. It appeared
that he was of the old days when Alsace-Lorraine belonged
to the French. Of his private affairs we could
learn nothing, except that he had married young and that
his wife had died at the birth of a son. When he was
questioned about his early life, he would affect not to
understand—‘{\itshape{Je ne comprend pas, m’sieu}}’—this and
a shrug of the shoulders was all that we could get out
of him.\par

“Well, the old fellow prided himself on his excellent
eyesight, and in the fairly frequent air raids, he refused
to go into shelter, preferring instead to remain lying down
on the hill outside the village, where he would watch the
hostile aeroplane pursued by our guns until it became a
speck in the distance toward London. Then he would
trudge back again.\par

“‘The pigs are gone,’ he would reassure us in our
cellars, shaking his fist at the sky. ‘Ah the {\itshape{cochons}}!
{\itshape{Sus Germanicus!}}’ and we would crawl out again into
God’s air, pleased to see him and knowing that there was
no longer any danger even if the ‘all clear’ signal had
not yet sounded. For he was always right. He knew
from bitter experience.\par

“One day I saw him in conference with the little knot
of sailors that presided over our anti-aircraft defences.
He was pointing to the sky rather excitedly and telling
them in his broken English something about aeroplanes
and ‘it is necessaire that they pass so,’ at the same time
indicating a track of sky.\par

“‘What is it?’ I asked the petty officer.\par

“‘He’s got an idea for bringing down the Germans,’
explained the man, twitching his thumb rather contemptuously
toward my old friend. ‘He says they always
pass over that point above the headland before they turn
to London. I never noticed it myself, but there may be
something in it. I’ll tell the captain.’\par

“‘{\itshape{En hostes}},’ cried the old man in Latin to me, pointing
to the place. ‘Behold the enemy. It is quite necessaire
that he pass by here what you call the landmark,
is it not? The German precision, {\itshape{toujours}} the same.’\par

“I laughed and took him by the arm, down to the village,
marvelling at the intense hatred with which he spat
out the words. ‘The German pigs,’ he muttered as we
went along. ‘They have my country.’\par

“Soon after there came another raid. We heard the
gunfire, without paying much attention to it, so customary
had it become. When the safety siren was heard, we
all went back to our occupations as usual. I wondered
why the old fellow had not appeared, and began to grow
anxious, thinking he might have been killed. I was just
setting out to look for him when I caught sight of him
running toward me over a ploughed field, stopping every
other moment to pick up his battered black hat, and looking,
even at a quarter of a mile, as if he was full of news
of some kind. When he came within a hundred yards
or so, still running, he shouted something at me, raising
his hands to the sky and then pointing to the earth.\par

“‘{\itshape{Fuit Ilium}},’ I heard. ‘Troy is fallen. The German
is destroyed. They have him shot, so,’ and he
brought his arm from above his head to the ground in a
magnificently dramatic sweep.\par

“‘What is it?’ I asked as I reached him.\par

“Perspiring and mopping his face with the tricolor
handkerchief that some would-be wag had given him,
he told his tale. The gunners had taken his advice, and
fired at the spot he told them, and a German aeroplane
had actually been brought down.\par

“That week the village was jubilant, and my old
friend found himself suddenly a hero. The local papers
brought out a long account of the affair, with a leader
about the ‘victim of German autocracy, whom we are
proud to shelter in our midst. With the courage that
we know so well in our brave allies, he stayed out unprotected
and discerned the weak spot in the foe’s armor.
We are proud of our guest.’ It was, indeed, a proud time
for our refugee.\par

“The naval authorities took over charge of the wrecked
aeroplane, and the remains of the fallen aviator were
gathered together to be buried the following week in the
village cemetery. We were a simple, kind-hearted community,
far away in the country, and many of the villagers
had themselves sons fighting at the front. So we decided
that the village should erect a simple tombstone over the
fallen enemy—the resolution being made, I suspect,
chiefly as the result of a sermon of the worthy pastor, who
pointed out that the dead man was more sinned against
than sinning, that he was the victim of the German system,
and that we ought not to think bitterly of a fallen
foe who died at what he conceived to be his duty.\par

“The next question was as to the inscription. The
old Frenchman brought out a book, which he explained
was the ‘{\itshape{Vade mecum}} for cutters of tombs.’ From it he
produced a marvellous quotation, which he said came
from Seneca. He was listened to now with respect, but
I could see that the idea was not popular. No one liked
to oppose him, until I finally remarked that something
simpler would perhaps be better, and suggested, ‘Here
lies a fallen German,’ with the date. The old refugee
was obviously very reluctant to give up his wonderful
epitaph, but my reading was clearly the favorite, and
it was adopted in the end. The obvious man to do the
carving was the old stonecutter who had brought down
the aeroplane. He was given the commission.\par

“The burial took place, and the village went back to its
normal routine, the old man being supposed to be working
on the inscription.\par

“It was about the time of the discussion of the epitaph
that the relics from the recent raid were exposed for
view in the little museum at the school. There was no
address found on the body, and almost the only personal
effect that had survived the terrible fall was a
photograph of a woman, young and fair-haired, with
the inscription, ‘Meine Mutter,’ which I translated to
the admiring villagers as meaning, ‘My Mother.’ Nothing
else. I went to tell the old Frenchman and ask him
if he had seen the curiosities. I found him sitting in the
garden of the cottage where he lived, in the little shed he
called his workshop, where the tombstone had been
brought. To my surprise, he was lying on the ground,
and beside his open hand lay a chisel.\par

“‘What is it?’ I asked him.\par

“He started up when he saw me. ‘I was tired,’ he
answered confusedly. ‘{\itshape{Fatigatus opere}}, weary with
labor. {\itshape{N’est-ce-pas?}}’ and his poor old face relapsed
into a sad attempt at a smile.\par

“‘But you have not begun to labor,’ I answered, trying
to joke away an impending feeling of tragedy that I but
dimly understood. ‘Why do you not do the work?’\par

“‘Ah, I cannot. My hands are old, and I can no more.’\par

“Then I saw that his hands were shaking, and I grew
alarmed. I could see that the strain of the last few days
was telling on him. He seemed years older. So I gently
helped him up and took him indoors, where the good
woman of the house put him to bed. I asked her how
long he had been sick, and she told me that he had gone
out that afternoon, looking well, and intending to buy
a chisel and visit the little museum. She had not seen
him again till I brought him in from the garden.\par

“From that time the poor old man seemed to grow
feebler and feebler, and we began to think that his last
joke had been cracked and all his troubles ended. He
seemed to lose all wish to live, lying on his bed without
a word, and only taking food when it was almost forced
down his throat. I frequently visited him and tried to
console him. For the one thing that now troubled him
was that he would not be able to execute his commission
before he died. ‘Never have I promised and not perform,’
he would say. ‘Oh, for one day of my {\itshape{pristini
roboris}}—my youthful strength.’\par

“I comforted him and told him, against my belief,
that he would be out cutting the inscription next spring.
But he shook his head sorrowfully, and at each visit he
seemed to grow weaker and weaker. The climax came
quite suddenly. Summer had turned to fall, and I was
taking my usual walk by the light of the harvest moon,
passing through the old churchyard, where the German
had been buried and the cross had now been put, uncarved.
For we boasted no other stonecutter in the
village. I went up to look at it, and by the moonlight I
caught sight of the figure of a man. Bending down, I
saw my old friend, dead, by the work he had promised.
It was not till the next day that they found his chisel by
the tombstone, and about a dozen letters which he had
chiselled. The villagers thought that the old man had
gone out of his mind, for the letters on the stone were
not the beginning of the epitaph we had agreed on. They
think so yet. For I never told them, and I am the only
man who can read what is written on the stone.”\par

Here the Dean was silent a moment or so.\par

“Well, what had he carved?” I asked.\par

“{\itshape{Bis patriae m}} ... Twice the hand of the father
failed. The dead man was his son.”\par

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{\vl {\noindent}
{\scshape{By}} ARTHUR JOHNSON\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{Harper’s Magazine}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by Harper and Brothers.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by Arthur Johnson.}}}}\par}
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\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“Have you ever read any of Marian Haviland
Norton?”\par

I didn’t expect, when I put the question, to fall right
into a mine of information. It was out of my line, moreover,
to talk about authors and books at dinner. But the
topic had popped inconsequently into my head, and there
was certainly something about the quiet, sly-looking Jane-Austenish
woman at my left that inspired confidence.\par

“I’m distinctly curious about her,” I added. “She’s
sprung up so soon, so authoritatively. And she’s so
new.”\par

Up to this point my companion had only listened more
quietly, more slyly, than ever; but her eyes now opened
wide, her eyebrows went whimsically high, and she
turned to me with a twinkling smile.\par

“{\itshape{New?}} You really think so?”\par

She gave me no time, either, to correct my statement.\par

“I didn’t suppose any one still thought that—except,
possibly— Have {\itshape{you}} ever read Hurrell Oaks?”\par

I nodded gropingly.\par

“Miss Haviland was a teacher of mine at Newfair
when it happened. That was eight, ten years ago.
D’you see?”\par

“I don’t ‘see’ anything.”\par

“But you do Hurrell Oaks—you’re, you’re really all
‘for’ him, I mean? So you’d adore it. It’s pathetic,
too. Though it is funny!” she cried, avid to tell me
more about whatever “it” was.\par

But the inevitable shift in table talk veered us apart
at that moment; and it wasn’t until after the long meal
was over that we came together again, and could choose
a quiet corner away from interruptions.\par

“Here goes, now,” she began, “if you’re ready?”\par

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――――
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{\noindent}
Miss Haviland must have been about thirty when I first
saw her. She was tall, handsome in an angular way.
Her face was large, her features regular, though somewhat
heavy, her coloring brilliant, and her dark hair
grayish even then. She was of a stocky leanness, a ruggedness
indigenous to northern New England—and
perhaps she did “come” from New England; wanderers
from those climes can flourish so prodigiously,
you know—which only made her pretentious garb and
manner the more conspicuous.\par

To see her at those college parties! She wore black
evening-gowns, and a string—a “rope,” I think you
could call it—of imitation pearls, and carried a fan
always, and a loose wrap with some bright lining, and fur
on the neck and sleeves, which she’d just throw, as if
carelessly, over her shoulders. We used irreverently to
say that she had “corrupted” (one of her favorite
words) the premise of the old motto, “When you’re in
Rome” to “Whether or not you’re in Rome,” so did she
insist on being—or trying to be—incongruously {\itshape{grande
dame}} and not “of” the {\itshape{milieu}} she was privileged to
adorn. Without ever letting herself mix with those gatherings
really, she’d show her condescension by choosing
a place in the most mixing group, and there carry out her
aloofness by just smiling and peering reservedly at—at
the way a man set a glass of water upon the table, for
instance, as if that constituted enough to judge him by;
as if he’d laid his soul, also, sufficiently bare to her in the
process. And she must have been, as you’ve seen, a resourceful
observer; she had a gift for reacting from
people; though how much depended upon the people and
what they did and said, and how much upon what she unconsciously—or
consciously—adapted from Hurrell
Oaks while she gauged them, is a question. The result
at least fits the needs of a gaping public. But I’m
drifting.\par

All this—in fact, everything about her—took George
Norton by storm when he turned up, fresh from a freshwater
university farther west, to fill the Slocum professorship.
He found in her the splendor that he’d been
stranded away from in “real life,” and had never had
time or imagination to find in books. She represented
great, glorious things beyond his ken—civilization, culture,
society, foreign lands across the sea for which his
appetite had been whetted by the holiday tour he took to
Bermuda after getting his A.B. with highest honors in
history and government. He was about forty or so, and
lived alone with his mother.\par

Rumor had it (and it may have been well founded, it’s
so difficult to tell what goes on in the minds of those
small, meek men), that he had always wanted to discover
an “Egeria-like woman,” and that, once he stepped into
Mrs. Braxton’s drawing-room and saw—and heard—Miss
Haviland discoursing on “The Overtones in Swinburne’s
Prose,” his wildest hope was realized. Be that
as it may, his recognition must have been overpowering
to have won her attention so easily; for her standards
wouldn’t have permitted her, by any stretch of imagination,
to think of him as an Egeria’s man—however she
may have felt she merited one.\par

But she wasn’t, with her looks and distinction and
learning, the sort to attract men readily. She was too
self-sufficient and flagrant, to begin with. She left no
medium of approach suggested. She offered no tender,
winning moments. Her aspect for men, as well as for
women, implied that she thought she knew their ways
and methods better than they did.... It shows as a
weakness in her stories, I think—the temerity with
which she assumes the masculine role, the possible hollowness
of her assumptions not once daunting her. Remember
the one that begins, “I had just peeked into
the bar of the Savoy Hotel”? I could never, when I read
it, think of anything except just how Marian Haviland
herself would look, in a black evening gown and her
other regalia, “peeking”—as she no doubt longed to
do. But I’m drifting again.... Her favor might have
fired the heart of a {\itshape{grand seigneur}}, I don’t know; to the
men of Newfair it was too much like a corrective. George
Norton, I guess, was the only one who ever craved it.
He courted the slavedom of learning to be her foremost
satellite.\par

His courting went on at all the assemblages. The moment
he entered a room, you could see her drawing him
like a magnet; and him drawn, atom-like, with his little
round beard and swallow-tail coat and parsonish white
cravat, to wherever she ensconced herself. No sooner
would he get near than she’d address a remark almost
lavishly to somebody on the other side, and not deign to
notice until the topic had been well developed, and then
she would only frown distantly and say:\par

“Mr. Norton, how are {\itshape{you}} this evening?”\par

But he would bob, and smirk consciously, up and down
on his toes, and slap one hand against the other in an appreciative
manner; undismayed if she looked away to
talk quite exclusively to somebody else for another five
minutes, just perhaps glancing fugitively over at him
again to suggest:\par

“It’s too bad you must stand, Mr. Norton.” Or, when
another pause came, “Can’t you find a chair?”\par

But you could see her still holding him fast behind her
while she finished her own chat, and before she had
leisure to release him at last with some cue like:\par

“That chair, perhaps, over there—no, {\itshape{there}}, Mr.
Norton.”\par

Nice little man. He would fetch the very one. He
would even keep it suspended in the air until she pointed
out the exact spot and, with eyes and eyebrows tense,
nodded approval of her scheme—asking him, however,
after he was seated, to stand a moment, so she could move
her own chair a bit farther to the right, away from the
person whose foot had been planted, as she all the time
knew, upon a rung of it.\par

He would yearn up to her presently and murmur, “A
beautiful room, don’t you think, Miss Haviland?”\par

At which she would wince, and whisper down in his
ear; and he wag his head and roll his eyes surreptitiously,
sure of not appearing to observe any details she was kind
enough to instruct him on. He would smile gratefully,
proudly, after it was over, as if her words had put them
into a state of blissful communion.\par

I remember well the day I met them together when she
told me Hurrell Oaks was coming to Newfair. I can see
her now as she sauntered across the campus, in slow,
longish strides, and the would-be graceful little spring
she gave when her feet touched the ground, and her head
set conveniently forward on her shoulders. She looked
at me, and then smiled as if to let me know that it wasn’t
her fault if she had to take me all in so at a glance. Why,
in a glance like that she’d stare you up and down. If
your hat was right, she’d go on toward your feet, and
if your shoe-lacings were tied criss-cross instead of
straight, it meant something quite deplorable. And if
she wasn’t fortunate enough to meet you or anybody else
on the way, she doubtless scrutinized the sky and trees
and grass with the same connoisseurship. I actually
believe she had ideas on how birds ought to fly, and compared
the way they flew at Ravenna with the way they
flew at Newfair.\par

That was autumn of my senior year. Miss Haviland’s
first book had been published by then, and acclaimed by
the critics. The stories, as they appeared one by one in
the magazines, had each in turn thrown Newfair into a
panic of surprise and admiration.\par

Nobody ever knew, you see, until they began, what
Miss Haviland did during the long periods she shut herself
up in that little apartment of hers in the New Gainsborough.
If, as you say, she seemed to burst so suddenly,
so authoritatively, into print for you, think what
it must have meant for us when we saw such dexterity
and finish unfurled all at once in the pages of the {\itshape{Standard}}.
Unbeknownst she had been working and writing
and waiting for years, with an indefatigable and indomitable
and clear-sighted vision of becoming an author. It
was her aim, people have told me since, from the time
she was a girl.\par

She had been to Harvard, summers, and taken all the
courses which the vacation curriculum afforded—unnoticed,
unapplauded, it is said, by her instructors. She
had traveled—not so widely, either, but cleverly, eclectically,
domineeringly, with her sole end in view. After
five minutes with only—say—a timetable, acquired, let
us suppose, at Cook’s, Topica, she could as showily
allude to any express {\itshape{de luxe}} there mentioned—be it for
Tonkin or Salamanca—as the most confirmed passenger
ever upon it. She had mastered French and Italian. And
she had—first and last and betweenwhiles—read Hurrell
Oaks. I venture to say there wasn’t a vowel—or
consonant, for that matter—of the seventy-odd volumes
she hadn’t persistently, enamouredly, and enviously devoured.\par

At Newfair, people had by this time, of course, compared
her “work” with the “works” of Hurrell Oaks;
but you know how few people have the patience or the
taste to “take him in”? And the result of comparisons
almost invariably was that Marian Haviland was better.
She had assimilated some of the psychology, much of the
method, and a little of the charm; and had crossed all her
T’s and dotted her I’s, and revised and simplified the
style, as one person put it, for “the use of schools”; and
brought what Hurrell Oaks called “the base rattle of the
foreground” fully into play.\par

Instead of being accused of having got so much from
him, she was credited, one thought, with having given
him a good deal. You might have guessed, to hear
people at Newfair talk, that {\itshape{she}} was partly responsible
for the ovations being tendered him over the country during
the season of his return—the first time in fifteen
years—to his native land.\par

“Mrs. ——,” Miss Haviland explained, mentioning a
well-known metropolitan name, “has written me” (of
course she would be the one literary fact at Newfair to
write to on such matters) “to ask if we can possibly do
with Mr. Oaks overnight.”\par

I gaped under my handkerchief at the fluency of her
“do.”\par

“But I don’t just know how,” she went on, “we {\itshape{could}}
make him comfortable. Mrs. Edgerton won’t be well in
time. And he {\itshape{mustn’t}} stay at the Greens’.” She waxed
indignant at the very possibility. “In {\itshape{her}} guest-room,
my dear? With those Honiton laces, and that scorbutic
carpet, and the whirligig pattern on the walls—and the
windows giving on the parti-colored slate roof of the
gymnasium?”\par

I tried, in spite of myself, to think commensurately.\par

“And Mrs. Kneeland’s waitress wears ear-rings!...
No. Now I’ve been thinking—don’t hurry along so,
George. You never keep in line! It spoils the pleasure
of walking when one constantly outsteps you like
that.”\par

“Pardon,” said George, and fell back.\par

Miss Haviland winced and shifted her maroon parasol
to the shoulder on his side, and smiled attentively at me
to sweeten the interval, and continued:\par

“Now {\itshape{I}}, if you’re interested to hear—”\par

I was very interested, and told her so. It always
piqued my curiosity, moreover, to think why Miss Haviland
picked me out—young as I was—for such confidences.
I believe it was mostly because I always stared
at her so; which she mistook, characteristically, for sheer
flattery.\par

Even as she spoke, I was remarking to myself the
frilled languor of her dress, and her firm rather large-boned
throat, and the moisture—for it was hot—under
the imitation pearls, and the competent grip of her hand
on the long onyx handle of her parasol.\par

She stopped short of a sudden. George took a few steps
ahead. She lifted her parasol over to the other shoulder
and looked at him, and he fell into line again, a sensitive,
pleased, proud smile showing above his little round beard.\par

“Now {\itshape{I}} think it would be better—simpler, more dignified,
and less ghastly for {\itshape{him}}—if he came, say, to
luncheon, and if we arranged for a small, a very small,
group of the people he’d care most to see—he doesn’t,
poor fellow, want to see many of us!—a {\itshape{small}} group, I
say, to come—George! {\itshape{Please!}} It makes me nervous,
it interrupts me, and it is very bad for the path....
Cover it up now with your foot. No—here—let me
do it.”\par

“Pardon,” said George, cheerfully.\par

Miss Haviland winced again. “I don’t know about
{\itshape{trains}},” she went on, “but we can look one out for him”
(she facilely avoided the American idiom) “and then
motor him to town in—in Mrs. Edgerton’s car. Don’t
you think that will be more {\itshape{comme il faut}}?”\par

“He’ll be so pleased, he’ll enjoy so much meeting
{\itshape{her}}!” exclaimed George to me, rising on his toes repeatedly
and rubbing his small dry hands together. “Won’t
he?”\par

Miss Haviland turned to him severely, and at a signal
he drew his arm up and she slipped hers through it.\par

“To worry now {\itshape{is}} a bit premature, perhaps,” she called
back. “We’re off to see the new Discobulus. I fear it’s
modeled on a late Roman copy.”\par

And I saw her, when I glanced over my shoulder a
second later, pause again and withdraw her arm to point
to the Memorial Library.\par

“What will he think of a disgrace like that, George?”
I heard her imprecating.... “{\itshape{What?}} You don’t {\itshape{see}}—that
the architect’s left off a line of leaves from the
capitals? Come on.”\par

Hurrell Oaks may have been over-fastidious. Yes.
But his discernments were the needs of a glowing temperament;
they grew naturally out of ideals his incomparable
sensitiveness created. Whereas hers—Marian
Haviland’s—though derived from him, had all the—what
shall I say?—snobbishness, which his lacked utterly.
I can’t estimate that side of her, even now, not in
view of all her accomplishments, even, except as being a
little bit cheap.\par

I didn’t, of course, though, gather at her first mention
of his coming half that it meant to her. And she
wouldn’t, I might have known, with her regard for the
{\itshape{nuances}}, have let it baldly appear. But I discovered
afterward that she had made all sorts of overtures—done
her utmost to divert him to Newfair. She didn’t know
him; had never set eyes on him; but her reputation,
which was considerable even then, helped her a good
deal. For she solicited news of him from her publishers;
and she wrote Mrs. ——, whatever her name was, finally,
when she learned that that was the real right source to
appeal to, a no doubt handsome letter, whence came the
reply Miss Haviland had quoted to me, but which, as I
also afterward found out, only asked very simply, “in
view of the uncertainty of Mr. Oaks’s plans,” whether or
not he could, in case he had to, “spend the night there.”\par

Well, it eventuated, not strictly in accord with her wire-pulling,
that Hurrell Oaks’s route was changed so he
could “run through” in the late afternoon “for a look at
the college.” He was to be motoring to a place somewhere
near, as it happened, and the Newfair detour would
lengthen his schedule by only an hour or two. Word of
it didn’t come to her directly, either; that letter was addressed
to the president. But it was humbly referred to
Miss Haviland in the course of things, and she took the
matter—what was left of it—into her own hands.\par

“No,” she answered, unyielding to the various suggestions
that cropped up. “But I’ll tell you what I am
willing to do: I will give up my own little flat. Living
in London as he does, he will feel—quite at home
there.”\par

Funny though it is, looking back over it, it had also,
when all was said and done—particularly when all was
done—its pathetic side. For Hurrell Oaks was the one
sincere passion of her life. He was religion and—and
everything to her. The prospect of seeing him in the
flesh, of hearing him {\itshape{viva voce}}, was more than she had
ever piously believed could come to pass.\par

However much she imitated him—and remember,
a large following bears witness to her skill—however
she failed in his beauty and poetry and thoroughbredness,
she must have had a deep, a discriminating love
of his genius to have taken her thus far. No wonder
she couldn’t, with her precise sense of justice, {\itshape{not}} be the
chosen person at Newfair to receive him. But nobody
dared question the justice of it, really. Wasn’t she the
{\itshape{raison d’être}} of his coming?—of his being anywhere at
all, as some people thought?\par

Her very demeanor was mellowed by the prospect.
She set about the task of preparation with an ardor as
unprofessed as it was apparent. She doffed the need of
impressing any one in her zeal to get ready to impress
Hurrell Oaks.\par

Her tone became warm and affluent as she went about
asking this person and that to lend things for the great
day: Mrs. Edgerton’s Monet, Mrs. Braxton’s brocades;
a fur rug of Mrs. Green’s she solicited one noon on the
campus as if from a generous impulse to slight no one.
And even when Mrs. Green suggested timidly that she
would be glad “to pay for having the invitations engraved,”
Miss Haviland didn’t correct her. But—\par

“No, dear,” she said. “I think I won’t let you do that
much—{\itshape{really}}. There aren’t to be so many, and I shall
be able to write them myself in no time.”\par

I can see her now, fingering her pearls and peering as
hospitably as she could manage into Mrs. Green’s commonplace
eyes, and George Norton hurrying across the
grass to catch a word with her without avail. He was
the only person whom she was, during those perfervid
preliminaries, one bit cruel to.\par

But him she overlooked entirely. She didn’t seem to
see him that day at all. She just peered obliquely beyond
him, and, engrossed quite genuinely, no doubt, in Mrs.
Green’s fur rug, took her arm and strolled off. She
had lost, for the time being, all use for him. He was left
deserted and alone at the teas and gatherings, magnetized
from one spot to another whither she moved forgetfully
away.\par

I met him in the park and pitied his shy, inept efforts
not to appear neglected.\par

“Well, I kind of think it may rain,” he essayed, half
clasping his small hands behind him and looking sociably
up around the sky for a cloud. “But I don’t know as it
will, after all.” And then, “Have you seen Miss Haviland
lately?” he asked out in spite of himself.\par

“Not since yesterday’s class.”\par

“How’s the improvements coming?”\par

“All right, I guess. The new stuff for the walls arrived,
I heard. It hasn’t been put on yet.”\par

“Oh—she’s papering, is she?”\par

“And painting.”\par

He tried to sparkle appreciatively. “Well, it takes
time to do those things. You never know what you’re in
for. She’s well?”\par

And he swayed back and forth on his heels, and
teetered his head nervously. Poor thing! The gap he
had tried so hard to bridge was filled to brimming now
by the promised advent of Hurrell Oaks.\par

Miss Haviland called me on the telephone one afternoon
as the day was approaching to ask if I would lend
her my samovar; and she wanted I should bring it over
presently, if possible, as she was slowly getting things
right, and didn’t like to leave any more than was necessary
to the last moment. So I polished the copper up as
best I could and went ’round that evening to the New
Gainsborough to leave it.\par

The building looked very dismal to me, I recall. A
forlorn place it seemed to receive the great guest. It had
been a dormitory once, which had been given over, owing
to the inconveniences of the location, to accommodate unmarried
teachers. It was more like a refined factory than
an apartment-house. The high stoop had no railing, and
the pebbles which collected on the coarse granite steps
added to the general bleakness of the entrance. The inner
halls were grim, with plain match-board wainscots and
dingy paint, and narrow staircases that ascended steeply
from meager landings. Miss Haviland’s suite was three
flights up.\par

But when I got inside it, I couldn’t believe my
eyes.\par

Her door was slightly ajar—it was the way Miss Haviland
avoided the bother and the squalor of having to
let people in—and at my knock she called out in a restrained,
serene tone, “Come!” And I stepped through
the tiny vestibule into the study.\par

It was amazingly attractive—Hurrell Oaks himself
would have remarked it, I’ll wager. Nobody except
Marian Haviland could have wrought such a change.\par

Of course there were Mrs. Edgerton’s Monet, and Mrs.
Braxton’s brocades, and—yes—Mrs. Green’s fur rug,
to say nothing of numberless other borrowed {\itshape{objets}}, to
help out the lavishness of the effect; but the synthesis
was magnificent. Everything looked as if it had grown
there. One might have been in an Italian palace. And
Miss Haviland, seated at her new antique walnut desk
with the ormolu mounts, looked veritably like a chatelaine.
She had always, too—I ought to have seen it before—a
little resembled a chatelaine, a chatelaine without
a castle.\par

But she had for the moment her castle now—enough
of it to complete the picture, at any rate. There was a
low smoldering fire on the hearth, and the breeze that
played through the open window just swayed the heavy
damask hangings rhythmically. My samovar, as I set
it down on a carved consol near the door, looked too
crude and crass to warrant the excuse of my coming.\par

She read my dazed approval in a glance and laid down
her pen, and, with one experienced {\itshape{coup d’œil}} over the
manuscript before her, leaned back, clasping the edge of
her desk with both hands and staring at me. She was
wearing one of those black evening gowns, and a feather
fan was in easy reach of where she sat; and I noticed all
at once that the string of pearls was dangling from the
gas-jet above her head.\par

“The new fixtures—the electric ones—will be
bronze,” she hastened to say.\par

I shall never forget, not to my dying day, the sight I
had of her sitting there; in that room, at that desk, in
a black evening gown—{\itshape{writing}}! And the string of
pearls she had slung across the condemned gas-jet by
way of subtle disarmament for her task! The whole
place had the hushed grand air of having been cleared
for action by some sophisticated gesture; as if—the
thought whimsically struck me—she might have just
rung for the “second man” and bidden him remove “all
the Pomeranians” lest they distract her.\par

“It’s too lovely, Miss Haviland; I can’t tell you what
I think it is,” I exclaimed, blankly.\par

She stood up, reached for the rope of pearls, and
slipped them over her head.\par

“I want you to see the hall,” she said. “Isn’t it
{\itshape{chic}}?... And the bedrooms. The men will leave their
hats in the south chamber—my room—in here; and
the women will have the other—this one.”\par

She preceded me. She was quite simple in her eagerness
to point out everything she had done. Her childlike
glee in it touched me. And she looked so tired.
She looked, in spite of her pomp and enthusiasm,
exhausted.\par

“How he—how Mr. Hurrell Oaks will love it,” I
cried, sincerely. “If he only realized, if he only could
know the pains you’ve taken for him.”\par

“{\itshape{Pains?}}”\par

She leaned forward and let me judge for myself how
she felt. Her eyes glowed. I had never seen her with all
the barriers down.\par

“It isn’t a {\itshape{crumb}} of what’s due him,” she pleaded.
“Do you think I expect he’ll love it? No. It’s only the
best I could do—the best I {\itshape{can}} do—to save him the
shock of finding it all awful. Oh, I didn’t, I so don’t
want him to think we are—barbarians!”\par

She gave it out to me from the depths of her heart, and
I accepted it completely, with no reservations or comments.
It was the one real passion of her life, as I’ve
said. She was laying bare to me the utmost she had
done and longed to do for Hurrell Oaks.\par

“To think that he is coming here!” she murmured.
“I’ve waited and hoped so to see him—only to see
him—it’s about the most I’ve ever wanted. And it’s
going to happen, dear, in my own little rooms. He is
coming to me! Oh, you can’t know what he’s meant to
me in all the years—how I’ve studied and striven to
learn to be worthy of him! {\itshape{All}}—the little all I’ve got—I
owe to him—everything. He’s done more than anybody,
alive or dead, to teach me to be interested in life—to
make me happy.”\par

She threw her long arms around my shoulders and
pressed me to her, and kissed me on the forehead. The
chapel clock struck ten.\par

“You’ll come, too, won’t you?” she asked, stepping
back away from me in sudden cheerfulness. “For I
want you to see how wonderful he will be.”\par

She put her arms about me once more, and went with
me to the door when I left. In her forgetfulness of all
forms and codes she had become a perfect chatelaine.
She opened the door almost reluctantly, and stepped out
on to the meager landing, and stood there waving her
hand and calling out after me until I had got well down
the narrow staircase.\par

The day dawned at last. The hour had been set at five
o’clock, as Miss Haviland’s Shakespeare course wasn’t
over until three-thirty, and the faculty hadn’t seen fit,
after “mature consideration,” to give her pupils a holiday.
But the elect of Newfair were talking about the event,
and discussing what to wear, and whether they ought
to arrive on the dot of five or a few minutes after, or if
they wouldn’t be surer of seeing him “at his best” by
coming a few minutes before.\par

I met Professor Norton again in the park that morning.\par

“All ready for this afternoon?” I asked him.\par

His lips went tight together, and quivered in and out
over his small round beard as he tried to face me. And
then he looked down away, and began digging another
hole in the gravel walk with the broad toe of his congress
boot. He shot a glance at me, in a moment, and gazed off
at the falling leaves.\par

“Aren’t you interested in Hurrell Oaks?” I persisted.\par

“I’m interested in everything Marian Haviland likes,”
he declared, boldly, focusing his eyes full upon mine.
“But—but the apartment’s small, and—and I reckon
there wasn’t room.”\par

{\itshape{Room?}} Was any place too {\itshape{small}} for him? It made
my blood—even at that age—boil.\par

“She’s had enough to do to keep half a dozen busy,”
I said, tactlessly.\par

“{\itshape{Has}} she?” he echoed in hope. “How—how’s she
got on?”\par

“She’s been wonderful,” I said, feeling kindlier
toward her as I spoke. “She’s made that apartment
regal.”\par

“I’m glad, I’m glad! I knew she had it in her. Did
the new sofa come?”\par

“Yes. Everything’s come. And you’d better come
yourself at five o’clock. I know she’s just forgotten—perhaps
your invitation got lost like Mrs. Purcell’s. She
only got hers an hour ago, I heard.”\par

“Really, now! Well, I’ll just go home and see. I
need a little nap, I guess. I haven’t been sleeping very
well. Good-by.”\par

And he held out his hand, and nodded to me several
times, and gave me a sad, cheery, uncertain smile.\par

It was too bad. I was sure Miss Haviland {\itshape{had}} forgotten
him. I didn’t think—and I don’t think now—that
she wilfully omitted to send him an invitation. It
was only that her cup was too full to remember his small,
meek existence. I wondered if I dared remind her. I
was pretty busy all day, however. And I had to get
dressed and out by four, as I hadn’t posted my daily
theme yet, and the time would be up at half-past. But I
thought, even so late as then, that I’d better go by way of
the New Gainsborough, and if things seemed propitious,
drop a hint to her, for I felt free to say almost anything
after my experience of the other evening.\par

Things weren’t propitious, though, I can tell you.\par

I was still some distance from the building—it was
about fifteen minutes’ walk, I should say—when I heard
somebody calling to me in a distressed voice. I looked
’round behind me, and to the right and left; and when
finally I walked ahead I saw Miss Haviland fly out
through the swinging door of the New Gainsborough and
stand there at the top of the high granite stoop, beckoning
frantically. She had on a mauve-colored kimono,
which she was holding together rather desperately in
front, and her hair was uncaught behind and streaming
in the wind.\par

“Edith! Edith!” she called out. “Quick!”\par

She had never called me by my first name before.
What could it be?—at this late hour, too? She waited
a second to be sure I was coming, then dodged back
under cover.\par

I ran. I sprang up the granite steps.\par

“See if you see anybody!” she commanded, breathlessly,
peeping out at me.\par

“No, I don’t,” I said, looking. “There’s nobody,
Miss Haviland.”\par

“But there must be,” she insisted. “Look again!
Look everywhere!”\par

I did so. “There {\itshape{isn’t}}, Miss Haviland,” I said
back through the opening. “Why won’t you believe
me?”\par

“Go down again, do go right down,” she kept saying,
“and {\itshape{see}}!”\par

I shook my head. But at that she leaped out on to the
stoop and took me by the shoulder and pushed me.\par

“Run out behind the building—oh, be quick!” she
beseeched. “Look all along the road, and if you see anybody,
stop him and tell me!”\par

I ran. The road was empty. I came dazedly back.
“There’s nobody in sight,” I panted, “not a soul.”\par

“Run over to that tree where you can see ’round the
turn in the avenue!”\par

I ran again. I stretched my eyes in vain, but there
wasn’t a person of any sort or description.\par

“Once more—{\itshape{please}}!” She started down the steps
as I started up. “Over by the chapel—you may find
somebody walking. {\itshape{Hurry!}}”\par

I hurried. I was out of breath and hardly knew what
I was doing.\par

“They’re all in, getting ready, Miss Haviland. How
can you expect me to find anybody now?” I asked, pointlessly,
and in some indignation as I reapproached her.\par

But she rushed down the steps and stopped me halfway,
her mauve kimono fluttering open, and the gilt high-heeled
slippers she had donned in her haste gleaming
garishly against the unswept stone.\par

“Listen! Harken!” she whispered. “Do you hear
a motor? Don’t you? Try again!”\par

It was still as death.\par

I stared up at her in terror. Not till then did I realize
how serious it was. But I had never seen a woman look
like that. I had never seen the anguish of helplessness in
the hour of need written so plain. Her eyes seemed to
open wider and wider—I had to turn away—and awful
lines came on her forehead. She stretched out both arms
and uttered a long Oh-h! that started in her throat and
went up into a high-pitched note of pain. She was to me
positively like a wild woman.\par

I watched her slowly raise one hand and unclasp it; I
saw within a small, a very small, white paper thing, which
she held closer to her face and gaped at, as if she couldn’t
believe the truth of what she saw.\par

“What is it? What is the matter, Miss Haviland?”
I asked.\par

“Nothing,” she answered, quite calmly.... “{\itshape{Listen!}}
Don’t you hear—”\par

But she shuddered. “They’ll be coming, Miss Haviland.
Really! You’ve no time left.”\par

“Yes.”\par

She tried to smile. It was uncanny. It was hardly
more than a distension of her pale wide lips—a relic,
merely, of spent resourcefulness. Then the blankness
went out of her face, her expression collapsed, and she
sobbed aloud.\par

“Miss Haviland! Miss Haviland! Do let me help
you,” I begged, and I put my arm through hers and led
her inside the swinging door and up the narrow stairs.
“Mayn’t I do {\itshape{anything}}?”\par

She dragged herself heavily on by my side. But her
sobs ceased after the first flight. At the meager landing
before her door she broke away and stood erect and faced
me and held out her hand. The abruptness of the change
in her awed me. I watched her push the hair from over
her face and tilt her head back and shake it and gather
the folds of the kimono nonchalantly together; and resume
the old hard connoisseurship I had seen her exercise
from the beginning. Her eyes dilated tensely, and
her eyebrows went tensely up, and she gave me that
envisaging smile as of yore.\par

“It was nothing,” she said, “quite nothing. Won’t
you step in and wait?... I’m tired, I expect. I was
alone here, do you see, taking my bath. The servants”
(Mrs. Edgerton’s servants!) “hadn’t come. And that
knock on the door upset me. I thought—I thought—it
might be—the—the caterer” (she winced at the
word, and the wince seemed to help her to proceed)
“with the food. So I hurried out and down like
mad.... Thanks awfully, though. You’ll be back,
surely? Please do.”\par

I did go back, of course. I wouldn’t have missed it
for worlds—sad as it was. There wasn’t such a long
interval to wait, either. I wended my way, and found the
theme-box closed, and returned at about quarter past five.\par

When I entered, the assemblage was in full swing, and
Marian Haviland, in the black afternoon toilette she had
sent to New York for in honor of Hurrell Oaks’s visit,
was scintillating in the midst. She had donned her
pearls, and subdued her cheeks unbecomingly, and tinted
her lips; and, going from one person to another, she
would, in response to the indiscriminating compliments
they bestowed, just tap them each gaily on the shoulder
with her fan and explain that:\par

“Mr. Oaks was so sorry, but he couldn’t wait. Yes,
he was wonderful,” she would say, “{\itshape{perfectly}}. We had
an immemorial hour together. I shall never forget it—{\itshape{never}}.”\par

To this day I don’t blame her for lying. If she hadn’t
lied she never could have stood it. And she had to stand
it. What else could she do? She couldn’t hang a sign
on the door and turn the guests away after all their generous
sacrifices to the occasion.\par

George Norton, needless to say, wasn’t there. She had
forgotten—I insist upon that much—to ask him. But
two days later she announced her engagement to marry
him, and in another month’s time the knot was actually
tied.\par

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My companion stopped short there, and leaned back in
her chair, expectantly staring at me.\par

“Like Marian Haviland Norton’s readers,” I said, “I
should like some of the T’s crossed and the I’s dotted a
little more plainly. Don’t spare me, either, as far as the
‘base rattle of the foreground’ is concerned. But tell
me, please, literally just what you think happened.”\par

She showed her disappointment at that; looked almost
aggrieved. Then she laughed out in spite of herself.\par

“Hurrell Oaks didn’t expect a party,” she declared;
“he didn’t, at all events, mean to have one. He didn’t—{\itshape{she}}
was right about that—‘want to see many of us.’
He didn’t want to see anybody. He just wanted to do
his manners. He couldn’t decently get out of that much.
And, although he may have been asked to come at exactly
five—nobody, of course, knows how {\itshape{his}} invitation was
worded—he reached Newfair earlier, perhaps unintentionally
so, and came instead at four, and knocked politely
for admittance. But Mrs. Edgerton’s servants, unfortunately,
hadn’t arrived, and Miss Haviland was, as
she herself admitted, taking a bath. She was no doubt
actually {\itshape{in the tub}} when Hurrell Oaks slipped his card
under the door.”\par

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{\scshape{By}} BURTON KLINE\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{The Stratford Journal}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by The Stratford Journal.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by Burton Kline.}}}}\par}
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{\noindent}
The day’s work was finished and the entire job well
started. I felt sure we should meet old Bankard’s
wishes fully. The rare old Virginia manor and its
wooded park were going to look again as the original
designer meant them to appear. Gordon, I know, agreed
with me—Gordon, who was to restore the house as I
restored the grounds.\par

That evening he and I were sitting on a rusted iron
bench in a corner of the park that looked off over the
hills, watching the summer dusk steal up the eastern sky.
I still wanted to talk of the day’s accomplishment, but
Gordon seemed to have grown—I was going to say
dreamy, but he was watchful instead.\par

Presently he drew out his watch and said, “In just
about four minutes you will hear it.”\par

“Hear what?”\par

“See that notch between those two hills about a mile
and a half away over there?” He pointed. “Keep your
eye on that.”\par

“A blast?”\par

“Yes, a blast. But not the kind you think. Just
watch.”\par

We smoked in silence, and my curiosity was about to
break into speech again, or ebb altogether, when it
happened.\par

An ordinary freight train passed, but the locomotive,
as it emerged from the flat hillside and traversed the
broad notch, let off a stream of white puffs from its
whistle, and then disappeared behind the other hill, precisely
like an episode on the stage.\par

In a moment the white puffs translated themselves
from a sight in the eye to a sound in the ear. And I tell
the truth when I say that they reproduced, with a mimicry
that was startling, the notes of the last two bars of
“Annie Laurie.”\par

“What do you make of that!” Gordon turned and
exulted to me over his odd little discovery.\par

“How did you get on to it?”\par

“Oh, stumbled across it the first evening we were here.
It goes every day at this time, as regular as clock-work.”\par

“Some engineer with a sense of humor amusing himself,”
I conjectured.\par

“But regularity isn’t amusement. He blows it every
day at this time. And always in the same way.”\par

I tried another hypothesis. “A code signal of some
sort, most likely.”\par

“But what an odd code! What a poetic code, for a
railroad!”\par

“Well, I’ve learned to expect a good deal of life in
Virginia. It seems to be different here.”\par

“Yes, it’s a code.... Of course it’s a code!” Gordon
amended himself. “But—I wonder if it’s a railroad
code?”\par

“I see. A lover and his lass, eh? You’re crediting
your railroad engineer with your own romantic soul,
Gordon.” I patted his arm, as Jemima, our cook, rang
her bell for supper. “Now there’s a code that I can
understand!” And we hurried in to the table.\par

By next evening the whole gang had heard of the
curious signal from the freight locomotive and assembled
at the opening of the trees to hear it. Precisely at the
moment due the obedient freight train crossed the notch
in the distant hills, and as precisely as before the engine
let off its string of puffs that in a moment became in our
ears those last two bars of the song.\par

There were as many theories to account for it as there
were men to hear it. In the end the congress bore down
Gordon and pronounced it a simple railroad code, with
the longs and shorts accidentally resembling the tune,
or made so by a whimsical engineer.\par

Nevertheless the phenomenon was interesting enough
to compel a bit of discussion about the fire in the great
hall after we had despatched our supper. The talk
drifted away into the curious tricks that artisans come to
play with their implements—carpenters able to toss up
edged tools and catch them deftly, and the like. But
Gordon was not to be weaned from the subject of that
whistle.\par

“There’s nothing to prevent that engineer from playing
‘Yankee Doodle’ on his whistle if he wants to.
Haven’t you often lain awake at night listening to the
blasts of the locomotives? You can tell when an engineer
is ruffled, when he starts behind time out of the
yard, and knows he must be extra alert that night. His
toot is sharp and impatient. Or you can tell an engineer
coming home from his run. His whistle fairly sighs his
own contentment.”\par

“La, Gordon,” some one yawned, “you’re a poetic
soul!”\par

“Well, I believe in that engineer,” he defended.
“Next time I go down to the village I’m going to find
out who blows that thing and why he does it.”\par

He did go down to the village and he did learn the
secret of the whistle. It made a neat little story. The
whistle was a code signal, of a surety, and of precisely
the sort that Gordon figured it was. He knew his
Virginia.\par

A fellow named George Roberts was the engineer of
that freight, and his imitation of “Annie Laurie” was
truly a signal—to a sweetheart of his. Rough devil at
one time, this man Roberts, a tearing drinker and fighter,
he was fast on the way to ruin and discharge, when he
fell in love with this girl and braced up. Now every
time he passed the little house where she lived he tooted
his whistle like that in salutation.\par

“To let her know he’s safe,” Gordon finished.\par

Of course we charged him with making it up, but in
the end we came to believe him. Every day for four
weeks that whistle blew, always in the same way, always
in the same place, and always on the dot. And somehow
it had a sobering and softening effect upon the crowd of
woodsmen that we were. The men quarreled less frequently,
I noticed, were more considerate and helpful to
each other. I swear we all felt the influence of that
engineer. I’ll wager every man jack of us meant on
going home to be a bit the more thoughtful to the wife.
It cheered us all, that little touch of honest romance.
The world seemed a bit the better for it. We even took
to timing our supper not by Jemima’s bell but by George
Roberts’ whistle.\par

Then another strange thing happened. The signal
ceased.\par

The first time we missed it we could scarcely believe
our ears. But on the second day it was silent, and the
next. At the right time the train crossed the notch, but
no puffs came from the engine, no sound from the
whistle.\par

It gave us a drop. The world was as drab as ever.
The cynics, of course, spoke up at once.\par

“Guess your friend the engineer is no better than the
rest of us,” one of them jeered at Gordon. “He couldn’t
keep it up.”\par

“Drunk again, probably,” jeered another.\par

“Maybe it’s only a little lovers’ tiff,” I argued in
Gordon’s support.\par

“I’m going to find out,” Gordon finished the discussion.\par

And he did. Made a special errand to the village to
find out. And returned with a smile.\par

“They’re married,” he reported. “Off on their honeymoon.
They’ll be back in a week. Watch for the signal
then.”\par

He was right. In a week the signal was resumed, but
in another place.\par

“How’s that?” one of the men still girded at Gordon.
“Guess he’s learned to respect his wife’s throwing arm.
He pipes up now from a more respectful distance.”\par

“That’s easy,” Gordon let the caviller down gently.
“He’s set her up in a little house farther along the line.
Naturally that’s where he would whistle now.”\par

For three weeks more we heard the faithful signal, at
its new place. A little more faintly, but always punctual,
always the same. And again the men began to whistle
at their work.\par

By then the job was nearly finished. In two or three
weeks more we should be leaving, and the whole crowd
began to allege a touch of regret. They protested it was
because the old place was so beautiful, but privately I
think George Roberts and his tooting had something to
do with the homesickness. To whatever new place we
might go, however pleasant it might be, there was going
to be a trifle that was lacking.\par

Then again a strange thing happened. Again the
whistle stopped. For four days it was silent.\par

“Family jar already!” came the usual good-natured
jeer.\par

“She’s flung a plate and crippled his whistle arm.”\par

“Guess you’d better find out what’s the matter, Gordon,”
a third man recommended.\par

“I will,” said Gordon.\par

That evening he returned from the village without the
smile. Nevertheless, as he was still plodding up the long
driveway, his head down, his step slow, we actually heard
the whistle as we sat waiting for Gordon under the
portico. There was no mistaking it. And yet its note
seemed different; there was a new tone to it, something
like Gordon’s air. And it seemed to come from still
farther away.\par

Gordon paused as he heard it, and stood still, with his
hat in his hand, till it died away. Then he came up the
steps and sat down. We all leaned toward him.\par

“She fell ill,” he said. “They left her in the little
cemetery down the line. She’d always been delicate.
And I suppose that’s where he’s whistling now. To—to
let her know he’s safe.”\par

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{\scshape{By}} SINCLAIR LEWIS\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{The Saturday Evening Post}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by The Curtis Publishing Company.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by Sinclair Lewis.}}}}\par}
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{\noindent}
From the drawer of his table desk Jasper Holt took
a pane of window glass. He laid a sheet of paper
on the glass and wrote, “Now is the time for all good
men to come to the aid of the party.” He studied his
round business-college script, and rewrote the sentence
in a small finicky hand, that of a studious old man. Ten
times he copied the words in that false pinched writing.
He tore up the paper, burned the fragments in his large
ash tray and washed the delicate ashes down his stationary
washbowl. He replaced the pane of glass in the
drawer, tapping it with satisfaction. A glass underlay
does not retain an impression.\par

Jasper Holt was as nearly respectable as his room,
which, with its frilled chairs and pansy-painted pincushion,
was the best in the aristocratic boarding house
of Mrs. Lyons. He was a wiry, slightly bald, black-haired
man of thirty-eight, wearing an easy gray flannel
suit and a white carnation. His hands were peculiarly
compact and nimble. He gave the appearance of being
a youngish lawyer or bond salesman. Actually he was
senior paying teller in the Lumber National Bank in the
city of Vernon.\par

He looked at a thin expensive gold watch. It was six-thirty,
on Wednesday—toward dusk of a tranquil spring
day. He picked up his hooked walking stick and his
gray silk gloves and trudged downstairs. He met his
landlady in the lower hall and inclined his head. She
effusively commented on the weather.\par

“I shall not be here for dinner,” he said amiably.\par

“Very well, Mr. Holt. My, but aren’t you always
going out with your swell friends, though! I read in the
{\itshape{Herald}} that you were going to be star in another of
those society plays at the Community Theater. I guess
you’d be an actor if you wasn’t a banker, Mr. Holt.”\par

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t much temperament.” His
voice was cordial, but his smile was a mere mechanical
sidewise twist of the lip muscles. “You’re the one that’s
got the stage presence. Bet you’d be a regular Ethel
Barrymore if you didn’t have to look out for us.”\par

“My, but you’re such a flatterer!”\par

He bowed his way out and walked sedately down the
street to a public garage. Nodding to the night attendant,
but saying nothing, he started his roadster and drove out
of the garage, away from the center of Vernon, toward
the suburb of Rosebank. He did not go directly to Rosebank.
He went seven blocks out of his way, and halted
on Fandall Avenue—one of those petty main thoroughfares
which, with their motion-picture palaces, their
groceries, laundries, undertakers’ establishments and
lunch rooms, serve as local centers for districts of mean
residences. He got out of the car and pretended to look
at the tires, kicking them to see how much air they had.
While he did so he covertly looked up and down the
street. He saw no one whom he knew. He went into the
Parthenon Confectionery Store.\par

The Parthenon Store makes a specialty of those ingenious
candy boxes that resemble bound books. The
back of the box is of imitation leather, with a stamping
simulating the title of a novel. The edges are apparently
the edges of a number of pages of paper. But
these pages are hollowed out, and the inside is to be
filled with candy.\par

Jasper gazed at the collection of book boxes and chose
the two whose titles had the nearest approach to dignity—Sweets
to the Sweet and The Ladies’ Delight. He
asked the Greek clerk to fill these with the less expensive
grade of mixed chocolates, and to wrap them.\par

From the candy shop he went to a drug store that
carried an assortment of reprinted novels, and from these
picked out two of the same sentimental type as the titles
on the booklike boxes. These also he had wrapped. He
strolled out of the drug store, slipped into a lunch room,
got a lettuce sandwich, doughnuts and a cup of coffee at
the greasy marble counter, took them to a chair with a
tablet arm in the dim rear of the lunch room and hastily
devoured them. As he came out and returned to his car
he again glanced along the street.\par

He fancied that he knew a man who was approaching.
He could not be sure. From the breast up the man
seemed familiar, as did the customers of the bank whom
he viewed through the wicket of the teller’s window.
When he saw them in the street he could never be sure
about them. It seemed extraordinary to find that these
persons, who to him were nothing but faces with attached
arms that held out checks and received money, could
walk about, had legs and a gait and a manner of their
own.\par

He walked to the curb and stared up at the cornice of
one of the stores, puckering his lips, giving an impersonation
of a man inspecting a building. With the corner of an
eye he followed the approaching man. The man ducked
his head as he neared, and greeted him, “Hello, Brother
Teller.” Jasper seemed startled; gave the “Oh! Oh, how
are you!” of sudden recognition; and mumbled, “Looking
after a little bank property.”\par

“Always on the job, eh!”\par

The man passed on.\par

Jasper got into his car and drove back to the street that
would take him out to the suburb of Rosebank. As he
left Fandall Avenue he peered at his watch. It was five
minutes of seven.\par

At a quarter past seven he passed through the main
street of Rosebank, and turned into a lane that was but
little changed since the time when it had been a country
road. A few jerry-built villas of freckled paint did
shoulder upon it, but for the most part it ran through
swamps spotted with willow groves, the spongy ground
covered with scatterings of dry leaves and bark. Opening
on this lane was a dim-rutted grassy private road,
which disappeared into one of the willow groves.\par

Jasper sharply swung his car between the crumbly gate
posts and along the bumpy private road. He made an
abrupt turn, came into sight of an unpainted shed and
shot the car into it without cutting down his speed, so
that he almost hit the back of the shed with his front
fenders. He shut off the engine, climbed out quickly and
ran back toward the gate. From the shield of a bank of
alder bushes he peered out. Two chattering women
were going down the public road. They stared in through
the gate and half halted.\par

“That’s where that hermit lives,” said one of them.\par

“Oh, you mean the one that’s writing a religious
book, and never comes out till evening? Some kind of a
preacher?”\par

“Yes, that’s the one. John Holt, I think his name is.
I guess he’s kind of crazy. He lives in the old Beaudette
house. But you can’t see it from here—it’s clear
through the block, on the next street.”\par

“I heard he was crazy. But I just saw an automobile
go in here.”\par

“Oh, that’s his cousin or brother or something—lives
in the city. They say he’s rich, and such a nice fellow.”\par

The two women ambled on, their chatter blurring with
distance. Standing behind the alders Jasper rubbed the
palm of one hand with the fingers of the other. The
palm was dry with nervousness. But he grinned.\par

He returned to the shed and entered a brick-paved walk
almost a block long, walled and sheltered by overhanging
willows. Once it had been a pleasant path; carved
wooden benches were placed along it, and it widened to
a court with a rock garden, a fountain and a stone bench.
The rock garden had degenerated into a riot of creepers
sprawling over the sharp stones; the paint had peeled from
the fountain, leaving its iron cupids and naiads eaten
with rust. The bricks of the wall were smeared with
lichens and moss and were untidy with windrows of dry
leaves and cakes of earth. Many of the bricks were
broken; the walk was hilly in its unevenness. From
willows and bricks and scuffled earth rose a damp chill.\par

But Jasper did not seem to note the dampness. He
hastened along the walk to the house—a structure of
heavy stone which, for this newish Midwestern land, was
very ancient. It had been built by a French fur trader
in 1839. The Chippewas had scalped a man in its very
dooryard. The heavy back door was guarded by an unexpectedly
expensive modern lock. Jasper opened it
with a flat key and closed it behind him. It locked on a
spring. He was in a crude kitchen, the shades of which
were drawn. He passed through the kitchen and dining
room into the living room. Dodging chairs and tables in
the darkness as though he was used to them he went to
each of the three windows of the living room and made
sure that all the shades were down before he lighted the
student’s lamp on the game-legged table. As the glow
crept over the drab walls Jasper bobbed his head with satisfaction.
Nothing had been touched since his last visit.\par

The room was musty with the smell of old green rep
upholstery and leather books. It had not been dusted for
months. Dust sheeted the stiff red velvet chairs, the uncomfortable
settee, the chill white marble fireplace, the
immense glass-fronted bookcase that filled one side of
the room.\par

The atmosphere was unnatural to this capable business
man, this Jasper Holt. But Jasper did not seem oppressed.
He briskly removed the wrappers from the
genuine books and from the candy-box imitations of
books. One of the two wrappers he laid on the table and
smoothed out. Upon this he poured the candy from the
two boxes. The other wrapper and the strings he stuffed
into the fireplace and immediately burned. Crossing to
the bookcase he unlocked one section and placed both the
real books and the imitation books on the bottom shelf.
There was a row of rather cheap-looking novels on this
shelf, and of these at least six were actually such candy
boxes as he had purchased that evening.\par

Only one shelf of the bookcase was given over to anything
so frivolous as novels. The others were filled with
black-covered, speckle-leaved, dismal books of history,
theology, biography—the shabby-genteel sort of books
you find on the fifteen-cent shelf at a secondhand bookshop.
Over these Jasper pored for a moment as though
he was memorizing their titles.\par

He took down “The Life of the Rev. Jeremiah Bodfish”
and read aloud: “In those intimate discourses with
his family that followed evening prayers I once heard
Brother Bodfish observe that Philo Judæus—whose
scholarly career always calls to my mind the adumbrations
of Melanchthon upon the essence of rationalism—was
a mere sophist—”\par

Jasper slammed the book shut, remarking contentedly,
“That’ll do. Philo Judæus—good name to spring.”\par

He relocked the bookcase and went upstairs. In a
small bedroom at the right of the upper hall an electric
light was burning. Presumably the house had been
deserted till Jasper’s entrance, but a prowler in the yard
might have judged from this ever-burning light that
some one was in residence. The bedroom was Spartan—an
iron bed, one straight chair, a washstand, a heavy oak
bureau. Jasper scrambled to unlock the lowest drawer of
the bureau, yank it open, take out a wrinkled shiny suit of
black, a pair of black shoes, a small black bow tie, a Gladstone
collar, a white shirt with starched bosom, a speckly
brown felt hat and a wig—an expensive and excellent
wig with artfully unkempt hair of a faded brown.\par

He stripped off his attractive flannel suit, wing collar,
blue tie, custom-made silk shirt and cordovan shoes, and
speedily put on the wig and those gloomy garments. As
he donned them the corners of his mouth began to droop.
Leaving the light on and his own clothes flung on the bed
he descended the stairs. He was obviously not the same
man who had ascended them. As to features he was like
Jasper, but by nature he was evidently less healthy, less
practical, less agreeable, and decidedly more aware of
the sorrow and long thoughts of the dreamer. Indeed it
must be understood that now he was not Jasper Holt, but
Jasper’s twin brother, John Holt, hermit and religious
fanatic.\par

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{\noindent}
John Holt, twin brother of Jasper Holt, the bank teller,
rubbed his eyes as though he had for hours been absorbed
in study, and crawled through the living room, through
the tiny hall, to the front door. He opened it, picked up
a couple of circulars that the postman had dropped
through the letter slot in the door, went out and locked
the door behind him. He was facing a narrow front yard,
neater than the willow walk at the back, on a suburban
street more populous than the straggly back lane.\par

A street arc illuminated the yard and showed that a
card was tacked on the door. John touched the card,
snapped it with the nail of his little finger, to make certain
that it was securely tacked. In that light he could not
read it, but he knew that it was inscribed in a small finicky
hand: “Agents kindly do not disturb, bell will not be
answered, occupant of house engaged in literary work.”\par

John stood on the doorstep till he made out his neighbor
on the right—a large stolid commuter, who was walking
before his house smoking an after-dinner cigar.
John poked to the fence and sniffed at a spray of lilac
blossoms till the neighbor called over, “Nice evening.”\par

“Yes, it seems to be very pleasant.”\par

John’s voice was like Jasper’s; but it was more guttural,
and his speech had less assurance.\par

“How’s the book going?”\par

“It is—it is very—very difficult. So hard to comprehend
all the inner meanings of the prophecies. Well, I
must be hastening to Soul Hope Hall. I trust we shall
see you there some Wednesday or Sunday evening. I
bid you good-night, sir.”\par

John wavered down the street to a drug store. He
purchased a bottle of ink. In a grocery that kept open
evenings he got two pounds of corn meal, two pounds of
flour, a pound of bacon, a half pound of butter, six eggs
and a can of condensed milk.\par

“Shall we deliver them?” asked the clerk.\par

John looked at him sharply. He realized that this was
a new man, who did not know his customs. He said rebukingly:
“No, I always carry my parcels. I am writing
a book. I am never to be disturbed.”\par

He paid for the provisions out of a postal money order
for thirty-five dollars, and received the change. The
cashier of the store was accustomed to cashing these
money orders, which were always sent to John from South
Vernon, by one R. J. Smith. John took the bundle of
food and walked out of the store.\par

“That fellow’s kind of a nut, isn’t he?” asked the
new clerk.\par

The cashier explained: “Yep. Doesn’t even take
fresh milk—uses condensed for everything! What do
you think of that! And they say he burns up all his
garbage—never has anything in the ash can except ashes.
If you knock at his door he never answers it, fellow told
me. All the time writing this book of his. Religious
crank, I guess. Has a little income though—guess his
folks were pretty well fixed. Comes out once in a while
in the evening and pokes round town. We used to laugh
about him, but we’ve kind of got used to him. Been here
about a year, I guess it is.”\par

John was serenely passing down the main street of
Rosebank. At the dingier end of it he turned in at a
hallway marked by a lighted sign announcing in crude
house-painter’s letters: “Soul Hope Fraternity Hall.
Experience Meeting. All Welcome.”\par

It was eight o’clock. The members of the Soul Hope
cult had gathered in their hall above a bakery. Theirs
was a tiny, tight-minded sect. They asserted that they
alone obeyed the scriptural tenets; that they alone were
certain to be saved; that all other denominations were
damned by unapostolic luxury; that it was wicked to
have organs or ministers or any meeting places save plain
halls. The members themselves conducted the meetings,
one after another rising to give an interpretation of the
scriptures or to rejoice in gathering with the faithful,
while the others commented “Hallelujah!” and “Amen,
brother, amen!” They were a plainly dressed, not overfed,
rather elderly and rather happy congregation. The
most honored of them all was John Holt.\par

John had come to Rosebank only six months before.
He had bought the Beaudette house, with the library of
the recent occupant, a retired clergyman, and had paid for
them in new one-hundred-dollar bills. Already he had
gained great credit in the Soul Hope cult. It appeared
that he spent almost all his time at home, praying, reading
and writing a book. The Soul Hope Fraternity were
excited about the book. They had begged him to read it
to them. So far he had read only a few pages, consisting
mostly of quotations from ancient treatises on the prophecies.
Nearly every Sunday and Wednesday evening
he appeared at the meeting and in a halting but scholarly
way lectured on the world and the flesh.\par

To-night he spoke polysyllabically of the fact that one
Philo Judæus had been a mere sophist. The cult were
none too clear as to what either a Philo Judæus or a
sophist might be, but with heads all nodding in a row,
they murmured: “You’re right, brother! Hallelujah!”\par

John glided into a sad earnest discourse on his worldly
brother Jasper, and informed them of his struggles with
Jasper’s itch for money. By his request the fraternity
prayed for Jasper.\par

The meeting was over at nine. John shook hands all
round with the elders of the congregation, sighing:
“Fine meeting to-night, wasn’t it? Such a free outpouring
of the Spirit!” He welcomed a new member,
a servant girl just come from Seattle. Carrying his
groceries and the bottle of ink he poked down the stairs
from the hall at seven minutes after nine.\par

At sixteen minutes after nine John was stripping off
his brown wig and the funereal clothes in his bedroom.
At twenty-eight after, John Holt had again become Jasper
Holt, the capable teller of the Lumber National Bank.\par

Jasper Holt left the light burning in his brother’s bedroom.
He rushed downstairs, tried the fastening of the
front door, bolted it, made sure that all the windows
were fastened, picked up the bundle of groceries and the
pile of candies that he had removed from the booklike
candy boxes, blew out the light in the living room and
ran down the willow walk to his car. He threw the
groceries and candy into it, backed the car out as though
he was accustomed to backing in this bough-scattered
yard, and drove off along the lonely road at the rear.\par

When he was passing a swamp he reached down,
picked up the bundle of candies, and steering with one
hand removed the wrapping paper with the other hand
and hurled out the candies. They showered among the
weeds beside the road. The paper which had contained
the candies, and upon which was printed the name of
the Parthenon Confectionery Store, Jasper tucked into
his pocket. He took the groceries item by item from
the labeled bag containing them, thrust that bag also
into his pocket, and laid the groceries on the seat beside
him.\par

On the way from Rosebank to the center of the city of
Vernon he again turned off the main avenue, and halted
at a goat-infested shack occupied by a crippled Norwegian.
He sounded the horn. The Norwegian’s grandson
ran out.\par

“Here’s a little more grub for you,” bawled Jasper.\par

“God bless you, sir. I don’t know what we’d do if
it wasn’t for you!” cried the old Norwegian from the
door.\par

But Jasper did not wait for gratitude. He merely
shouted: “Bring you some more in a couple days,” as he
started away.\par

At a quarter past ten he drove up to the hall that
housed the latest interest of Vernon society—the Community
Theater. The Boulevard Set, the “best people in
town,” belonged to the Community Theater Association,
and the leader of it was the daughter of the general
manager of the railroad. As a well-bred bachelor Jasper
Holt was welcome among them, despite the fact that no
one knew much about him except that he was a good
bank teller and had been born in England. But as an
actor he was not merely welcome: he was the best
amateur actor in Vernon. His placid face could narrow
with tragic emotion or puff out with comedy; his placid
manner concealed a dynamo of emotion. Unlike most
amateur actors he did not try to act—he became the
thing itself. He forgot Jasper Holt, and turned into
a vagrant or a judge, a Bernard Shaw thought, a Lord
Dunsany symbol, a Susan Glaspell radical, a Clyde
Fitch man-about-town.\par

The other one-act plays of the next program of the
Community Theater had already been rehearsed. The
cast of the play in which Jasper was to star were all
waiting for him. So were the worried ladies responsible
for the staging. They wanted his advice about the blue
curtain for the stage window, about the baby-spot that
was out of order, about the higher interpretation of the
rôle of the page in the piece—a rôle consisting of only
two lines, but to be played by one of the most popular
girls in the younger set. After the discussions, and a most
violent quarrel between two members of the play-reading
committee, the rehearsal was called. Jasper Holt still
wore his flannel suit and a wilting carnation; but he was
not Jasper; he was the Duc de San Saba, a cynical, gracious,
gorgeous old man, easy of gesture, tranquil of
voice, shudderingly evil of desire.\par

“If I could get a few more actors like you!” cried the
professional coach.\par

The rehearsal was over at half past eleven. Jasper
drove his car to the public garage in which he kept it,
and walked home. There, he tore up and burned the
wrapping paper bearing the name of the Parthenon Confectionery
Store and the labeled bag which had contained
the groceries.\par

The Community Theater plays were given on the
following Wednesday. Jasper Holt was highly applauded,
and at the party at the Lakeside Country Club,
after the play, he danced with the prettiest girls in town.
He hadn’t much to say to them, but he danced fervently,
and about him was a halo of artistic success.\par

That night his brother John did not appear at the
meeting of the Soul Hope Fraternity out in Rosebank.\par

On Monday, five days later, while he was in conference
with the president and the cashier of the Lumber National
Bank, Jasper complained of a headache. The next
day he telephoned to the president that he would not come
down to work—he would stay home and rest his eyes,
sleep and get rid of the persistent headache. That was
unfortunate, for that very day his twin brother John made
one of his infrequent trips into Vernon and called at the
bank.\par

The president had seen John only once before, and by a
coincidence it had happened that on this occasion also
Jasper had been absent—had been out of town. The
president invited John into his private office.\par

“Your brother is at home; poor fellow has a bad headache.
Hope he gets over it. We think a great deal of
him here. You ought to be proud of him. Will you have
a smoke?”\par

As he spoke the president looked John over. Once or
twice when Jasper and the president had been out at
lunch Jasper had spoken of the remarkable resemblance
between himself and his twin brother. But the president
told himself that he didn’t really see much resemblance.
The features of the two were alike, but John’s expression
of chronic spiritual indigestion, his unfriendly manner,
and his hair—unkempt and lifeless brown, where
Jasper’s was sleekly black above a shiny bald spot—made
the president dislike John as much as he liked
Jasper.\par

And now John was replying: “No, I do not smoke.
I can’t understand how a man can soil this temple with
drugs. I suppose I ought to be glad to hear you praise
poor Jasper, but I am more concerned with his lack of
respect for the things of the spirit. He sometimes comes
to see me, at Rosebank, and I argue with him, but somehow
I can’t make him see his errors. And his flippant
ways—!”\par

“We don’t think he’s flippant. We think he’s a pretty
steady worker.”\par

“But his play-acting! And reading love stories!
Well, I try to keep in mind the injunction ‘Judge not,
that ye be not judged.’ But I am pained to find my own
brother giving up immortal promises for mortal amusements.
Well, I’ll go and call on him. I trust that some
day we shall see you at Soul Hope Hall, in Rosebank.
Good day, sir.”\par

Turning back to his work the president grumbled:
“I’m going to tell Jasper that the best compliment I can
hand him is that he is not like his brother.”\par

And on the following day, another Wednesday, when
Jasper reappeared at the bank, the president did make
this jesting comparison; and Jasper sighed: “Oh, John
is really a good fellow, but he’s always gone in for metaphysics
and Oriental mysticism and Lord knows what
all, till he’s kind of lost in the fog. But he’s a lot better
than I am. When I murder my landlady—or say, when
I rob the bank, chief—you go get John; and I bet you
the best lunch in town that he’ll do his best to bring me
to justice. That’s how blame square he is!”\par

“Square, yes—corners just sticking out! Well, when
you do rob us, Jasper, I’ll look up John. But do try to
keep from robbing us as long as you can. I’d hate to
have to associate with a religious detective in a boiled
shirt!”\par

Both men laughed, and Jasper went back to his cage.
His head continued to hurt, he admitted. The president
advised him to lay off for a week. He didn’t want to, he
said. With the new munition industries due to the war
in Europe, there was much increase in factory pay rolls,
and Jasper took charge of them.\par

“Better take a week off than get ill,” argued the president
late that afternoon.\par

Jasper did let himself be persuaded to go away for at
least a week-end. He would run up north, to Wakamin
Lake, the coming Friday, he said; he would get some
black-bass fishing, and be back on Monday or Tuesday.
Before he went he would make up the pay rolls for the
Saturday payments and turn them over to the other teller.
The president thanked him for his faithfulness, and as
was his not infrequent custom invited Jasper to his house
for the evening of the next day—Thursday.\par

That Wednesday evening Jasper’s brother John appeared
at the Soul Hope meeting in Rosebank. When he
had gone home and had magically turned back into Jasper
this Jasper did not return the wig and garments of John
to the bureau but packed them into a suitcase, took the
suitcase to his room in Vernon and locked it in his
wardrobe.\par

Jasper was amiable at dinner at the president’s house
on Thursday, but he was rather silent, and as his head
still throbbed he left the house early—at nine-thirty.
Sedately, carrying his gray silk gloves in one hand and
pompously swinging his stick with the other, he walked
from the president’s house on the fashionable boulevard
back to the center of Vernon. He entered the public
garage in which his car was stored.\par

He commented to the night attendant: “Head aches.
Guess I’ll take the ’bus out and get some fresh air.”\par

He drove away at not more than fifteen miles an hour.
He headed south. When he had reached the outskirts of
the city he speeded up to a consistent twenty-five miles an
hour. He settled down in his seat with the unmoving
steadiness of the long-distance driver: his body quiet
except for the tiny subtle movements of his foot on the
accelerator, of his hands on the steering wheel—his right
hand across the wheel, holding it at the top, his left elbow
resting easily on the cushioned edge of his seat and his
left hand merely touching the wheel.\par

He drove in that southern direction for fifteen miles—almost
to the town of Wanagoochie. Then by a rather
poor side road he turned sharply to the north and west,
and making a huge circle about the city drove toward
the town of St. Clair. The suburb of Rosebank, in which
his brother John lived, is also north of Vernon. These
directions were of some importance to him: Wanagoochie
eighteen miles south of the mother city of Vernon;
Rosebank, on the other hand, north, eight miles
north, of Vernon; and St. Clair twenty miles north—about
as far north of Vernon as Wanagoochie is south.\par

On his way to St. Clair, at a point that was only two
miles from Rosebank, Jasper ran the car off the main
road into a grove of oaks and maples and stopped it on a
long-unused woodland road. He stiffly got out and
walked through the woods up a rise of ground to a cliff
overlooking a swampy lake. The gravelly farther bank
of the cliff rose perpendicularly from the edge of the
water. In that wan light distilled by stars and the earth
he made out the reedy expanse of the lake. It was so
muddy, so tangled with sedge grass that it was never
used for swimming; and as its only inhabitants were
slimy bullheads few people ever tried to fish there. Jasper
stood reflective. He was remembering the story of the
farmer’s team which had run away, dashed over this cliff
and sunk out of sight in the mud bottom of the lake.\par

Swishing his stick he outlined an imaginary road from
the top of the cliff back to the sheltered place where his
car was standing. Once he hacked away with a large
pocketknife a mass of knotted hazel bushes which blocked
that projected road. When he had traced the road to his
car he smiled. He walked to the edge of the woods and
looked up and down the main highway. A car was approaching.
He waited till it had passed, ran back to his
own car, backed it out on the highway, and went on his
northward course toward St. Clair, driving about thirty
miles an hour.\par

On the edge of St. Clair he halted, took out his kit of
tools, unscrewed a spark plug, and sharply tapping the
plug on the engine block, deliberately cracked the porcelain
jacket. He screwed the plug in again and started the
car. It bucked and spit, missing on one cylinder, with
the short-circuited plug.\par

“I guess there must be something wrong with the
ignition,” he said cheerfully.\par

He managed to run the car into a garage in St. Clair.
There was no one in the garage save an old negro, the
night washer, who was busy over a limousine, with sponge
and hose.\par

“Got a night repair man here?” asked Jasper.\par

“No, sir; guess you’ll have to leave it till morning.”\par

“Hang it! Something gone wrong with the carburetor
or the ignition. Well, I’ll have to leave it, then. Tell
him— Say, will you be here in the morning when the
repair man comes on?”\par

“Yes, sir.”\par

“Well, tell him I must have the car by to-morrow
noon. No, say by to-morrow at nine. Now, don’t forget.
This will help your memory.”\par

He gave a quarter to the negro, who grinned and
shouted: “Yes, sir; that’ll help my memory a lot!” As
he tied a storage tag on the car the negro inquired:
“Name?”\par

“Uh—my name? Oh, Hanson. Remember now,
ready about nine to-morrow.”\par

Jasper walked to the railroad station. It was ten minutes
of one. Jasper did not ask the night operator about
the next train into Vernon. Apparently he knew that
there was a train stopping here at St. Clair at one-thirty-seven.
He did not sit in the waiting room but in the
darkness outside on a truck behind the baggage room.
When the train came in he slipped into the last seat of the
last car, and with his soft hat over his eyes either slept or
appeared to sleep. When he reached Vernon he went off
the direct route from the station to his boarding house,
and came to the garage in which he regularly kept his
car. He stepped inside. The night attendant was drowsing
in a large wooden chair tilted back against the wall in
the narrow runway which formed the entrance to the
garage.\par

Jasper jovially shouted to the attendant: “Certainly
ran into some hard luck. Ignition went wrong—I guess
it was the ignition. Had to leave the car down at Wanagoochie.”\par

“Yuh, hard luck, all right,” assented the attendant.\par

“Yump. So I left it at Wanagoochie,” Jasper emphasized
as he passed on.\par

He had been inexact in this statement. It was not at
Wanagoochie, which is south, but at St. Clair, which is
north, that he had left the car.\par

He returned to his boarding house, slept beautifully,
hummed in his morning shower bath. Yet at breakfast
he complained to his landlady of his continuous headache,
and announced that he was going to run up north, to
Wakamin, to get some bass fishing and rest his eyes. She
urged him to go.\par

“Anything I can do to help you get away?” she
queried.\par

“No, thanks. I’m just taking a couple of suitcases,
with some old clothes and some fishing tackle. Fact, I
have ’em all packed already. I’ll probably take the noon
train north if I can get away from the bank. Pretty busy
now, with these pay rolls for the factories that have war
contracts for the Allies. What’s it say in the paper this
morning?”\par

Jasper arrived at the bank, carrying the two suitcases
and a neat, polite, rolled silk umbrella, the silver top
of which was engraved with his name. The doorman,
who was also the bank guard, helped him to carry the
suitcases inside.\par

“Careful of that bag. Got my fishing tackle in it,”
said Jasper to the doorman, apropos of one of the suitcases,
which was heavy but apparently not packed full.
“Well, I think I’ll run up to Wakamin to-day and catch
a few bass.”\par

“Wish I could go along, sir. How is the head this
morning? Does it still ache?” asked the doorman.\par

“Rather better, but my eyes still feel pretty rocky.
Guess I been using ’em too much. Say, Connors, I’ll try
to catch the train north at eleven-seven. Better have a
taxicab here for me at eleven. Or no; I’ll let you know a
little before eleven. Try to catch the eleven-seven north,
for Wakamin.”\par

“Very well, sir.”\par

The president, the assistant cashier, the chief clerk—all
asked Jasper how he felt; and to all of them he repeated
the statement that he had been using his eyes too
much, and that he would catch a few bass at Wakamin.\par

The other paying teller from his cage next to that of
Jasper called heartily through the steel netting: “Pretty
soft for some people! You wait! I’m going to have the
hay fever this summer, and I’ll go fishing for a month!”\par

Jasper placed the two suitcases and the umbrella in his
cage, and leaving the other teller to pay out current money
he himself made up the pay rolls for the next day—Saturday.
He casually went into the vault—a narrow, unimpressive,
unaired cell, with a hard linoleum floor, one
unshaded electric bulb, and a back wall composed entirely
of steel doors of safes, all painted a sickly blue, very unimpressive,
but guarding several millions of dollars in
cash and securities. The upper doors, hung on large steel
arms and each provided with two dials, could be opened
only by two officers of the bank, each knowing one of the
two combinations. Below these were smaller doors, one
of which Jasper could open, as teller. It was the door of
an insignificant steel box, which contained one hundred
and seventeen thousand dollars in bills and four thousand
dollars in gold and silver.\par

Jasper passed back and forth, carrying bundles of currency.
In his cage he was working less than three feet
from the other teller, who was divided from him only by
the bands of the steel netting.\par

While he worked he exchanged a few words with this
other teller.\par

Once as he counted out nineteen thousand dollars he
commented: “Big pay roll for the Henschel Wagon
Works this week. They’re making gun carriages and
truck bodies for the Allies, I understand.”\par

“Uh-huh!” said the other teller, not much interested.\par

Mechanically, unobtrusively going about his ordinary
routine of business, Jasper counted out bills to amounts
agreeing with the items on a typed schedule of the pay
rolls. Apparently his eyes never lifted from his counting
and from this typed schedule which lay before him. The
bundles of bills he made into packages, fastening each
with a paper band. Each bundle he seemed to drop into
a small black leather bag which he held beside him. But
he did not actually drop the money into these pay-roll
bags.\par

Both the suitcases at his feet were closed, and presumably
fastened; but one was not fastened. And though
it was heavy it contained nothing but a lump of pig iron.
From time to time Jasper’s hand, holding a bundle of
bills, dropped to his side. With a slight movement of
his foot he opened that suitcase, and the bills slipped
from his hand down into it.\par

The bottom part of his cage was a solid sheet of
stamped steel, and from the front of the bank no one
could see this suspicious gesture. The other teller could
have seen it, but Jasper dropped the bills only when the
other teller was busy talking to a customer or when his
back was turned. In order to delay for such a favorable
moment Jasper frequently counted packages of bills
twice, rubbing his eyes as though they hurt him.\par

After each of these secret disposals of packages of
bills Jasper made much of dropping into the pay-roll bags
the rolls of coin for which the schedule called. It was
while he was tossing these blue-wrapped cylinders of coin
into the bags that he would chat with the other teller.
Then he would lock up the bags and gravely place them
at one side.\par

Jasper was so slow in making up the pay rolls that it
was five minutes of eleven before he finished. He called
the doorman to the cage and suggested: “Better call my
taxi now.”\par

He still had one bag to fill. He could plainly be seen
dropping packages of money into it, while he instructed
the assistant teller: “I’ll stick all the bags in my safe,
and you can transfer them to yours. Be sure to lock my
safe. Lord, I better hurry or I’ll miss my train! Be
back Tuesday morning, at latest. So long; take care of
yourself.”\par

He hastened to pile the pay-roll bags into his safe in
the vault. The safe was almost filled with them. And
except for the last one not one of the bags contained anything
except a few rolls of coin. Though he had told
the other teller to lock his safe he himself twirled the
combination—which was thoughtless of him, as the assistant
teller would now have to wait and get the president
to unlock it.\par

He picked up his umbrella and the two suitcases—bending
over one of the cases for not more than ten
seconds. Waving good-by to the cashier at his desk
down front and hurrying so fast that the doorman did
not have a chance to help him carry the suitcases he
rushed through the bank, through the door, into the waiting
taxicab, and loudly enough for the doorman to hear
he cried to the driver, “M. \& D. Station.”\par

At the M. \& D. R. R. Station, refusing offers of redcaps
to carry his bags, he bought a ticket for Wakamin,
which is a lake-resort town one hundred and forty miles
northwest of Vernon, hence one hundred and twenty beyond
St. Clair. He had just time to get aboard the eleven-seven
train. He did not take a chair car, but sat in a day
coach near the rear door. He unscrewed the silver top
of his umbrella, on which was engraved his name, and
dropped it into his pocket.\par

When the train reached St. Clair, Jasper strolled out to
the vestibule, carrying the suitcases but leaving the topless
umbrella behind. His face was blank, uninterested.
As the train started he dropped down on the station platform
and gravely walked away. For a second the light
of adventure crossed his face, and vanished.\par

At the garage at which he had left his car on the evening
before he asked the foreman: “Did you get my car
fixed—Mercury roadster, ignition on the bum?”\par

“Nope! Couple of jobs ahead of it. Haven’t had
time to touch it yet. Ought to get at it early this afternoon.”\par

Jasper curled his tongue round his lips in startled
vexation. He dropped his suitcases on the floor of the
garage and stood thinking, his bent forefinger against his
lower lip.\par

Then: “Well, I guess I can get her to go—sorry—can’t
wait—got to make the next town,” he grumbled.\par

“Lot of you traveling salesmen making your territory
by motor now, Mr. Hanson,” said the foreman civilly,
glancing at the storage check on Jasper’s car.\par

“Yep. I can make a good many more than I could by
train.”\par

He paid for overnight storage without complaining,
though since his car had not been repaired this charge
was unjust. In fact he was altogether prosaic and inconspicuous.
He thrust the suitcases into the car and
drove out, the motor spitting. At another garage he
bought a new spark plug and screwed it in. When he
went on, the motor had ceased spitting.\par

He drove out of St. Clair, back in the direction of Vernon—and
of Rosebank, where his brother lived. He ran
the car into that thick grove of oaks and maples only two
miles from Rosebank where he had paced off an imaginary
road to the cliff overhanging the reedy lake. He
parked the car in a grassy space beside the abandoned
woodland road. He laid a light robe over the suitcases.
From beneath the seat he took a can of deviled chicken,
a box of biscuits, a canister of tea, a folding cooking kit
and a spirit lamp. These he spread on the grass—a
picnic lunch.\par

He sat beside that lunch from seven minutes past one in
the afternoon till dark. Once in a while he made a pretense
of eating. He fetched water from a brook, made tea,
opened the box of biscuits and the can of chicken. But
mostly he sat still and smoked cigarette after cigarette.\par

Once a Swede, taking this road as a short cut to his
truck farm, passed by and mumbled “Picnic, eh?”\par

“Yuh, takin’ a day off,” said Jasper dully.\par

The man went on without looking back.\par

At dusk Jasper finished a cigarette down to the tip,
crushed out the light and made the cryptic remark:
“That’s probably Jasper Holt’s last smoke. I don’t suppose
you can smoke, John—damn you!”\par

He hid the two suitcases in the bushes, piled the remains
of the lunch into the car, took down the top of the
car and crept down to the main road. No one was in
sight. He returned. He snatched a hammer and a chisel
from his tool kit, and with a few savage cracks he so
defaced the number of the car stamped on the engine
block that it could not be made out. He removed the
license numbers from fore and aft, and placed them beside
the suitcases. Then, when there was just enough light
to see the bushes as cloudy masses, he started the car,
drove through the woods and up the incline to the top
of the cliff, and halted, leaving the engine running.\par

Between the car and the edge of the cliff which overhung
the lake there was a space of about a hundred and
thirty feet, fairly level and covered with straggly red
clover. Jasper paced off this distance, returned to the
car, took his seat in a nervous, tentative way, and put her
into gear, starting on second speed and slamming her into
third. The car bolted toward the edge of the cliff. He
instantly swung out on the running board. Standing
there, headed directly toward the sharp drop over the cliff,
steering with his left hand on the wheel, he shoved the
hand throttle up—up—up with his right. He safely
leaped down from the running board.\par

Of itself the car rushed forward, roaring. It shot over
the edge of the cliff. It soared twenty feet out into the
air as though it were a thick-bodied aëroplane. It turned
over and over, with a sickening drop toward the lake.
The water splashed up in a tremendous noisy circle.
Then silence. In the twilight the surface of the lake
shone like milk. There was no sign of the car on the
surface. The concentric rings died away. The lake was
secret and sinister and still. “Lord!” ejaculated Jasper,
standing on the cliff; then: “Well, they won’t find that
for a couple of years anyway.”\par

He returned to the suitcases. Squatting beside them
he took from one the wig and black garments of John
Holt. He stripped, put on the clothes of John, and packed
those of Jasper in the bag. With the cases and the motor-license
plates he walked toward Rosebank, keeping in
various groves of maples and willows till he was within
half a mile of the town. He reached the stone house at
the end of the willow walk, and sneaked in the back way.
He burned Jasper Holt’s clothes in the grate, melted
down the license plates in the stove, and between two
rocks he smashed Jasper’s expensive watch and fountain
pen into an unpleasant mass of junk, which he dropped
into the cistern for rain water. The silver head of the
umbrella he scratched with a chisel till the engraved name
was indistinguishable.\par

He unlocked a section of the bookcase and taking a
number of packages of bills in denominations of one,
five, ten and twenty dollars from one of the suitcases he
packed them into those empty candy boxes which, on the
shelves, looked so much like books. As he stored them he
counted the bills. They came to ninety-seven thousand
five hundred and thirty-five dollars.\par

The two suitcases were new. There were no distinguishing
marks on them. But taking them out to the
kitchen he kicked them, rubbed them with lumps of
blacking, raveled their edges and cut their sides, till they
gave the appearance of having been long and badly used
in traveling. He took them upstairs and tossed them up
into the low attic.\par

In his bedroom he undressed calmly. Once he laughed:
“I despise those pretentious fools—bank officers and
cops. I’m beyond their fool law. No one can catch me—it
would take me myself to do that!”\par

He got into bed. With a vexed “Hang it!” he mused:
“I suppose John would pray, no matter how chilly the
floor was.”\par

He got out of bed and from the inscrutable Lord of the
Universe he sought forgiveness—not for Jasper Holt,
but for the denominations who lacked the true faith of
Soul Hope Fraternity.\par

He returned to bed and slept till the middle of the
morning, lying with his arms behind his head, a smile
on his face.\par

Thus did Jasper Holt, without the mysterious pangs of
death, yet cease to exist, and thus did John Holt come
into being not merely as an apparition glimpsed on Sunday
and Wednesday evenings, but as a being living
twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.\par

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{\noindent}
The inhabitants of Rosebank were familiar with the
occasional appearances of John Holt, the eccentric recluse,
and they merely snickered about him when on the
Saturday evening following the Friday that has been
chronicled he was seen to come out of his gate and trudge
down to a news and stationery shop on Main Street.\par

He purchased an evening paper and said to the clerk:
“You can have the {\itshape{Morning Herald}} delivered at my
house every morning—27 Humbert Avenue.”\par

“Yuh, I know where it is. Thought you had kind of a
grouch on newspapers and all those lowbrow things,”
said the clerk pertly.\par

“Ah, did you indeed? The {\itshape{Herald}}, every morning,
please. I will pay a month in advance,” was all John
Holt said, but he looked directly at the clerk, and the man
cringed.\par

John attended the meeting of the Soul Hope Fraternity
the next evening—Sunday—but he was not seen on the
streets again for two and a half days.\par

There was no news of the disappearance of Jasper
Holt till the following Wednesday, when the whole thing
came out in a violent, small-city, front-page story, headed:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
PAYING TELLER\par

{\scshape{Social Favorite—Makes Get-away}}\par}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
The paper stated that Jasper Holt had been missing for
four days, and that the officers of the bank, after first
denying that there was anything wrong with his accounts,
had admitted that he was short one hundred thousand
dollars—two hundred thousand, said one report. He
had purchased a ticket for Wakamin, this state, on Friday,
and a trainman, a customer of the bank, had noticed
him on the train, but he had apparently never arrived
at Wakamin.\par

A woman asserted that on Friday afternoon she had
seen Holt driving an automobile between Vernon and St.
Clair. This appearance near St. Clair was supposed to
be merely a blind, however. In fact our able chief of
police had proof that Holt was not headed north, in the
direction of St. Clair, but south, beyond Wanagoochie—probably
for Des Moines or St. Louis. It was definitely
known that on the previous day Holt had left his car at
Wanagoochie, and with their customary thoroughness
and promptness the police were making search at Wanagoochie.
The chief had already communicated with the
police in cities to the south, and the capture of the man
could confidently be expected at any moment. As long
as the chief appointed by our popular mayor was in
power it went ill with those who gave even the appearance
of wrongdoing.\par

When asked his opinion of the theory that the alleged
fugitive had gone north the chief declared that of course
Holt had started in that direction, with the vain hope of
throwing pursuers off the scent, but that he had immediately
turned south and picked up his car. Though he
would not say so definitely the chief let it be known that
he was ready to put his hands on the fellow who had
hidden Holt’s car at Wanagoochie.\par

When asked if he thought Holt was crazy the chief
laughed and said: “Yes, he’s crazy two hundred thousand
dollars’ worth. I’m not making any slams, but there’s
a lot of fellows among our gentlemanly political opponents
who would go a whole lot crazier for a whole lot less!”\par

The president of the bank, however, was greatly distressed,
and strongly declared his belief that Holt, who
was a favorite in the most sumptuous residences on the
Boulevard, besides being well-known in local dramatic
circles, and who bore the best of reputations in the bank,
was temporarily out of his mind, as he had been distressed
by pains in the head for some time past. Meantime
the bonding company, which had fully covered the
employees of the bank by a joint bond of two hundred
thousand dollars, had its detectives working with the
police on the case.\par

As soon as he had read the paper John took a trolley
into Vernon and called on the president of the bank.
John’s face drooped with the sorrow of the disgrace. The
president received him. John staggered into the room,
groaning: “I have just learned in the newspaper of the
terrible news about my brother. I have come—”\par

“We hope it’s just a case of aphasia. We’re sure
he’ll turn up all right,” insisted the president.\par

“I wish I could believe it. But as I have told you,
Jasper is not a good man. He drinks and smokes and
play-acts and makes a god of stylish clothes—”\par

“Good Lord, that’s no reason for jumping to the conclusion
that he’s an embezzler!”\par

“I pray you may be right. But meanwhile I wish to
give you any assistance I can. I shall make it my sole
duty to see that my brother is brought to justice if it
proves that he is guilty.”\par

“Good o’ you,” mumbled the president. Despite this
example of John’s rigid honor he could not get himself
to like the man. John was standing beside him, thrusting
his stupid face into his.\par

The president pushed his chair a foot farther away and
said disagreeably: “As a matter of fact we were thinking
of searching your house. If I remember, you live in
Rosebank?”\par

“Yes. And of course I shall be glad to have you
search every inch of it. Or anything else I can do. I
feel that I share fully with my twin brother in this unspeakable
sin. I’ll turn over the key of my house to you
at once. There is also a shed at the back, where Jasper
used to keep his automobile when he came to see me.”
He produced a large, rusty, old-fashioned door key and
held it out, adding: “The address is 27 Humbert Avenue,
Rosebank.”\par

“Oh, it won’t be necessary, I guess,” said the president,
somewhat shamed, irritably waving off the key.\par

“But I just want to help somehow! What can I do?
Who is—in the language of the newspapers—who is
the detective on the case? I’ll give him any help—”\par

“Tell you what you do: Go see Mr. Scandling, of the
Mercantile Trust and Bonding Company, and tell him all
you know.”\par

“I shall. I take my brother’s crime on my shoulders—otherwise
I’d be committing the sin of Cain. You are
giving me a chance to try to expiate our joint sin, and,
as Brother Jeremiah Bodfish was wont to say, it is a
blessing to have an opportunity to expiate a sin, no matter
how painful the punishment may seem to be to the
mere physical being. As I may have told you I am an
accepted member of the Soul Hope Fraternity, and
though we are free from cant and dogma it is our firm
belief—”\par

Then for ten dreary minutes John Holt sermonized;
quoted forgotten books and quaint, ungenerous elders;
twisted bitter pride and clumsy mysticism into a fanatical
spider web. The president was a churchgoer, an ardent
supporter of missionary funds, for forty years a pew-holder
at St. Simeon’s Church, but he was alternately
bored to a chill shiver and roused to wrath against this
self-righteous zealot.\par

When he had rather rudely got rid of John Holt he
complained to himself: “Curse it, I oughtn’t to, but I
must say I prefer Jasper the sinner to John the saint.
Uff! What a smell of damp cellars the fellow has! He
must spend all his time picking potatoes. Say! By thunder,
I remember that Jasper had the infernal nerve to
tell me once that if he ever robbed the bank I was to call
John in. I know why, now! John is the kind of egotistical
fool that would muddle up any kind of a systematic
search. Well, Jasper, sorry, but I’m not going to have
anything more to do with John than I can help!”\par

John had gone to the Mercantile Trust and Bonding
Company, had called on Mr. Scandling, and was now
wearying him by a detailed and useless account of Jasper’s
early years and recent vices. He was turned over to the
detective employed by the bonding company to find Jasper.
The detective was a hard, noisy man, who found
John even more tedious. John insisted on his coming out
to examine the house in Rosebank, and the detective did
so—but sketchily, trying to escape. John spent at least
five minutes in showing him the shed where Jasper had
sometimes kept his car.\par

He also attempted to interest the detective in his precious
but spotty books. He unlocked one section of the
case, dragged down a four-volume set of sermons and
started to read them aloud.\par

The detective interrupted: “Yuh, that’s great stuff,
but I guess we aren’t going to find your brother hiding
behind those books!”\par

The detective got away as soon as possible, after insistently
explaining to John that if they could use his
assistance they would let him know.\par

“If I can only expiate—”\par

“Yuh, sure, that’s all right!” wailed the detective,
fairly running toward the gate.\par

John made one more visit to Vernon that day. He
called on the chief of city police. He informed the chief
that he had taken the bonding company’s detective through
his house; but wouldn’t the police consent to search it
also? He wanted to expiate— The chief patted John
on the back, advised him not to feel responsible for his
brother’s guilt and begged: “Skip along now—very
busy.”\par

As John walked to the Soul Hope meeting that evening
dozens of people murmured that it was his brother who
had robbed the Lumber National Bank. His head was
bowed with the shame. At the meeting he took Jasper’s
sin upon himself, and prayed that Jasper would be caught
and receive the blessed healing of punishment. The
others begged John not to feel that he was guilty—was
he not one of the Soul Hope brethren who alone in this
wicked and perverse generation were assured of salvation?\par

On Thursday, on Saturday morning, on Tuesday and
on Friday John went into the city to call on the president
of the bank and the detective. Twice the president
saw him, and was infinitely bored by his sermons. The
third time he sent word that he was out. The fourth
time he saw John, but curtly explained that if John
wanted to help them the best thing he could do was to
stay away.\par

The detective was “out” all four times.\par

John smiled meekly and ceased to try to help them.
Dust began to gather on certain candy boxes on the lower
shelf of his bookcase, save for one of them, which he
took out now and then. Always after he had taken it out
a man with faded brown hair and a wrinkled black suit,
signing himself R. J. Smith, would send a fair-sized
money order from the post office at South Vernon to
John Holt, at Rosebank—as he had been doing for more
than six months. These money orders could not have
amounted to more than twenty-five dollars a week, but
that was even more than an ascetic like John Holt needed.
By day John sometimes cashed these at the Rosebank
post office, but usually, as had been his custom, he cashed
them at his favorite grocery when he went out in the
evening.\par

In conversation with the commuter neighbor who every
evening walked about and smoked an after-dinner cigar
in the yard at the right John was frank about the whole
lamentable business of his brother’s defalcation. He
wondered, he said, if he had not shut himself up with his
studies too much, and neglected his brother. The neighbor
ponderously advised John to get out more. John
let himself be persuaded, at least to the extent of taking
a short walk every afternoon and of letting his literary
solitude be disturbed by the delivery of milk, meat and
groceries. He also went to the public library, and in the
reference room glanced at books on Central and South
America—as though he was planning to go south, some
day.\par

But he continued his religious studies. It may be
doubted if previous to the embezzlement John had worked
very consistently on his book about Revelation. All that
the world had ever seen of it was a jumble of quotations
from theological authorities. Presumably the crime of
his brother shocked him into more concentrated study,
more patient writing. For during the year after his
brother’s disappearance—a year in which the bonding
company gradually gave up the search and came to believe
that Jasper was dead—John became fanatically
absorbed in somewhat nebulous work. The days and
nights drifted together in meditation in which he lost
sight of realities, and seemed through the clouds of the
flesh to see flashes from the towered cities of the spirit.\par

It has been asserted that when Jasper Holt acted a
rôle he veritably lived it. No one can ever determine
how great an actor was lost in the smug bank teller. To
him were imperial triumphs denied, yet was he not without
material reward. For playing his most subtle part
he received ninety-seven thousand dollars. It may be
that he earned it. Certainly for the risk entailed it was
but a fair payment. Jasper had meddled with the mystery
of personality, and was in peril of losing all consistent
purpose, of becoming a Wandering Jew of the
spirit, a strangled body walking.\par

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{\noindent}
The sharp-pointed willow leaves had twisted and fallen,
after the dreary rains of October. Bark had peeled from
the willow trunks, leaving gashes of bare wood that was
a wet and sickly yellow. Through the denuded trees
bulked the solid stone back of John Holt’s house. The
patches of earth were greasy between the tawny knots
of grass stems. The bricks of the walk were always
damp now. The world was hunched up in this pervading
chill.\par

As melancholy as the sick earth seemed the man who
in a slaty twilight paced the willow walk. His step was
slack, his lips moved with the intensity of his meditation.
Over his wrinkled black suit and bleak shirt bosom was
a worn overcoat, the velvet collar turned green. He
was considering.\par

“There’s something to all this. I begin to see—I
don’t know what it is I do see! But there’s lights—supernatural
world that makes food and bed seem ridiculous.
I am—I really am beyond the law! I made my
own law! Why shouldn’t I go beyond the law of vision
and see the secrets of life? But I sinned, and I must
repent—some day. I need not return the money. I see
now that it was given me so that I could lead this life of
contemplation. But the ingratitude to the president, to
the people who trusted me! Am I but the most miserable
of sinners, and as the blind? Voices—I hear conflicting
voices—some praising me for my courage, some
rebuking—”\par

He knelt on the slimy black surface of a wooden bench
beneath the willows, and as dusk clothed him round about
he prayed. It seemed to him that he prayed not in words
but in vast confusing dreams—the words of a language
larger than human tongues. When he had exhausted
himself he slowly entered the house. He locked the door.
There was nothing definite of which he was afraid, but
he was never comfortable with the door unlocked.\par

By candle light he prepared his austere supper—dry
toast, an egg, cheap green tea with thin milk. As always—as
it had happened after every meal, now, for eighteen
months—he wanted a cigarette when he had eaten, but
did not take one. He paced into the living room and
through the long still hours of the evening he read an
ancient book, all footnotes and cross references, about
The Numerology of the Prophetic Books, and the
Number of the Beast. He tried to make notes for his
own book on Revelation—that scant pile of sheets
covered with writing in a small finicky hand. Thousands
of other sheets he had covered; through whole
nights he had written; but always he seemed with tardy
pen to be racing after thoughts that he could never quite
catch, and most of what he had written he had savagely
burned.\par

But some day he would make a masterpiece! He was
feeling toward the greatest discovery that mortal men
had encountered. Everything, he had determined, was
a symbol—not just this holy sign and that, but all
physical manifestations. With frightened exultation he
tried his new power of divination. The hanging lamp
swung tinily. He ventured: “If the arc of that moving
radiance touches the edge of the bookcase, then it will
be a sign that I am to go to South America, under an
entirely new disguise, and spend my money.”\par

He shuddered. He watched the lamp’s unbearably
slow swing. The moving light almost touched the bookcase.
He gasped. Then it receded.\par

It was a warning; he quaked. Would he never leave
this place of brooding and of fear—which he had
thought so clever a refuge? He suddenly saw it all.\par

“I ran away and hid in a prison! Man isn’t caught by
justice—he catches himself!”\par

Again he tried. He speculated as to whether the number
of pencils on the table was greater or less than five.
If greater, then he had sinned; if less, then he was veritably
beyond the law. He began to lift books and papers,
looking for pencils. He was coldly sweating with the
suspense of the test.\par

Suddenly he cried “Am I going crazy?”\par

He fled to his prosaic bedroom. He could not sleep.
His brain was smoldering with confused inklings of
mystic numbers and hidden warnings.\par

He woke from a half sleep more vision haunted than
any waking thought, and cried: “I must go back and
confess! But I can’t! I can’t, when I was too clever
for them! I can’t go back and let them win. I won’t
let those fools just sit tight and still catch me!”\par

It was a year and a half since Jasper had disappeared.
Sometimes it seemed a month and a half; sometimes
gray centuries. John’s will power had been shrouded
with curious puttering studies; long heavy-breathing
sittings with the ouija board on his lap, midnight hours
when he had fancied that tables had tapped and crackling
coals had spoken. Now that the second autumn of his
seclusion was creeping into winter he was conscious that
he had not enough initiative to carry out his plans for
going to South America. The summer before he had
boasted to himself that he would come out of hiding and
go south, leaving such a twisty trail as only he could
make. But—oh, it was too much trouble. He hadn’t
the joy in play-acting which had carried his brother
Jasper through his preparations for flight.\par

He had killed Jasper Holt, and for a miserable little
pile of paper money he had become a moldy recluse!\par

He hated his loneliness, but still more did he hate his
only companions, the members of the Soul Hope
Fraternity—that pious shrill seamstress, that surly carpenter,
that tight-lipped housekeeper, that old shouting man with
the unseemly frieze of whiskers. They were so unimaginative.
Their meetings were all the same; the same
persons rose in the same order and made the same intimate
announcements to the Deity that they alone were
his elect.\par

At first it had been an amusing triumph to be accepted
as the most eloquent among them, but that had become
commonplace, and he resented their daring to be familiar
with him, who was, he felt, the only man of all men living
who beyond the illusions of the world saw the strange
beatitude of higher souls.\par

It was at the end of November, during a Wednesday
meeting at which a red-faced man had for a half hour
maintained that he couldn’t possibly sin, that the cumulative
ennui burst in John Holt’s brain. He sprang up.\par

He snarled: “You make me sick, all of you! You
think you’re so certain of sanctification that you can’t
do wrong. So did I, once! Now I know that we are all
miserable sinners—really are! You all say you are,
but you don’t believe it. I tell you that you there, that
have just been yammering, and you, Brother Judkins, with
the long twitching nose, and I—I—I, most unhappy
of men, we must repent, confess, expiate our sins! And
I will confess right now. I st-stole—”\par

Terrified he darted out of the hall, and hatless, coatless,
tumbled through the main street of Rosebank, nor ceased
till he had locked himself in his house. He was frightened
because he had almost betrayed his secret, yet
agonized because he had not gone on, really confessed,
and gained the only peace he could ever know now—the
peace of punishment.\par

He never returned to Soul Hope Hall. Indeed for a
week he did not leave his house, save for midnight
prowling in the willow walk. Quite suddenly he became
desperate with the silence. He flung out of the house,
not stopping to lock or even close the front door. He
raced uptown, no topcoat over his rotting garments, only
an old gardener’s cap on his thick brown hair. People
stared at him. He bore it with a resigned fury.\par

He entered a lunch room, hoping to sit inconspicuously
and hear men talking normally about him. The attendant
at the counter gaped. John heard a mutter from the
cashier’s desk: “There’s that crazy hermit!”\par

All of the half dozen young men loafing in the place
were looking at him. He was so uncomfortable that he
could not eat even the milk and sandwich he had ordered.
He pushed them away and fled, a failure in the first
attempt to dine out that he had made in eighteen months;
a lamentable failure to revive that Jasper Holt whom he
had coldly killed.\par

He entered a cigar store and bought a box of cigarettes.
He took joy out of throwing away his asceticism. But
when, on the street, he lighted a cigarette it made him so
dizzy that he was afraid he was going to fall. He had
to sit down on the curb. People gathered. He staggered
to his feet and up an alley.\par

For hours he walked, making and discarding the most
contradictory plans—to go to the bank and confess; to
spend the money riotously and never confess.\par

It was midnight when he returned to his house.\par

Before it he gasped. The front door was open. He
chuckled with relief as he remembered that he had not
closed it. He sauntered in. He was passing the door of
the living room, going directly up to his bedroom, when
his foot struck an object the size of a book, but hollow
sounding. He picked it up. It was one of the booklike
candy boxes. And it was quite empty. Frightened he
listened. There was no sound. He crept into the living
room and lighted the lamp.\par

The doors of the bookcase had been wrenched open.
Every book had been pulled out on the floor. All of the
candy boxes, which that evening had contained almost
ninety-six thousand dollars, were in a pile; and all of
them were empty. He searched for ten minutes, but the
only money he found was one five-dollar bill, which had
fluttered under the table. In his pocket he had one dollar
and sixteen cents. John Holt had six dollars and sixteen
cents, no job, no friends—and no identity.\par

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{\noindent}
When the president of the Lumber National Bank was
informed that John Holt was waiting to see him he
scowled.\par

“Lord, I’d forgotten that minor plague! Must be a
year since he’s been here. Oh, let him— No, hanged
if I will! Tell him I’m too busy to see him. That is,
unless he’s got some news about Jasper. Pump him, and
find out.”\par

The president’s secretary sweetly confided to John:\par

“I’m so sorry, but the president is in conference just
now. What was it you wanted to see him about? Is
there any news about—uh—about your brother?”\par

“There is not, miss. I am here to see the president on
the business of the Lord.”\par

“Oh! If that’s all I’m afraid I can’t disturb him.”\par

“I will wait.”\par

Wait he did, through all the morning, through the
lunch hour—when the president hastened out past him—then
into the afternoon, till the president was unable to
work with the thought of that scarecrow out there, and
sent for him.\par

“Well, well! What is it this time, John? I’m pretty
busy. No news about Jasper, eh?”\par

“No news, sir, but—Jasper himself! I am Jasper
Holt! His sin is my sin.”\par

“Yes, yes, I know all that stuff—twin brothers, twin
souls, share responsibility—”\par

“You don’t understand. There isn’t any twin brother.
There isn’t any John Holt. I am Jasper. I invented an
imaginary brother, and disguised myself— Why, don’t
you recognize my voice?”\par

While John leaned over the desk, his two hands upon
it, and smiled wistfully, the president shook his head and
soothed: “No, I’m afraid I don’t. Sounds like good old
religious John to me! Jasper was a cheerful, efficient
sort of crook. Why, his laugh—”\par

“But I can laugh!” The dreadful croak which John
uttered was the cry of an evil bird of the swamps. The
president shuddered. Under the edge of the desk his
fingers crept toward the buzzer by which he summoned
his secretary.\par

They stopped as John urged: “Look—this wig—it’s
a wig. See, I am Jasper!”\par

He had snatched off the brown thatch. He stood expectant,
a little afraid.\par

The president was startled, but he shook his head and
sighed.\par

“You poor devil! Wig, all right. But I wouldn’t
say that hair was much like Jasper’s!”\par

He motioned toward the mirror in the corner of the
room.\par

John wavered to it. And indeed he saw that day by
slow day his hair had turned from Jasper’s thin sleek
blackness to a straggle of damp gray locks writhing over
a yellow skull.\par

He begged pitifully: “Oh, can’t you see I am Jasper?
I stole ninety-seven thousand dollars from the bank. I
want to be punished! I want to do anything to prove— Why,
I’ve been at your house. Your wife’s name is
Evelyn. My salary here was—”\par

“My dear boy, don’t you suppose that Jasper might
have told you all these interesting facts? I’m afraid the
worry of this has—pardon me if I’m frank, but I’m
afraid it’s turned your head a little, John.”\par

“There isn’t any John! There isn’t! There isn’t!”\par

“I’d believe that a little more easily if I hadn’t met
you before Jasper disappeared.”\par

“Give me a piece of paper. You know my writing—”\par

With clutching claws John seized a sheet of bank stationery
and tried to write in the round script of Jasper.
During the past year and a half he had filled thousands of
pages with the small finicky hand of John. Now, though
he tried to prevent it, after he had traced two or three
words in large but shaky letters the writing became
smaller, more pinched, less legible.\par

Even while John wrote the president looked at the
sheet and said easily: “Afraid it’s no use. That isn’t
Jasper’s fist. See here, I want you to get away from
Rosebank—go to some farm—work outdoors—cut
out this fuming and fussing—get some fresh air in your
lungs.” The president rose and purred: “Now, I’m
afraid I have some work to do.”\par

He paused, waiting for John to go.\par

John fiercely crumpled the sheet and hurled it away.
Tears were in his weary eyes.\par

He wailed: “Is there nothing I can do to prove I am
Jasper?”\par

“Why, certainly! You can produce what’s left of the
ninety-seven thousand!”\par

John took from his ragged waistcoat pocket a five-dollar
bill and some change. “Here’s all there is.
Ninety-six thousand of it was stolen from my house last
night.”\par

Sorry though he was for the madman the president
could not help laughing. Then he tried to look sympathetic,
and he comforted: “Well, that’s hard luck, old
man. Uh, let’s see. You might produce some parents
or relatives or somebody to prove that Jasper never did
have a twin brother.”\par

“My parents are dead, and I’ve lost track of their
kin—I was born in England—father came over when
I was six. There might be some cousins or some old
neighbors, but I don’t know. Probably impossible to
find out, in these wartimes, without going over there.”\par

“Well, I guess we’ll have to let it go, old man.” The
president was pressing the buzzer for his secretary and
gently bidding her: “Show Mr. Holt out, please.”\par

From the door John desperately tried to add: “You
will find my car sunk—”\par

The door had closed behind him. The president had
not listened.\par

The president gave orders that never, for any reason,
was John Holt to be admitted to his office again. He
telephoned to the bonding company that John Holt had
now gone crazy; that they would save trouble by refusing
to admit him.\par

John did not try to see them. He went to the county
jail. He entered the keeper’s office and said quietly:
“I have stolen a lot of money, but I can’t prove it. Will
you put me in jail?”\par

The keeper shouted: “Get out of here! You hoboes
always spring that when you want a good warm lodging
for the winter! Why the devil don’t you go to work
with a shovel in the sand pits? They’re paying two-seventy-five
a day.”\par

“Yes, sir,” said John timorously. “Where are they?”\par

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\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\scshape{By}} KATHARINE PRESCOTT MOSELEY\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{Scribner’s Magazine}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by Katharine Prescott Moseley.}}}}\par}
\end{verse}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“There is only one letter for you,” said Ware’s sister,
and she turned the handle of the coffee-urn as she
watched him slit the envelope, for Ware had exclaimed:
“By Jove! It’s from Vinton.” And then, after a moment:
“That’s a nice thing. Roberts posted this last
night instead of telephoning it up directly it came. He’s
on the {\itshape{——nia}}, due in New York—let me see—you have
the {\itshape{Herald}} there—look in the shipping, will you? Are
they sighted?”\par

Abigail took up the paper. “Docked last night at
nine,” she said.\par

“Then he’ll have caught the midnight from New York.
If he’s not stopping in Boston he’ll be on the eight fifty-eight.”\par

“Is he coming here?”\par

“Yes, he says so. He’ll have quite a bit to tell if I
know him.” And an hour or so later Abigail Ware saw
Vinton lift his eyes to the columns of the white porch
glistening in the morning sun behind her, and as he
sprang out of the motor and took her hand: “My foot is
on my native heath and my name is MacGregor!” he
cried.\par

Abigail led the way into the dining-room. “Come in
by the fire; I’ve kept some coffee hot,” she said.\par

Vinton approached the warmth of the pine logs that
were sending out sparks against the screen of the Franklin
stove. “There’s something fearfully penetrating
about the air over here at this time of year,” he began.
“Open fires are its saving complement.”\par

Abigail held out his cup.\par

“Warm as toast in England; perfect English spring
this year.”\par

“Oh, no doubt of it; spring’s the time for England,”
Ware asserted.\par

“Fall for New England,” said Ware’s sister. “But tell
me,” she went on, “you were talking of saving complements.
What are the saving complements over there just
now?”\par

“There aren’t any.” Vinton’s voice was suddenly
sombre.\par

“I should think not!” It came from brother and sister
at once.\par

A moment passed before Vinton turned from the fire
and let his eyes wander from the pale yellow heads of the
daffodils nodding in the easterly May air outside to the
cool tints of the Lowestoft bowl on which some Chinese
artisan a century before had picked out the initials of a
merchant-sailor grandfather in pale tints of blue and gold
and which now stood in the centre of the table filled with
sprays of the rhodora. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I suppose
there are saving complements of a sort if one is
heroic enough to find them, but—well, one can hardly— What
shall I say? Everything over there—I mean all
sorts of what you’d call merely material objects—is
being charged, I believe, with some kind of spiritual essence
that is going to be indefinitely active to future
contact.”\par

He looked across the table to where Ware sat with his
chair a little pushed back, and laughed. “The intolerant
old Puritan thinks I’m off again, doesn’t he?” he said
almost archly. Then he glanced about the room once
more. “I think,” he continued, “that there is an extraordinary
beauty of a kind about our old houses over here—a
charm, too, although I’ve never been able to analyze
it, for, after all, you know, there’s nothing in them!”\par

“The Puritan,” he began to explain, “belonged peculiarly
to the race that in England had always opposed all
of what one may call the sensory elements that were of
such immense appeal to the race of the Cavaliers, for I
believe that the two did spring from essentially different
roots.\par

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“‘A primrose by a river’s brim\par}
{\vl A yellow primrose was to him,\par}
{\vl And it was nothing more.’”\par}
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}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“What more does it need to be?” Ware protested, and
“Ah! there you are,” Vinton responded. “But don’t you
see, after all, such negation never created”—he laughed
a little again. “Never created an—an—”\par

“An eschatology?” supplemented Ware.\par

“A what? What on earth’s an eschatology?” gasped
Ware’s sister.\par

“Say, for brevity, the material manifestation of spiritual
things; not quite theological, but ’t will serve,” Vinton
returned, and was silent; and after a time Abigail
asked him what he thought of the legend of the Angel
of Mons. Then it was that Vinton began to be truly
cryptic. “What’s the use,” he said genially, “of talking
about these things to two people who are made of stuff as
splendidly solid and insensitive to the vibrations of what
they’d call fantasy as their colonial pieces themselves.”\par

Abigail sighed. “I’m sorry that I’m too insensitive to
hear of these saving complements of horror,” she said.
“As for Billy, I suppose he wants the facts.”\par

“The horror,” returned Vinton, “for the facts are all
horror. If it hadn’t been for the story that the Marquis
of Mallorie’s daughter told me I should bring home nothing
else.”\par

“Is this one of those manifestations you refuse to reveal
to us?”\par

“It is the only one. It’s no use before Ware; perhaps
some time—if you will listen.”\par

“Go on,” said Ware; “‘{\itshape{si non e vero, e ben trovato}}’”.\par

“Oh, I’m not making it up.”\par

“Well, what do they say about the Russian advance,
over there? Did you see any of the big German guns in
action?”\par

For days after this the conversation turned on the technical
questions of war, with which Vinton’s opportunities
as a war correspondent had made him familiar.\par

Then one night Vinton had come down from Boston
on a late afternoon train. He had been lunching at one
of the clubs with friends who had listed him to speak at
two or three houses in aid of emergency funds. It was
tea-time and suddenly he rose, with his cup and saucer
in hand, and went over to one of the dining-room windows.
“Hello,” he said. “We’re going to get a northeaster,
I’ll be bound.”\par

“The sheep-shearer’s due,” said Ware from his desk.\par

And it was that very night, when the great easterly gale
was enveloping the whole New England coast and was
sending showers of sparks down the big fire-place before
which they sat, in a low-ceiled room which had been the
kitchen in colonial days, that Vinton told the story as he
had heard it from the Marquis of Mallorie’s daughter.\par

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“It seems,” he began, “that the Mallories are of an
immensely ancient family in the southwest of England;
the title is one of the oldest in the realm, and one of the
poorest. Away back in the time of the Tudor they became
Protestant under protest, and have remained so
under protest; only their chapel, like the worshipping
places of the early Christians, was taken down into the
bosom of the earth and there it rested, exhaling strange
virtues over all the land above, and, as many thought,
harboring much of good that the newer order of things
had cast out. And so the Mallories are High-Church and
when the Puseyites began their revolt they were only approaching
what the Mallories had been for centuries.
And about these delightful people there is none of the
fanaticism of the convert.\par

“When war broke out there were two beautiful daughters
living, most of their time, down there at Mallorie
Abbey, and a son who went over with the expeditionary
force as soon as war was declared. This young man was
killed in action, under the most heroic circumstances. He
was, apparently, the type of young soldier who might have
been one of Arthur’s men, and I believe the clerical incumbent
there used to quote the lines of the Puritan
Milton: ‘Arthur stirring wars under the earth that hides
him,’ or ‘Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth
unseen,’ as having a kind of ironic application to the
whole Mallorie domain. When I came back from France
I was pretty well used up, and Carteret Lyon asked me
down to his place, which stands within four or five miles
of Mallorie, in the south. They are, of course, in mourning
and fearfully sad, but I met the eldest daughter at tea
one afternoon, and, being the most natural people on
earth, and as I could tell her some things she wished to
hear about France, we became almost friends at once.
After that they made me welcome at Mallorie whenever
I dropped in at tea-time, and one day Lady Maurya took
me over the abbey, telling me as we went through the dim
old place with its stained and mullioned windows a lot of
its curious, almost supernatural, history. Suddenly she
broke off from the narrative, on which it had seemed to
me that her mind had been only lightly fixed, and, sinking
down on a window-seat in the low, long hall we had
been passing through, she looked up at me and said:
‘Ah, this is nothing to something that has really happened
here within the year.’\par

“I asked her if she could tell me, and she answered that
she wished to, but that it was all so very extraordinary
that she feared I would be unable to believe it, and she
felt that she could not hear it doubted.\par

“I said to her that I was the most believing man since
the Dark Ages, and so she told me.\par

“It was the anniversary of her brother’s death, and a
quarter to three in the morning had just struck from the
clock on a kind of tower that rises over the chapel and
which has a circular stairway running down into the
middle of a small lady-chapel where her brother’s body
(which had finally been found after the engagement in
which he had been killed) had been buried. She and the
other members of her family were keeping vigil beside
the tomb by turns while masses were being said, during
the twelve hours that were passing, and she was just
mounting the stairs to go to her room for a little rest,
being nearly exhausted with fatigue and emotion, when
suddenly the tower and stairway, which had been in inky
darkness before, became as light as day. She knew in an
instant what it was, and, looking up, straight over her
head she saw a Zeppelin hovering exactly above where
she stood and so low that it seemed to her that she could
see the crew and their preparations for the hideous work
afoot. Then she looked down and a single shaft of the
search-light fell directly on the heads of those who were
gathered on their knees about the tomb. They were
praying, with their heads bent and their eyes closed, for
not one of them seemed to be aware of it, and the priests,
whose chanting came up to her fearfully from the altar,
were protected from it by the high reredos. There was
something so dreadful and so uncanny about it all that
she was petrified, for she knew that annihilation was
hanging over her and all her family, without the shadow
of a doubt, for the aim was at the tower—which was a
landmark for miles around—and that it would fall before
she could warn one of her people to safety, when, as in
a flash from nowhere, flying at a most terrific rate of
speed yet without a sound and straight at the Zeppelin,
there appeared an aeroplane. It approached almost within
hailing distance of the great thing without firing, and
then, as the Zeppelin started a little, the aeroplane began
swirling about it. She could not tell how long a battle
went on between them without a single shot from either.
It seemed as if the aeroplane was winding the monster in
some intangible net, in which it turned and twisted and
writhed, trying to get away into the free air; and then,
again without a single shot, it fell to earth.\par

“Every one of the crew had been killed when the men
went out to it, and while she and her sister watched from
the top of the tower they saw the aeroplane skim down
and land just below them. Hastening below she threw
back a little door that opened to the ground, and there she
came face to face with the aeronaut. He wore no helmet,
and, in this very early light, for it was in the first days of
the year, he looked as if he stood in a shining black armor.
His hair was golden, and the rising sun touched it, and
he was the most beautiful creature that she had ever seen—so
beautiful that she fell back against the wall behind
her.\par

“Then the others came and showered him with thanks
and insisted that he should be their guest at Mallorie, and,
to every one’s astonishment, Lady Maurya’s mother called
the man who had served her son for many years and
directed him to take the stranger to her son’s rooms, that
had not been open since the day he fell in battle, and also
she said that as they were of about the same height his
wardrobe should be at the stranger’s disposal. He accepted
their invitation and stayed at Mallorie Abbey for
nearly a week, saying that there were a few things he
must do about his machine. And yet, during his whole
stay, no one ever saw him at work on it. In fact, although
the Mallories never mentioned it to him, they knew that
there was much excitement, not only among their own
people but in the countryside, because since the moment
he had come to earth no one had been able to find the
aeroplane. He would sometimes play tennis with Lady
Maurya and her sister the whole morning or afternoon,
and at sight of him in their brother’s flannels and with his
gayest kummerbunds and ties they felt no pangs, only a
great comfort in his presence, not exactly as if their
brother was really back with them, but as if he had power
to fill them with the same sort of happiness they had
always felt when the young soldier was at home with
them on leave.\par

“One night during that week a general officer back
from France on an important mission dined at the abbey.
After dinner, something calling the marquis out, the officer
and the aeronaut, Lieutenant Templar, as he called
himself, were left alone. As the officer was bidding Lady
Maurya good-by, two hours later, he said: ‘This evening
has been worth twenty trips from France. I have
learned that which may be of such value to us that it will
turn the tide of war. This young saviour of Mallorie
Abbey may be the saviour of Europe. But how does he
{\itshape{know}}?’\par

“Then it was that Lady Maurya took Lieutenant
Templar by himself, and she brought him into the very
hall where she told me the story, and she said to him
(and how could any creature of earth or heaven have resisted
her, for she has all the beauty and all the allurements
of both?): ‘Why were your wings all purple and
gold when you came flying to save us that morning?’\par

“And he answered her: ‘The shadow of the earth upon
the skies, and a touch of dawn.’\par

“‘But there was no dawn,’ she said. ‘And when you
came to the great monster why did your wings change
to flaming scarlet, so bright that no eyes could rest upon
them?’\par

“‘The rising sun,’ he said.\par

“And she answered: ‘But there was no rising sun.’\par

“And then he looked at her for a long time while
neither spoke, and at last: ‘How could you send the thing
to earth without a single shot?’ she asked.\par

“And he answered, after a moment: ‘Because in me is
all the strength of that bright ardor which has led young
warriors to die in battle for the right since earth began.
And now my strength is most mightily renewed with the
strength of all the lads who were the first to die for England.
Was not your brother one of these? Such souls
are the stuff of which are made the angels and archangels
and all the heavenly host.’\par

“And as she looked at him, standing before her, it
seemed to her, in the dim light, that instead of the evening
clothes he had been wearing she saw again a glint of
black armor as on the morning when he had first come to
them, and then, like Elsa, she asked him who he was, and
he, like Lohengrin, was gone.\par

“But from that day to this there has been no more
sorrowing at Mallorie Abbey.”\par

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The great northeaster had stopped its wild howling at
the very moment that Vinton was adding: “They have
never known which of them it was—whether it was
Michael—or Gabriel—or Raphael!”\par

Ware poked the fire and said nothing.\par

“Do you believe it?” asked Ware’s sister.\par

“What an impossible word that word ‘believe’ is!
What does it mean?”\par

“And do you like the idea—the idea of losing one’s
identity in one great superlative being like that?”\par

Vinton thought a moment, and then he said: “When
I remember that all the trouble on this earth comes in the
train of that infernal thing we call the ego it seems to me
that the heavenly things must indeed arise from its complete
surrender. Yes,” he continued more slowly, “yes,
I think I like it very much.”\par

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{\scshape{By}} WILLIAM DUDLEY PELLEY\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{The Pictorial Review}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by The Pictorial Review Company.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by William Dudley Pelley.}}}}\par}
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In this little Vermont town of Paris, on the top floor
of the red-brick post-office block, over half a century
have been located the quarters of Farrington Post, Paris
Chapter, G. A. R.\par

In the rooms of Farrington Post—under a glass case
filled with countless other relics belonging to Captain
Jonathan Farrington’s company, that marched away one
hundred and seven strong that forenoon in ’61—has
been kept a bottle of rare old wine.\par

That wine was old when those stalwart young Vermonters
who followed Captain John Farrington were
children. Through half a century it has occupied its
place in that glass case; during that long time it has been
viewed by many visitors to our town; over and over again
has the story of “The Toast to Forty-five” been told
until that double-quart of priceless vintage has become
one of our chief sights of interest to the stranger within
the gates. It was not through accident or chance that
this bottle of wine was saved. Up to last August there
was a pretty sentiment connected with that bottle of wine
and why it should have been preserved thus throughout
the years.\par

Up to last August, indeed! Because that bottle is no
longer under the glass case in the Grand Army rooms
in the post-office block. It has been taken from among
those relics of yesterday; the seal has been broken; the
contents have been poured out. Glistening red as the
blood which those lads of ’61 shed for the principles in
which they believed, that liquor was consumed in the
pledging of a toast.\par

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When the homefolks suggested that the county give
a dinner to the returned heroes on the sixteenth day of
August, 1866—Bennington Battle Day and a holiday in
Vermont always—Dashing Captain Jack Fuller was not
the one to quash the suggestion. “Dashing Jack” had
been the man to take John Farrington’s place when John
lost his life at Gettysburg. He was a great dude, was
Captain Jack; a lover of the dramatic and the spectacular;
with the pomp of soldiering verily in his blood and the
vanity of many generations of Fullers in his fiber.\par

On the night of August 16, 1866, “The Toast to
Forty-five Banquet” was held on the top floor of the old
Vermont House. It took place in the big room with the
spring dance-floor. That old Paris hostelry was burned
in ’73. In the course of that affair, Dashing Jack arose
and made a speech—likewise a proposal.\par

The flower of Vermont of the Sixties was gathered
about those tables. There were young men to whom fame
and fortune afterward would come. There were sturdy
beautiful girls in quaint dresses that in succeeding years
would mother sons and daughters who are the pride and
glory of Vermont of the present. The lights shone on
gloriously happy faces. Two hundred voices turned the
room into vocal pandemonium. It was several minutes
before Dashing Captain Jack could gain their attention
and make himself heard.\par

When finally all eyes were turned upon him, they saw
that he was holding high in his right hand a bottle of
wine.\par

“Ye gallant sons and daughters of Vermont! Tonight
is a great night!” cried Jack in ringing, self-confident,
magnetic tones. “We are attending a dinner tonight
that will be remembered in the history of our town
and State long after the last comrade now within sound
of my voice has gone to make his bivouac with the illustrious
Company Forty-five—the name which we have
given the forty-five brave lads who marched away with
us but who were not destined by a higher providence to
march back. On this night, therefore, beholding this
wine before me, it has occurred to me to propose the inauguration
of a rite—almost a sacred rite—the like of
which no Post has ever heard.”\par

The room was now very quiet. And Captain Jack
reveled in the drama of the scene.\par

“In this room,” he cried, “—in sound of my voice at
this moment, are two boys who will be the very last to
join Company Forty-five. Sooner or later we shall all
be called to answer to our names in the Great Muster;
but some will be called sooner than others. There will
certainly come a day in the years which lie ahead when
there will be only two remaining of this company of sixty-two
here to-night. Think of it, boys! Just {\itshape{two}}! Look
into one another’s faces and ask yourselves—who are
those two—which of you will they be?”\par

The room was strangely silent. The smiles died on the
faces of many women. Dashing Captain Jack indicated
the wine he held in his hand.\par

“Here is the thing which I propose; to make the annual
dinners of Farrington Post different from any other reunions
which shall ever be held:\par

“I hold in my hand the last unsealed bottle of the
vintage which we have tasted to-night in our first toast
in peace to the missing lads that have made that peace
possible. Let this last bottle be saved. Year after year
we will have our annual dinners. Year after year, as
we gather round the board, familiar faces will be missing.
Many will fall by the way. At last—will be only two
comrades—of this roomful here to-night. And when
at last those two shall face one another and think back to
this first banquet in the dim and sacred past—when they
alone remain—when sixty have gone to join old Forty-five
and they realize that perhaps before another year is
passed, they will have joined that illustrious company
also—let them break the seal on this bottle. Let them
fill their glasses. Let them clink those crystal rims together
and drink the last toast to those who have gone.
And when the seal on this bottle thus is broken, let our
reunions be held no more.”\par

They drank, and the next morning the banquet was a
thing of history.\par

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Year after year those veterans have gathered about
the board and gazed on that rare old vintage, wondering
whether he was to be one of the two to drink that final
toast to Forty-five—and under what circumstances.
Each has realized that before another August sixteenth
came around, certain familiar faces were to be missing.
Dashing Captain Jack started something far more dramatic
than he realized.\par

Poor Captain Jack! He married one of the Kingsley
girls that year and a little son was born to them. A
month and a day after the birth of that son he was killed
in an accident on the old New York Railroad. He was
the first to join Forty-five!\par

Sixty-two men sat down to that first banquet. In 1900
the number was thirty—less than half. In 1910 there
were eleven veterans. Since 1910 the old soldiers have
been going rapidly.\par

At the Post dinner of August 16, 1912, the ranks of
Captain Jack’s company had dwindled to four old men.
There was Uncle Joe Fodder, the commander; Martin
Chisholm, who made his money in the grist-mill; Henry
Weston, who for seven years had been an inmate of
the State Soldier’s Home; and—old Wilbur Nieson,
who spent his days hanging around the street corners
and stores.\par

The reunion ended as forty-six other reunions had
ended, excepting that they did not talk their battles over
again so vehemently as on former occasions. Indeed,
they had talked themselves out. They were “waiting”
now, and the old bottle of wine set in the center of their
table was a symbol of fatalism, mute testimony to the
inexorable law of human life. Next day we reported it
as usual in our local paper.\par

At about ten-thirty o’clock of the following evening—to
be exact, the seventeenth day of August, 1912—Mrs.
Samuel Hod, wife of the {\itshape{Telegraph’s}} editor, while
working in her kitchen, heard a frightful scream come
from somewhere in the neighborhood.\par

Mrs. Hod rushed to the door. Outside was a clear,
warm summer night. Across the picket fence that
separated the Hod yard from the rear yards of the
houses facing on Pleasant Street, she could see a light in
the kitchen of the Fuller boy’s house—young Jack
Fuller, grandson of Dashing Captain Jack of years gone
by. The neighborhood was very quiet during those two
minutes she stood there listening in her fright.\par

Then suddenly that scream was repeated—sharp,
clear, terrible! It came from the home across the picket
fence. It was Betty Fuller screaming. From the agony
in the cries something ghastly had happened. Mrs. Hod
ran through her house and called to her husband. Sam
helped his wife over the back fence and they made their
way under the Fuller clothes-line, through the back shed,
and into the little sitting-room.\par

Betty Fuller was down on the floor. She was face
downward, her head protected by her arm. Two feet
from her, between the reading-table and the door into
the dining-room, was her nine-months-old baby. Holding
himself unsteadily between the casings of the hall
door was young Jack, his face the color of cold ashes,
his lips parched, drops of sweat, heavy as glycerin,
standing on his forehead.\par

“What’s happened?” demanded Sam.\par

But he saw what had happened; and his wife saw;
and so did the neighbors. The baby’s crib was mute
witness to what had occurred. It was overturned—between
Jack and his little family.\par

“Betty! Betty!” cried Mrs. Hod, kneeling down to
the young mother’s assistance.\par

“My baby! My only, only, little baby!” moaned the
girl.\par

“Tell me,” roared Sam to the father, “how did this
happen?”\par

“I came in—sick—I guess—I guess—I didn’t see
the kid’s crib. I fell over against it! I knocked it
over—”\par

The neighbor woman had picked up the little body.\par

“It’s—dead!” she whispered hoarsely.\par

Sam whirled on Jack.\par

“Sick!” he roared. “Sick! The h—— you was sick!
You was drunk! You’re drunk now! See what you’ve
done? You’ve killed your own kid—!”\par

At his words the girl shrieked again, that long agonizing
terrible shriek that brought more neighbors.\par

“It was an accident,” whispered the Fuller boy thickly.\par

“It wouldn’t have been an accident if you’d behaved
yourself and cut out this coming home drunk.”\par

The woman picked up the girl and got her to the sofa.
Over and over she kept moaning: “My baby! My only,
only, little baby!”\par

The place filled with neighbors. After a while came
Doctor Johnson—who was our coroner—and Mike
Hogan, our chief of police.\par

Mike was at a loss whether to arrest the father or not.
Sam dispelled his doubts.\par

“When the boy comes to himself and gets the stuff out
of his brain, he’ll feel bad enough, Mike,” the fatherly
old editor said. “The memory of it will be enough
punishment. After all, he didn’t do it intentionally.”\par

“He’s no good, sorr,” stormed Mike, indicating the
young father while he grew husky-throated at the pathos
of the little mother’s grief.\par

“Yes, he is, Mike. This is really Dick Fuller’s—his
father’s—fault. He shouldn’t ever have left the lad
ten thousand dollars and no balance-wheel. Let these
two children alone. It’s for them to settle between themselves.
Jack’s got the Fuller blood in him from away
back; and I think this will bring out his manhood. It’s
a fearful price for a young father to have to pay, Mike.
But maybe, after all, it’s for the best.”\par

The neighbors left the boy and girl to their tragedy.\par

The marriage of old Wilbur Nieson’s daughter Elisabeth
to young Jack Fuller had been talked of in our
town for a month and a day. Richard Fuller, son of
Dashing Captain Jack, had grown to manhood, made
considerable money and died, leaving it to his boy, whereupon
the lad started straight for the devil.\par

Before he had come into his inheritance, he had been
“keeping company” with little Betty Nieson, who
worked in the box-factory and lived with her derelict
father in the scrubby old Nieson place out Cedar Street
on the edge of town. The boy drank considerably and
the rumor found its way into our newspaper office that,
despite his money, Betty would not marry him until he
had conquered the habit.\par

A town’s mind is a child’s mind and it readily sympathized
with the struggle that the Nieson girl was making
in her poor blind handicapped way to climb out of
the environment which she had always known, and make
something of herself. Then suddenly one day Jack
Fuller sold his racy automobile. He and Betty were
married and they furnished a modest home on Pleasant
Street. One-half of the town said it was because Jack
had gone through his inheritance. The other half said
that it was his wife’s influence over him. Certainly to
all appearances the girl was making a desperate and
commendable struggle not only to raise herself up but
to compel Jack to be a man. Then the half of the home-folks
which had claimed the way Jack squandered his
money had been at the bottom of his marriage, were
apparently in the right. For shortly after the pitiful
little marriage the boy was seen frequenting the Whitney
House bar as much as ever.\par

Now came this additional sorrow into the girl’s life.
She had married the lad trying to get away from the
hereditary taint of the Nieson blood. It had come to her
now that there appeared to be a taint also in the Fuller
blood. She had lost her baby. The Hods said that there
was a light burning in the Fuller tenement all that night.\par

The baby was buried the next day. It was a pathetic
little funeral, just a prayer or two by Doctor Dodd of the
Methodist Church, and then Blake Whipple, the undertaker,
took care of the interment.\par

The evening of the day that the poor little shaver was
laid underground, Mrs. Hod entered the tenement to
console the bereaved girl. She entered without knocking.
She paused at the threshold, made rigid by the sight
before her.\par

For Jack Fuller was down on his knees before the girl
he had married. His finely-shaped head was buried in
her lap. He was sobbing freakishly, for men do not
know how to weep. And the girl seated there on the
sofa was staring into unseeing space with a holy look
upon her beautifully plain face; her slender shapely
fingers toying with the boy’s wavy hair.\par

“Never, never, never—will I touch a drop of the stuff
as long as I live, Betty,” he choked between his tears. “I
don’t care—what the provocation is—I won’t ever do it.
I’ve been a cad, Betty. I haven’t been a Fuller at all—but
I’ll show you I can be. I’ll make up for this.
We’ve lost the baby, Betty—but it’s brought me to my
senses. I’m—done! I swear it before God, Betty.
I’m—done!”\par

The girl never knew a neighbor was looking on, unable
to withdraw without disclosing her presence.\par

“If that’s the price, Jack,” she replied softly, divinely,
“—if that’s the price—and you’ll keep your word—I’ll
pay it! Jackie dear—I love you. I’ve loved you
all along. But this has always been the way with me.
There was Dad. Rum got him—rum stole him away
from me. When he was himself he was all right. But
he drank and then beat me—he made me want to kill
myself just because I was a Nieson—because his blood
half saturated with rum—was in my veins. I married
you, Jackie—because I hoped to pull myself up from
being a Nieson. I hoped to show folks what I wanted
to be—what I tried so hard to be. Every one knows
the Niesons are worthless trash, the scum of the town.
And I thought—being your wife—the wife of a Fuller—things
would be different. The liquor seemed robbing
me of you too, Jack. But if this—has given you
back to me—yes—I’ll pay the price. It’s all right,
Jack. I’ll take your word that you’ll never, never take a
drop of the stuff again.”\par

Mrs. Hod succeeded in getting out without being discovered.
She went home and told her husband. Sam
shook his head sadly.\par

“I hope so,” commented the worldly wise old newspaper
man, who frequently understood two-legged human folks
better than they understood themselves. “I hope so,
indeed. I’d do anything under God’s heaven to help
him. But I’m afraid for him—afraid for him and the
girl. It sure will be hell for her if the lad breaks his
promise—just {\itshape{once}}!”\par

But to his everlasting credit, let it be set down that the
Fuller blood came uppermost in Jack. He did not break
his promise. But what the poor boy went through in
that succeeding six months only a reticent God in His
heaven knows.\par

Jack had sold his automobile for two hundred dollars.
Now he transferred what was left of his legacy from a
checking account in the corner bank to the savings department.
He went to work for Will Pease mending
automobiles in the Paris Garage.\par

He grew thin and haggard with the struggle he was
making. Some brainless young roustabouts in our town
tried to get him to drink again just for the sake of winning
him back to his old habits. They actually did get
him into a bar one night with a glass of liquor before
him. Then I guess it came to him what he was doing.
The Fuller blood in him made a great convulsion for the
upper hand—and won! He smashed the glass into the
tempter’s eyes and stumbled out into the raw cold night—and
home.\par

The boy came home to his childless wife one night and
said:\par

“Betty—it’s hell!” he said. “I’m all burned out
inside, Betty—”\par

“Jack,” she cried piteously, “you’re not going to give
way after—after the price—we paid.”\par

“Not if I can help it, Betty,” he replied. “But I need
help, girl. I need some sort of discipline that’ll straighten
me out and help me physically. Betty—I’ve got a
chance—to get into the quartermaster’s department of
the Vermont National Guard—”\par

“You mean—be a soldier?” she cried.\par

“And why not, Betty?” he said. “My grandfather
was a soldier. You know what he did in the Civil War;
what he means to the Grand Army men. It’s in my
blood, I guess, Betty—”\par

“Jack!” she cried. “Don’t leave me now! Don’t
leave me alone! Don’t! Don’t! There’s too many
memories, Jack. I ain’t—brave enough, Jack!”\par

He sank down on the sofa and hid his burning face in
his hands.\par

“God help me!” he groaned. “I want to win out, but
I’m all wrong inside. Oh, Betty!”\par

She tried in her poor pitiful way to help him. She
did help him—a little bit. But Jack was nearer right
than he knew. He joined the Y. M. C. A. that winter
and went in for athletics. But two nights a week “on
the floor” wasn’t rigorous enough for him.\par

Pinkie Price, our star reporter, came into the newspaper
office one forenoon and exclaimed,
“Hey, you know that Fuller chap that killed his kid
when he come home stewed? Well, what do you suppose
he’s up to? You know the preparedness scare and
the trouble with Mexico and everything? Well, he’s
startin’ to raise a company right here in Paris—a company
o’ real soldiers—so’s to have ’em ready in case
we get into the Europe scrap. They’re goin’ to drill four
nights a week and Sundays in Academy Hall.”\par

“It isn’t surprising,” commented Sam Hod. “He
comes from a family of soldiers. Well, I hope he does.
If he’s captain of a company of men like his grandaddy
was in ’63 he’ll have his position to maintain and that
won’t mean flirting with whisky. Good for the boy!
I said he had the right stuff in him. Go see him and
write his scheme up, Pinkie. The {\itshape{Telegraph}}’ll give it
all the preferred position it deserves.”\par

“Hey,” said Pinkie, shifting suddenly to another subject
through the association of ideas, “—d’yer know
that old Martin Chisholm kicked off last night? Yep;
heart disease!”\par

Sam looked around the office at our faces.\par

“So ‘The Toast to Forty-five’ has narrowed down to
Henry Weston, Uncle Joe Fodder, and Wilbur Nieson!
Too bad, too bad!”\par

Jack Fuller, out of regard for the little wife’s feelings,
did not take the quartermaster’s job. But he did organize
the Paris Home Guard. Soldier blood ran in his veins.
The “Fuller Fire-eaters” as our town named them, was
a crack company. The place Jack held as head of that
company was as a tonic to the lad; it gave him something
to think about, to interest himself in when the
hankering for the fellowship of our three saloons became
too powerful. When the trouble with Mexico became
acute there were weeks when the local boys, catching his
enthusiasm, drilled six nights in succession in their rooms
up-stairs in the Cedar Street Engine-house. They had
regular army uniforms and were connected somehow
with the State National Guard—we never could just
understand the connection.\par

As for “The Toast to Forty-five,” the climax didn’t
come in August, 1916. When Bennington Battle Day
rolled around that year all three men were still living
who had been alive the reunion before.\par

In February the United States severed relations with
Germany. In April the United States declared war. In
June ten million young Americans enrolled themselves
for the draft. And in July, when all the confusion of
the draft had cleared away, it was found that half of
“Fuller’s Fire-eaters” had been called upon to fill the
Paris quota of Vermont’s two thousand.\par

But Jack Fuller’s name was not drawn.\par

On a certain July night in the little tenement which
they still kept on Pleasant Street, the Fuller boy stood
beside the table in the same room where his small son
had been killed in the overturning of the cradle a while
before, with his face as white as chalk and Betty before
him on her knees where she had sunk down in her
misery, clutching him convulsively.\par

“Don’t go and leave me, Jack,” she moaned. “Oh,
Jack, don’t do it. You’re all I’ve got, Jack—and there
are so many unmarried men to go—!”\par

“My grandfather led the Paris boys in ’63, Betty,”
he said hoarsely. “My great-great-grandfather led a
company in the battle of Bennington. The country’s
calling again, Betty. It’s up to a Fuller to take his place
at the head of the Paris lads once more. I’ve got the
company, Betty. They’re wild to enlist as a body and I
can get the regular appointment as their captain—”\par

“Wait till your turn comes in the draft, Jack. Don’t
leave me, now, Jack. There are so many unmarried men
to go. If the country wants you so bad that they call
all the married men, I’ll try to be brave and give you up,
Jack. But wait for that—tell me you will!”\par

“I can’t stand it to see the boys I’ve drilled march
away with another chap at their head, Betty.”\par

“Jack!” she cried hysterically, “it was {\itshape{you}} that took
little Edward away from me! And now—you’re taking
yourself. You don’t have to go—yet. You’re taking
yourself—yourself—because—you don’t love me—”\par

It was the first time in two or three years that she
had taunted him with what he had done to their child.
It reacted upon him as though she had struck him a
blow.\par

“Betty!” he cried hoarsely. “Don’t say that, Betty.
You’re mad over this thing—you’re asking me to hide
behind the skirts of women—”\par

“Jack—I’ve had so much sorrow—first with
Mother, then with Father, then losing the baby so—now
with you going away and leaving me—that I can’t stand
much more, Jack. I’ll go mad—really mad, Jack! I
can’t go back and live again with Father, and see his
stumbling footsteps when he comes home drunk, and
hear his talk, and see him gibber—I’ll have nobody, nobody,
to live for! Oh, Jack!”\par

“You can be as brave as millions of other childless
wives all over America, able for a while to care for themselves.
You told me once that you hated the Nieson
blood in you even if your father was a soldier. You said
after we were married that you were trying to pull yourself
up and be somebody. You said you were happy
because our kids would have Fuller blood in them. And
now instead of coming up to the scratch in a real crisis,
Betty, you’re showing yellow and groveling round like a
Nieson. If I’m willing to run the chance of getting
shot—”\par

But he did not go on. Her screams of hysteria began.
And the little wife who had stood so much broke down
at last.\par

Doctor Johnson was called. He attended the girl for
eight days. During that time, only regard for Jack made
the boys hold off in enlisting as a unit altogether for
France. Doctor Johnson said that if Jack volunteered
with them, and Betty heard he was going, the shock
would kill her. So the boy went around town, torn
between love and duty.\par

And during those days something happened in our
community. Wilbur Nieson and Henry Weston died—within
a few days of one another. Henry Weston succumbed
to kidney trouble which had afflicted him for
years. And old Wilbur Nieson—Wilbur Nieson had
the “tremors” as we say up here in New England—delirium
tremens—one night in the rear of the Whitney
House. The boys in the livery found him. The Sons of
Veterans buried him. So much for the carefully cherished
plans of humankind. For a half-century the members of
Farrington Post had saved that rare old Vintage for
“The Toast to Forty-five.” And there were not even
two old soldiers left of that original company to observe
the sentiment. “The Toast to Forty-five” could never
be pledged, after all!\par

A couple of weeks slipped away. August sixteenth
approached. The boy came into the office of our little
local paper one morning and said:\par

“I’ve made up my mind; I’m going to France. Instead
of having our ranks broken by the draft, all the
‘Fire-eaters’ are enlisting as a body in the National
Guard. And I—am going—with them.”\par

“But your wife?”\par

“It won’t be any harder for her to stay behind than it
is for me to leave. But I’ve got to get into this thing.
Something inside of me is firing me to do it. She’ll
bear it—somehow.”\par

“When are you boys going?” asked Sam.\par

“We’ll be leaving somewhere around the twentieth.”\par

“The twentieth!” exclaimed Sam. In that moment
something occurred to him. “The twentieth!” he exclaimed
over again. “And on the sixteenth—the old
army men were going to hold their last reunion if only
those two hadn’t died. Jack—!”\par

“Yes.”\par

“Why not—why not—why not have Paris give you
boys a royal send-off on that night—the night of the
sixteenth—a dinner for you fellows the sixteenth; a
dinner for you fellows in place of the old Grand Army
reunion!”\par

“I guess the boys would be willing,” replied Jack with
a sad smile.\par

We printed a long piece in our little local paper about it,
that night. Again the Vermont boys were going to war.
Again a Fuller was to lead them. Tickets for the farewell
dinner were on sale at the Metropolitan Drug-store,
five dollars apiece, the proceeds to go to the Red Cross.\par

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Bennington Battle Day came. All preparations for
the greatest banquet Paris ever saw were completed.
The time-worn custom of having the dinner in the rooms
of Farrington Post was abandoned. The Post rooms
would never hold the crowd. The dinner was to be held
in the assembly hall of the new high school. That was
the largest floor-space procurable in Paris.\par

Sam Hod had three sons in Captain Jack’s company—more
than any other father in Paris. He was designated
as toastmaster for that epochal dinner. At a long table
at the head of the hall he was to sit with Uncle Joe Fodder
on his right and young Captain Jack Fuller on his
left. Beyond, on either side there were grouped officers
of the company. Then the rest of the places were filled
up with the privates of Fuller’s Fire-eaters and the public.
The dinner was set for eight o’clock and by ten
minutes of eight there were hundreds of Parisians in the
hallways and on the sidewalk unable to get standing
room in the dining-room, to say nothing of obtaining a
seat and a plate.\par

Promptly on the dot of eight, Otis Hawthorne, leader
of the Paris Band, tapped his baton on his music-stand.\par

With a great crash the apartment was filled to the
furthermost crevices with the thunderous tumult of
“The Star Spangled Banner.”\par

Every man and woman in that hall rose to his feet.
They sang that song. They sang it as they had never
sung it before. Because in that moment the real meaning
of the words came home to them.\par

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“—Oh, say, does the Star Spangled Banner yet wave,\par}
{\vl O’er the land of the Free, and the Home of the Brave?”\par}
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}

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Sam Hod looked at his three lean boys in khaki, that in
another week would be only a memory. And his face
shone with an emotion he had never known the meaning
of before. Women wept like—women. As the chorus
died away, cheer on cheer arose and floated out the
lowered windows into the soft summer night.\par

They resumed their chairs. Jack Fuller turned to the
editor.\par

“Who’s this empty chair for on my left?” he
demanded.\par

“Your wife, my son,” the editor replied simply, and
Mrs. Hod brought the girl in.\par

She was white and weak. How the editor’s wife had
broken the news to her—persuaded her to come to the
hall and sit in the place of honor beside her husband—has
been something that we bewhiskered males in the
office of our little local paper have never been able
to explain. Perhaps Mrs. Hod’s sacrifice of those three
tall Yankee lads in Fuller’s Fire-eaters had something
to do with it. Anyhow, Betty Fuller was persuaded to
come in.\par

She put out her hands blindly before her as she reached
the head table and heard them cheering her husband’s
name—and her own. She felt her way into her place.
She glanced down into her husband’s surprised face and
gave a terrified semblance of a smile. Then the whole
room seemed to fuse before her. She has never been able
to recollect connectedly the events of that evening.\par

The dinner began, progressed, and, after the manner of
all dinners, at last ended. Sam Hod arose. He clinked
on a water-glass with his knife. The hallful saw him and
gradually grew quiet.\par

It was a beautiful speech that the editor made. He
began with the part Vermont has played in every war in
which America has ever engaged. He told the story of
the boys who marched away in ’61 behind John Farrington.
He recounted the story of Captain Farrington’s
death; the succession of “Jack Fuller the First” to the
place of honor in the Company, the brilliant war-record
of the regiment. He told of the home-coming; of the
banquet fifty-two years before. He told smoothly of the
events leading up to America’s entry into the war. His
quotation of the President’s famous indictments against
Germany brought ovation after ovation from the home-folks,
who were worked up to hysterical pitch. And
when it was over the editor said:\par

“To-night, before sitting down to this farewell banquet
to our sons, many of whom are going away from
us never to return—to-night I was the recipient of a
strange request. It came from the last survivor of that
famous Company of Sixty-two who fifty-two years ago
saw Dashing Captain Jack Fuller of glorious memory,
raise aloft this receptacle of rare vintage and propose a
dramatic thing.\par

“This was the request: By some strange fate the
evening when the last toast was to be given to the illustrious
dead comes at the terrifically tragic moment when
the sons of many of these men are going forward to
offer their lives in a new democracy. It has been suggested
that nothing could have more approval from
Dashing Captain Jack himself—or from all of those
one hundred and six brave men who have crossed from
the battlefields of earthly life into a blessed reward for
their altruism—than that this toast should be given
after all—if not by the two survivors, then by the
leader of the local heroes who have volunteered to go
“Over There” and by their sacrifice make the earth a
finer, fairer, better place in which to dwell. “The Toast
to Forty-five,” famous for fifty-two years, will be given
at last amid this assembly of another quota of the Union’s
soldiers about to go forth to preserve the same great
principle for which their fathers laid their all upon the
altar.”\par

There was silence for a time. Then came another
attempt at another ovation. But it died in the excitement
of the thing transpiring at that speaker’s table.\par

Sam Hod was opening the famous vintage.\par

The seal was broken. Out of that glass retainer came
costly sparkling liquor, fifty-two years the prize relic of
Farrington Post. Sam reached over. The two glasses of
Uncle Joe Fodder and Captain Jack he filled to the brim.
He stepped back—back from between Uncle Joe and
Captain Jack—that they might click the rims of their
slender goblets together.\par

“Gentlemen,” cried Uncle Joe in that breathless moment—“The
Toast—to—Forty-five!”\par

Every military man in that room arose to his feet.\par

Uncle Joe’s withered old lips moved in the sunken face.
The skinny hand holding the wine-glass trembled so that
the beverage spilled over the edge and splashed on the
white table-cloth like a clot of blood.\par

“Here’s to the gallant Forty-five,” he cried in a high-pitched,
crackly voice. “Here’s to Captain John Farrington.
And here’s to the men of Company Sixty-two
and their posterity. Here’s to—here’s to Captain Jack
Fuller and {\itshape{his}} posterity—”\par

It was an unfortunate sentence at an unfortunate time.\par

{\itshape{Jack Fuller’s posterity!}}\par

Through the lad’s brain must have flashed a picture
of a scene in his sitting-room months before when he
had paid a fearful price for—something! He had promised— He
had promised— He looked around the
room. Hundreds of eyes were upon him as he stood
there, splendid and erect in olive drab. He glanced
around his own table, too. And in that instant he saw—the
pale, wan features of his wife!\par

His arm still holding awkwardly aloft the glass, Jack
looked into the faces of that crowd flanking the tables
and walls of that great hall.\par

Something came to him—the scenes, the associations—reincarnation,
perhaps—the blood of his forefathers—heredity—in
that great instant he was prompted to do a
great and dramatic thing for the joy of the spectacular,
the call of the dramatic.\par

Out of Joe Fodder’s toothless mouth came voiceless
words—\par

“I’ve—gone and forgot my speech! You say something,
Jack. You say it!”\par

Sam Hod racked his brain for words to save the situation.
All Paris waited. And then—in the silence—came
a rich, strong, boyish voice:\par

“I’ll give a toast—to Forty-five!”\par

It was Captain Jack. Two hundred pairs of eyes were
fixed upon him. He knew perfectly that two hundred
pairs of eyes were fixed upon him.\par

This is the thing that he did:\par

Deliberately into his dirty coffee-cup he poured the
blood-red liquid. As his grandfather would have done,
with the same exaggerated flourish the boy took from
his pocket a snow-white handkerchief. With that napkin
he wiped flawlessly the delicate receptacle which had
held the liquor. Then he leaned over. From a glass
pitcher he poured into that cleansed wine-glass its fill
of pure cold sparkling water. In an instant he held it
aloft.\par

“Fellows!” he cried. “A toast! a toast not with
wine—for wine with its blood-color belongs to the times
which are going—which we hope are passing forever—I’m
drinking a toast with crystal water—emblematic of
the clean white civilization which is coming—for which
we’re going ‘Over There’ to fight and die.\par

“Here’s to every man who ever did a noble thing;
volunteering his strength to help protect the weak!
Here’s to every lad who ever fought out the terrible
question in his heart and put the Greater Good above his
life-hopes and ambitions. Here’s to every soul that
ever laid in the dark, thinking of those at home, knowing
that in the charge of dawn he might become to them
but a bitter-sweet memory of days when every hour was
a golden moment and time but a thing to pass away.
Here’s to the dead—the illustrious dead—those who
fell in battle, those of Forty-five, the men of Sixty-two,
the men of every age and every land who fought the
good fight nobly, to the best that was in them—for the
things they believed to be right—and have gone to take
finer and better orders under a Greater General, the
Commander of Commanders, the Prince of—Peace!”\par

He paused. He drew a long breath. He looked down
the table. And he continued: “But along with our toast
for the soldiers of the dead, boys—while the opportunity
is ours—why not give also a toast—another kind of
toast—to the soldiers of the living? Not ourselves, boys—but
the ones—we’re leaving behind. It is little
enough we can do for them!”\par

His gaze wandered up to his glass. In a strange, inspired
voice, he cried softly:\par

“A toast!—a toast, also, to the truest and best soldiers
of all—the mothers, the wives, and the girls we are
leaving behind!\par

“Here’s to the toil-hardened hands who cared for us
when as helpless little kids, we were unable to care for
ourselves. Here’s to the tears they have shed over our
little torn clothes; the pillows that have been wet in the
midnight with anxiety, longing, and heartache that we
might be spared to do our duty as men. Here’s to the
anguish they have suffered, the prayers they have prayed,
the sacrifices they have made, the toil they have borne—all
to be laid on the altar of war, all to be wiped out in a
moment, perhaps, by a splinter of shrapnel or the thrust
of a bayonet. Here’s to the nobility of their anguish
when they come to learn we are no more; and the beauty
of their faces when the divinity in their hearts tells the
story upon their care-lined foreheads that they would
climb the same weary Golgotha again—go through the
same Gethsemane—bear the same cross—though they
knew all along the end which it meant.\par

“Here’s to the wives we loved in the days before
War came upon us. Here’s to the promises they made
us—to be ours until death came between us. Here’s to
the suffering they have borne for our thoughtlessness;
the hours when they have looked into the future and
wondered if the love that we promised was worth the
price they were paying. Here’s to the hopes and the
fears, the joys and the sorrows that have come to them—that
are coming to them now—that are coming to
them in the years on ahead with ever greater portion.
Here’s to their courage and noble endeavor, given so
pathetically to us chaps who sometimes—forget. May
we die as faithfully in the cause to which we have
pledged ourselves as they will live in the memory of
what-might-have-been in the lean years when there are
forms sitting in fantasy beside them in the firelight and
our voices are heard in the homes we made with them—no
more.\par

“And here’s to the girls we are leaving behind!
Here’s to the kisses they have given us under the stars
of many summers—the memory of their hands and
their lips and their eyes! Here’s to the weight in their
souls and the pain that will hallow the memories that
will haunt them through the years. Here’s to the sighs
and the shadows, the heart-hopes and the longing! God
grant in His goodness their fidelity is rewarded!\par

“These are the things to which we drink—the men
of yesterday—and the memory of their heroism which
has been—and the women of to-day and whose heroism
is to be. With the great incentive of these two in our
hearts, boys—let us drink and go away to fight like
men—to honor the first—to sanctify the second.”\par

He clinked his glass against that of speechless Uncle
Joe Fodder’s—and they drank—Uncle Joe drinking
his wine with a hand which trembled so that the liquid
stained his withered claw like a scarlet wound.\par

The hall was strangely silent.\par

Sam turned to his wife. “That boy never composed
that beautiful speech alone, Mary,” he said—“not impromptu
like that!”\par

Down the hall an old lady whispered to her daughter:\par

“Alice! Alice!—His grandaddy made just such a
speech—almost word for word—the night John Farrington’s
company bade us women-folks good-by.”\par

As the hall was being cleared for the big farewell
dance, Sam came to the boy.\par

“Laddie,” he demanded, “where did you learn that
speech?”\par

“What speech?” asked the boy.\par

“You know {\itshape{what}} speech—the toast!”\par

“I don’t know, Mr. Hod. I just looked at the faces—and
the wine—and—and—Betty!—and it just came
out.”\par

“Is that the truth?”\par

“Sure, it’s the truth. What was it I said that was so
awful wonderful?”\par

“Don’t you remember what you said?”\par

The boy laughed ashamedly. “—I couldn’t repeat it
if it cost me my life,” he replied. “It—just—came—out!”\par

Late that night the old editor lay in his bed thinking
of many things.\par

“The things in life are far stranger than the things in
story books,” he said. Then in the velvet dark he whispered:
“Strange! Strange!”\par

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Dashing Captain Jack Fuller, true to his blood and his
birthright, went away on the following day at the head
of his sturdy volunteers. They entrained at ten o’clock
for Fort Ethan Allen.\par

Truly the boy did not remember the words of that
toast which he gave that memorable evening. But one
thing he does remember. He remembers the words of
the girl he had married as he took her in his arms in
those last few sweet moments following the final breakfast
in the little home:\par

“It was the Nieson in me that didn’t want you to go,
Jack,” she choked brokenly. “Up to last night I didn’t
want you to go. But when you wouldn’t drink the wine—when
you had the courage to do what you did in front
of all those people—I was ashamed of my selfishness.
Jackie dear—I’m the proudest, happiest, miserablest
woman in all this town!”\par

He pressed her to him. He kissed her—an embrace
that left her weak and limp.\par

“And you can count on me, Jack,” she said, “I’ll—do—my—duty—too!
Even—if you should never
come back; remember I said—I was sorry for the way
I’ve acted; I’ll—do—my—duty—too!”\par

“Good-by, Betty!” he choked.\par

“Good-by—my soldier!” she lisped—bravely—piteously.\par

But she sent him away—with a smile!\par

She’s working now at her old place in Amos Wheeler’s
box-shop. She closed down the little home on Pleasant
Street partly because she could not keep up the expense,
partly because she could not endure—the memories.
She’s living out in her father’s old place at the far end
of Cedar Street.\par

Poor little, dear little, brave little woman!\par

We know from his letters to our local paper, that Jack
Fuller has reached France. The girl is alone, earning
five dollars a week in the box-factory to support herself.
The lad is “Over There” in the Whirlpool and the
Nightmare—and where the fighting is thickest, there
we believe Jack Fuller will be found.\par

But somehow, we feel that Jack Fuller will not fall.
We feel there is coming a great and a glorious day for
our little town of Paris up here in these mountains. In
fancy we can see a morning when a great crowd is going
to mill around and through the platforms and the railroad
yards of our station. The hour is coming when a
train whistle will sound far down the Greene River valley.
The minutes will pass. The whistle will sound
nearer. Finally in the lower end of the yards we will see
a great furl of seething smoke from an oncoming locomotive.
Another and a third whistle will shriek as a
great high-breasted mogul comes bearing down upon us,
seeming to cry out to us from the decreasing distance:
“I’ve got them! I’ve got them! I’m bringing them
back! Every mother’s son of them! They’re in these
coaches I’m pulling behind me now!” And the train
will come to a grinding stop, and amid cheer after cheer
and the gyrations of the Paris band seeking to blow itself
inside out, down from that train will come the soldiers
of Uncle Sam—the boys who never have been and
never can be whipped—great bronzed men with lean
jaws, faces the hue of copper and muscles as hard as
billets of steel. Car after car will disgorge them—men
who met the Great Problem, offered themselves, ran the
risk, fought the fight, gave their last full measure of
devotion, and have come back home to women who cannot
trust themselves to speak—only hold out their arms
mutely.\par

And we feel certain that in that great day, after the
Nightmare is over and the world is a fairer, better world,
that one of those great bronzed heroes will gather up
in his war-hardened arms a slender little girl in the
plainest of white shirt-waists and black skirts, with the
paste dried on the poor little workaday clothes and the
worn shoes turning her step over cruelly. He will
gather her up while the tears fall clumsily, for men do
not know how to weep. And there will be no more
weariness in her homeward walk in that twilight. After
all, not all the boys are going to die. Many are coming
back, hundreds of thousands of them. There will be
other toasts to Forty-five pledged by the living. It must
be so, for God still rules in His heaven and will make all
right with the world.\par

Yet just now—for Betty Fuller—the way is lonesome
and her pillow is wet with her tears in the midnight.
But—\par

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She sent her man away with a smile.\par}
{\vl Poor little, dear little, brave little woman!\par}
{\vl All over America her name is legion!\par}
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{\vl {\noindent}
{\scshape{By}} HARRISON RHODES\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{Harper’s Magazine}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by Harper and Brothers.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by Harrison Rhodes.}}}}\par}
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{\noindent}
The pretty, peaceful Jersey farm-land slopes gently
up from the Delaware River to the little hill which
Princeton crowns. It is uneventful country. The railway
does not cross it, nor any of the great motor trunk
roads. On the river itself there is no town of considerable
size, though on the map you read the quaint name of
Washington Crossing for a little hamlet of a few houses.
This will remind you of the great days when on these
sleepy fields great history was made. But the fields have
lain quiet in the sun now for more than a century, and
even the legends of Revolutionary days are for the most
part forgotten along these country roads.\par

As for modern legends, the very phrase seems proof of
their impossibility. And in spite of her spacious and resounding
past, New Jersey’s name now seems to mean
incorporations and mosquitoes and sea-bathing and popcorn-crisp
rather than either legend or romance. But
with the coming of the Great War strange things are
stirring in the world, and in the farthest corners of the
land the earth is shaken by the tramp of new armies. In
the skies by day and night there is a sign. And the things
one does not believe can happen may be happening, even
in New Jersey.\par

The small events on the Burridge Road which are here
set down cannot even be authenticated. There are people
down by the river who say they saw a single horseman
go through the village at dusk, but not one seems to know
which way he came. There is no ferry at Washington
Crossing and the bridge at Lambertville had, since three
that afternoon, been closed for repairs. What facts are
set down here—and indeed they are scarcely facts—were
acquired because a chauffeur missed the road and a
motor then broke down. What story there is—and indeed
there is perhaps not much story—has been pieced
together from fragments collected that afternoon and
evening. And if the chronicle as now written is vague, it
can be urged that, though it all happened so recently as
last year, it is already as indeterminate and misty as a
legend.\par

We may, however, begin with undisputed facts.
When her grandson enlisted for the war old Mrs. Buchan
became very genuinely dependent on the little farm that
surrounded the lovely old Colonial house on the Burridge
Road. (Meadows, and horses, and hay and the quality
and price of it, have much to do with our story—as, indeed,
befits a rural chronicle.) The farm had been larger
once, and the hospitality which the old house could dispense
more lavish. Indeed, the chief anecdote in its history
had been the stopping there once of Washington,
to dine and rest on his way to join the army in New
York. Old Mrs. Buchan, who, for all her gentleness, was
incurably proud, laid special stress on the fact that on
{\itshape{that}} night the great man had not been at an inn—which
was in the twentieth century to cheapen his memory by a
sign-board appeal to automobile parties—but at a gentleman’s
house. A gentleman’s house it still was; somehow
the Buchans had always managed to live like gentlemen.
But if George, the gay, agreeable last one of them, could
also live that way, it was because his grandmother practised
rigid heart-breaking economy. The stories of her
shifts and expedients were almost fables of the countryside.
When George came home—he had a small position
in a New York broker’s office—there was gaiety
and plenty. He might well have been deceived into
thinking that the little he sent home from New York was
ample for her needs. But when he went back his grandmother
lived on nothing, or less than that. She dressed
for dinner, so they said, in black silk and old lace, had
the table laid with Lowestoft china and the Buchan silver,
and ate a dish of corn-meal mush, or something cheaper
if that could be found!\par

George Buchan’s enlistment—it was in the aviation
service—had been early. And very early he was ordered
to France to finish his training there. Two days before
he expected his ship to sail the boy got a few hours’ furlough
and came to the Burridge Road to say good-by to
his grandmother.\par

What was said we must imagine. He was all the old
lady had left in the world. But no one ever doubted that
she had kissed him and told him to go, and to hold his
head high as suited an American and a Buchan. Georgie
would perhaps have had no very famous career in Wall
Street, but no one doubted that he would make a good
soldier. There had always been a Buchan in the armies
of the Republic, his grandmother must have reminded
him. And very likely Georgie, kissing her, had reminded
her that there had always been a Buchan woman at home
to wish the men God speed as they marched away, and
told her too to hold her old head high.\par

There must have been some talk about the money that
there wouldn’t be now; without his little weekly check
she was indeed almost penniless. It is quite likely that
they spoke of selling the house and decided against it.
Part of the boy’s pay was of course to come to his grandmother,
but, as she explained, there were so many war
charities needing that, and then the wool for her knitting— She
must manage mostly with the farm. There
was always the vegetable-garden, and a few chickens,
and the green meadow, which might be expected to yield
a record crop of hay.\par

We may imagine that the two—old lady and boy—stepped
out for a moment into the moonlit night to look
at the poor little domain of Buchan that was left. Under
the little breeze that drifted up from the Delaware the
grass bent in long waves like those of the summer seas
that Georgie was to cross to France. As the Buchans
looked at it they might have felt some wonder at the
century-old fertility of the soil. Back in the days of the
Revolution Washington’s horse had pastured there one
night. Then, and in 1812, and during the great battle
of the States, the grass had grown green and the hay
been fragrant, and the fat Jersey earth had out of its
depths brought forth something to help the nation at war.
Such a field as that by the old white house can scarcely
be thought of as a wild, primeval thing; it has lived too
long under the hand of man. This was a Buchan field,
George’s meadow, and by moonlight it seemed to wave
good-by to him.\par

“You aren’t dependent on me now, dear,” he may
have said, with his arm around his grandmother. “I
just leave you to our little garden patch and our chickens
and the green meadow.”\par

“You mustn’t worry, dear. They’ll take care of me,”
she must have answered.\par

So George went away; and the night after, the night
before he sailed, the horseman and his company came.\par

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It was at dusk, and a gossamer silvery mist had drifted
up from the Delaware. He had hitched his horse by the
gate. He was in riding-breeches and gaiters and a
rather old-fashioned riding-coat. And in the band of his
hat he had stuck a small American flag which looked
oddly enough almost like a cockade. He knocked at the
door, quite ignoring the new electric bell which George
had installed one idle Sunday morning when his grandmother
had felt he should have been at church. As
it happened, old Mrs. Buchan had been standing by
the window, watching the mist creep up and the twilight
come, thinking of Georgie so soon to be upon the
water. As the horseman knocked she, quite suddenly
and quite contrary to her usual custom, went herself to
the door.\par

His hat was immediately off, swept through a nobler
circle than the modern bow demands, and he spoke with
the elaboration of courtesy which suited his age; for,
though his stride was vigorous, he was no longer young.
It was a severe, careworn face of a stern, almost hard,
nobility of expression. Yet the smile when it came was
engaging, and old Mrs. Buchan, as she smiled in return,
found herself saying to herself that no Southerner, however
stern, could fail to have this graceful lighter side.
For his question had been put in the softer accents of
Virginia and of the states farther south.\par

“I’ve lost my way,” he began, with the very slightest,
small, gay laugh. But he was instantly serious. “It is
so many, many years since I was here.”\par

Mrs. Buchan pointed up the road.\par

“That is the way to Princeton.”\par

“Princeton, of course. That’s where we fought the
British and beat them. It seems strange, does it not, that
we now fight with them?”\par

“We must forget the Revolution now, must we not?”
This from Mrs. Buchan.\par

“Forget the Revolution!” he flashed back at her, almost
angrily. Then more gently: “Perhaps. If we remember
liberty!” He glanced an instant up the road to
Princeton hill and then went on. “They fought well
then, madam. As a soldier I am glad to have such good
allies. But I was forgetting. Yonder lies Princeton, and
from there there is the post-road to New York, is there
not? I must be in New York by morning.”\par

Mrs. Buchan was old-fashioned, but she found herself
murmuring amazedly something about railroads and
motor-cars. But he did not seem to hear her.\par

“Yes,” he continued, “I must be in New York by
morning. The first transport with our troops sails for
France.”\par

“I know,” she said, proudly. “My grandson, George
Buchan, sails for France.”\par

“George Buchan? There was a George Buchan
fought at Princeton, I remember.”\par

“There was. And another George Buchan in the War
of Eighteen-twelve. And a John in the Mexican War.
And a William in eighteen sixty-three. There was no
one in the Spanish War—my son was dead and my
grandson was too young. But now he is ready.”\par

“Every American is ready,” her visitor answered. “I
am ready.”\par

“You?” she broke out. And for the first time she
seemed to see that his hair was white. “Are you
going?”\par

“Every one who has ever fought for America is going.
There is a company of them behind me. Listen.”\par

Down the road there was faintly to be heard the clatter
of hoofs.\par

“Some joined me in Virginia, some as we crossed the
Potomac by Arlington, where there is a house which
once belonged to a relative of mine. And there were
others, old friends, who met me as we came through
Valley Forge in Pennsylvania. You would not now know
Valley Forge,” he finished, half to himself.\par

The river mist had crept farther up and was a little
thicker now. The moon had risen and the mist shimmered
and shone almost as if by its own light. The world
was indeed of the very substance of a dream. The hoofbeats
on the road grew nearer, and at last, while old Mrs.
Buchan stood in a kind of amazed silence, they came into
sight, even then mere shadowy, dim, wavering figures behind
the gossamer silver veil which had drifted there
from the lovely Delaware. The horses looked lean and
weary, though perhaps this was a trick of the moonlight.
Yet they dropped their heads and began eagerly to crop
the short, dusty grass by the roadside. The moonlight
seemed to play tricks with their riders, too. For in the
fog some of them seemed to have almost grotesquely old-fashioned
clothes, though all had a sort of military cut
to them. Some few, indeed, were trim and modern. But
the greater part were, or seemed to Mrs. Buchan to be, in
shabby blue or worn gray. The chance combination of
the colors struck her. She was an old woman and she
could remember unhappy far-off days when blue and
gray had stood for the fight of brother against brother.
Into her eyes the tears came, yet she suddenly smiled
through them—a pair of quite young men lounged
toward the fence, and then stood at ease there, the blue-clad
arm of one affectionately and boyishly thrown
around the other’s gray shoulder.\par

“These go with you?” asked old Mrs. Buchan, still
held by her memories.\par

“Yes. They are of all kinds and all ages, and some
of them were not always friends. But you see—” He
smiled and pointed to the lads by the fence. “One of
them is from Virginia and the other from Ohio. Virginia
and Ohio fought once. But I only say that I can remember
that Ohio was part of Virginia once long ago.
And is not Virginia part of Ohio and Ohio part of Virginia
again now? I should be pushing on, however, not
talking. It is the horses that are tired, not the men.”\par

“And hungry?” suggested Mrs. Buchan.\par

“The horses, yes, poor beasts!” he answered. “For
the men it does not matter. Yet we must reach New
York by morning. And it is a matter of some five-and-fifty
miles.”\par

“Rest a half-hour and let the horses graze. You can
make it by sunrise.”\par

Mrs. Buchan went a little way down the path. It was
lined with pink and white clove-pinks and their fragrance
was sweet in the night.\par

“Open the gate there to the left, men,” she called out,
and her voice rang, to her, unexpectedly strong and clear.
“Let the horses graze in my green meadow if they will.”\par

They gave an answering cheer from out the mist. She
saw the meadow gate swing open and the lean horses pass
through, a long, long file of them.\par

“But they will spoil your hay crop,” objected the
horseman. “And it should be worth a fair sum to you.”\par

Mrs. Buchan drew herself up. “It is of no consequence,”
she answered.\par

He bowed again.\par

“But I don’t understand,” she almost pleaded, staring
again at his white hair and the little flag in his hatband
that looked so oddly like a cockade. “You say you sail
to-morrow with my boy?”\par

“I think you understand as well as any one.”\par

“Do I?” she whispered. And the night suddenly
seemed cold and she drew her little shawl of Shetland
wool more tightly about her shoulders. Yet she was not
afraid.\par

Her guest stooped and, rising, put one of her sweet-smelling
clove-pinks in his button-hole.\par

“If you permit, I will carry it for your boy to France.
We are extra men, supercargo,” he went on. “We shall
cross with every boat-load of boys who sail for France—we
who fought once as they must fight now. They
said of me, only too flatteringly, that I was first in peace.
Now I must be first in war again. I must be on the first
troop-ship that goes. And I shall find friends in France.
We have always had friends in France, I imagine, since
those first days. Of course, madam, you are too young
to remember the Marquis de la Fayette.”\par

“Yes, I am too young,” answered old Mrs. Buchan.
And she smiled through her tears at the thought of her
eighty years.\par

“You’re a mere chit of a girl, of course,” he laughed—one
of the few times his gravity was relaxed. “Shall
I know your boy, I wonder?” Then, without waiting for
her answer, “The George Buchan who fought at the
battle of Princeton was about twenty-two, slim and
straight, with blue eyes and brown hair and an honest,
gallant way with him, and a smile that one remembered.”\par

“You will know my boy,” she told him. “And I
think he will know you, General.”\par

Even now she swears she does not quite know what
she meant by this. The magic of the June night had
for the moment made everything possible. Yet she will
not to this day say who she thinks the horseman may
have been. Only that George would know him, as she
had.\par

“I want them all to know that I am there,” he had replied.
“They will know. They will remember their
country’s history even as we remember. And when the
shells scream in the French sky they will not forget the
many times America has fought for liberty. They will
not forget those early soldiers. And they will not forget
Grant and Lee and Lincoln. The American eagle,
madam, has a very shrill note. I think it can be heard
above the whistle of German shrapnel.”\par

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He drank a glass of sherry before he went, and ate a
slice of sponge-cake. Perhaps altogether he delayed a
scant quarter of an hour. The lean horses came streaming
forth from the green meadow, a long, long file; and
while the moon and the river mist still made it a world
of wonder, the company, larger somehow than she had
thought it at first, clattered off up the Princeton road
toward New York and salt water and the ships.\par

The mist cleared for a moment and the great green
meadow was seen, so trampled that it seemed that a thousand
horses must have trampled it. Al Fenton, dignified
by Mrs. Buchan as “the farmer,” had now belatedly
roused and dressed himself. He stood by the old lady’s
side and dejectedly surveyed the ruin of the hay crop.
He is a sober, stupid, serious witness of what had happened.
And this is important; for when the sun rose,
and Mrs. Buchan opened her window, the breeze from
the river rippled in long green waves over a great green
meadow where the grass still pointed heavenward, untrampled,
undisturbed. The Buchan meadow could still,
as George had believed it would, take care of his grandmother.\par

This is the story, to be believed, or not, as you like.
They do as they like about it in Jersey. But old Mrs.
Buchan believes that with each American troop-ship there
will sail supercargo, extra men. And she believes that
with these extra men we cannot lose the fight. George,
too, writes home to her that we shall win.\par

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{\vl {\noindent}
{\scshape{By}} FLETA CAMPBELL SPRINGER\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{Harper’s Magazine}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by Harper and Brothers.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by Fleta Campbell Springer.}}}}\par}
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{\noindent}
We were sitting—three Frenchmen, a young American
named Homan, and I—in the café of one of
those small Paris hotels much frequented, even then, by
officers on leave. It was the winter of 1912, when the
Balkans were playing out their colorful little curtain-raiser
to the great drama which followed—playing it,
as they say in the theater, “in one,” using only the very
smallest part of the stage, and failing even in their most
climactic moments to completely conceal the ominous
sounds from behind the curtain where the stage was being
set for the real business of the play.\par

At the tables a sprinkling of English and Americans
of the usual transient type mingled with French from the
provinces, and here and there a swarthy Balkan in uniform
accented the room.\par

It was the presence of those other Americans—two
or three, I should say, besides Homan and myself, though
I hadn’t noticed particularly—that gave the special significance
to Homan’s exclamation when he discovered
Corey.\par

I saw him pause with his glass half raised—he was
gazing straight past me over my shoulder—and a smile,
meant for me, came into his eyes.\par

“Look!” he said, “at the American!”\par

I turned, because his manner indicated clearly enough
that I might, squarely round in my chair, and immediately
it was clear to me why he had said just that. Any
one would have said it—any other American, I mean—which
makes it more striking—and said it involuntarily,
too. You couldn’t have helped it. And yet you would
encounter a dozen perfectly unmistakable Americans
every day in Paris without feeling the necessity for any
remark. It was simply that Corey was so typically the
kind of American you {\itshape{wouldn’t}} encounter in Paris, or
any other place, you felt, outside his own country. The
curious thing about him was that instantly on seeing him,
almost before you thought of America, you thought of
a particular and localized section of America. You
thought of the Middle West. There was something
wholesome and provincial and colloquial about him. He
was like a boy you’d gone to grammar school with—the
kind of fellow to succeed to his father’s business and
marry and settle down in his home town, with New York
City his farthest dream of venture and romance.\par

Yet there he sat across the table from a dark-visaged
Balkan officer who was carrying on the conversation in
careful English—it would have been unimaginable that
he should speak in anything {\itshape{but}} English to him—and it
may have been the brilliance of this man’s uniform which
kept one, just at first, from seeing that he, too, our American,
was wearing some sort of uniform, khaki color, very
workman-like and shipshape, which might, if there had
been the least chance of throwing us off, have thrown us.
But his round, good-natured, uncomplicated face, his
light brown hair and the way it was brushed—the very
way it grew, like a school-boy’s—the comfortable set of
his broad shoulders, his kind of energetic inclination to
stoutness, and even the way he sat at the table, were pure
American Middle West and nothing else, no matter what
his uniform proclaimed. He was as American as the
flag, as the opening bars of “The Star-Spangled Banner,”
as American as Kansas, Missouri, and Iowa.\par

And when, at young Homan’s exclamation, I had
turned and found him looking straight toward me, the
twinkle of his eyes had the effect of a friendly wave of
his hand. He had, of course, as he said afterward,
“spotted us,” too. Then he had seen—and it amused
him—the little play of our discovery.\par

I was just turning back to applaud to Homan the
obviousness of his designation, and to wonder, with him,
what the uniform meant, when my eye was caught by a
thin, brilliantly colored line drawn, it seemed, just above
the left breast pocket of his coat, and about the same
length.\par

My first impression of the man, of the familiarity of
his type, had, I suppose, been so strong as to dull for a
moment my reaction to this discovery. I had seen that
vari-colored line often enough before, on the uniforms of
British officers or French; I had perhaps seen it on an
American, but certainly I had never seen it on an American
like this. No wonder the connection was slow to
establish itself. It was a decoration bar, and there must
have been six ribbons at least, if not more.\par

For sheer incongruous association, I doubt if you’d
find a more pat example in a lifetime than the man I had,
on sight, conceived this one to be—the man I may as
well say now he actually {\itshape{was}}—and that bar of ribbons
pinned on his khaki-colored coat.\par

Young Homan had caught it, too, and was sending
past me his deliberate stare of amazement.\par

It was not exactly as if we thought he hadn’t come by
them honestly, but more as if we suggested to each other
that he couldn’t surely have got them in the way decorations
were usually got; it seemed somehow impossible
that he understood their importance. And there was still
something of that in our attitude when, later on, after
dinner, we had drifted into the {\itshape{salon}} with the rest for
our coffee, and by a kind of natural gravitation had found
ourselves in conversation with our compatriot, whose
jocose friendliness led young Homan to ask, half in fun
to be sure, where he had got all the decorations. He
showed certainly no very proper appreciation of their
importance by his answer:\par

“Bought ’em, at the Galleries Lafayette. Get any kind
you want there, y’ know.”\par

We laughed, all of us, for everybody had seen the cases
of medals and decorations at the Galleries. I believe for
an instant the youngster was half inclined to think he {\itshape{had}}
bought them. I know {\itshape{I}} was. As some kind of outlandish
practical joke, of course. It seemed, absurd as the
idea was, so much likelier than that he could have been
through the kind of experiences which result in being
decorated by foreign governments. And such an imposing
array! The scarlet ribbon of the Legion of
Honor, the green of the Japanese “Rising Sun,” the brilliant
stripes of Russian and English decorations, and
strange ones I had never seen before!\par

You see, he had turned out much more Middle West
than we had imagined. In the first ten minutes of our
conversation he had spoken of “home,” and mentioned
the name of the town—Dubuque, Iowa! And a few
minutes later he gave us, by the merest chance phrase or
two, involving the fact that his married sister lived “a
block and a half down the street” from his mother’s
house, a perfectly complete picture of that street—broad
and shady and quiet, of his mother’s yellow frame house,
and the other, white with a green lawn round it, where
his sister lived. And the point was that he was making
no effort toward such an effect. He was only being
himself.\par

His dinner companion, the Balkan officer, came in presently
and addressed Corey as “Doctor” (I adjusted myself
to {\itshape{that}}, still with the Dubuque setting, however), and
it was in the conversation following upon the new introduction
that the object of his being in Paris came out.
He told us, quite by the way, though not in the least depreciating
the importance of his mission—that he was in
Paris for a few days looking up anesthetics for the Serbian
army. He had been working, he said, down in the
Balkans since shortly after the outbreak of the war, in
charge of a sanitary section. They’d been out of anesthetics
for some time now—impossible to get them in—and
they’d been operating, amputating the poor devils’
legs and arms, {\itshape{without}} anesthetics; and now at last he’d
left things long enough to come up to Paris himself and
see what could be done. He was starting back the next
day or the day after that.\par

Corey, from Dubuque! In a makeshift Serbian field
hospital, in that terrible cold, performing delicate and
difficult operations—wholesale, as they must have been
performed—on wounded Balkan soldiers; probing for
bullets in raw wounds—{\itshape{that}} was a picture to set up
beside the one we had of him in Dubuque!\par

And yet—it wasn’t at all a question of doubt (we’d
read it all in the papers day after day); it wasn’t that we
didn’t believe Corey was telling the truth; his evidence
was too obvious for that—the picture didn’t somehow
succeed in painting itself—I can’t to this day say why.
Surely the Balkans just then—operations without anesthetics,
the pageantry and blood-red color of war—surely
there was pigment of more brilliant hue than any contained
in the mere statement that his married sister lived
a block and a half down the street from his mother’s.
But the picture wasn’t painted. Corey wasn’t the artist
to do it. Not, mind you, that he tried; he was as far
from trying to impress one, from affectation, as a boy of
fourteen.\par

I do remember my imagination taking me far enough
to think that if I were a soldier, and wounded, and had to
have a leg or an arm off, I couldn’t think of a man I’d
rather have do it than Corey. Oh yes, I believed him; I
knew he’d been down there in the Balkans, as he said,
and was going back again to-morrow—but I went right
on seeing him in Dubuque, practising his quiet, prosperous
profession in the same suite of offices his father had
used before him.\par

He himself lent, by the things he said, force and reality
to the illusion. He’d like nothing better, he declared,
than settling down in Dubuque for the rest of his life,
and enjoying a home of his own. He intended, in fact,
to do just that when he had finished the Balkan business.
“I’m that type,” he said. “I never was meant to knock
around the world like this.”\par

And he {\itshape{was}} that type, so much the type that it seemed
hardly credible he shouldn’t turn out the exception to
prove the rule. He had already, one would think, made
a sufficient divergence.\par

And that, I suppose—the feeling that no personality
{\itshape{could}} follow so undeviating a line, so obviously its own
path—was responsible for my impression, when I came
later to hear how completely he {\itshape{had}} followed it, of his
being because of it much more unique than he could ever
have made himself by turning aside. True enough, there
are people who, if they heard the tale, might maintain
that he could hardly have accomplished a more striking
divergence from type. I’ll have to confess I thought so
myself—at the first; certainly I thought so all the while
I listened, long afterward, to the quiet, though somewhat
nasal, and thoroughly puzzled voice of the gentle old man
from Dubuque, who seemed, as he recounted the story,
to be seeking in me some solution of Corey’s phenomenon.\par

I thought it even afterward, until, sitting there where
he had left me, I began slowly to orient the facts in relation
to Corey’s character. And then, all at once, it came
to me that it was exactly because Corey {\itshape{hadn’t}} diverged
that he did what he did. He went straight through everything
to his predestined end. Any other man would have
had stages, subtleties, degrees of divergence. But Corey
knew none of those things.\par

It was from old Mr. Ewing of Dubuque that I had my
first news of Corey after that night in the Paris hotel.\par

He must have gone back to his army in the Balkans the
next day, for we were to have seen him that night again
in case he had to stay over, and when I asked I was told
that Monsieur had gone.\par

Things kept reminding me of him. The names of
streets and places in Paris recalled his flat American
mispronunciation of them—mispronunciations which
sounded half as if he were in fun and half as if he didn’t
know any better, or hadn’t paid enough attention to learn
them correctly. I believe he saw, or was subconsciously
aware of, his own incongruity. Still, one would think
he’d have become, so to speak, accustomed to himself in
the strange rôle by then.\par

I think I must have spoken of him rather often to
people, so long as I remained in Paris; and it was, if not
exactly curious, at least a little less than one would expect,
that I never came in contact with any one else who
knew him, until that day, a little while ago, when I met,
in the smoking-car of a west-bound train out of Chicago,
the man who told me all there was, or ever will be, for
any man to tell about Corey.\par

He may have been sitting there near me all the time;
I don’t know. But then he was not the kind of man one
notices in a smoking-car, or any other place, for that matter.
Certainly you would never suspect that so gray and
uninteresting an envelope could inclose the manuscript
of a story like Corey’s. You had seen hundreds like him
before, and you knew what they contained—stereotyped
circular letters full of dull, indisputable facts, nothing
you wanted or cared to know. And it was precisely because
I wished later on one of those very dull facts that
I came to speak to my man.\par

The train coming to a sudden stop brought me out of
my oblivion, and, looking idly out of the window to see
what place it might be, I was seized by one of those fits
of petty annoyance incident to such interruptions, for the
train had run so far past the platform that I found it impossible
to see the name of the station. I got myself
out of my comfortable position, and tried, by turning
completely about, to see back to the station. But we had
gone too far. And then—I haven’t an idea why, for it
was of absolutely no importance to me—I looked about
for some one to ask. And nearest me, sitting rather uncomfortably
upright in his big leather chair, the little
rack at his elbow guiltless of any glass, and holding listlessly
in his hand the latest popular magazine, sat a gray-haired,
gray-suited old gentleman, looking lonesomely
out of his window.\par

“I beg pardon,” I said. “Can you tell me what place
this is?”\par

He turned gratefully at the sound of my voice. “It’s ——,”
he told me. I’ve never been able to recall what
name he said, because, I suppose, of what came after.\par

It was certainly not surprising that he should think,
from my manner, that I had some interest in the place,
and he went on, after a moment’s hesitating silence, to
say, in his unobtrusive but unmistakable Middle-West
voice, that the town was a milling center—flour and
meal, and that kind of thing.\par

I saw that I had committed myself to something more
in the way of conversation than my laconic word of
thanks for his information and a lapse into silence. I
wondered what I could say. He was such a nice, kindly
old gentleman, and he would never in the world have addressed
any one first. I hit upon the most obvious sequence,
and asked if, then, he was familiar with that part
of the country. He said, oh yes, he was “a native of
Iowa.”\par

“Indeed?” I said, for lack of anything else to say, and
his statement not having been a particularly provocative
one.\par

“Yes,” he said. “My home is Dubuque.”\par

Dubuque! Dubuque! What was it I knew about
Dubuque? The name struck me instantly with a sense
of importance, as if it had rung the bell of a target
concealed out of sight. I sought about in my mind for
a full minute before I recalled, with a kind of start—Corey.\par

So many things had come in between—bigger things
than any one man—and overlaid all the pictures that
had gone before. Overlaid them with pigment so crude,
so roughly applied, that one neither saw nor remembered
anything else. All the nations of Europe loosed in the
Great War, and America straining hard at her worn
leash of neutrality. Small wonder that Corey, of Dubuque,
along with countless other memories of that pale
time, had faded into a dim, far perspective.\par

And yet, the sound of that name had brought him—as
clearly as I had seen him that night in Paris—before me.
I heard his voice, felt the vigor of his personality, saw
him throw back his head and laugh. And here, in the
chair next my own, and ready to talk, sat a man who, by
every rule of probability and chance, would be able to tell
me about him.\par

“I know a townsman of yours,” I said, and he evinced
at once a kind of mild and flattered surprise.\par

“From Dubuque?” he said. “Well, well! What’s
his name?”\par

“Corey,” I said. “Doctor Corey.”\par

It had upon him a most unexpected effect; very much,
it seemed, the same effect his announcement had had upon
me the moment before. He leaned forward no more than
an inch, but his mild gray eyes kindled with a kind of
excited intensity.\par

“You knew Jim Corey! Not here—not in Dubuque?”\par

“I met him in Paris,” I said, “quite a long while ago.”\par

“In {\itshape{Paris}}! Well, well—think of that!”\par

He shook his head, and regarded me suddenly with a
stronger and new kind of interest. I was, apparently, the
first person he had ever encountered who had really
known Corey abroad, and I could see that the fact had
established me immediately in his mind as an intimate
friend of Corey’s. I suppose I should have told him that
I had only seen Corey once; that I couldn’t, as a matter
of fact, claim more than a passing acquaintance. But if
I had, I should never have heard what I heard. And,
anyway, it wouldn’t have been, in the sense in which such
things count, exactly true—for it had never been, for
me at least, a one night’s acquaintance. I had seemed to
know Corey better in that one night than one knows most
men in a month of companionship. Yes, it was something
more than the curiosity of a passing acquaintance
that caused me to let the old fellow keep his impression.\par

“It’s queer,” he said, suddenly, throwing up his head,
and pressing open the pages of his popular magazine as
if he were about to begin to read, “he was a kind of relative
of mine. His father and I—third cousins on our
mothers’ side.” He broke off and regarded me again silently,
and I believe now that he was trying to persuade
himself not to go on, not to say anything more. But the
temptation, the maximum, I might say, of temptation,
combined with the minimum of danger that he should
ever see me again, overcame his natural shyness and discretion.
He seemed to decide, upon my ejaculation, to
go on.\par

“His house is just ’round the corner from mine. His
wife lives there now.”\par

“His wife!” The surprise was plain enough in my
voice. And this seemed, just for a second, to surprise
him, too.\par

“You knew,” he said, “that he had married?”\par

I explained that I hadn’t seen Corey for several years,
and added that I had, however, understood that he was
thinking of settling down. It put, I could see, a different
face upon what he had to tell, for he seemed to adjust
himself, as if he must now go back to something he had
thought already understood between us.\par

“You didn’t know, then,” he said, “that he was
dead?”\par

Dead! Corey dead! So that was what he had to tell.
There sprang up in my mind a vague, indefinite vision of
something heroic in connection with the Great War.
When, I asked, and where did he die?\par

“A little over three months ago, in Europe. I was his
executor.”\par

There was something in the way he made his last statement
which lent it a kind of special importance. And it
proved, indeed, in the end, the fact of supreme importance.
And here, as if it were due me, he told me his
name—Ewing; and I told him mine.\par

“Yes,” he said. “I made a trip to New York to see a
man who’d been with him before he died. He brought
a message from Corey. Queer,” he said, “that message.
He must have been—a little off, you know, at the last.”\par

It was clear that something had occurred on his trip
to New York which had puzzled him then, and continued,
in spite of his explanation, to puzzle him still. It was
evident in the way he went back, presently, to the beginning,
as if he were stating a problem or building up a
case.\par

He began by saying that he supposed nobody in Dubuque
ever had understood Corey—“and yet”—he
faced me—“you wouldn’t say he was hard to understand?”\par

I said that he had seemed to me to have an extremely
straightforward and simple personality; that that, to me,
had been one of his charms.\par

“Exactly!” he said, “exactly! That’s what we always
thought in Dubuque—and I’ve known Jim Corey
since the day he was born. Why, he’d go away on one
of his trips, and stay a year, sometimes two, and the day
after he’d get back you’d think he’d never been out of
Dubuque, except he was so glad to be home.”\par

And, talking with a growing and homely fluency, the
nasal quality of his rather pleasant voice increasing
according to the sharpness of his interest, he proceeded to
sketch in, with the fine brush of his provincialism, all the
details of that picture I had had so clearly of Corey that
night in Paris, more than four years before.\par

It was astonishing how right my picture had been; how
they, who had known him always, had been no better able
than I to visualize Corey outside Dubuque.\par

And it seemed to have been the merest chance which
had led him, the year of his graduation from medical
school, to take his first trip away from his native State.
He had “put himself” through college, and had come
out with all the school had to give, wanting more. It was
doubtful if Corey had ever read a novel through in his
life, but the college library yielded up treasures in scientific
and medical books whose plots he remembered as
easily as boarding-school girls remember the plots of
Laura Jean Libbey.\par

In the end he had happened to be engrossed in some
experiments or other with herbs, and it was that which
led him to decide upon going to China. He was going
to study Chinese herbs. And he had gone, straight, without
any stops {\itshape{en route}}, as he did everything. But when
he had been in Pekin two weeks the Boxer Rebellion
broke out, and there he was in the thick of it; and a god-send
he was, too, in the foreign legations, fighting and
caring for wounded by turns, day and night, youth and
strength and his fresh fine skill counting for ten in that
beleaguered handful of desperate men.\par

It was for that he had got his first decoration—Japan’s
Order of the Rising Sun, and a little later had
come from France, for the same service, and quite to the
surprise of Corey, the scarlet ribbon of the Legion of
Honor.\par

There had been, of course, the appropriate furore—pictures
and full-page interviews in the San Francisco
papers on his way home, and Dubuque expecting to see
him come back transformed, a hero, conscious of honors
won. But he had arrived, to their amazement, merely
himself, and they had accepted him, after a day or two,
at his own valuation.\par

That was the first, and it seemed after that, although
he was always off to one of the far corners of the earth,
they were never able to look upon him when he came
home as a distinguished traveler returned. He was
simply, as he seemed to wish to be, “Jim,” or sometimes
“Doc” Corey come home again. And yet they knew
about the things he had done. They knew where he had
been. And they knew, too, about his decorations. They
had seen them on one or two occasions, when he had been
the guest of the evening at the “Business Men’s Banquet,”
and he had “dressed up,” the old gentleman said,
in a full-dress suit and all his decorations. “Two rows,
all kinds, by then.” One could imagine him doing that,
in a spirit of comic masquerade. And one could imagine
him also doing it merely to please them.\par

His wife, after he was married, used to get out his
decorations and show them to her women friends, and at
this Corey only laughed good-humoredly. But she never
showed them to men; she seemed to sense how that would
embarrass him.\par

I asked when he had married her, and who she was.\par

She had been visiting friends, he said, in Dubuque,
when Corey came back, he believed, from the Balkan
War, in the spring of 1913. Pretty quick work they
made of it, too. In August that same summer they had
the wedding at her house in Des Moines. But it had surprised
nobody. They knew he’d been wanting to settle
down; and she was just the right kind of girl—nice and
wholesome, and fond of her home. At last, he said, he
was going to begin to live.\par

He had dropped at once into his place, exactly as if he
had never been away at all—as if, after his graduation,
he had come home to practise his profession. There was
nothing even about his house to indicate the traveler; no
obtrusive trophies of strange lands; no bizarre knick-knacks.
In a room in the attic were a half-full dunnage-bag,
a traveler’s kit, and an officer’s trunk, small size, the
lid pressed down but warped a little so that it would not
lock. And in the corner three pairs of heavy, discarded
boots, gathering dust. That was all.\par

And he {\itshape{was}} happy; naturally, sanely, unaffectedly
happy. There was no room for doubt about that. “Honesty,”
Mr. Ewing called it. He used that word over and
over again in relation to Corey’s psychology at that time.
“And there wasn’t,” he said, “a hypocritical bone in Jim
Corey’s body.” One could see what he meant, and see,
too, that it had, in his mind, some obscure bearing on
what came after.\par

He waited a little here before he went on, as if he were
going over to himself incidents too trivial to relate, but
which would not separate themselves from his memory
of Corey in those days.\par

“Well,” he began, abruptly, rousing himself from his
secret contemplation, “there was that winter, nineteen-thirteen,
and the next summer, nineteen-fourteen; and
then the European war began.”\par

“And he went!” I supplemented, involuntarily, since
from the trend of the narrative I had, of course, seen that
coming.\par

“No,” said Mr. Ewing in a surprisingly quiet tone of
contradiction. “No, he didn’t. I was like you. {\itshape{I}}
thought he’d go.”\par

“You thought he {\itshape{would}}!” I exclaimed, for it seemed
to me he had just been trying to make me see how unshakably
he had believed Corey to be fixed in Dubuque.\par

“Certainly,” he said. “You’d think it would be only
natural he’d want to go. Wouldn’t {\itshape{you}}?” he asked, as
if he had detected in my expression some disposition not
to agree.\par

“{\itshape{I}} would,” I said, still wondering at the ease with
which he had brushed aside what I had foreseen was to
be his climax. For my imagination had long since outrun
his story to the end of the usual domestic tragedy,
wherein Corey had, at the first call of adventure, forsaken
without a word his home and his wife, to find
(had not Mr. Ewing told me in the very beginning of his
death, three months before, some place in Europe?) his
abrupt and unexpected dénouement.\par

There had been, then, something else. “But he did,”
I put forth, “finally go? You said, I think, that he died
over there?”\par

“Oh yes—finally. But that, you see, wasn’t what
counted. It wasn’t the same. It was the way he went.”\par

“The {\itshape{way}}?” I repeated.\par

“Yes. He didn’t go the way, I mean, that I thought
he’d go. The way {\itshape{you}} thought, too.”\par

I said I didn’t understand; that I couldn’t see what
difference it made {\itshape{how}} he went, so long as he did go in
the end.\par

“It made {\itshape{all}} the difference,” said Mr. Ewing. “You
see, he didn’t rush off, at the first news of the fighting,
the way you’d think a man would. Why, we used to
read the papers and talk over the war news together, and
every day I’d expect to hear him say something about
going. He knew all the places, and the way everything
was over there, but he never seemed to care to be there
himself. He used to come round to my house just before
supper-time in the evenings and we’d sit on the porch and
talk, or maybe I’d go round to his porch. I asked him
one day if he didn’t want to go, and all he said was,
‘Why should I?’ And I said I didn’t know, it seemed
to me that he would. And he said he was comfortable
for the first time in his life; he never had liked bumping
around in all sorts of places; hated it as a matter of fact.
I asked him why, if that was the case, he’d kept it up
for so long, all those years; and he laughed, and said {\itshape{he}}
didn’t know; he never {\itshape{had}} been able to figure that out.”\par

Mr. Ewing fell silent here, tapping his right foot on
the carpet a little impatiently and looking speculatively,
yet without seeing, at me. I had the impression that he
felt he had utterly failed, up to now, in making some
subtle point in his story clear, and was considering how
best he might make me see. I was sure of it when, after
a longish pause, he continued, for he seemed to have
decided upon the abandonment of subtleties altogether,
and to give me, for my own interpretation, the facts as
they occurred.\par

Things had gone on without any change all that winter
and the next summer. In August Corey went to some
sort of convention of medical men in Philadelphia. He
was to have been gone something over two weeks. At
the end of that time Mrs. Corey had received a letter saying
that some experiments in which he was specially interested
had developed rather unexpectedly, and Corey,
together with several others, had been detailed to stay on
and work them out to their conclusion. He couldn’t say
just how many days it would take; he would let her know.\par

At the end of another two weeks Corey was still away.
The first phase of the experiments had unhappily come
to grief, and they had had to begin from the first again.
It was annoying, but since they had gone into it, there was
nothing else to be done. He would leave for home on the
moment of the work’s completion. Meantime there
would be little opportunity for letter-writing. She was
not to worry.\par

As the days went on Mrs. Corey began to regret not
having gone along in the beginning, as he had wanted
her to do. Mr. Ewing stopped in now and then to inquire.
Her reticence made him wonder if she might not
be hearing. It was plain that she {\itshape{did}} worry, but, as Mr.
Ewing said, she was not the talkative kind.\par

And then, one morning, just two months from the day
he had left, Corey arrived unexpectedly by the ten-fifty
train. Mr. Ewing, passing the house on his way home
that evening, had been surprised to see Corey, in his shirt-sleeves,
trimming shrubs in the garden. And he had
stopped to welcome him back, and they had talked about
the war in quite the old way, so that from that evening
on it was exactly the same as it had been before Corey
had gone to his convention in Philadelphia.\par

It appears that all this time a very natural intimacy was
growing up between these two, gentle old Mr. Ewing and
Corey. And I can imagine that Corey, who became, as it
were, the instantaneous friend of every one, had made in
his life very few actual contacts, few, if any, real and
intimate friendships. And perhaps that was why this
friendship, based as it was on such small outward manifestations
as talking over the news in the daily papers
together, had prospered. Then, too, there was the relationship,
distant enough to be free of demands.\par

Corey had returned from the Philadelphia trip the last
week in October. It was on a Sunday afternoon near the
middle of December that Mr. Ewing, sitting reading his
weekly illustrated paper, looked up to see through the
window Corey coming quickly along the walk. Mr.
Ewing was struck by something peculiar in his friend’s
appearance, something hurried in the set of his hat and
overcoat, yet as if he himself were entirely unconscious
of haste.\par

He turned in at the gate, and Mr. Ewing got up and
opened the door. Corey came through it, Mr. Ewing
said, as if escaping from something outside, something
of which he was physically afraid. He almost pushed
past Mr. Ewing and into the room, and with scarcely a
glance to make sure they were alone, he spoke, and his
voice was strained like a note on a too taut violin string:\par

“She’s found it! {\itshape{This}}—where I’d had it hid!”\par

He held extended in his open hand, as if there were no
longer any reason for concealing it from any one, what
appeared to Mr. Ewing’s bewildered eyes to be a bit of
ribbon, striped green and red, and a bit of bronze metal
attached.\par

“What is it?” he asked, stupefied by the completeness
of the change that had come upon the man before him.\par

“It’s the {\itshape{Croix}}!” Corey’s voice was impatient, “The
{\itshape{Croix de Guerre}}!”\par

Mr. Ewing stared at the bright-colored thing, trying to
comprehend. Corey still held it outstretched in his hand,
and the bronze Maltese cross with its crossed swords
slipped through his fingers and hung down. Corey’s
voice was going on. Mr. Ewing had missed something.\par

“... So now she knows,” was the end of what he
heard—and in that instant his eye caught the words engraved
on the cross, {\itshape{République Française}}, and the full
meaning of its being there in Corey’s hand burst suddenly
upon him.\par

The new French decoration! The {\itshape{Croix de Guerre}}!\par

“You’ve {\itshape{been}} there?” he managed to say. “You’ve
been over there?”\par

“How else would I get it?” said Corey, with a kind of
abandon, as if he were confessing now to some fullness
of shame. “You see, she’s right. I couldn’t resist.”\par

Mr. Ewing was lost. “Resist what?”\par

“This!” Corey closed his fingers now on the {\itshape{Croix}}.
“A new decoration!”\par

And then, as if every atom of his great, strong body
had suddenly succumbed to some long-growing exhaustion,
Corey dropped down into a chair and threw out his
arm across the table as if he would put away from him
as far as possible that offending decoration.\par

“But when?”—Mr. Ewing found himself reiterating—“when—when—you
haven’t been away—”\par

“Oh, yes,” said Corey. “You remember, in August.”\par

And here Mr. Ewing confessed that he thought for a
moment that Corey must be hopelessly mad. There was
the question of time, and a dozen other questions besides.
It seemed out of the realm of possibility, out of the realm
of reason.\par

“How did you keep her from knowing?”\par

Mr. Ewing had not wanted to ask—had hoped the
point would explain itself—and Corey looked for a
moment as if he might be planning an evasion—then
braced himself and looked Mr. Ewing straight in the
eyes. A faint expression of scorn came round his mouth,
as if he spoke of another—a scoundrel who hardly deserved
his scorn.\par

“I left letters—dated ahead—with the scrubwoman
at the laboratory to mail.” He said it, took his eyes from
Mr. Ewing’s, and then he appeared to wait.\par

Mr. Ewing sat there filled with a kind of amazement,
touched with fear for what should come next, and suddenly
he became conscious that Corey was watching him
with what seemed a tremendous anxiety, waiting for him
to speak. And a moment later, apparently no longer able
to bear that silence, Corey leaned nervously toward Mr.
Ewing, and asked in the tone of one seeking an answer
of utmost importance: “You don’t see it? You don’t see
what she saw?”\par

“See what?” said Mr. Ewing—“what {\itshape{who}} saw?”
Yet he knew that Corey had meant his wife. It was she
who had found the {\itshape{Croix}} ... but what did he mean
she had seen?\par

“Don’t keep it back—just to be decent! She said it
was plain, plain enough for anybody to see. What I
want to {\itshape{know}} is if everybody knew it but me!”\par

“Knew what?” cried poor Mr. Ewing, lost more completely
now than before.\par

“Knew why I’ve done all the things I’ve done—run
all the risks. Why I went over there this time, in August,
without letting her know—God knows {\itshape{I}} didn’t know
why!—why I’ve {\itshape{always}} gone!”\par

“Why have you?” The question asked itself.\par

“Because I wanted the decorations! The damned
orders and medals and things! Because I couldn’t resist
getting a new one—wherever I saw a chance. Do you
believe a man could be as—as {\itshape{rotten}} as that, all his life,
and not know it himself?”\par

Slowly, then, Mr. Ewing began to see. And remotely
it began to dawn upon him—the thing “she” in her
anger had done. For there was no doubt that the thing
was done. The man’s faith and belief in himself, in the
cleanness and simplicity of his own motives, were gone—and
gone in a single devastating blow from which he
had not, and could never, recover. And, searching
for the right thing to say, Mr. Ewing stumbled, as
one always will, upon the one thing he should never have
said:\par

“But you know better than that. You know it’s not
so.”\par

Corey’s answer was not argumentative; it only stated,
wearily, the fact which from the first had seemed to possess
his mind:\par

“No, I don’t know it’s not so. I’ve never been able to
give any reasons for doing the things myself. {\itshape{You’ve}}
asked me why.... I couldn’t tell.”\par

“Why, it was youth,” said Mr. Ewing, and one can
imagine him saying it, gently, as an old-fashioned physician
might offer his homely remedy to a patient whose
knowledge exceeded his own. “Men do those things
when they’re young.”\par

And Corey, rejecting the simple, old-fashioned cure,
made an attempt at a smile for the kindness in which it
was offered. “All men are young, some time,” he said;
“all men don’t do them.”\par

“But you happened to be the kind who would.” And
at this Corey made no attempt to smile.\par

“That’s it!” he said. “I {\itshape{wasn’t}} the kind. I was the
kind to stay at home.... {\itshape{I}} know that. I was always
happier here in Dubuque. And now—this last— You’d
hardly say that was on account of my youth!”\par

“No—but it had got into your blood.”\par

Corey at this gave a start and looked up suddenly at
Mr. Ewing. “Into my blood— It’s the very word she
used! When she admitted I might not have known it
myself, she said she supposed it was just ‘in my
blood’!”\par

He made a gesture which began violently and ended in
futility, and sat silent, looking off steadily into space, as
if hearing again all those dreadful revelations of hers.
And once or twice Mr. Ewing, who sat helplessly by,
waiting, perhaps praying, for some inspiration, made a
valiant but utterly vain effort to put out his hand, to
show by some mere physical act, if no other, his unshaken
belief in his friend.\par

And so, when the need for speech had become imperative,
Mr. Ewing found himself saying something to the
effect that these things pass; that she had only been
angry, and had said the first thing that had come into
her mind. And Corey, realizing the extremity into which
he had led his friend, rose and, either ignoring or not
hearing, from the depth of the chasm into which he had
fallen, Mr. Ewing’s last remark, made some hurried attempt
at apology, and awkwardly moved toward the door.\par

Mr. Ewing had only been able to follow after, and say,
lamely, and in spite of himself, that he mustn’t say or
do anything he might be sorry for, and that they would
see each other again. And then he stood in the open door
and watched Corey go down the path to the gate, and
along the walk, until he had turned the corner, and so
out of sight.\par

And then he had gone back into the house and spent
the remainder of that afternoon trying to realize what
had passed, trying to decide upon what he should say the
next time they met.\par

But he had reached no conclusion, and in the end had
decided to leave it to chance. And Chance had solved his
problem with her usual original simplicity. She took
away the need for his saying anything at all; for the
following day the station cab drove up to Corey’s front
gate and stopped. The driver got down from his seat
and went up the walk and into the house. A moment
later he came out again, bearing on his shoulder the
small-size officer’s trunk, the lid forced down now and
locked, and in one hand, dragging slightly, a full dunnage-bag.
And after him followed Corey. And no one
followed him. No one came out on the porch to say
good-by. No one stood at the window. The driver put
the trunk on the seat beside him, and the dunnage-bag
into the seat beside Corey. And then, without a word or
a sign, they drove away toward the station.\par

It was understood in Dubuque after the next few days
that Corey had gone to help in the war; he had received
an urgent message from France.\par

And Mr. Ewing received, the day after Corey’s departure,
a little note of farewell, written in pencil, while
he was waiting for his train, and mailed at the station.
It said merely good-by, and that he hoped he would
understand.\par

The next week Mrs. Corey closed up the house and
went to Des Moines, to stay with her people, she said,
until her husband’s return.\par

And that was all Mr. Ewing had ever known of what
passed between those two, of the details that led to the
sudden and final decision to go. And it was all that he
had heard of Corey until that day, three months ago,
when there came to him the unexpected letter from the
man in New York, telling of Corey’s death, and of a
message and papers he had to deliver. Mr. Ewing had
replied at once that he would go, and had followed his
letter almost immediately. He had seemed to feel, ever
since that Sunday afternoon, when he had failed to be
of use, an increasing sense of responsibility.\par

He had met the man at his club; and I had, as he told
of the meeting, as he described the man, a curious impression
of actually seeing them there, in the big Fifth
Avenue club, sitting in deeply luxurious chairs and no
table between—the gentle, gray-haired, gray-eyed, gray-garbed
Mr. Ewing, who had never been in New York
City before; and the other, tall, very tall, with black hair,
black eyes, and brown burned skin, who looked, Mr.
Ewing said, as if he’d done all the things Corey had
done.\par

It had been quite by chance that this man, whose name
was Burke, and Corey had been attached to the same section
and were thrown in that way a good deal together.
And his very first statement had shown, with all the force
of the casual phrase, how tremendously Corey had
changed.\par

“A queer fellow,” he said, “no one could understand.”
And he was a man, one would say, well accustomed to
the queerest of men.\par

Mr. Ewing said yes, he supposed one would call him
that, and asked just in what way Burke had thought
Corey queer.\par

And Burke, it seemed, had had more than enough to
base the idea upon. He cast about in his mind to select
one out of the many queer things. And he had hit upon
the most revealing one of them all.\par

Corey, he said, had gone about covered with medals,
two rows, overlapping, on duty and off, all the time.
That in itself was queer, especially for an American.
Most men wore bars, but Corey had worn the whole
thing. And yet, Burke said, he was the least egotistical
man he had ever known. And he had seen him wince
when other men, passing, had smiled at sight of his decorations.
He could never make it out.\par

There was no wonder in that. Mr. Ewing, who knew
Corey well, and had, one might say, something to go on,
couldn’t make it out. And no more, for that matter,
could I. There was something in it a little bizarre, and
certainly alien. Surely no normal Anglo-Saxon American
had ever indulged in such extremes of self-flagellation
as that!\par

And then, abruptly and unbidden, there came into my
mind a story of the old West, the story of how in the
pioneer days a gambler, sitting down to play solitaire,
laid his gun on the table beside him and, if he caught himself
cheating, administered justice first hand by shooting
himself. To be sure, in those days a man was pretty certain
of playing a straight game. Well, so had Corey
been, too, sure of the straightness of {\itshape{his}} game. And I
have heard it vouched for that, even in those robust
times, the thing had been seen to happen, and to come,
with just that appalling simplicity of psychology, from
cause to effect, straight, and without hesitation.\par

The analogy grew, for Burke averred that the queerest
thing of all about Corey was that he had been the only
man he had ever seen lacking entirely the emotion of
fear. He volunteered on every sort of hazardous enterprise,
and came through safe when men beside him were
killed, time after time, protected, they had got to believe,
by the inscrutable quality of his fearlessness. It was,
Burke said, as if against some other secret consideration
death to Corey counted nothing at all.\par

Then there was something a little peculiar in so silent
a man having so many friends. Corey silent! Remembering
him, one could hardly credit that change. Burke
qualified that by saying that when he used the word
silent, he didn’t in any sense mean morose. Corey had
never been that. He merely hadn’t, as people somehow
seemed to expect him to do, talked. And what he had
meant by “friends” he wished to qualify, too. He
hadn’t meant pals. There had been nothing so active as
that. But there were ways to tell when a man was well
liked. For example, no one who knew him had ever seen
anything funny about Corey’s decorations, and they
never talked about it among themselves.\par

Somebody had once asked Corey how long he had been
over the first time. It was evident that he {\itshape{had}} been there
before, because of the {\itshape{Croix de Guerre}} he wore when he
came. And Corey had answered, about six weeks, or a
little less.\par

“And you got the {\itshape{Croix}} in that time?” An exclamation
forced out of the fellow’s astonishment, and bringing
from Corey an answer without a hint of rebuff, yet certainly
nothing that a man could call brag.\par

“You forget,” he said, with an almost imperceptible
glance down at his two rows of medals—“I knew the
ropes.”\par

The man had afterward said to Burke that he was
sorry he’d asked. But he didn’t see anything to be
ashamed of in the {\itshape{Croix}}—and Corey wore it where a
fellow couldn’t help seeing. There was, Burke said, a
queer kind of apology in it. No, there had been nothing
like brag in Corey’s answer. There had been none of that
in anything he had done. And he had been, according
to Burke, the best surgeon of them all, the best man at his
work. But of course he had come to disaster in the end.
A man can’t go on ignoring danger like that.\par

They were stationed at Jubécourt, outside Verdun, and
for months the struggle had raged, attack and counterattack,
for the possession of Hill 304. Corey had gone
up to the front {\itshape{poste de secour}} at Esnes, where in an
underground shelter fitted up in what had been the basement
of an ancient château, reduced now to ruins by the
German shells, he was giving first aid to the wounded
brought in from the trenches.\par

Word had come into the {\itshape{poste}} one night that an officer,
lying in a trench dugout, was too far gone to move. And
Corey had volunteered to go, alone, on foot, along the
zigzag communication trench that led to the dugout,
under the incessant shelling, and see what he could do.
And early that morning, about three o’clock, they had
been carried in, Corey and his officer—the only two who
had come out of that trench alive.\par

From the officer they had the story of what Corey had
done; not many words, to be sure, and little embellishment,
but such accounts need no flowers, no figures of
speech. The facts are enough, told in gasps, as this one
was, hurriedly, while yet there was strength, as one pays
a debt, all at once, for fear he may never again have gold
to pay.\par

A trench torpedo had found its mark. And Corey,
bending above him, had deliberately braced himself, holding
his arms out, and had received in his stead the exploding
pieces of shell. He raised himself on his elbow
to look at Corey, unconscious, on the next stretcher. He
wanted it understood. He sent for an orderly and dictated
a message which he managed to sign, and despatched
it post-haste to Staff Headquarters. And then
he resigned himself to the hands of those about him.\par

The news had come in to Jubécourt by telephone, and
just before dawn Burke had gone up to see what could
be done. When he reached the {\itshape{poste}} Corey had regained
consciousness, and was waiting for him. He had sent
word ahead that he was coming. And Corey was
wounded, Burke said, in a way no other man could have
withstood. And the “queer” thing now was that he
knew it, and when Burke leaned over him there was a
gleam in his eyes as if he were keeping it there by his
own will power.\par

He seemed relieved then, and began at once—he had
saved a surprising amount of strength—to speak. He
knew Burke planned to go to New York, and he wanted
him to deliver some papers. They were in his bag, at
Jubécourt; he told him where he should find the key, and
then he asked Burke to write down Mr. Ewing’s name
and address.\par

It was while Burke was crossing the dim, lamp-lighted
room in search of a pencil or pen that some one had
stopped him to say that the General was coming at eleven
to confer upon Corey the {\itshape{Medaille Militaire}}. It had
given Burke a distinct kind of shock. Could it be, he
wondered, that {\itshape{that}} was what Corey had saved himself
for? For Corey knew, as well as they, that the {\itshape{Medaille
Militaire}} was the one decoration never conferred upon
dead men. He had gone on and borrowed the pen, and
on the way back had asked if he might be allowed to tell
Corey. It might, he said, do him some good. That news
had turned the balance for more than one man.\par

But when, a few moments later, Burke, receiving permission,
had told Corey his news, he had been for a
moment afraid that the balance {\itshape{had}} turned—and in the
wrong way. Corey had seemed hardly to comprehend,
and then a sudden unaccountable change had come over
his face.\par

“The {\itshape{Medaille}}!” he gasped. “What time did you
say?”\par

“Eleven,” Burke told him—“three hours from now.”\par

He seemed then to be considering something deep
within himself, so that Burke hardly heard when he said,
“That’s time enough.” And Burke, thinking that he
had been measuring his strength against the time, hastened
a little awkwardly to reassure him. But Corey,
ignoring his assurance, had seemed to arrive at some
secret conclusion.\par

“Did you put down the name?” he asked.\par

Burke had forgotten the name, and Corey told him
again, patiently, spelling out the address. He watched
while Burke wrote.\par

“The papers all go to him.” He was silent a moment.
Then: “Listen,” he said. “Will you give him this message
for me?”\par

Burke promised, whatever he wished, word for word.\par

“Tell him,” he said, “that it breaks a man’s luck to
know what he wants.”\par

“Yes,” said Burke. “Is there anything else?”\par

The strength had drained out of Corey’s voice with the
last words. Again he waited while he seemed to decide.
And when he spoke, at last, a strange gentleness had
come into his tone, so that Burke was not surprised to
hear that the message was meant now for a woman.\par

“Tell him,” said Corey, “there’s no use letting {\itshape{her}}
know about the {\itshape{Medaille Militaire}}.”\par

And although Burke had divined some obscure meaning
in Corey’s words, he was yet not quite certain that he
had heard aright. “You mean that she’s {\itshape{not}} to know?”\par

Corey nodded his head, yes, and Burke saw that he was
no longer able to speak. Turning, he motioned an orderly
to his side, and whispered that he was afraid Corey
would never last until eleven.\par

The orderly sped away, and a moment later the French
doctor in charge stood beside Corey’s stretcher, opening
his hypodermic case.\par

And then, Burke said, he had done what seemed to him
the “queerest” thing of all. He had made a signal for
Burke to come nearer, and when he had leaned down, he
said, “Remember to tell him I didn’t take {\itshape{that}}.” He was
looking at the hypodermic the doctor held in his hand.\par

“But the {\itshape{Medaille}}—” began Burke, and was stopped
by the strangeness of Corey’s expression. He had, he
said, smiled a secret mysterious smile, and closed his eyes
with a curious look of contentment.\par

And even the French doctor had seen, by something
in his faint gesture of refusal, that Corey would never
submit to his restorative. He put the case down on a
box, with a nod to the orderly, in case Corey should
change his mind.\par

And Burke had stayed by until the Division General,
just half an hour too late, had arrived at exactly eleven
o’clock. Corey had not changed his mind....\par

That, then, was the end of the story.\par

So much affected was I at the nature of poor Corey’s
death that I almost forgot Mr. Ewing, sitting there across
from me in our comfortable smoking-car, and that he
might, in all decency, expect some comment from me.
Indeed, I think I should have forgotten altogether if I
had not felt after a little a relaxation of his long-continued
gaze, and I knew he was going to speak.\par

“Why,” he said, “do {\itshape{you}} think he didn’t want her to
know?”\par

So that was the thing which had puzzled him in New
York, the thing which still puzzled him now.\par

Well, it had puzzled me, too; and I could give him no
answer, except to confess that I didn’t know. But long
after the train had passed through Dubuque, and Mr.
Ewing and I had said good-by, an answer, perhaps right,
perhaps wrong, presented itself to my mind.\par

If one followed Corey at all, one must follow him all
the way; perhaps he had wished to save her the pang
of an added disgrace.\par

\penalty-300%
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\hypertarget{the-dark-hour}{}%
\vskip 3.5ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Large\bfseries%
{\centering
{\Large\strut{THE DARK HOUR}}
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\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\scshape{By}} WILBUR DANIEL STEELE\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{The Atlantic Monthly}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by The Atlantic Monthly Co.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by Wilbur Daniel Steele.}}}}\par}
\end{verse}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
The returning ship swam swiftly through the dark;
the deep, interior breathing of the engines, the singing
of wire stays, the huge whispering rush of foam
streaming the water-line made up a body of silence upon
which the sound of the doctor’s footfalls, coming and
going restlessly along the near deck, intruded only a little—a
faint and personal disturbance. Charging slowly
through the dark, a dozen paces forward, a dozen paces
aft, his invisible and tormented face bent forward a little
over his breast, he said to himself,—\par

“What fools! What blind fools we’ve been!”\par

Sweat stood for an instant on his brow, and was gone
in the steady onrush of the wind.\par

The man lying on the cot in the shelter of the cabin
companionway made no sound all the while. He might
have been asleep or dead, he remained so quiet; yet he
was neither asleep nor dead, for his eyes, large, wasted,
and luminous, gazed out unwinking from the little darkness
of his shelter into the vaster darkness of the night,
where a star burned in slow mutations, now high, now
sailing low, over the rail of the ship.\par

Once he said in a washed and strengthless voice,
“That’s a bright star, doctor.”\par

If the other heard, he gave no sign. He continued
charging slowly back and forth, his large dim shoulders
hunched over his neck, his hands locked behind him, his
teeth showing faintly gray between the fleshy lips which
hung open a little to his breathing.\par

“It’s dark!” he said of a sudden, bringing up before
the cot in the companionway. “God, Hallett, how dark
it is!” There was something incoherent and mutilated
about it, as if the cry had torn the tissues of his throat.
“I’m not myself to-night,” he added, with a trace of
shame.\par

Hallett spoke slowly from his pillow.\par

“It wouldn’t be the subs to-night? You’re not that
kind, you know. I’ve seen you in the zone. And we’re
well west of them by this, anyhow; and as you say, it’s
very dark.”\par

“It’s not that darkness. Not that!”\par

Again there was the same sense of something tearing.
The doctor rocked for a moment on his thick legs. He
began to talk.\par

“It’s this {\itshape{war}}—” His conscience protested: “I
ought not to go on so—it’s not right, not right at all—talking
so to the wounded—the dying—I shouldn’t go
on so to the dying—” And all the while the words continued
to tumble out of his mouth. “No, I’m not a
coward—not especially. You know I’m not a coward,
Hallett. You know that. But just now, to-night, somehow,
the whole black truth of the thing has come out and
got me—jumped out of the dark and got me by the
neck, Hallett. Look here; I’ve kept a stiff lip. Since
the first I’ve said, ‘We’ll win this war.’ It’s been a
matter of course. So far as I know, never a hint of
doubt has shadowed my mind, even when things went
bad. ‘In the end,’ I’ve said, ‘in the end, of course, we’re
bound to win.’”\par

He broke away again to charge slowly through the
dark with his head down, butting; a large, overheated
animal endowed with a mind.\par

“But—do we want to win?”\par

Hallett’s question, very faint across the subdued breathings
and showerings of the ship, fetched the doctor up.
He stood for a moment, rocking on his legs and staring
at the face of the questioner, still and faintly luminous
on the invisible cot. Then he laughed briefly, shook himself,
and ignored the preposterous words. He recollected
tardily that the fellow was pretty well gone.\par

“No,” he went on. “Up to to-night I’ve never
doubted. No one in the world, in {\itshape{our}} part of the world,
has doubted. The proposition was absurd to begin with.
Prussia, and her fringe of hangers-on, to stand against
the world—to stand against the very drift and destiny
of civilization? Impossible! A man can’t do the impossible;
that’s logic, Hallett, and that’s common sense.
They might have their day of it, their little hour, because
they had the jump—but in the end! {\itshape{in the end!}}— But
look at them, will you! Look at them! That’s what’s
got me to-night, Hallett. Look at them! There they
stand. They won’t play the game, won’t abide at all by
the rules of logic, of common sense. Every day, every
hour, they perform the impossible. Not once since the
war was a year old have they been able to hang out another
six months. They’d be wiped from the earth; their
people would starve. They’re wiped from the earth, and
they remain. They starve and lay down their skinny
bodies on the ground, and they stand up again with sleek
bellies. They make preposterous, blind boasts. They
say, ‘We’ll over-run Roumania in a month.’ Fantastic!
It’s {\itshape{done}}! They say, ‘Russia? New-born Russia?
Strong young boy-Russia? We’ll put him out of it for
good and all by Christmas.’ That was to cheer up the
hungry ones in Berlin. Everybody saw through it. The
very stars laughed. {\itshape{It’s done!}} God, Hallett! It’s like
clockwork. It’s like a rehearsed and abominable
programme—”\par

“Yes—a programme.”\par

The wounded man lay quite still and gazed at the star.
When he spoke, his words carried an odd sense of authenticity,
finality. His mind had got a little away from him,
and now it was working with the new, oracular clarity
of the moribund. It bothered the doctor inexplicably—tripped
him up. He had to shake himself. He began to
talk louder and make wide, scarcely visible gestures.\par

“We’ve laughed so long, Hallett. There was {\itshape{Mittel-Europa}}!
We always laughed at that. A wag’s tale. To
think of it—a vast, self-sufficient, brutal empire laid
down across the path of the world! Ha-ha! Why, even
if they had {\itshape{wanted}} it, it would be—”\par

“If they {\itshape{wanted}} it, it would be—{\itshape{inevitable}}.”\par

The doctor held up for a full dozen seconds. A kind
of anger came over him and his face grew red. He
couldn’t understand. He talked still louder.\par

“But they’re {\itshape{doing}} it! They’re doing that same preposterous
thing before our eyes, and we can’t touch them,
and they’re— Hallett! {\itshape{They’re damn near done!}} Behind
that line there,—you know the line I mean,—who
of us doesn’t know it? That thin line of smoke and
ashes and black blood, like a bent black wire over France!
Behind that line they’re at work, day by day, month after
month, building the empire we never believed. And Hallett,
{\itshape{it’s damn near done}}! And we can’t stop it. It
grows bigger and bigger, darker and darker—it covers
up the sky—like a nightmare—”\par

“Like a dream!” said Hallett softly; “a dream.”\par

The doctor’s boot-soles drummed with a dull, angry
resonance on the deck.\par

“And we can’t touch them! They couldn’t conceivably
hold that line against us—against the whole world—long
enough to build their incredible empire behind it.
{\itshape{And they have!}} Hallett! How {\itshape{could}} they ever have
held it?”\par

“You mean, how could we ever have held it?”\par

Hallett’s words flowed on, smooth, clear-formed, unhurried,
and his eyes kept staring at the star.\par

“No, it’s we have held it, not they. And we that have
got to hold it—longer than they. Theirs is the kind
of a {\itshape{Mittel-Europa}} that’s been done before; history is little
more than a copybook for such an empire as they are
building. We’ve got a vaster and more incredible empire
to build than they—a {\itshape{Mittel-Europa}}, let us say, of
the spirit of man. No, no, doctor; it’s we that are doing
the impossible, holding that thin line.”\par

The doctor failed to contain himself.\par

“Oh, pshaw! {\itshape{pshaw!}} See here, Hallett! We’ve had
the men, and there’s no use blinking the truth. And
we’ve had the money and the munitions.”\par

“But back of all that, behind the last reserve, the last
shell-dump, the last treasury, haven’t they got something
that we’ve never had?”\par

“And what’s that?”\par

“A dream.”\par

“A {\itshape{what}}?”\par

“A dream. We’ve dreamed no dream. Yes—let me
say it! A little while ago you said, ‘nightmare,’ and
I said, ‘dream.’ Germany has dreamed a dream. Black
as the pit of hell,—yes, yes,—but a dream. They’ve
seen a vision. A red, bloody, damned vision,—yes, yes,—but
a vision. They’ve got a programme, even if it’s
what you called it, a ‘rehearsed and abominable programme.’
And they know what they want. And we
don’t know what we want!”\par

The doctor’s fist came down in the palm of his hand.\par

“What we want? I’ll tell you what we want, Hallett.
{\itshape{We want to win this war!}}”\par

“Yes?”\par

“And by the living God, Hallett, we will win this war!
I can see again. If we fight for half a century to come;
if we turn the world wrong-side-out for men, young men,
boys, babes; if we mine the earth to a hollow shell for
coal and iron; if we wear our women to ghosts to get out
the last grain of wheat from the fields—we’ll do it!
And we’ll wipe this black thing from the face of the
earth forever, root and branch, father and son of the
bloody race of them to the end of time. If you want a
dream, Hallett, there’s a—”\par

“There’s a—nightmare. An overweening muscular
impulse to jump on the thing that’s scared us in the dark,
to break it with our hands, grind it into the ground with
our heels, tear ourselves away from it—and wake up.”\par

He went on again after a moment of silence.\par

“Yes, that’s it, that’s it. We’ve never asked for anything
better; not once since those terrible August days
have we got down on our naked knees and prayed for anything
more than just to be allowed to wake up—and find
it isn’t so. How can we expect, with a desire like that,
to stand against a positive and a flaming desire? No, no!
The only thing to beat a dream is a dream more poignant.
The only thing to beat a vision black as midnight is a
vision white as the noonday sun. We’ve come to the
place, doctor, where half a loaf is worse than no bread.”\par

The doctor put his hands in his pockets and took them
out again, shifted away a few steps and back again. He
felt inarticulate, handless, helpless in the face of things,
of abstractions, of the mysterious, unflagging swiftness
of the ship, bearing him willy-nilly over the blind surface
of the sea. He shook himself.\par

“God help us,” he said.\par

“What God?”\par

The doctor lifted a weary hand.\par

“Oh, if you’re going into {\itshape{that}}—”\par

“Why not? Because Prussia, doctor, has a god.
Prussia has a god as terrible as the God of conquering
Israel, a god created in her own image. We laugh when
we hear her speaking intimately and surely to this god.
I tell you we’re fools. I tell you, doctor, before we shall
stand we shall have to create a god in {\itshape{our}} own image,
and before we do that we shall have to have a living and
sufficient image.”\par

“You don’t think much of us,” the doctor murmured
wearily.\par

The other seemed not to hear. After a little while he
said:\par

“We’ve got to say black or white at last. We’ve got
to answer a question this time with a whole answer.”\par

“This war began so long ago,” he went on, staring at
the star. “So long before Sarajevo, so long before the
‘balances of power’ were thought of, so long before the
‘provinces’ were lost and won, before Bismarck and the
lot of them were begotten, or their fathers. So many,
many years of questions put, and half-answers given in
return. Questions, questions: questions of a power-loom
in the North Counties; questions of a mill-hand’s lodging
in one Manchester or another, of the weight of a headtax
in India, of a widow’s mass for her dead in Spain;
questions of a black man in the Congo, of an eighth-black
man in New Orleans, of a Christian in Turkey, an
Irishman in Dublin, a Jew in Moscow, a French cripple
in the streets of Zabern; questions of an idiot sitting on a
throne; questions of a girl asking her vote on a Hyde
Park rostrum, of a girl asking her price in the dark of a
Chicago doorway—whole questions half-answered,
hungry questions half-fed, mutilated fag-ends of questions
piling up and piling up year by year, decade after
decade.— Listen! There came a time when it wouldn’t
do, wouldn’t do at all. There came a time when the son
of all those questions stood up in the world, final, unequivocal,
naked, devouring, saying, ‘Now you shall answer
me. You shall look me squarely in the face at last,
and you shall look at nothing else; you shall take your
hands out of your pockets and your tongues out of your
cheeks, and no matter how long, no matter what the blood
and anguish of it, you shall answer me now with a whole
answer—or perish!’”\par

“And what’s the answer?”\par

The doctor leaned down a little, resting his hands on
the foot of the cot.\par

The gray patch of Hallett’s face moved slightly in the
dark.\par

“It will sound funny to you. Because it’s a word
that’s been worn pretty thin by so much careless handling.
It’s ‘Democracy’!”\par

The doctor stood up straight on his thick legs.\par

“Why should it sound funny?” he demanded, a vein
of triumph in his tone. “It is the answer. And we’ve
{\itshape{given}} it. ‘Make the world safe for democracy!’ Eh?
You remember the quotation?”\par

“Yes, yes, that’s good. But we’ve got to do more
than say it, doctor. Go further. We’ve got to dream
it in a dream; we’ve got to see democracy as a wild, consuming
vision. If the day ever comes when we shall
pronounce the word ‘democracy’ with the same fierce
faith with which we conceive them to be pronouncing
‘autocracy’—that day, doctor—”\par

He raised a transparent hand and moved it slowly over
his eyes.\par

“It will be something to do, doctor, that will. Like
taking hold of lightning. It will rack us body and soul;
belief will strip us naked for a moment, leave us new-born
and shaken and weak—as weak as Christ in the manger.
And that day nothing can stand before us. Because, you
see, we’ll know what we want.”\par

The doctor stood for a moment as he had been, a large,
dark troubled body rocking slowly to the heave of the
deck beneath him. He rubbed a hand over his face.\par

“Utopian!” he said.\par

“Utopian!” Hallett repeated after him. “To-day we
are children of Utopia—or we are nothing. I tell you,
doctor, to-day it has come down to this—Hamburg to
Bagdad—or—Utopia!”\par

The other lifted his big arms and his face was red.\par

“You’re playing with words, Hallett. You do nothing
but twist my words. When I say Utopian, I mean, precisely,
impossible. Absolutely impossible. See here!
You tell me this empire of theirs is a dream. I give you
that. How long has it taken them to dream it? Forty
years. {\itshape{Forty years!}} And this wild, transcendental
empire of the spirit you talk about,—so much harder,—so
many hundreds of times more incredible,—will
you have us do that sort of a thing in a {\itshape{day}}? We’re
a dozen races, a score of nations. I tell you it’s—it’s
impossible!”\par

“Yes. Impossible.”\par

The silence came down between them, heavy with all
the dark, impersonal sounds of passage, the rhythmical
explosions of the waves, the breathing of engines, the
muffled staccato of the spark in the wireless room, the
note of the ship’s bell forward striking the hour and
after it a hail, running thin in the wind: “Six bells, sir,
and—{\itshape{all’s well}}!”\par

“{\itshape{All’s well!}}”\par

The irony of it! The infernal patness of it, falling so
in the black interlude, like stage business long rehearsed.\par

“{\itshape{All’s well!}}” the doctor echoed with the mirthless
laughter of the damned.\par

Hallett raised himself very slowly on an elbow and
stared at the star beyond the rail.\par

“Yes, I shouldn’t wonder. Just now—to-night—somehow—I’ve
got a queer feeling that maybe it is.
Maybe it’s going to be.—Maybe it’s going to be; who
knows? The darkest hour of our lives, of history, perhaps,
has been on us. And maybe it’s almost over.
Maybe we’re going to do the impossible, after all, doctor.
And maybe we’re going to get it done in time. I’ve got
a queer sense of something happening—something getting
ready.”\par

When he spoke again, his voice had changed a little.\par

“I wish my father could have lived to see this day.
He’s in New York now, and I should like—”\par

The doctor moved forward suddenly and quietly,
saying: “Lie down, Hallett. You’d better lie down
now.”\par

But the other protested with a gray hand.\par

“No, no, you don’t understand. When I say—well—it’s
just the shell of my father walking around and talking
around, these ten years past. Prison killed his heart.
He doesn’t even know it, that the immortal soul of him
has gone out. You know him, doctor. Ben Hallett; the
Radical—‘the Destroyer,’ they used to call him in the
old days. He was a brave man, doctor; you’ve got to
give him that; as brave as John the Baptist, and as mad.
I can see him now,—to-night,—sitting in the back room
in Eighth Street, he and old Radinov and Hirsch and
O’Reilly and the rest, with all the doors shut and the
windows shut and their eyes and ears and minds shut up
tight, trying to keep the war out. They’re old men, doctor,
and they must cling to yesterday, and to to-morrow.
They mustn’t see to-day. They must ignore to-day.
To-day is the tragic interruption. They too ask nothing
but to wake up and find it isn’t so. All their lives they’ve
been straining forward to see the ineffable dawn of the
Day of Man, calling for the Commune and the red barricades
of revolution. The barricades! Yesterday, it
seems to them now, they were almost in sight of the splendid
dawn—the dawn of the Day of Barricades. And
then this war, this thing they call a ‘rich man’s plot’ to
confound them, hold them up, turn to ashes all the fire of
their lives. All they can do is sit in a closed room with
their eyes shut and wait till this meaningless brawl is
done. And then, to-morrow—to-morrow—some safely
distant to-morrow (for they’re old men),—to-morrow,
the barricades! And that’s queer. That’s queer.”\par

“Queer?”\par

“It seems to me that for days now, for weeks and
months now, there’s been no sound to be heard in all the
length and breadth of the world but the sound of
barricades.”\par

The voice trailed off into nothing.\par

To the doctor, charging slowly back and forth along
the near deck, his hands locked behind him and his face
bent slightly over his breast, there came a queer sense of
separation, from Hallett, from himself, his own everyday
acts, his own familiar aspirations, from the ship which
held him up in the dark void between two continents.\par

What was it all about, he asked himself over and over.
Each time he passed the shadow in the companionway he
turned his head, painfully, and as if against his will.
Once he stopped squarely at the foot of the cot and stood
staring down at the figure there, faintly outlined, motionless
and mute. Sweat stood for a moment on his brow,
and was gone in the steady onrush of the wind. And he
was used to death.\par

But Hallett had fooled him. He heard Hallett’s whisper
creeping to him out of the shadow:\par

“That’s a bright star, doctor.”\par

\penalty-300%
\label{the-bird-of-serbia}%
\hypertarget{the-bird-of-serbia}{}%
\vskip 3.5ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Large\bfseries%
{\centering
{\Large\strut{THE BIRD OF SERBIA}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 2.3ex\nobreak

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\scshape{By}} JULIAN STREET\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{Collier’s Weekly}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by P. F. Collier \& Son, Inc.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by Julian Street.}}}}\par}
\end{verse}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“Here’s a queer item,” remarked the man at the window
end of the long leather-covered seat, looking
up from his newspaper and apparently speaking in general
to the other occupants of the Pullman smoking compartment.
“There’s a dispatch here announcing the
death from tuberculosis of that Serbian who shot the
Archduke of Austria at Sarajevo. It seems he has been
in prison ever since. I thought he had been executed long
ago.”\par

Four of us, strangers to one another, had settled in the
smoking compartment at the beginning of the journey
from Chicago to New York, and as we had been on our
way nearly an hour it seemed time for conversation.\par

“They didn’t execute him,” replied a man who sat in
one of the chairs, “because he was under age. It’s
against the law, over there, to execute a person under
twenty-one. This boy was only nineteen.”\par

“The law wouldn’t have cut much figure over here in
a case like that,” replied the first speaker.\par

“Perhaps not,” returned the man in the chair, “but
respect for law is one of the few benefits that seem to go
with autocratic government. I don’t find that dispatch
in my paper. May I borrow yours?”\par

The other handed over the journal, indicating the item
with his finger.\par

“I had almost forgotten that fellow,” spoke up a third
traveler. “The rush and magnitude of the war have carried
our thoughts—and for the matter of that, our soldiers
too—a pretty long way since the assassination
occurred. Yet I suppose historians, digging back into
the minute beginnings of the war, will all trace down to
the shot fired by that Serbian.”\par

“That’s what the paper says,” returned the one who
had begun to talk. “It speaks of ‘the historic shot fired
in Serbia’ as the thing that fired the world.”\par

“And in doing so,” declared the man who had borrowed
the paper, “it falls into a popular error. The shot
was {\itshape{not}} fired in Serbia, but in Austria-Hungary, and the
boy who did the shooting was an Austro-Hungarian
subject.”\par

“But that doesn’t seem possible,” interposed the man
who had spoken of the historical aspect of the case. “If
he was an Austrian subject and did the shooting in Austria,
how could Austria make that an excuse for attacking
Serbia?”\par

The other looked from the window for a moment before
replying.\par

“It was one of the poorest excuses imaginable,” he
returned. “Autocracies can do those things; that’s why
they must be stamped out. As you said, historians will
trace back to the assassination. It so happened that I
was over there at the time and got a glimpse of what lay
back of the assassination—microscopic, unclean forces
of which historians will never hear, yet which seem peculiarly
suitable in connection with Austria’s crime. But
I had better not get to talking about all that.”\par

As though in indication of his intention to be silent,
he closed his mouth firmly. It was a strong mouth and
could shut with finality. Everything about him expressed
strength and determination mixed, as these qualities often
are in the highest type of American business man, with
gentleness, good nature, and modesty. I liked his looks.
He was the kind of man you would pick out to take care
of your watch and pocketbook—or your wife—in case
of emergency. I wanted him to go on talking, and said
so, and when both the other men backed up my request,
he began in a spirit evidently reluctant but obliging:\par

“For some years before the outbreak of this war,” he
said, “I represented a large American oil company in
southeastern Europe, where we had a considerable market.
My headquarters were at Vienna, but my travels
took me through various countries inhabited by people
of the Serb race, and I found it advantageous to learn to
speak the Serbian tongue, both for business reasons and
because I enjoyed making friends among the people. In
order to practice the language and form some knowledge
of the people, I made it a custom, when traveling, to stop
at small hotels used by the Serbs themselves, in preference
to the more cosmopolitan establishments; or, where the
small hotels were not clean, I would sometimes take a
room with some Serbian family.\par

”In Bosnia there was one very attractive little city to
which I was always particularly glad to go. It was a
place of thirty or forty thousand inhabitants and lay in
a lovely, fertile valley among the hills; and you may judge
something of it by the fact that the Serbs coupled the
adjective ‘golden’ with the town’s name. Not one American
in a thousand—probably not one in a hundred thousand—had
ever heard of the place then, yet it was the
capital of Bosnia. The Austrian governor of Bosnia had
his palace there, and the life of the place was like that of
some great capital in miniature. One thing about the
town which interested me was the way in which its people
and its architecture reflected Bosnian history. In the first
place there were many Serbs there, the more prosperous
of them dressing like conventional Europeans—except
that the fez was worn by almost all of them—and living
in low, picturesque Serbian houses, with roofs of tile or
flat stone shingle; the rest peasants in the Bosnian costume,
who came in from the outlying agricultural regions.
But also there were Mohammedans—leftovers from the
days of Turkish dominion—and the town had minarets
and other architectural signs of the Turk. And last there
were the Austrians—the Austrian governor, Austrian
soldiers in uniform about the streets, Austrian minor officials
everywhere; and in new buildings, parks, and boulevards,
Austrian taste. For, after taking Bosnia, under
the Treaty of Berlin, in 1878, the Austrians, knowing well
that their grabbing policy was criticized, went to some
pains to beautify the Bosnian capital, with the object, it
is commonly understood, of impressing visitors—and
perhaps also the inhabitants themselves—with the ‘benefits’
of Austrian rule—as though palaces, parks, pavements,
and prostitutes were sufficient compensation to the
Serbs for the racial unity and freedom which have been
denied them, first by one nation, then by another.“\par

“But,” some one broke in, “up to the time of the present
war, didn’t the Serbs have Serbia?”\par

“The present kingdom of Serbia proper was inhabited
by Serbs,” returned the other, “but the Serbia we know
is only a small part of what was, long ago, the Serbian
Empire. Since the fall of the empire, in the fourteenth
century, it has been the great ambition of the Serbs to
become again a unified nation. Bosnia was a part of the
old empire, but was conquered by the Turks, and later
taken over by the Austrians. The story I am about to tell
shows, however, what an enduring race consciousness the
Bosnian Serbs have maintained.\par

“Our district manager for Bosnia lived in the town of
which I have been speaking, and when I first went there
he took me to a small but particularly clean and attractive
hotel, run by an Austrian Serb. As is usual in small
hotels in Europe, the proprietor’s family took part in the
work of running the place; and as I used to stay there
frequently, sometimes for two or three weeks at a stretch,
I soon came to know them all well. As the years passed
I became really attached to them, and there were many
signs to show that they were fond of me. Michael, the
father, exercised general supervision—though he was
not above carrying a trunk upstairs; Stana, the mother,
kept the accounts and superintended the cooking, which
was excellent; the two daughters worked in the kitchen
and sometimes helped wait on table. Even the boy,
Gavrilo, the youngest member of the family, helped after
school with light work, though he studied hard and was
not very strong. I often sat with them at their own
family table at one end of the dining-room; I called them
all by their given names, and addressed them with the
‘thee’ and ‘thou’ of familiarity.\par

“When I first knew Gavrilo he was twelve or thirteen
years old. His father, though of pure Serb blood, had
acquired, with years and experience in business, a certain
resignation to the existing order of things. He had seen
several wars and revolutions, and as he grew older had
begun to think that peace under Austrian domination was
better than continual conflict, whatever the cause.\par

“The boy Gavrilo was, however, more like Stana, his
mother. Stana could grow old, but the flame in her, the
poetry, the mysticism, and above all the Serbian racial
feeling, never diminished. Gavrilo learned the Serbian
folk stories and songs at her knee; also he learned from
her Serbian history, which, under Austria, was not taught
in the schools; for the Austrians have long desired to
crush out Serbian racial feeling.\par

“Gavrilo and I became great friends. He was hungry
for knowledge and never tired of asking me about the
United States and our freedom, free speech, and free opportunity—all
of which, of course, seemed very wonderful
to one growing up in a decadent, bureaucratic empire,
made up of various races held together against their will.
In return I gathered from Gavrilo a considerable knowledge
of Serb history and legend—and you may be sure
that in what he told me, neither the Turks nor the Austrians
came off very well. Even as a lad he always
referred to the Austrians as {\itshape{shvaba}}—a Serbian word
meaning something like our term boches—and by the
time he was sixteen he had promoted them to be {\itshape{proclete
shvaba}}, which may be freely translated as ‘damned
boches.’\par

“For a long time I took his strong anti-Austrian utterances
lightly, considering them the result of boyish ebullience
of spirit, but as he grew nearer manhood, and the
fierceness of his feeling seemed to increase rather than
diminish, I became concerned about him; for it is no wiser
for an Austrian Serb to call the Austrians {\itshape{shvaba}} than it
would be for an Alsatian to call the Prussians boches.\par

“As Gavrilo grew up, his passionate racial feeling disturbed
me more and more, though, of course, I sympathized
with it. I determined to make an opportunity for
a serious talk with him on the subject, and to that end
suggested that he go with me to the neighboring hills
for a couple of days’ gunning; for Bosnia abounds in
game.\par

“Gavrilo proved to be a very good shot. He would
shoot wild pigeons, grouse, and woodcock from the hip,
and he even brought along a pistol with which he could
hit a hare at a considerable distance. These exhibitions
of skill were, however, accompanied by remarks which
did not make it easier for me to broach the topic upon
which I wished to speak to him. When he would hit a
pigeon he would exclaim: ‘There goes another member
of the Hapsburg family!’ or: ‘That one was a {\itshape{shvab}}
tax collector!’ or, mock-heroically, ‘So much for you,
you nobleman of brilliant plumage with a {\itshape{von}} before your
name. No more will the peasants step out of the road
and bow down before you!’\par

“‘Look here, Gavrilo,’ I said, when we sat to rest upon
a fallen tree, ‘you are a Serb, and that is something to be
proud of, but after all, you are an Austrian subject, and
your forefathers have been Austrian subjects for a long
time. You have your home here, so why not make the
best of a bad bargain, and be like the rest of the young
fellows?’\par

“‘You think I am not like them?’ he replied. ‘That
is only because you do not know them as you know me.
Every {\itshape{momche}} who is a worthy descendant of the race
that fought to the death at Kossovo—the Field of the
Black Bird—is of the {\itshape{comitajia}}. We younger fellows
are to be {\itshape{comitajia}} also. We have our meetings in the
same {\itshape{kafana}} where the others meet to make their plans.
When we are a little older they will take us in and we
shall all work together.’\par

“‘But what is this work you speak of?’\par

“‘Whatever it is,’ he returned, ‘you may be sure it is
in the interest of our race.’\par

“‘But you speak of {\itshape{comitajia}},’ I said. ‘Has not that
word more than one significance? I know the military
scouts with bombs are {\itshape{comitajia}}, but are not revolutionists
called by the same term?’\par

“Gavrilo showed his strong white teeth in one of those
extraordinary mischievous smiles which now and then
illuminated his face. Instead of giving me a direct answer
he said:\par

“‘Dear friend, I am glad to perceive that your knowledge
of our beloved Serbian tongue becomes daily more
accurate.’\par

“‘But, Gavrilo,’ I protested, refusing to be put off with
a jest, ‘to be concerned in a revolution would be the worst
thing that could happen to you.’\par

“‘No, not the worst thing. Worse than being a Serb
and joining in a revolution would be to be a Serb and
fail to lift a hand in the struggle for freedom.’\par

“‘Revolutions,’ I said, sententiously, ‘do not pay,
Gavrilo.’\par

“‘But since when has that been so?’ he countered
quickly. ‘There was, for instance, the French Revolution.
Did not that pay? And there was the American
Revolution. Surely that paid! And there was the revolution
of Serbia against the Turks. That is paying too.’
His luminous black eyes, so like those of a wild deer,
snapped as he spoke. Then his expression changed
quickly to one of amusement over my discomfiture, and
he added with a little laugh: ‘I have an American friend—a
gentleman who manages the business of a large oil
company over here. He can tell you, as he has me, of the
benefits of the American Revolution and of American
freedom. I promise you that some day you shall meet
him face to face—let us say to-morrow morning when
he is shaving.’\par

“It seemed to me that I had taken an unfortunate line
with him there, so I tried another.\par

“‘Well, then, let us put it on selfish grounds. There
is no great reason why you, personally, should be dissatisfied.
You have good prospects in your father’s business.
The thing for you to do, in the natural course, is
to marry and settle down. And certainly a man who has
a sweetheart such as yours hasn’t any business in a {\itshape{comitajia}};
for such things lead to prisons and executions, not
to domesticity.’\par

“‘What makes you think I have a sweetheart?’ he demanded,
flushing.\par

“‘Haven’t I seen Mara?’\par

“‘Well, what of it?’\par

“‘If you can resist Mara,’ I told him, ‘you have more
strength than I would give you credit for.’ And it was
quite true; for Mara, who lived next door to the hotel,
was a beautiful young thing, and they were much
together.\par

“‘Mara is a flirt,’ said he.\par

“‘What matter,’ I returned, ‘so long as she flirts most
with you?’\par

“‘But does she like me best?’ he mused. ‘There is
this fellow in the Government railways who comes as
often as he can to see her. He has the advantage of being
a connection by marriage, and is very handsome. Really
too handsome for a man. I am glad he does not live here
all the time.’\par

“‘You have the advantage of living next door,’ I encouraged.
‘The one thing that might interfere is this idea
of yours about being one of the {\itshape{comitajia}}.’\par

“‘Still,’ he protested, shaking his head doubtfully, ‘a
man’s first duty is not to the woman he loves, but to the
race he loves, because both she and he belong to it. You
know our old song?’ And he sang there in the woods:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“‘Doucho, {\itshape{my soul, I love thee second best;}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Thou art the dearest part of Serbia to me;}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{But after all thou art but a part, even as I am a part;}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{And it is Serbia, always Serbia, that together we love most!}}’\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“Though not altogether satisfied with our conversation,
I felt that in appealing to the boy’s love for Mara I had
struck the right note, and I hoped that as time went on he
would think more about her than about the {\itshape{comitajia}}.
For, though one may be heartily in sympathy with
revolutionary ideas, especially in the case of an oppressed
race, one does not like to see a youth of whom one is
really fond, heading toward disaster, even in such a cause.
Moreover, as I have said, Gavrilo was not as solidly built
as the average Serb, and I had the feeling that the burning
spirit in him—and I assure you it was more like a
living flame than anything I have seen in the nature of
man or woman—must either be kept under control or
else destroy his body.\par

“Consequently I was much relieved to see, as I returned
from time to time, that the boy-and-girl romance
between Gavrilo and Mara was naturally and charmingly
developing into something more mature. This led me to
hope the more that, as he turned from a youth into a man,
Gavrilo would shed some of the violence of his revolutionary
aspirations, and from the indications I judged
that such a thing was indeed coming to pass. In order
more fully to reassure myself, I more than once took
occasion to lead conversations with him into such channels
that, should he desire to do so, he could speak to me
of the {\itshape{comitajia}}; but he always let the openings pass,
seeming eager, now, to speak only of the lovely Mara.\par

“When, in the summer of 1913, I arrived for one of
my periodical visits, Gavrilo came rushing to my room,
and seizing both my hands told me that he and Mara were
now betrothed. He was then eighteen and she seventeen—for
you understand, of course, that these dark South
Europeans develop younger than our people do. Both
families were pleased, and I felt that the dangers I had
feared for Gavrilo were past, and was duly thankful. I
went out and bought a necklace for Mara, and when I
gave it to her, she and Gavrilo made me clasp it around
her neck, and he said to her, very seriously: ‘Yes, and
our dear friend shall be the godfather of our first child.
Is it not so, Maro {\itshape{doucho}}?’ And Mara, taking me by the
hand, told me it was quite true, and that she was going
to love me as much as Gavrilo loved me, and that, moreover,
they were going to have hundreds of children, and
that every one of the children should love me too. It was
all indescribably naïve and pretty until Gavrilo unfortunately
added: ‘Yes, our children will love you, and they
will love us, but most of all they will love the idea of a
free Serb race.’\par

“At that a cloud passed over Mara’s face.\par

“‘Oh, Gavrilo!’ she cried impatiently, ‘shall we never
hear of anything but the Serb race? Is there nothing else
in the world? Must that come before your thought
of your friend, here’—indicating me—‘before your
thought of me, of the children we hope to have, of everything?
Must you have Serbian freedom on your bread
in place of cheese, and in your glass in place of wine?
Sometimes I think your eyes shine more brightly when
you speak of our race than when you call me {\itshape{doucho}}—my
soul. I ask myself, is it indeed the soul of Mara that
he loves, or is it the soul of the race?’\par

“‘Mara, my dear child,’ I put in, ‘I believe you are
jealous.’\par

“‘Of whom, pray?’ she demanded, turning upon me
and flinging her head back proudly.\par

“‘Not of an individual,’ I answered, ‘but of a people.’\par

“‘Perhaps it is true,’ she returned with a shrug.
‘Well, what of it?’\par

“‘Only this: that a woman with nothing more concrete
than a whole race to be jealous of is in no very sad plight.’\par

“‘But I tell you I demand to be loved for myself!’
Mara flashed back.\par

“Gavrilo sighed deeply, as though at the hopelessness
of making her understand his point of view. Then,
mournfully, he hummed:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“‘{\itshape{Thou art the dearest part of Serbia to me;}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{But after all thou art but a part, even as I am a part;}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{And it is Serbia, always Serbia—}}’\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“But Mara would not let him finish.\par

“‘Enough!’ she cried. ‘I detest that song! You
know how I detest it!’\par

“Gavrilo looked at me and shook his head. ‘Oh, these
women!’ he exclaimed. ‘What they do to one!’\par

“Then, gazing reflectively at Mara, he added in the
tone of one attempting to be philosophical: ‘Well, when
a little female looks as angelic as my Mara, naturally we
expect her to think like an angel too.’\par

“At this Mara’s anger departed as quickly as it had
come. ‘There!’ she exclaimed, flinging her arms about
his neck and kissing him upon both cheeks, ‘there spoke
my own dear Gavrilo! Poor Gavrilo! What have I been
saying? You know I love the Serbs no less than you do!
You do know it, don’t you? Well, then, say so!’\par

“‘God forbid that I should believe otherwise!’ answered
Gavrilo, kissing her in return.\par

“As I left them I thought to myself that with Mara’s
temperament, to say nothing of the ‘hundreds of children’
she promised him, Gavrilo’s married life would not
prove monotonous, whatever else it might be. When, in
the course of the subsequent fall and winter, I saw them
again, they seemed as happy as a pair of wild birds.\par

“Once, in the spring, when I was with them, the {\itshape{comitajia}}
chanced in some way to be mentioned, whereupon
Mara at once darkened, saying to me:\par

“‘That is my one sorrow.’\par

“‘But why should it be?’ Gavrilo asked her. ‘Have
I not plighted you my word that I shall not take part in
any—well, in any indiscretions that may be proposed?’\par

“‘Yes, I have not forgotten. You said that as long as
I loved you you would be my good Gavrilo.’\par

“‘So,’ he returned gaily, ‘all you need do is to continue
to adore me as I deserve.’\par

“‘But you meet with them at the {\itshape{kafana}},’ she said,
uneasily.\par

“‘They are my friends,’ he answered. ‘Naturally,
then, I meet with them. All men meet at the {\itshape{kafana}}. It
is the way of men. A little wine or coffee or prune
brandy and a little talk—that is all. I go also to church,
but that does not make me a priest. And besides, dearest
Maro, if I were not sometimes with the {\itshape{momchidia}}, how
would I know the joy of returning to you?’\par

“‘If the devil had your tongue,’ laughed Mara, ‘he
could talk all the saints out of heaven!’\par

“So it always was with Mara. Her ideas came and
went—as Gavrilo once put it to me—like humming
birds flitting in and out amongst the flowers. Never
have I seen a human being turn from gay to grave, and
back again, as rapidly as she.\par

“Arriving at the little hotel in the early part of June,
1914, I found them all full of plans for a great fête to be
celebrated on Vidov-dan—Kossovo Day—June 28. This
day might be called the Serbian Fourth of July, but it
partakes also of the character of our Memorial Day, for
it is the anniversary of that tragic event in Serbian history,
the Battle of Kossovo, in which the Turks defeated
the Serbs in 1389, leaving the entire Serbian nobility dead
upon the field. That is one reason why Serbia has no
nobles to-day. ‘Kossovo’ means ‘the field of the black
bird,’ the {\itshape{kos}} being a black songbird resembling the starling.
But this was to be no ordinary celebration of the
holiday, for in the Balkan War of the two preceding years
Serbia had consummated her independence and humbled
the Turks, and a part of the Serbian racial dream was
thereby realized. Mara, Gavrilo, and their parents united
in urging me to return for the festival, and before departing
I agreed to do so.\par

“True to my word, I arrived several days ahead of
time. Gavrilo had not returned from the academy when
I reached the hotel, but Michael and Stana gave me a
warm welcome and produced the costumes they were intending
to wear, and I remember that Stana said I ought
to have a costume too—that even though I had not been
so fortunate as to be born a Serb, they proposed to
adopt me.\par

“‘But you should see Mara’s costume!’ she exclaimed,
when I admired hers. ‘It is a true Serbian dress, very
old, which came to her from her great-grandmother.
Such beautiful embroidery you never saw.’\par

“That made a good excuse for me to go and see Mara,
whom I found sewing in the little garden behind the
house. The costume, which she showed me, was indeed
beautiful, and I admired it in terms which were, I hope,
sufficiently extravagant to please even a girl as exacting
as she.\par

“While talking with her I observed a bird cage hanging
on a hook by the window and, never having noticed it
before, asked if she had a new bird.\par

“In reply she merely nodded, without looking up from
her work.\par

“I strolled over and looked at the bird.\par

“‘Why,’ I said, ‘this bird appears to be a {\itshape{kos}}, Maro.’
Probably there was a note of surprise in my voice, for the
{\itshape{kos}} is not supposed to live in captivity.\par

“Mara looked up sharply.\par

“‘Are you visiting blame upon me, then?’ she asked.\par

“‘Not at all,’ I answered, mystified at her tone. ‘I did
not know that the {\itshape{kos}} could be tamed; that is all.’\par

“‘Did Gavrilo tell you to speak to me about this?’ she
demanded.\par

“‘Certainly not,’ I answered. ‘I have not seen Gavrilo
yet.’ Then, crossing to where she sat, and looking down
at her, I asked: ‘What is the matter, Maro? How have
I offended you?’\par

“Her eyes filled with tears as she looked up at me.\par

“‘You have not offended me, dear friend,’ she said.
‘It is only that I am made miserable by this subject. My
relative who is employed in the railway caught this bird
a few days since, placed it in a cage, and presented it
to me. And if he is a handsome young fellow, am I
to be censured for that? I am not his mother nor yet his
father; I did not make him handsome! And even so,
what is a little bird, to make words and black looks
over?’\par

“‘You mean that Gavrilo is annoyed?’\par

“‘Since this bird came,’ she returned, ‘I have heard of
nothing else. He begs me to let it go. He insists that
it will die. He says the man who gave it me is cruel and
that I am cruel too.’\par

“‘Then why not release it?’ I suggested. ‘It is dying
in the cage, Maro.’\par

“‘Let it die, then!’ she cried, and burst into a flood
of tears.\par

“‘Now, Maro,’ I urged when the paroxysm had abated,
‘what is all this about?’\par

“‘Well,’ she gulped, wiping her eyes, ‘a girl must
have a little character, must she not? She must make up
her own mind occasionally about some little thing! Is
not that true? Is the man she loves to tell her when
to draw in her breath and when to let it go again? Is
he to tell her when to wink her eyes? Is she to cease to
think and do only as he thinks? Here came this young
man—with the miserable bird. I desired it not. Then
came Gavrilo, black and angry like a storm out of the
mountains, ordering me to let the bird go. I wished to
do as Gavrilo said, but as my relative had caught it and
given it to me I felt I should first speak to him. Besides,
he is older and knows a great deal, being in the Government
railroads. And what did he say? “Maro,” he said,
“you do as you wish. If you wish to be a little fool,
humor this boy. He is spoiled. He has everything as he
desires it. They say you are to marry him. Very well.
But if you think always with his mind, and hold no ideas
of your own, I tell you you will make a wife no better
than one of those stupid Turkish women....” That is
why I determined to retain the bird. There is a {\itshape{kos}} in
every second tree. Well, then, is it not better that this
one die than that my soul shall wither? Why should I
be called Mara if I shall no longer be a separate being,
but only Gavrilo in another body?’\par

“As she finished, we heard Gavrilo calling her name
from the street, and a moment later he came in through
the garden gate.\par

“I saw at once that he was agitated.\par

“‘So you have come!’ he cried, seizing my hands.
‘But, alas, my friend, it is in vain. You have heard the
evil tidings?’\par

“‘You mean about—?’ I had almost said ‘about the
bird,’ but fortunately he interrupted, exclaiming:\par

“‘Yes, about the festival.’\par

“‘What tidings?’ demanded Mara.\par

“Gavrilo threw his arms above his head in a gesture of
helpless fury.\par

“‘Those {\itshape{proclete shvaba}}!’ he burst out. ‘They issued
an edict only an hour ago, forbidding entirely our festival
of Vidov-dan!’\par

“‘No!’ cried Mara, dismayed, half rising from her
seat.\par

“‘Yes. There shall be no celebration—not for the
Serbs. Nothing! Attempts to commemorate the anniversary
will result in arrest. It is announced that in place
of our festival there will upon that day be extensive
maneuvers of the Austrian army and that Grand Headquarters
will be here in our city. We are given to understand
that the Archduke himself will come and hold the
review. Could anything be devised more to insult us
upon our national holiday? Oh, of what vile tricks are
not these accursed {\itshape{shvaba}} capable?’\par

“‘I am surprised,’ I said, ‘that the Archduke would be
party to a thing of this kind, for it is understood that he
is pro-Serb. Certainly his wife is a Slav.’\par

“‘The more shame to her, then, for marrying him,’
said Gavrilo, with a shrug. ‘He is the spawn, of an autocrat
who is in turn the spawn of generations of autocrats.
Scratch them and they are all the same. They
play the game of empire—the dirty game of holding
together, against their will, the people of seven races
in Austria-Hungary; grinding them down, humiliating
them, keeping them afraid. No man, no group of men,
should have such power! It is medieval, grotesque,
wicked!’\par

“‘More than that,’ put in Mara, ‘it is unwise. They
take a poor way to gain favor with us Serbs. For my
part, I do not think it safe for the Archduke to come
here.’\par

“‘And there, my {\itshape{mila}},’ he declared, with a shrewd,
sinister smile, ‘your judgment is perhaps better than even
you yourself suppose. Myself, I doubt he will be fool
enough to come. At the last we shall be informed, with
a grand flourish, that he is ‘indisposed.’ Not sick, you
understand. Royalties are never sick. It is not etiquette.
Peasants are sick. The middle-classes are ill. The great
are only indisposed. Anything else is vulgar. Well, I
hope he will know enough to stay away. Otherwise he
may indeed become indisposed after his arrival.’\par

“‘What do you mean, Gavrilo?’ I asked.\par

“‘That the air of this place is not good for Austrian
royalties just now,’ he said. ‘It is Serbian air. There
are the germs of freedom in it, and such germs are more
dangerous to autocrats than those of {\itshape{kuga}},—cholera.’\par

“‘Be frank,’ I urged. ‘Do you mean that the Archduke’s
life is threatened?’\par

“‘It is known,’ he replied, ‘that the governor has received
warning letters. The Archduke is advised not to
appear here on our holiday. One understands, moreover,
that the Austrian secret police concur in this advice.
Which shows that the filthy beasts are not so stupid as
they might be.’\par

“‘Assure me, Gavrilo,’ Mara broke in, ‘that your
{\itshape{comitajia}} has nought to do with this threat!’\par

“‘Long ago,’ he answered ‘I promised you that while
you love me I will not actively participate in anything
violent. You may be sure, Maro, {\itshape{mila}}, that I shall keep
my word.’\par

“‘You keep your word always,’ she replied, ‘but these
threats disturb me and I gain comfort from your reassurances.’\par

“Gavrilo walked slowly over and looked into the bird
cage.\par

“‘You are certain, then, that you do requite my affection?’
he asked her over his shoulder.\par

“‘You are well aware,’ she said, ‘that I worship you.’\par

“‘Would that I were as well aware of it,’ he returned,
‘as that I am nothing to be worshiped.’ Then after a
pause he added: ‘If you do love me, why not release this
poor bird? See how wretchedly it huddles. Its eyes are
becoming dull. It will surely die. How can we Serbs
talk of freedom for ourselves, yet hold this wild creature
prisoner? And of all birds, a {\itshape{kos}}—the bird of Kossovo!
Permit me to open the door of the cage, Maro.
Let us celebrate the Serbian holiday by liberating the poor
{\itshape{kos}}. {\itshape{Shvabe}} cannot prevent that, with all their edicts.’\par

“Mara looked black.\par

“‘The holiday is not yet here!’ said she.\par

“‘When the day comes,’ he answered, ‘the {\itshape{kos}} will be
dead.’\par

“‘I wish it were already dead!’ she exclaimed petulantly.
‘I wish I had never seen the accursed thing. It
has brought me only sorrow!’\par

“‘Then,’ I interjected, ‘why not let it fly away?’\par

“‘I have told you both,’ she answered angrily. ‘This
means more to me than the life or death of a bird. It is
a symbol. I have the feeling that if it were to fly away
all my will power would fly with it.’\par

“‘And to me also,’ returned the boy solemnly, ‘this
means more than the life or death of a bird. And likewise
to me the {\itshape{kos}} is a symbol. It should be so to every
Serb. Think of Kossovo! This is a bird linked with our
racial aspirations. If we free this one, we may, perhaps,
ourselves deserve freedom. Otherwise, what do we deserve?
Do we merit more than we ourselves give?’\par

“Having witnessed Mara’s agitation when she first told
me of their differences over the bird, I would now have
stopped Gavrilo could I have signaled him, but he was
engaged in putting some green leaves through the door
of the cage. As he finished speaking, Mara rose, dropped
her sewing upon the ground, and bursting into tears ran
into the house.\par

“‘Maro, {\itshape{mila}}!’ Gavrilo cried, attempting to catch her;
but the door slammed in his face.\par

“He was white as he turned to me. ‘Tell me,’ he cried
in a tone childlike and baffled, ‘can anyone understand
the ways of woman? As men grow older do they understand
better, or is it always like this?’\par

“Deeply concerned about them as I was, the naïveté
of this question forced a smile from me.\par

“‘You must ask some man older than I,’ I answered.\par

“‘Perhaps we are not intended to understand them,’
he said reflectively. ‘No doubt the Lord made them as
they are so that we should forever be enthralled by them,
as by any other enigma beyond comprehension. I enjoy
lying on my back at night, to gaze up at the stars and
think profoundly of eternity whirling about us, and the
infinity of space, but I assure you, when my lovely Mara
becomes agitated those phenomena of nature seem, by
contrast, trifling matters. I believe that if one could
but understand Mara, one could understand the riddles
of the ages.’\par

“I left Gavrilo in the garden. At dinner that night he
was not with us. I did not see him again until next evening,
when I came upon him whispering with three young
men upon the stairs. As I passed them they became
silent, nor did I like the nervous smile with which Gavrilo
greeted me. On the day following I saw him go into a
{\itshape{kafana}} with the same youths. I think he also saw me,
and from the haste with which he moved into the little
café I gathered the impression that he was avoiding me.\par

“On the day before the maneuvers I cornered him
after luncheon. Clearly he was keyed to a highly nervous
tension.\par

“‘Gavrilo,’ I said, ‘do not tell me anything you do not
wish to. I have no desire to pry into your affairs. But
I beg you to remember Mara and your promise to her,
and not to become entangled in any rash escapade.’\par

“For a moment he stood looking at me without answering.
It was as though he was carefully formulating a
reply. Then he said:\par

“‘I {\itshape{have}} remembered. I have positively refused to
participate in certain matters in which I have been pressed
to become active. At this moment that is all that I am
enabled to say.’\par

“‘It is all I desire to know,’ I said. ‘Tell me, what of
Mara?’\par

“‘All is well between us,’ he returned, ‘so long as one
mentions not the bird.’\par

“Later I found them together in the garden. Mara
was, as usual, sewing. While I sat and talked with her,
Gavrilo started picking fresh leaves to put into the bird
cage. Mara, who had been telling me how, upon the
morrow, the Serbs were to leave their shutters closed all
day, so that they should not see the Austrians, ceased to
speak as Gavrilo began gathering the leaves, and watched
him narrowly for a moment.\par

“‘Gavrilo,’ she said, ‘please put no more leaves into
the cage.’\par

“‘Why not?’\par

“‘Because it is not well for him. He has been pecking
at the leaves and I think they poison him.’\par

“‘No,’ said Gavrilo.\par

“‘Yes,’ she insisted. ‘He appears miserable to-day.’\par

“‘But naturally!’ returned the youth. ‘That is not
new. He is dying. See how he is huddled with closed
eyes in the corner of the cage.’ As he spoke he plucked
another leaf.\par

“Mara’s expression became ominous.\par

“‘If he should die,’ she said in a quavering voice, ‘it
will be because of the leaves which you have given him!’\par

“‘Impossible,’ Gavrilo replied. ‘Does not a bird live
among the leaves?’\par

“‘I tell you,’ she exclaimed, ‘I have asked the old bird
man about it. He says some leaves are good and some
are not. He is coming this evening to see the {\itshape{kos}} and
give it medicine in its water.’\par

“I was relieved when Gavrilo pressed the point no farther
but dropped the fresh leaves on the ground. Feeling
that a situation had been narrowly averted, I thought
best to leave them together.\par

“That evening, as I was walking toward the hotel
from the square at the center of the town, I saw him coming
out of the {\itshape{kafana}} with several of the youths I had
come to recognize as his friends. He joined me and we
walked along together. At Mara’s garden gate he halted,
saying: ‘Let us enter and see the poor bird.’\par

“‘No, Gavrilo,’ I said warningly. ‘It is not the bird
we go to see, but Mara.’\par

“‘So be it,’ he replied. ‘Let us then visit Mara.’\par

“Mara was not in the garden. Gavrilo called her
name. She answered from the house, and a moment
later came out to meet us.\par

“As she emerged I saw her glance at the bird cage.
Then she gave a startled cry.\par

“‘Look!’ she wailed. ‘The {\itshape{kos}} is dead!’\par

“It was true; there lay the bird upon its back among
the dry leaves at the bottom of the cage.\par

“For a time we stood in silence, regarding it through
the bars. I knew that Gavrilo and Mara were filled with
emotion, and for my own part I was surprised to discover
how much the death of the bird seemed to mean to me.
When, a day or two before, they had spoken of symbolism
in connection with the {\itshape{kos}}, I knew what they meant,
but did not feel it: yet now I felt it strongly, as though I
myself were a Serb, with a Serb’s vision and superstition.
It was not a dead bird that I saw, but a climax in a parable—a
story of scriptural flavor, fraught with uncanny
meaning.\par

“Gavrilo was the first to speak.\par

“‘Poor {\itshape{kos}}!’ he said in a low, tragic tone. ‘It is free
at last. It was written that it should not be captive when
to-morrow dawns.’\par

“‘What do you mean?’ demanded Mara.\par

“‘I told you it was destined to die unless you let it
go,’ he answered gently.\par

“‘And as I would not let it go,’ she retorted, ‘you
desired that it should die, in accordance with your prophecy!
Yes, that is it! You made it die! You placed the
leaves of henbane in its cage and killed it!’\par

“‘You are excited, Maro,’ he returned. ‘You must
know that I desired the poor bird to live. Let us dig a
little grave here in the garden and bury it, and cease to
speak of it until we are calmer. We are overwrought—both
of us—because of the bitterness of to-morrow.
Where is the spade?’\par

“‘Do not touch the {\itshape{kos}}!’ she commanded: ‘It shall not
be buried yet.’\par

“‘Why not?’ I interposed. ‘It will be better for us
all.’\par

“‘The old bird man comes this evening,’ Mara flung
back. ‘He will look at the bird and know that Gavrilo
has poisoned it with henbane.’\par

“‘But, Maro,’ I returned, ‘Gavrilo has said that he did
not. You know that he is truthful.’\par

“‘His words mean nothing!’ she cried. ‘Am I not
a Serb? Do I not read the meanings in events? Gavrilo
lies. Gavrilo killed the {\itshape{kos}}. He is a murderer. I hate
him!’\par

“‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘You give me the truth at
last!’\par

“‘Yes, the truth!’\par

“‘So much the better that I know in time!’ cried Gavrilo,
and without another word he ran frantically from
the garden.\par

“As for Mara, she seemed almost on the brink of madness.
I do not know how long I remained there trying to
reason with her, calm her, make her see the folly and
danger of what she had done. By the time her passion
had abated the late June twilight had settled over the
town. Presently I heard the garden gate open, and a
moment later a venerable Serb appeared.\par

“‘Wait!’ Mara said to me. ‘Now you shall learn that
I was right!’\par

“Then, to the old man, she said: ‘You are too late to
cure my bird, but you are not too late to tell me from
what cause came its death. Look at this leaf that was
placed in its cage. Is not that the henbane?’\par

“The old man took the leaf, inspected it, and shook his
head.\par

“‘No,’ said he. ‘Let me see the bird.’\par

“‘It lies there in the cage.’\par

“He opened the cage door and, reaching in, removed
the little body.\par

“‘Ah,’ he said, ‘a {\itshape{kos}}. Do you not know, my child,
that birds of this species cannot long survive captivity?’\par

“Mara hung her head.\par

“‘I have heard it said,’ she answered in a low voice.\par

“‘To imprison wild birds is cruel,’ remarked the old
bird man. ‘These birds, in particular, are the Serbs of
the air. They are descended from birds that saw the field
of Kossovo. They desire only to be free.’ Then, as Mara
did not reply, he said: ‘Bring a light.’\par

“She went into the house and emerged with a lamp,
placing it upon a table near the door. The old bird man
sat down beside the table and, holding the bird near the
light, brushed back the soft plumage of its breast, much
in the manner of peasant mothers whom one sees, occasionally,
searching with unpleasant suggestiveness in
their children’s hair.\par

“‘Look,’ he said, ‘the bird would have died of these,
even had it survived captivity. It is covered with animalculæ.
In a cage it could not rid itself of them as nature
enables free creatures to do.’\par

“Looking at the bird’s breast, Mara and I could see the
deadly vermin.\par

“‘Give me a spade,’ said the old man. ‘I will inter
the bird here in the garden.’\par

“Mara indicated a spade leaning against the wall.
Then, turning with beseeching eyes to me, she seized both
my hands, and said in a low, intense voice:\par

“‘Go, I pray you, and find Gavrilo! Tell him that
I implore his forgiveness. Say that I love him better
than all the world and ask only that he come to me at
once.’\par

“I went directly to the hotel and to Gavrilo’s room.
He was not there. No one about the place had seen him.
I then went to the {\itshape{kafana}} which I knew he patronized,
but the proprietor declared that he knew nothing of his
whereabouts. Through the remainder of the evening I
diligently searched the town, going to the houses of all
his friends, but nowhere could I find a trace of him.
Obliged at last to acknowledge myself defeated, I returned
to the hotel. Several times during the night I
arose and stole to his room, but daylight came without his
putting in an appearance. Early in the morning I went
again to the {\itshape{kafana}}, but though I learned there that the
Archduke had arrived the night before with his wife and
his suite, and was housed at the governor’s palace, I got
no word of the missing boy. Wherefore, after breakfast,
it became my unpleasant duty to go to Mara, inform her
of my failure, and comfort her as best I might.\par

“She looked ill and terrified. I wished that she would
weep.\par

“Thinking perhaps to find him in the central square of
the town before the Archduke, the governor, and the
other officials set out for the review, I was moving in that
direction when there came to my ears the dull sound of
an explosion. Continuing on my way, I encountered as
I rounded the next corner a scattering crowd of men,
women, and children, running toward me, in the street.\par

“I asked two or three of them what had happened, but
they ran on without reply. Presently, among them, I saw
one of the youths with whom I had several times seen
Gavrilo, and him I seized by the coat, demanding information.\par

“‘Let me go!’ he cried. ‘Some one threw a bomb
into the Archduke’s carriage! They are arresting everyone.
Get away!’ And he tugged violently to escape my
hold.\par

“‘Have you seen Gavrilo?’\par

“‘Not to-day.’\par

“‘Is the Archduke dead?’\par

“‘No. He warded off the bomb and it exploded beneath
the carriage which followed. For God’s sake, release
me!’\par

“I did so, and walked on toward the square. Halfway
down the block I met some Austrian police. After questioning
me briefly they let me go, whereafter I questioned
them. The horses drawing the second carriage had been
killed, they said, and some officers of the archducal suite
injured. The Archduke, however, insisted upon continuing
to the review and would presently pass. They advised
me to return to my hotel.\par

“I had hardly reached my room when I heard a bugle
and the clatter of hoofs outside. Going to the window,
I saw mounted men of the Royal Austrian Guard advancing
around the corner. Behind them, between double
rows of cavalry, came several landaus, carrying outriders,
and driven by coachmen in white wigs and knee breeches.
As the first of these vehicles came nearer, I saw that the
occupants of the back seat were Francis Ferdinand, Archduke
of Austria, heir apparent to the throne of Austria-Hungary,
and his morganatic wife, the Duchess of
Hohenberg.\par

“The shutters of most of the houses were closed, but
in a few windows I saw faces, and there were scattered
knots of people on the sidewalks, closely watched by the
policemen who rode ahead on horses and bicycles. As
the archducal carriage came along, hats were raised, and
once or twice I heard faint cheering, which the Archduke
and his consort acknowledged, he by touching the visor
of his helmet, she by inclining her head.\par

“As their carriage came below my window and I saw
the expression of condescending good will frozen on both
their faces, and thought of the constant apprehension
there must be behind those polite masks, it struck me as
amazing that a man and woman could be found, in these
times, to play the royal part.\par

“As I was thinking thus I saw a dark-clad figure dart
out suddenly from somewhere on the sidewalk, below,
pass swiftly between the horses of the bodyguard, and
reach the side of the royal carriage. Some of the guardsmen
leaped at once from their horses and there was a
dash of policemen toward the man, but before anyone
laid hands upon him he raised one arm, as though pointing
accusingly at the Archduke and his Countess, and
there followed, in swift succession, two sharp reports.\par

“I saw the royal pair fall forward. Simultaneously the
carriage stopped and was at once surrounded by an agitated
group of soldiers, policemen, and servants; while
another and more violent group pressed about the individual
who had fired the shots, beating him as they swept
him away down the street. Before they had gone a dozen
yards, however, a high official, who had jumped out of
the second carriage, ran up and directed them to take the
man to the sidewalk. This brought the crowd in my
direction, and it was only as they turned toward me that
I caught a glimpse of the face of their prisoner. As I
had dreaded, it was poor Gavrilo.”\par

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For a moment all of us were too thunderstruck to
speak. Somehow the picture he had given us did not
seem to be that of an assassin, as one imagines such a
man.\par

“You mean to say,” asked the man by the window
slowly, “that this very boy you’ve been telling us about
was the one who shot the Archduke?”\par

“Yes,” said the other, “he was Gavrilo Prinzip of
Sarajevo.”\par

“Good Lord!” exclaimed the third. “The boy who
brought on the war!”\par

“As we were saying earlier,” returned the one who had
told the tale, “historians will doubtless trace the beginnings
of the war to Gavrilo’s shot. Certainly Austria
used the shot as her excuse, alleging that a plot to kill the
Archduke had been hatched in Serbia—which was absolutely
untrue, for Serbia was afraid of nothing so much
as of giving offense to Austria, knowing well that Austria
was only seeking a pretext to pounce upon her, precisely
as she had earlier pounced upon Bosnia and Herzegovina,
annexing them.”\par

After a thoughtful pause he added: “Poor Gavrilo!
I am glad to know that he is free at last. Like Mara’s
starling, he was not one to live long in a cage. And it
is perhaps because I was so fond of him, and also because
Austria’s excuse was so transparently despicable, that I
shall always go behind the shooting in thinking of the
beginning of the war. As I conceive it, it was Mara’s
anger that released Gavrilo from the promise which,
otherwise, would have withheld him. And it was
the death of the caged starling that brought on her
anger. And it was the animalculæ that caused the bird’s
death.”\par

“That is,” put in the man by the window, “you prefer
to trace the war down to such a small beginning as the
death of that caged bird?”\par

“Rather,” replied the other, “to a still smaller and
more repulsive beginning—to the vermin which destroyed
the bird. It seems to me I see them always crawling
through the explanations, apologies, excuses, war
messages, and peace overtures of the Teutonic autocrats.”\par

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{\vl {\noindent}
{\scshape{By}} EDWARD C. VENABLE\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{Scribner’s Magazine}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.}}}}\par}
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{\noindent}
It was a place where men went who liked to talk of
curious things. It was not, of course, advertised as
that; there was no sign to the public saying as much.
Indeed, the only sign of any sort said “Wines, Ales, and
Liquors,” just below the name “Isham.” But, nevertheless,
that is what it distinctively was—a place where
men went who liked to talk of curious things.\par

It was a curious place to look at, too, in a way—the
wrong way. It was a three-story house among houses
fifteen, twenty, and thirty stories high; it was a house
sixty years old, living usefully among houses, most of
which were scarcely as many months old. But sixty
years is no great age for a house in most places, and three
stories is not out of the common. It is thirty stories that
are extraordinary. In the right way Isham’s was a very
ordinary place to look at, in very curious surroundings—only
it took a moment’s thought to find it out.\par

Old Isham himself, though, would have been curious
anywhere in the world. He was seventy years old, and
he looked precocious. Perhaps having lived so long in
an atmosphere of “wild surmise” had robbed him of the
gift of wonderment, the last light of infancy to go out in
the world, and so he was absolutely grown up. That is
what he was, absolutely grown up. Looking into his face
you could not imagine his ever being surprised, quite
without a previous experience of the present. As one of
his customers said, he could take the gayest dinner-party
that ever was, and with a single glance of his faded blue
eyes reduce it to a pile of dirty dishes and the bill. He
was saturated with the gayety of thirty thousand dinners.
He never condescended to the vulgarity of a dress suit,
but always wore plain black with immaculate linen. So
he would move in the evening, ponderously—for he
must have weighed two hundred pounds—among the
tables, listening imperturbably to praise and blame. Yes,
chops were almost always properly broiled, beer had been
flat from the beginning of the world—Lucullus with a
dash of Cato.\par

Twinkle Sampson was his oldest patron. He was as
old as Isham, and had been dining there once or twice a
week ever since he was thirty; but he was the antithesis
of Isham in appearance. He had the face of a very
young child; it was all wonderment. The whole world
was for him a wild surmise. His hobby was astronomy.
He liked, as he said, to talk about the moon. Any of the
heavenly bodies would interest him, but the moon was his
own peculiar sphere. His knowledge was for the most
laboriously gleaned, unassisted, from books; but twice in
his life he had looked at the moon through a great telescope,
and those two occasions were to Twinkle Sampson
what one wedding and one funeral are to most men. He
looked like a moon-lover, too, a pale, weak reflection of
masculinity. The nearest he ever got to anger was when
some ignorant person at Isham’s threatened to divert the
talk from his hobby when once he had dragged it thither.\par

“I know a man—,” began one of these imprudently
on one occasion.\par

“We don’t care if you know a million men,” interrupted
Twinkle. “We want to talk about the moon.”\par

And he sat for five minutes thereafter, blinking at the
interloper like an exasperated white-haired owl. Even in
that outburst, though, he characteristically took refuge in
the plural.\par

Such little “flare-ups” were very, very frequent at
Isham’s. Indeed, they were inevitable, because there
people talked of what they had thought about. It is the
talk for talk’s sake that is only a string of wearying agreements;
the drunkard over a bar, a débutante at a dinner-table,
a statesman among his constituents. Talk at
Isham’s was intelligently sharp, interrupted, disputative.
And, in any case, Savelle would have made it so. He was
eaten up by the zeal of his cause, which was Christianity
and capitalism. Capitalism, he preached, was founded on
Christianity, was a development and an inevitable development
of the social implication of the Gospels. It was
a curious plea; it had the power of exasperating human
beings otherwise kindly and meditative, such as chiefly
affected Isham’s, to something like fury when Savelle eloquently
expounded it. He called it Christian economics.
He argued that just as Christianity was developing the
social relations of human beings to one of pure love, so it
was developing also their economical relations to one of
pure trust. The two developments had gone on side by
side throughout the Christian era, from the days when
merchants hauled ponderous “talents of silver” about
with them in their trading, until now, when one could
control all the wealth of the world by the tapping of a
telegraph key. And not only was their growth thus
synchronous, but each was the exactest exponent of the
other; it was only in Christian countries, he explained,
that the capitalistic system was to be found at all, and in
the quasi-heathen it was invariably established in exact
proportion with the spread of Christian ethics. He was
full, too, of frequent instances and recondite dates, such
as the invention of the bill of exchange by the Hebrews,
and the advice of Jesus to his Apostles anent carrying
money about with them. There were only two crimes in
Christian economics, just as in the ethics; dishonesty,
which he claimed was the commercial form of the sin
against the Holy Ghost, and bankruptcy, or the refusal
of trust, which was simply a denial of the economic implication
of the teaching of love one another. Socialism,
of course, was merely a new, subtle sacrilege, and Marx
the newest incarnation of anti-Christ. His faith or fanaticism
would always burn its fiercest in talking of these
specific instances. Twinkle Sampson would sit blinking
astigmatically at him for an hour in silence when he
preached so. He was the only man of them all whom
Twinkle Sampson never interrupted, never tried to drag
away to the moon.\par

It was only an occasional horrified Christian or exasperated
Socialist who ever diverted him, and then he
would descend to embittering personalities with disconcerting
quickness. He was of French descent, Gascon, a
tall, fair, pale man, and had the racial instinct for combat.
In the daytime he was the Wall Street reporter for one of
the evening dailies, and people who knew him down there
said he went about his work in that district like a pious
pilgrim in Judea. But what you did daytimes never mattered
at Isham’s. It was what you could say evenings
after dinner, in the back of the dining-room beside the
bar, that counted, and there Savelle, next to Twinkle, was
the best listened-to man in Isham’s.\par

And, measured by that scale, little Norvel was his farthest
neighbor. He was the least listened-to man, because
he rarely spoke, and the best listener. Indeed, he
was the only genuine listener. The others listened only
under {\itshape{force majeure}}. He, on the contrary, would dine
sparely, for he was very poor, apparently, and sit smoking
all evening until ten o’clock, and go away without
ever speaking to any one, except the waiter who served,
and a “Good evening” and “Good night” to Mr. Isham
himself. His prestige was due solely to one effort. He
had propounded a query which Isham’s had discussed
more than any other ever raised there, more than
Twinkle’s lunar hypotheses, or Savelle’s Christian economics,
and which had never been settled. It was the one
common topic among them. Other subjects owed their
existence and prosperity to the protection and loyalty of
one man, but little Norvel, having put his afoot, retired
into silence and cigar smoke, and left its life to the care
of others. He had injected the conundrum into a conversation
of Twinkle Sampson’s about the inhabitants of
Mars, in whose existence Twinkle Sampson not only believed,
but took a far deeper interest than in those of his
fellow earthmen.\par

“If,” little Norvel began, “if Mars is inhabited by
a race so similar to ourselves—if—”\par

“Well, well, Mr. Norvel,” Twinkle Sampson interrupted,
“that is fairly well conceded, I think. If—what?”\par

“If,” continued little Norvel tranquilly, “if it is so,
what means of communication between us is there that is
so unmistakably of {\itshape{human origin}} that a sight of it, or a
sound from it, would immediately convince them of our
relationship?”\par

It had seemed, when the quiet little man first spoke,
as if it was a question easily brushed aside; but a little
discussion, genuine Ishamic, soon proved it to have
greater weight. Norvel sat aside, contributing nothing
then or ever thereafter. Indeed, the only result the question
had, or seemed to have, for him was the winning
by it of the deep affection of Twinkle Sampson.\par

The early discussion of the matter eliminated all possibilities
of the sense of hearing. That one of the five
senses had to be discarded from the possibilities of communication.
There is no sound which humanity can
create which nature, in some other form, cannot perfectly
imitate. Except laughter? That suggestion was Savelle’s.
But it was not successful, though he defended
himself with his own peculiar fervor. It appealed to the
intense emotionalism of the man, that idea of the ultimate
expression of humanity being laughter. He took up its
defense as recklessly as his school of economics, and with
something of the same breadth of vision and indefinite
reasoning. Laughter was, he claimed, beyond the narrow
limits of the question discussed, that very thing, the ultimate
expression of humanity. Man was distinctively not,
as he has been defined, the unfeathered biped, not the
tool-using animal; he was the animal who laughs, and in
proof he instanced the great poet. When he wished to
imbue men with his own immense pessimism that the
wrath of the Zeus was not the mysterious working of
nature but the malignity of men, he made that terrible
phrase, the most terrible ever spoken, “The laughter of
the gods.”\par

“Think of it yourselves,” he demanded. “Put it into
your own words. The laughter of God!” He was standing
up then in the heat of his pleading. “What that’s
divine is left then? He can only be a man, a fearful
superman.”\par

But they beat down the orator with instances of gurgling
brooks and hyenas. He strove Homerically with his
attackers, thundering his defense of his vision until old
Isham had to come up to the table and look at them all
with his faded blue eyes and precocious face of seventy
years. But though he failed of conviction his argument
did just what he said; it put the question outside the
“narrow limits” Norvel had laid it in. Savelle always
did that with every question. After he had spoken the
phrase they all remembered was his—the ultimate expression
of humanity. It was by such phrases, such
ideas, Isham’s lived, as a place to which talk-hungry
people learned to go.\par

Old Sampson, who always listened to Savelle, though
he deplored his tendency “to wander in his talk,” away
from the moon and kindred subjects, took a new lease of
life from that night. At last a day had come when people
really liked to talk about the moon, or Mars, which was
almost as good. He became a mental manufacturer of
objects of origin so exclusively human that once they
were conveyed to Mars, once that difficulty overcome,
would produce instant understanding. Almost nightly
he would turn up with a new one, and invariably some
one would overthrow his hopes by suggesting a {\itshape{natural}},
in distinction to his {\itshape{human}}, phenomenon. He would
always feebly defend his invention, and then fall silent—apparently
intent upon a new one.\par

It was Philbin, the novelist, whose hobby was “Weltpolitik,”
and who revelled in prophecies those days of a
European cataclysm, who put him, as it were, finally out
of this particular misery.\par

“It seems to me,” complained Twinkle, in his plaintive
voice, blinking almost tearfully at the table-cloth,
“as if nature imitates everything.”\par

“Twinkle,” said Philbin, who was sitting next to him,
“lend me your ears. I want ‘to whisper into their furry
depths.’ Have you ever thought of going yourself?”\par

Twinkle, lifting his eyes to the other’s face, blinked
and shook his head.\par

Savelle was the only man who did not laugh. He never
laughed either at Sampson or Philbin. “Don’t you see,”
he cried sharply, in his eager idea-driven way, “don’t
you see what the man has discovered? Your ears will
need cropping soon. ‘{\itshape{Nature imitates everything!}}’
That is, he has found, he has perceived, he is establishing
by his own experiments that man, after all his effort
and his boasting, after all his science and learning, which
has made a joke of the teaching of Jesus and the poetry
of Milton, that this {\itshape{creature}} itself has in turn {\itshape{created}}
nothing. That man, after all, has only, can only, imitate
nature.”\par

He let fall his fist on the table, looking around at his
listeners. He always had listeners at Isham’s, and perhaps
nowhere else in New York. For the moment he had forgotten
his tiff with Philbin, had forgotten Philbin himself,
and was all for rushing ahead on his idea-driven
course to some unimaginable distance. But Philbin’s
vanity never forgot slights. It was not the words—he
gave and took sharper every day of his life—but the
manner in which he was thrown aside as an unnoticeable
obstruction in the other’s path of thought, the rush past
him of the faster mind that mortified him. He knew
Savelle, knew him better than any one in the room did,
for that was his business, and he knew how fast he was
going and how sharp he would fall, and then, like a mischievous
little boy, with his foot, he stuck out his tongue
and tripped him.\par

“That’s contrary to every teaching of Christ you ever
raved about,” he said quickly.\par

Savelle did come down with rather a crash. Even his
defenders admitted that much. But then he had been
going very fast. Moreover, he was a man who habitually
used too many words. He used too many to Philbin—a
great deal too many. Philbin’s faults were almost
all on the outside, and even through the casual communion
of Isham’s he had made them pretty plain to
every man there. He was vain, slightly arrogant, over-given
to sneering. Savelle, in his defense of his position,
managed to comment briefly upon each quality, and he
put into the personalities the same vigor that he used
to defend his theory of the universe. At the very best
he showed a lamentable lack of proportion. At the worst
he was vulgarly offensive.\par

That is the danger of such talk as men plunged into at
Isham’s; it lacks proportion. Personalities and universalities
get all mixed up, and sometimes it takes long
patience and a good deal of humor to straighten out the
tangle. Philbin and Savelle were in just such a tangle
over little Norvel’s query. And neither of them had
patience and Savelle had no grain of humor. If he had,
he could not have come down from a discussion of his
theory of the universe to criticism of Philbin’s personality.
The matter was quite hopeless. The tangle only
grew tighter until there was only one way of ending it.
Philbin took it. He was a little man, and very nervous,
and when he stood up his finger-tips just touched the
table, and he was trembling so they played a tattoo on
the table-cloth. Then he bowed and went out.\par

He had behaved the better of the two, but every one
was glad to see him go—except old Sampson, to whom
anything like ill-feeling gave genuine pain. He liked a
placid world in which one could babble in amity about the
moon. But to the rest Philbin was a bore. His Weltpolitik
was uninteresting. His European cataclysm was
a tale told by an idiot, full enough of learning, but signifying
little or nothing. One could imagine baseball
games on Mars, and make the matter realistic; but Philbin’s
imaginings dealt in palpable absurdities. Even at
Isham’s talk had limitations. Philbin had been a war
correspondent in the Balkans, and they thought it had
upset his mind.\par

Savelle affected to ignore his going away, and went on
with his expounding of Twinkle Sampson’s discovery—so
he was pleased to call it. He ridiculed Philbin’s criticism
more fiercely than before. He, Sampson, had given
a marvellously stimulating example, Savelle said, of what
religious thought meant, that it was not in man to create,
only in God. All that was human was imitation, even as
man himself was God’s image. In truth, Philbin’s attack
had stimulated him, and he talked that night better than
he had ever talked. He felt that he had come off a second
best in the encounter, and he determined to wipe out
the remembrance from the memory of his hearers. Poor
old Twinkle, hearing himself eulogized for the first time
in his life, probably, sat in silence, winking almost tearfully,
too amazed to be pleased.\par

And always after he made a point of emphasizing this
theory of his—or of Sampson’s—as he called it. It
became the rival in this talk of Christian economics. He
did so without argument, for Philbin did not come back.
A Futurist painter, who had found out Isham’s purely by
accident, gradually took his place. At Isham’s places
were always taken gradually. To make up for it they
were generally taken for a very long time. Philbin’s was
the first defection, in fact, since Twinkle’s low-toned
monologues about the moon, with old Isham for the only
listener, in the corner by the fireplace, had started it all
eleven years ago. Philbin, too, had never been in very
good standing; his trick of sarcasm hurt too many sensibilities.
And then he was agnostic in everything, and
Isham’s collectively believed in almost everything.
Every man of them, except the Futurist painter who took
his place and had scarcely known him, had some little
hurt somewhere to remember him by, and so, of course,
wanted to forget him.\par

They had almost succeeded, too, when suddenly that
happened which brought his name up in all thoughts, the
war. That night, the night when all rumors and surmises
were solidified into the single, soul-stunning fact, nobody
mentioned his name, though each knew the others were
thinking of it. It seemed uncivil when they had each
heard the rest make such fun of his theories. But after
a few days some bolder soul broke the spell.\par

“Philbin—do you remember, he always prophesied
it?”\par

But that was all, and Savelle sat silent even then.\par

In truth, the war changed Isham’s. Of course, it
changed somehow almost everything in the world, but it
changed Isham’s peculiarly. Before it had been a place
where people went to talk of curious things, and now the
same people went there—Sampson and Savelle and little
Norvel and the Futurist painter, and old Isham himself
was unchanged, nothing could alter him, and they still
talked of curious things, more curious things than they
had ever imagined before, but Isham’s had changed by
ceasing to be different, because everywhere people were
talking of the same things. Talk at Isham’s was just like
talk on any street corner. In fact, the world had caught
up with Isham’s.\par

Then one night Philbin did come back. It was in the
second year of the great war, and it had been nearly five
since he had gone away after his tiff with Savelle. He
did not come directly into the back room, as he had been
used to do, but dined by himself at a small table in front.
He sat there a long time after dinner over his coffee,
with his back turned to his old place. Every one of them
had seen him and recognized him, and talk that night
was slow. Though he had spoken to none of them and
turned his back to them, each knew somehow that he
would speak and that he had come there especially to
speak, and that he would say something important, and
they sat nervously waiting.\par

At last he did come, pushing back his chair and walking
slowly up the room. They noticed then how he had
changed. He had grown very much older. He had been
scarcely fifty when he had left, and now he looked and
walked like an old man, and his dress, which had always
been very neat and careful, showed an old man’s carelessness.
They all got up when he came and greeted him by
name and with genuine cordiality. The little stings of
five years since had vanished long ago. Savelle got up
last and a little doubtfully, but it was Savelle he especially
picked out.\par

“Ah, Savelle,” and he put out his hand.\par

Then he sat down in his old place and ordered more
coffee and talked for a while quietly to his right-hand
neighbor, who was little Norvel. He said nothing of himself
and very little of any subject, seeming distrait and
very depressed. After a little, abruptly he took the conversation
in his own hands.\par

“Gentlemen,” he said, leaning forward with his hands
folded on the cloth in front of him, “since I was here
last I have had a very great sorrow. I have lost my son.”\par

Then he fell silent again, and apparently not hearing
any of the things that were said to him.\par

“He was killed,” he began a second time, just as he
had begun the first, “in Flanders, six weeks ago. He
was twenty-two years and four months old. Before he
died they pinned this on him.” He fumbled in his waistcoat,
and picking out something threw it across the cloth
over in front of Savelle. It was a little bronze cross
known the world over, with two words on it, “For valor”.
“I sent them my son and they sent me back that,” said
Philbin.\par

It was the old Philbin voice—the same that had in
turn galled each one of them.\par

“He went out in the night,” he went on, “and pulled
back to life two London fishmongers. Then he died—going
back for a third fishmonger. There is some six
inches in a London newspaper telling about it. That
same paper gave a column and a half last week to a story
I wrote. And they gave six inches to my son. That’s
queer, too, isn’t it?”\par

Nobody answered him. They were all afraid to—his
tone was too bitter. No one was quite sure what he
would say.\par

“We used to talk here years ago,” he went on presently,
“about curious things. I think this curious enough
to talk about. They gave a ‘stick’ to the death of my
son and a column to the birth of my book. Savelle, you
are a newspaper man, tell us about it?”\par

Savelle was looking at him with his eyes blazing, and
he answered not a word.\par

“I suppose it’s logical,” said Philbin. “Any man
may have a son. But I have written twenty books and
had only one son.”\par

The only answer came from quite an unexpected quarter.
It was little Norvel, who was sitting at Philbin’s
elbow.\par

“Did you say, sir,” he asked, “that he went back three
times?”\par

“Yes, Mr. Norvel, three times—three fishmongers.”\par

The man’s sneers would have been disgusting if they
had not been so plainly aimed at himself first. As it was,
they were almost terrible.\par

“Whether the three fishmongers lived or died,” he
went on, “I don’t know. The six inches neglected to
state. Want of space, possibly. You are a newspaper
man, Savelle, perhaps you can explain.”\par

“I wish you would explain this, Mr. Savelle,” said
little Norvel.\par

“What?” said Savelle.\par

“What part of nature Mr. Philbin was imitating when
he went back?”\par

All the pent-up intensity of Savelle’s being rushed out
in his answer: “I am maliciously misrepresented. There
is no human element in such action. It is the divine phenomenon
of Calvary.”\par

“Savelle,” put in Philbin, “when my son was alive
he was a man. I believe, too, he died like a man. I prefer
that to an imitation of anything—even God.”\par

The width of the table was between the two men, and
the whole meaning of the universe. Their antagonism
was irreconcilable. In that instant it had recovered all
its bitterness of five years before. Time could do nothing.
Not even chance could. It was literally immutable,
the only thing in the world neither of those great forces
can effect.\par

But the only pitiful part of it was, Sampson sitting
between them, turning now to one, now to the other, with
dim sight and faulty hearing, and wanting of either
merely something human.\par

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{\vl {\noindent}
{\scshape{By}} MARY HEATON VORSE\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{Harper’s Magazine}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by Harper and Brothers.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by Mary Heaton O’Brien.}}}}\par}
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{\noindent}
What Hazelton’s friends called his second manner
had for a mother despair, and for a father irony,
and for a godmother necessity. It leaped into his mind
full-grown, charged with the vitality of his bitterness.\par

Success had always been scratching at Hazelton’s door,
and then hurrying past. The world had always been
saying to him, “Very well, very well indeed; just a little
bit better and you shall have the recognition that should
be yours.” Patrons came and almost bought pictures.
He was accepted only to be hung so badly that his singing
color was lost on the sky-line. Critics would infuriate
him by telling him that he had almost—{\itshape{almost}}, mind
you—painted the impossible; that his painting was what
they called “a little too blond.”\par

How Hazelton hated that insincere phrase which meant
nothing, for, as he explained to Dumont the critic, as
they sat outside the Café de la Rotonde after their return
from the {\itshape{Salon}}, Nature was blond—what else? He,
Dumont, came from the Midi, didn’t he? Well, then,
he knew what sunshine was! How could paint equal the
color of a summer’s day, the sun shining on the flesh of a
blond woman, a white dress against a white wall? Blond?
Because he loved the vitality of light they wanted him to
dip his brush in an ink-pot—{\itshape{hein}}? Dumont would be
pleased if he harked back to the gloom of the old Dutch
school, or if he imitated the massed insincerities of
Boecklen, Hazelton opined from the depths of his scorn.\par

Dumont poised himself for flight on the edge of his
hard metal chair. He was bored, but he had to admit that
if ever Hazelton was justified in bitterness it was to-day
when, after a long search through the miles of canvases,
he had finally discovered his two pictures hung in such
a position as to be as effective as two white spots. He
escaped, leaving Hazelton hunched over the table, his
forceful, pugnacious, red countenance contrasting oddly
with the subtle anemia of his absinthe. He was followed
by Hazelton’s choleric shouts, which informed him that he,
Hazelton, could paint with mud for a medium if he chose.\par

His profession of art critic had accustomed Dumont
to the difficulties of the artistic temperament, and he
thought no more of Hazelton until he ran into him some
ten days later. There was malice in Hazelton’s small,
brilliant eyes, and an air of suppressed triumph in his
muscular deep-chested figure. His face was red, partly
from living out of doors and partly from drink. He
rolled as he walked, not quite like a bear and not quite
like a seafaring man—a vigorous, pugnacious person
whose vehement greeting made Dumont apprehensive
until he glanced at Hazelton’s hands, which were reassuringly
small.\par

“Well,” he said, “you remember our conversation?
It was the parent, my dear Dumont, of dead-sea fruit of
the most mature variety.” Hazelton considered this a
joke, and laughed at it with satisfaction. He was very
much pleased with himself.\par

Dumont went with Hazelton to his studio. On Hazelton’s
easel was a picture of dark, wind-swept trees beaten
by a storm. They silhouetted themselves against a
sinister and menacing sky. The thing was full of violence
and fury, it was drenched with wet and blown with
wind.\par

“Who did this?” asked Dumont. “It is magnificent!”\par

“You {\itshape{like}} it?” asked Hazelton, incredulously. And
then he repeated himself, changing his accent, “{\itshape{You}} like
it, Dumont?”\par

“Certainly I like it,” Dumont answered, a trifle stiffly.
“There is vitality, form, color! Because you are not
happy unless you are in the midst of a sunbath, at least
permit others to vary their moods.”\par

At this Hazelton burst into loud laughter.\par

“You amuse yourself,” Dumont observed, but Hazelton
continued to laugh uproariously, shaking his wide
shoulders.\par

“Do you know the name of that picture? The name
of that picture is ‘{\itshape{La Guigne Noire}}’—I painted it from
the depths of my bad luck.”\par

“{\itshape{Hein?}}” said Dumont. “{\itshape{You}} painted that picture?”\par

“This picture—if you call it that—I painted.”\par

“I call it a picture,” Dumont asserted, dryly.\par

“I call it a practical joke,” said Hazelton. “One does
not paint pictures with the tongue in one’s cheek. I
know how one paints pictures.”\par

“How one paints pictures makes no difference,” Dumont
replied, impatiently. “Who cares if you had your
tongue in your cheek? You had your brush in your
hand. The result is that which matters. This work has
completeness.”\par

Hazelton slapped his thigh with a mighty blow. “Mon
Dieu!” he cried. “If this fools you, there are others it
will fool as well—and I need the money! And from that
bubbling artesian well from which this sprang I can see
a million others like it—like it, but not like it. {\itshape{Hein,
mon vieux?}} Come, come, my child, to Mercier’s, who
will sell it for me. The day of glory has arrived!”\par

A sardonic malice sparkled on Hazelton’s ugly face,
and his nose, which jutted out with a sudden truculency,
was redder than ever. He took the picture up and
danced solemnly around the studio.\par

It was in this indecorous fashion, to the echo of Hazelton’s
bitter laughter, that his second manner was born,
and that he achieved his first success, for his second
manner was approved by the public.\par

Three years went past. Hazelton was medaled. He
was well hung now, he sold moderately, but he never
sold the work which he respected. At last his constant
failure with what he called “his own pictures” had made
him so sensitive that he no longer exposed them.\par

Hazelton’s position was that of the parent in the old-fashioned
fairy tale who had two children, one beautiful
and dark-haired, whom he despised and ill-treated and
made work that the child of light might thrive. That, in
his good-tempered moments, was how he explained the
matter to his friends.\par

Dumont explained to Hazelton that he had two personalities
and that he had no cause to be ashamed of this
second and subjective one, even though he had discovered
it by chance and in a moment of mockery.\par

“You have an artistic integrity that is proof even
against yourself,” was his analysis.\par

The insistence of the public and of Dumont, in whose
critical judgment he had believed, gave him something
like respect for his foster-child. His belief in his judgment
was subtly undermined.\par

“I shall leave you,” he told Dumont. “I shall secrete
myself in the country undefiled by the artist’s paintbrush
and there I will paint a {\itshape{chef d’œuvre}} entitled ‘Le
Mal du Ventre.’ On its proceeds I will return to my
blond.”\par

While engaged on this work, which later became Hazelton’s
most successful picture, Hazelton met Raoul de
Vilmarte. This young man was a poor painter, but a
delightful companion, and he endeared himself to Hazelton
at once by his naïve enthusiasm for Hazelton’s former
pictures.\par

“What grace they had—what beauty—what light!
What an extraordinary irony that you should throw away
a gift that I should so have cherished!” he exclaimed.\par

His words were to Hazelton like rain to a dying plant.
He stopped work on “Le Mal du Ventre,” and began to
paint to “suit himself” again. He had a childish delight
in surprising De Vilmarte with his new picture.\par

“Why, why,” cried his new friend, “do you permit
yourself to bury this supreme talent? No one has painted
sunlight as well! Compared with this, darkness enshrouds
the canvases of all other masters! Why do you
not claim your position as the apostle of light?”\par

Hazelton explained that critics and the public had
forced these canvases into obscurity.\par

“Another name signed to them—a Frenchman preferably—and
we might hear a different story,” he added.\par

A sudden idea came to De Vilmarte. “Listen!” he
said. “I have exposed nothing for two years. Indeed,
I have been doubtful as to whether I should expose
again. I know well enough that were my family unknown
and were not certain members of the jury my
masters, and others friends of my family, I might never
have been accepted at all—it has been a sensitive point
with me. Unfortunately, my mother and my friends believe
me to be a genius—”\par

“Well?” said Hazelton, seeing some plan moving
darkly through De Vilmarte’s talk.\par

“Well,” said De Vilmarte, slowly, “we might play a
joke upon the critics of France. There is a gap between
this and my work—immeasurable—one I could never
bridge—and yet it is plausible—” He glanced from a
sketch of his he was carrying to Hazelton’s picture.\par

Hazelton looked from one to the other. Compared, a
gulf was there, fixed, unbridgable, and yet— He twisted
his small, nervous hands together. Malice sparkled from
his eyes.\par

“It {\itshape{is}} plausible!” he agreed. He held out his hand.
A sparkle of his malice gleamed in De Vilmarte’s pale
eyes. They said no more. They shook hands. Later it
seemed to Hazelton the ultimate irony that they should
have entered into their sinister alliance with levity.\par

The second phase of the joke seemed as little menacing.
You can imagine the three of them outside the Rotonde,
Hazelton and De Vilmarte listening to Dumont’s praise
of De Vilmarte’s picture. You can enter into the feelings
of cynicism, of disillusion, that filled the hearts of the
two {\itshape{farceurs}}. De Vilmarte’s picture had been accepted,
hung well, then medaled. The critics had acclaimed
him!\par

They sat there delicately baiting Dumont, bound together
by the knowledge that they had against the world—for
they, and they alone, knew the stuff of which fame
is made. They were in the position of the pessimist who
has proof of his pessimism. No one really believes the
world as bad as he pretends, and here De Vilmarte and
Hazelton had proof of their most ignoble suspicions;
here was the corroding knowledge that Raoul’s position
and popularity could achieve the recognition denied to an
unknown man. He was French, and on the inside, and
Hazelton was a foreigner and on the outside.\par

“Well,” said Raoul, when Dumont had left them, “we
have a fine {\itshape{gaffe}} to spring on them, {\itshape{hein}}? It’s going to
cost me something. My mother is charmed—she will
take it rather badly, I am afraid.”\par

“Well, why should she take it?” asked Hazelton, after
a pause. “Why should we share our joke with all the
world?”\par

“You mean?” asked Raoul.\par

It was then that the voice of fate spoke through
Hazelton.\par

“You can have the picture,” he said, jerking his big
head impatiently.\par

“Do you mean that I can have it—to keep?”\par

“Have it if you like. Money and what money buys is
all I want from now on,” said Hazelton, and he shook his
shoulders grossly and sensually while his nervous hands,
the hands whose work the picture was, twisted themselves
as though in agonized protest.\par

Hazelton went back to his studio and stood before his
blond pictures, the children of his heart. It was already
evening, but they shone out in the dim light. He was a
little tipsy.\par

“So,” he said to them—“so all these years you have
deceived me, as many a man has been deceived before by
his beloved. Your flaunting smiles made me think you
were what you are not. Dumont was right—my foster-child
is better than you, for she made her way alone and
without favor. I tried to think I had painted the impossible.
Light is beyond me. Why should I think I could
paint light? I am a child of darkness and misfortune.
I know who my beloved is. You shall no longer work to
support your sister!”\par

“What are you doing?” came his wife’s querulous
voice. “Talking and mumbling to yourself before your
pictures in the dark? Are you drunk again?”\par

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Some months passed before De Vilmarte and Hazelton
met again. They ran into each other on the corner of the
Boulevard Raspail and the Boulevard du Montparnasse.\par

“Hey! What are you doing so far from home?” cried
Hazelton.\par

“Looking for you.”\par

“I was going to you,” Hazelton acknowledged.\par

They stared at each other scrutinizingly, each measuring
the other with dawning distrust. Each waited.\par

“Let us go to the Rotonde,” Hazelton suggested.\par

They talked of other things, each waiting for the other
to begin. Hazelton had the most resistance; he had
flipped a penny as to whether he should go to seek De
Vilmarte, but De Vilmarte had made his decision with
anguish. It was he who finally said:\par

“You know—about the matter of the picture—my
mother is quite frantic about my success. She is
failing—”\par

“{\itshape{Toc!}}” cried Hazelton. “My poor wife has to go to
the hospital.”\par

“Nothing to do, I know,” said De Vilmarte, looking
away diffidently, “but for one’s mother—”\par

“But for one’s wife,” Hazelton capped him, genially.
“An aged mother and a sick wife, and a joke on the
world shared between two friends— What will a man
not do for his sick wife and for his aged mother!”\par

A little shiver of cold disgust ran over Raoul. For the
first time he felt a vague antipathy for Hazelton, his
neck was so short and he rolled his big head in such a
preposterous fashion.\par

They said good-by, Hazelton’s swagger, De Vilmarte’s
averted eyes betraying their guilty knowledge that they
had bought and sold things that should not be for sale.\par

Just how it came to be a settled affair neither De Vilmarte
nor Hazelton could have told. Now an exhibition
occurred for which De Vilmarte needed a picture; now
Hazelton dogged by his need of money would come to
him. Hazelton’s wife was always ailing. Her beauty
and her disposition had been undermined by ill-health and
self-indulgence, and he was one of those men temperamentally
in debt and always on the edge of being sued or
dispossessed.\par

But in Hazelton’s brain a fantastic and mad sense of
rivalry grew. He had transferred his affection to his
darker mood. Every notice of De Vilmarte’s name
rankled in his mind. De Vilmarte’s growing vogue infuriated
him. He felt that he must wring from the critics
and the public the recognition that was his due so that
this child of his, born of his irony and his despair, and
that had been so faithful to him in spite of abuse, might
be crowned. Just what had happened to both of them
they realized after the opening of the {\itshape{Salon}} next year.\par

“Take care,” Hazelton had warned De Vilmarte, “that
they do not hang you better than they do me. That I will
not have.” He had said it jokingly; but while De Vilmarte’s
exhibit was massed, and he had won the second
medal, Hazelton’s was scattered, and he had but one
picture on the line; worse still, the critics gave Hazelton
formal praise while they acclaimed De Vilmarte as the
most promising of the younger school of landscape-painters.\par

De Vilmarte sought out Hazelton, full of a sense of
apology. He found him gazing morosely into his glass
of absinthe like one seeing unpleasant visions.\par

“It is really too strong,” Raoul said. “I am sorry.”\par

“It’s not your fault,” Hazelton replied, listlessly.
“It’s got to stop, though!” He did not look up, but he
felt the shock that traveled through De Vilmarte’s well-knit
body. “It’s got to stop!” he repeated. “It’s too
strong, as you say.”\par

There was a long silence, a silence full of gravity, full
of despair, the silence of a man who has suddenly and
unexpectedly heard his death sentence, a silence in whose
duration De Vilmarte saw his life as it was. He had
begun this as a joke, after his first agonized indecision,
and now suddenly he saw not only his mother but himself
involved, and the honor of his name. He waited for
Hazelton to say something—anything, but Hazelton was
chasing chimeras in the depths of his pale drink. As
usual, his resistance was the greater. He sat hunched
and red, his black hair framing his truculent face, unmindful
of Raoul.\par

“It has gone beyond a joke,” was what Raoul finally
said.\par

“That’s just it,” Hazelton agreed. “My God! Think
how they have hung you—think how they have hung
me. Where do I get off? Have I got to work for nothing
all my life?”\par

“The recognition—you know what that means—it
means nothing!” cried Raoul.\par

Hazelton did not answer.\par

“But I can’t—confess now!” Raoul’s anguish
dragged it out of him. “I could afford to be a {\itshape{farceur}}—I
cannot afford to be a cheat.”\par

Hazelton looked at him suddenly. Then he laughed.
“Ha! ha! The little birds!” he said. “They stepped
in the lime and they gummed up their little feet, didn’t
they?” He lifted up his own small foot, which was well
shod in American shoes. “Poor little bird! Poor little
gummed feet!” He laughed immoderately.\par

Disgust and shame had their will with Raoul.\par

Hazelton was enchanted with his own similes, and, unmindful
of his friend’s mood, he placed his small hand
next Raoul’s, which was nervous and brown, the hand
of a horseman.\par

“Can you see the handcuffs linking us?” he chuckled.
“‘Linked for Life’ or ‘The Critics’ Revenge.’” He
laughed again, but there was bitterness in his mirth.
“We should have told before,” he muttered. “I suppose
it is too late now. I cannot blame you or myself, but, by
God! I’m not going to paint for you all my days. Why
should I? We had better stop it, you know.” He drank
deeply. “Courage, my boy!” he cried, setting down his
glass. “I will have the courage to starve my wife if you
will have the courage to disappoint your mother.”\par

They left it this way.\par

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When De Vilmarte again entered Hazelton’s studio,
Hazelton barked at him ungraciously: “Ho! So you are
back!”\par

“Yes,” said Raoul, “I am back.” He stood leaning
upon his cane, very elegant, very correct, a hint of austerity
about him that vanished charmingly under the sunshine
of his smile.\par

Hazelton continued painting. “Well,” he said, without
turning around, “you have not come, I suppose, for
the pleasure of my company; but let me tell you in advance
that I have no time to do any painting for you. I
am not your {\itshape{bonne à tout faire}}.”\par

By Hazelton’s tone De Vilmarte realized that he was
ready to capitulate; he wanted to be urged, and he desired
to make it as disagreeable as he could because he was not
in a position to send De Vilmarte to the devil any more
than De Vilmarte could follow his instinct and leave
Hazelton to come crawling to him—for there was always
the chance that Hazelton might be lucky and would
not come crawling.\par

“It’s your mother again, I suppose,” said Hazelton,
ungraciously.\par

De Vilmarte grew white around his mouth; he grasped
his cane until his hand was bloodless. “Some one unfortunately
told her that they were urging me to have a
private exhibition, and her heart is set upon it.”\par

“There are a number of things upon which my wife’s
heart is set,” Hazelton admitted after a pause, during
which he painted with delicate deliberation and exquisite
surety while, fascinated and full of envy, De Vilmarte
watched the delicate hand that seemed to have an independent
existence of its own that seemed to be the utterance
of some other and different personality than that
which was expressed in Hazelton’s body. He turned
around suddenly, grinning at De Vilmarte.\par

“How much are you going to pay for my soul this
time?” he asked.\par

They had never bargained before. In the midst of it
Hazelton stopped and looked De Vilmarte over from top
to toe. No detail of his charm and of his correctness
escaped him.\par

“How are you able to stand it?” he asked. “It must
be hard on you, too.” The thought came to him as something
new.\par

“Oh,” said Raoul, with awful sarcasm, “you think it
is hard on me?”\par

“You must be fond of your mother,” said Hazelton.
This time he had not meant to be brutal, and he was sorry
to see De Vilmarte wince, but he did not know how to
mend matters. “How are we going to break through?”
he said. “What end is there for us? I do it for my
wife, whom I don’t love, poor wretch, but for whom I
feel damned responsible; and you sell your soul to please
your mother. And do you get nothing for yourself, I
wonder—” He half closed his little eyes, which glinted
like jewels between his black lashes. “Appreciation and
applause must be pleasant. One can buy as much with
stolen money as one can with money earned.... There
is only one way out—it is for one of us to die, or for
one of {\itshape{them}}. There is death in our little drama, {\itshape{hein,
mon vieux}}?”\par

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It was the private exhibition that fixed De Vilmarte’s
reputation as an artist. It also marked in his own mind
the precariousness of his position. And now the matter
was complicated for him because he fell in love with a
young girl who cared for his talent as did his mother.
She was one of those proud young daughters of France
who had no interest in rich and idle young men. Each
word of her praise was anguish to him. The praise of
the {\itshape{feuilletons}} he could stand better, because some way
they seemed to have nothing to do with him. It was the
price which he paid willingly for his mother’s happiness.\par

He cared so much that he had tried not to care for her,
and again his mother intervened. It was in every way a
suitable match, and his mother told him that she did not
wish to die without a grandchild. “You have obligations
to your art,” she said, “but your obligations to your race
are above those.”\par

She was now very feeble. His wedding and his next
{\itshape{Salon}} picture filled her mind. She was haunted by the
presentiment that she would not see the summer come
to its close.\par

So Raoul would hurry from her room to Hazelton to
see how the picture was coming on. Hazelton was painting
as he had never painted before. It seemed, indeed,
as if he had a double personality, and as if each one of
these personalities was trying to outstrip the other. As
happens sometimes to an artist, he had made a sudden
leap ahead. No picture that he had painted had the depth
or the beauty or the clear, flowing color of this one. But
he lagged along. It was as though the beauty of the picture
which De Vilmarte was to sign tortured him, and he
did not wish to finish it. He would stand before it, lost
in the contemplation of its excellences like a devotee,
refusing to paint.\par

The picture Hazelton was painting for his own signature
was dark and magnificent, but the picture which he
was painting for De Vilmarte had a singular radiance.
It was as though at last Hazelton had painted the impossible;
light shone from that picture. Yet it was not
finished. Days passed, and Hazelton had not brought the
picture further toward completion.\par

One day when De Vilmarte came in he found Hazelton
brooding before it. He had been drinking. Tears were
in his eyes. “It is too beautiful—too beautiful! Light
is more beautiful than darkness. The taste for the black,
the menacing, is the decadent appreciation of a too sheltered
world. I cannot finish this picture for another to
sign.”\par

“No,” De Vilmarte soothed him, “of course not.”\par

“Oh, my beautiful!” cried Hazelton, addressing his
picture. “I cannot finish you! Come, De Vilmarte, we
will drink.”\par

De Vilmarte went with Hazelton. He watched over
him as a mother over her child. He talked; he reasoned;
he sat quiet, white-lipped, while Hazelton would speculate
as to what De Vilmarte got out of it.\par

“You are, I think, like the victim of a drug,” he said,
jeering at De Vilmarte, his brilliant eyes agleam. That
was truer than Hazelton knew. He could not stop. His
mother, his fiancée, his friends, the critics, his world,
expected a picture from him. He visualized them sometimes
pushing him on to some doom of whose exact nature
he was ignorant. Again it was to him as though
they dug a dark channel in which his life had to flow.\par

Meantime he had to nurse Hazelton’s sick spirit along.
He would go with him as he drank, stand by him in his
studio, urging him to paint. In this way they spent hideous
days together.\par

Hazelton developed a passion for torture. He was tortured
himself. Alcohol tortured him, his embittered nature
tortured him. He loved to see De Vilmarte writhe.
He was torn between his desire to finish the picture and
the anguish which he felt at seeing it about to pass into
another’s hands. There were days when its existence
hung in the balance.\par

“You see this palette-knife,” he would tell De Vilmarte,
“and this palette of dark paint? A twist, my
friend, a little twist of the knife and a little splash, and
where is this luminous radiance? Gone!” And he
would watch De Vilmarte as he let his brush hover over
the brilliant surface.\par

How it hurt Raoul he knew, because when he thought
of destroying the picture it was as though a knife were
twisted in his own heart.\par

One afternoon De Vilmarte nursed Hazelton from
café to café, listening to his noble braggadocio.\par

“Remember,” Hazelton urged Raoul, “the wonderful
Mongolian legend of the father and son who loved the
same woman, and whom for their honor they threw over
a cliff! That’s the idea—the cliff! You shall throw our
love over the cliff—you shall destroy the picture yourself.
Come back with me!” He was as though possessed.
Full of apprehension, De Vilmarte followed
him.\par

They stood before the picture. It shone out as though
indeed light came from it. Hazelton put the palette into
De Vilmarte’s hand.\par

“Now, my friend, go to it!” he cried. “Paint, De
Vilmarte—paint in your own natural manner! A few
strokes of the brush of the great master De Vilmarte,
and color and light will vanish from it. Why not—why
not? You suffer, too—your face is drawn. You think
I do not know how you hate me. I don’t need to look at
you to know that. We always hate those who have
power over us. Paint—paint! If I can bear it, surely
you can. {\itshape{Paint naturally}}, De Vilmarte! Paint into it
your own meagerness and banality! Paint into my masterpiece
the signature of your own defeat.”\par

The afternoon was ebbing. It seemed as though the
room were full of silent people, all holding Raoul back—his
world, the critics, his fiancée, his mother. Besides,
he had no right to destroy this beautiful thing to save his
honor.\par

“You are not yourself,” he said.\par

“Aha! I know what you think of me. Ha! De Vilmarte,
but I am a master, a great painter. Paint, and
betray yourself. Ha! {\itshape{sale voyou}}, you will not? You
are waiting to steal from me my final beautiful expression.
You stand there— How is it that you permit me
to call the Vicomte de la Tour de Vilmarte names? Why
do you not strike me?”\par

“Oh, call me what you like,” Raoul cried. “Only finish
the picture. There is very little more to do.”\par

“I tell you what I shall call you,” Hazelton jeered at
him. “I will call you nothing worse than Raoul—Ra-oul—Ra—o—u—l!”
He meowed it like a tom-cat.
“How can I be so vile when I paint like an angel,
Ra—o—u—l ... Ra—o—u—l!”\par

Sweat stood on Raoul’s forehead. He stood quiet.
The picture was finished.\par

“Sign, my little Raoul, sign!” cried Hazelton. And
with murder in his heart, a bitter tide of dark and sluggish
blood mounting, ever mounting, Raoul signed and
then fled into the lovely spring evening.\par

“This is the end,” he thought. “There shall be no
more of this. Not for any one—not for any one, can I
be so defiled!” For he felt the mystic identity between
himself and his mother—that he was flesh of her flesh,
and that in some vicarious way she was being insulted
through him.\par

But it was not the end. It was with horror that Raoul
learned that the picture had been bought by the state,
that he was to receive the Legion of Honor. His mother
was wild with joy.\par

“Now,” she cried, embracing him—“now I can depart
in peace.” She looked so fragile that it seemed as
if indeed her spirit had lingered only for this joy. She
looked at him narrowly. “But you have been working
too hard—you look ill. A long rest is what you need.”\par

“A very long rest,” Raoul agreed. He left the house,
and, as if it was a magnet, the great exhibition drew him
to it, and in front of his picture stood the thick, familiar
figure of Hazelton, his nose jutting out truculently from
his face, which was red and black like a poster. He broke
through his attitude of devoted contemplation to turn
upon Raoul.\par

“Bought by the state!” he cried. “To be hung in the
Luxembourg!” He pointed menacingly with his cane at
De Vilmarte’s neat little signature. “Why, I ask, should
I go to my grave unknown, poor, a pensioner of your
bounty? Why should you be happy—fêted?”\par

The irony of being accused of happiness was too much
for De Vilmarte. He laughed aloud.\par

“Wouldn’t it be better for you to be an honest man?”
croaked Hazelton.\par

“Only death can make an honest man of me,” answered
De Vilmarte.\par

“{\itshape{My}} death could make an honest man of you,” Hazelton
said slowly. It was as if he had read the dark and
nameless secret that was lurking in the bottom of De Vilmarte’s
heart.\par

For a moment they two seemed alone in all the earth,
the only living beings. They stood alone, their secret in
their hands.\par

Then Hazelton’s lips began to move. “My God!” he
said. “Bought by the state and hung in the Luxembourg!
Bought by the state and hung in the Luxembourg!”
He repeated it as if trying to familiarize himself
with some inexplicable fact. “I will not have it!” he
went on. “I will not have it! If I’m not bought by the
state I shall not go on!”\par

Raoul looked at him with entreaty. Hazelton came up
to the surface of consciousness and his eyes followed
Raoul’s. A very frail little old lady was being pushed in
a wheel-chair near them.\par

“My mother,” Raoul whispered.\par

“I wish to meet her,” said Hazelton.\par

She bowed graciously and then sat in her chair gazing at
the picture bought by the state. Pride was in every line
of her old face. She seemed returned from the shadows
only to gaze at this picture. Then, in a voice which was
cracked with age, she said, turning to Hazelton:\par

“I know your work, too. Monsieur—the opposite of
my son’s. It is as though between you you encompassed
all of nature’s moods. To me there has always been—you
will laugh I know—a strange similarity, as though
you were two halves of a whole, as day and night.”\par

A cold wave flowed over Hazelton, a feeling as though
his hair were lifting on the back of his head. It was as
though this frail old lady was linking him irrevocably to
Raoul. He was powerless now to take his own.\par

“Madame,” he said, “I feel as if no one had understood
my work before.”\par

But she had turned to gaze upon her son’s painting. A
sort of senility enveloped her, and his drunkenness
reached out to it. His gaze had in it respect and tenderness
and abnegation. His manner, more eloquent than
words, said: “I give up; I resign. Take it.”\par

He went to the end of the gallery, and Raoul saw him
sit down in the attitude of one who waits. When Mme.
de Vilmarte left, Raoul joined him.\par

Hazelton’s head sank deeply between his shoulders; his
pugnacity had oozed away. After a time he spoke with
an effort. “I understand,” he said. “I understand—”\par

A curious sense of liberation seized De Vilmarte. His
old liking for Hazelton returned. “I am sorry for all of
us,” he said.\par

“My poor friend, there is no way out,” said Hazelton.
“I am vile—a beast. But trust me—believe in me.”\par

“I will,” cried De Vilmarte, deeply touched.\par

Hazelton’s little jewel-like eyes were blurred with unwonted
sentiment. “I am a king in exile,” he muttered
over and over. “A king in exile,” he repeated. This
sentimental simile seemed to be a well of bitter comfort
for him.\par

This story should end here, for stories should end like
this, on the high note; but life is different. Hazelton
was a man with a bad liver, and he got no joy from his
sacrifice. Moreover, in real life one seldom fights a decisive
battle with one’s lower nature. One goes on fighting;
it dies hard when it dies at all. There are the high
moments when one thinks the battle won, and the next
day the enemy attacks again, with the battle to be fought
over.\par

Hazelton had formed the habit of cursing fate and De
Vilmarte, and, to revenge himself, of threatening De Vilmarte’s
exposure, and he continued to do these things.
And De Vilmarte let his mind stray far in contemplating
Hazelton’s possible vileness, and in doing this he himself
became vile. What he could not recognize was the definite
place where Hazelton’s vileness stopped. His life
was like a fair fruit rotten within.\par

It was the summer of 1914, and Hazelton, whose
drunkenness before had been occasional, now drank always,
and forever in the background of De Vilmarte’s
mind was this powerful figure with its red face and black
hair and truculent bearing, drunken and obscene, who
carried in his careless hand the honor of the De Vilmartes.
At any moment Hazelton could rob Raoul of his
pride, embitter his mother’s last hours, and make him the
laughing stock of his world. Raoul became like an entrapped
animal running around and around the implacable
barriers of a cage. It is a terrible thing to have one’s
honor in the hands of another.\par

He thought of everything that might end this torment,
and he found no answer. Madness grew in him. Wherever
Raoul de la Tour de Vilmarte went, there followed
him unseen a shadow, swart, dark, and red-faced. It
followed him, mouthing, “Ra-o-u-l—Ra-o-u-l!” like a
cat. “Ra-o-u-l! Ra-o-u-l!” from morning till night.
When De Vilmarte was at a table in a café a huge and
mocking shadow sat beside him, and it said, wagging its
head in a horrid fashion, “There’s death in our little
drama, {\itshape{hein, mon vieux}}?”\par

The fate that had made their interests one, bound them
together. They sought each other out to spend strange
and tortured hours in each other’s company, while in the
depths of Raoul’s heart a plan to end the torture was coming
to its own slow maturity, and grew large and dark
during the hot days of July. He could not continue to
live. The burden of his secret weighed him down. Nor
could he leave Hazelton behind him, the honor of the De
Vilmartes in his hands.\par

The bloody answer to the riddle leaped out at him.
Hazelton’s death—that was the answer. Then De Vilmarte
could depart in peace. For two mad, happy days
he saw life simply. First Hazelton, then himself.\par

One day he stopped short, for he realized he could not
go until his mother—went. He must stay a while—until
she died.\par

He had to wait until she died. He watched her, wondering
if his endurance would outlast her life. He tried
not to let her see him watching—for he knew there was
madness in his eyes—and he would go out to find his
dark shadow, for often it was less painful to be with him
than away from him—he knew then what Hazelton was
up to. He spent days in retracing the steps which had
brought him to this desperate {\itshape{impasse}}. They had been
easy, but he knew that weakness was at the bottom of it—perhaps,
unless he did it now, he would never do it—perhaps
an unworthy desire for life—and love—might
hold back his hand.\par

So De Vilmarte lived his days and nights bound on the
torturing pendulum of conflict.\par

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{\noindent}
Suddenly Europe was aflame. France stood still and
waited. And as he waited, with Europe, Raoul for a
moment forgot his torment. War is a great destroyer,
but among other things it destroys the smaller emotions.
Its licking flame shrivels up personal loves and hates.
When war was declared, old hates were blotted out, and
hopeless lovers trembling on the brink of suicide were
cured overnight. Small human atoms were drowned in
the larger hate and the larger love. Men ceased to have
power over their own lives since their lives belonged to
France.\par

So when war was declared, choice was taken from
Raoul’s hands. A high feeling of liberation possessed
him. He walked along the street, and suddenly he realized
that instead of going toward his home he was seeking
his other half, the dark shadow to whom he had been
so bound.\par

On Hazelton’s door a note was pinned, addressed to
him.\par

“My friend,” it said, “you have luck! You will have
your regiment, while nothing better than the ambulance,
like a {\itshape{sale embusque}}, for me. If harm comes to you,
don’t fear for your mother.”\par

This letter made him feel as though Hazelton had
clasped his hand. He no longer felt toward Hazelton as
an enemy, since France had also claimed him.\par

Madness had brushed him with its dark wings. By so
slender a thread his life and Hazelton’s had hung! Yes—and
his honor!\par

“Thank God!” he said, “for an honorable death!”
It was the last personal thought that was his for a long
time. War engulfed him. Instead of an individual he
was a soldier of France, and his life was broken away
from the old life which now seemed illusion, the days
which streamed past him like pennants torn in the wind.\par

Later, in the monotony of trench warfare, he had time
to think of Hazelton. He desired two things—to serve
France, and to see Hazelton. Raoul wanted a word of
friendship to pass between them, and especially he wanted
to tell Hazelton that he need not worry about his wife.
He wrote to him, but got no answer. Life went on; war
had become the normal thing. The complexities of his
former life receded further and further from him, and
became more phantasmal, but the desire to see Hazelton
before either of them should die remained with Raoul.\par

When he was wounded it was his last conscious
thought before oblivion engulfed him. There followed
a half-waking—pain—a penumbral land through which
shapes moved vaguely; the smell of an anesthetic, an
awakening, and again sleep. When he wakened fully
he was in a white hospital ward with a sister bending over
him.\par

“In the next bed,” she said, “there is a {\itshape{grand blessé}}.”
She looked at him significantly. “He wishes to speak to
you—he is a friend of yours.”\par

In the next bed lay Hazelton, the startling black of his
shaggy hair framing the pallor of his face.\par

With difficulty Raoul raised his head. They smiled at
each other. From the communion of their silence came
Hazelton’s deep voice.\par

“Why the devil,” he said, “did we ever hate each
other?”\par

Raoul shook his head. He didn’t know. He, too, had
wanted to ask Hazelton this.\par

“It has bothered me,” said Hazelton. “I wanted to
see you—” His voice trailed off. “I’ve wanted to ask
you why we have needed this war—death—to make us
know we don’t hate each other.”\par

“I don’t know,” said De Vilmarte. It was an effort
for him to speak; his voice sounded frail and broken.\par

“Raoul,” Hazelton asked, tenderly, “where are you
wounded? Is it bad?”\par

“I don’t know,” Raoul answered again.\par

“It’s his head,” the sister answered for him, “and his
right hand.”\par

Hazelton raised his great head; a red mounted to his
face; his old sardonic laughter boomed out through the
ward. With a sharply indrawn breath of pain: “Oh,
la—la!” he shouted. “{\itshape{’Cré nom! ’Cré nom!}} What
luck—imperishable! I’m dying—your right hand—your
{\itshape{right}} hand!” He sank back, his ironic laughter
drowned in a swift crimson tide.\par

The nurse beckoned to an orderly to bring a
screen....\par

Tears of grief and weakness streamed down Raoul’s
face. To the last his ill luck had held. He hadn’t been
able to make his friend understand, or to make amends.
His right hand was wounded, and he could no longer
serve France.\par

The sister looked at him with pity. She tried to console
him.\par

“Death is not always so mercifully quick with these
strong men,” she said.\par

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\scshape{By}} FRANCES GILCHRIST WOOD\par}
{\vl From {\itshape{The Bookman}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1918, by Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc.}}}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{{\addfontfeature{Scale=0.8}{Copyright, 1919, by Frances Gilchrist Wood.}}}}\par}
\end{verse}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
An orderly ushered two officers of the Foreign Legion,
young men in mud-stained khaki, through the
door of a dugout back of the fighting line in France. As
they entered the hut a French officer in horizon blue,
equally muddy, rose and returned the American’s salute.\par

“You will be seated?” He pushed camp chairs toward
them.\par

A guttering candle, stuck in a bottle neck, veiled rather
than revealed the sordid interior. The light flickered
across the young Frenchman’s face, threw gaunt shadows
under his eyes emphasized the look of utter weariness
and—there was something more.\par

The senior officer of the Legion, Captain Hailes,
looked at him keenly.\par

“Major Fouquet, we report at headquarters in an hour,
sir. Lieutenant Agor, commanding platoon at extreme
right—contact platoon with your battalion, sir, reports
we lost touch with the French forces between the advance
and the first trench. Thought it might have been his
watch, but the timepiece checks up to a second.”\par

The captain hesitated uneasily, “We are not presuming
to question, sir, but Lieutenant Agor says he saw—we
felt there might have been some cause, some reason that
did not appear, so we came—”\par

The Frenchman lifted his head in a stupid way altogether
foreign to his usual manner.\par

“Merci, Captain Hailes. We were—forty seconds
slow in attacking the first trench, sir.” He went on mechanically
as if delivering a rehearsed report. “Caught
up and reached the second trench on time. Few prisoners
besides the children. Enemy practically wiped out.”\par

He concluded heavily, a dazed look blotting all
expression.\par

“There was a cause for the forty seconds delay,
Major?”\par

Fouquet struggled up out of the curious apathy. He
cleared his throat, made several attempts to speak and
finally blurted out.\par

“You won’t believe it—I saw it and I cannot! But
there are the children—and a first-line trench full of
dead Huns—without a mark on them! Barres was flying
over us—he saw the Battalion—knew them for old
comrades. The women—all of them saw the faces of
their dead! I don’t believe it, sir,—but how did we do
it? The women never thrust once in the first trench—the
children haven’t a wound—that’s got to prove it!”\par

He stopped abruptly—looking from one to the other
with a gesture of hopeless protest. The Americans regarded
him with puzzled eyes.\par

“Was it some new trick of the Huns? God knows
they’ve given them to us in plenty! Can you tell us—it
might—?”\par

Fouquet pulled himself forward, his knuckles whitening
with his grip of the table edge.\par

“You know the history of the section of the Front the
Avengers retook to-day?”\par

“No, Major Fouquet. We came in later, with the
Canadians.”\par

“It began with the great retreat of 1914, sir, when the
Germans were driving us back toward Paris. They had
crowded our army against the river. Between the slow
crossing and their terrible artillery fire, new to us then,
we faced annihilation!”\par

There was a rustle at the door of the dugout and a
whispered password. Fouquet did not pause.\par

“To the —nth Battalion was given the honor of acting
as rear guard. Ah, sir,—” his voice steadied—guttural
with pride and emotion, “our men stood like a
barricade of rock against which the waves of German infantry
dashed themselves, only to break and be withdrawn
for re-formation. Each receding wave showed
where it had bit into the red and blue barrier, for we were
wearing the old uniform then, but the bits slid together,
closing up the gaps to stand against the next flood.
When the eroded wall went down, undermined and over-whelmed
at last, the main army of France was across the
river and safe.\par

“Only two of us lived to rejoin our army, Lieutenant
Barres and myself. Barres’s leg was shattered, hopelessly
crippling him for the infantry, but when the wounds
healed—France could not spare so brave a man, so they
strapped him to the seat of a plane in the winged section
of the army, where he is still fighting!”\par

The sharp click, click of crutches tapped across the floor
as Barres of the Aviation Squad came into the fringe of
light. He saluted, then broke in upon Fouquet’s story.\par

“But you do not tell them, mon camarade, but for you
I would have died with the rest! He does not tell you,
sir, that he put his own chance of escape into peril by
dragging me—a helpless burden—with him!”\par

He looked at Fouquet with an anxious frown, “I
thought there might be enquiry about to-day. You
are—?”\par

A look flashed between them, the love of men who have
faced death together.\par

“Yes, Barres, I shall need you. It is the history of the
Avengers I am telling—to explain—”\par

He turned to the Americans.\par

“In the years of struggle that came after the retreat,
our women of France have taken the places of men behind
the lines, while our soldiers held the Front. But
when Russia freed herself the news filtered through the
provinces that the women of Russia when the revolution
needed them formed themselves into the Battalion of
Death. We also heard that German women were in the
army.\par

“Then the flame of a common inspiration touched the
widows of the —nth. They sought and found each other
and petitioned as their right that they be entered and
drilled as the —nth Battalion of Avengers.\par

“Military objections refused them again and again,
but the women stood as firm in their purpose as their
men who had held the post of rear guard. Always they
asked, Why should France be left a nation of sorrowful
women only? Let the widowed women of the —nth take
the place of men in the chance of death—they would
welcome it—and so save men to France.\par

“At last they were accepted and trained. Each added
to her equipment a small packet of cyanide of potassium
as her Russian sisters had taught her. One further
request they made, that the position assigned to them
might be in the course of the advance to retake the
ground held to the death by their men. To me was given
the great honor to be their commander.”\par

He drew himself up with pride. “They have justified
their petition for enlistment, sir, they wear the strap of
a battalion commended for bravery. We have been fully
trusted to hold our share of the Front in safety.”\par

As if at the significance of his own words his head
dropped, then lifted again grimly.\par

“It was for to-day’s work that this battalion was assembled
and trained to invincibility. We need no one to
interpret the meaning of the Front to us, but to the
women—to retake this strip of ground sodden with the
blood of the rear guard barricade built of their men,
meant being given the denied rite of closing glazed eyes,
the crossing of arms on rigid breasts, the lighting of
candles at head and feet and the last kiss on frozen lips.
They were mad for it—not in revenge but to right a
wrong.”\par

Fouquet’s voice thrilled, “That is the history, sir, and
the temper of the Battalion of Avengers who held the
trench at your right!\par

“When the order came for attack to-day, they waited,
taut as arrows in held bowstrings, at the foot of the
ladders for the signal to go over the top. Like shafts released
they sprang up the sides of the ditch. There was
sure death to the Hun in every gripped bayonet as they
bent to follow the barrage of fire across the craters and
snarled wire of No Man’s Land.\par

“No human sound comes through the hell of battle
artillery and yet we knew the strangling gasp that ran
the length of the line as the protective barrage made its
final jump, lifted and showed us the trench we were to
take. The women stood as motionless as the corpses
of the old —nth!\par

“Thrust shield-wise above the heads of the Huns,
crowning the ditch as with protective spikes, frightened
and sobbing, cowering before us were hundreds of little
children!”\par

Fouquet’s chair went spinning back as he leaned across
the table.\par

“God! men—they knew! The devil tells them! They
knew this section was held by women! For us to hold
the Front—our share of the Front—these mothers must
bayonet their way through crying, helpless babies!”\par

His groan found gasping echo.\par

“They were children of the French villages held by the
Germans—we could tell! Some of them had been shot
by the last of our barrage fire after the Huns had shoved
them over the top. It was hell to see the children’s torn
bodies writhing—we’re used to it with men! The
smallest—babies—were clinging to the older ones—children
of five or six—trying to hide—between the
Huns and—us!\par

“If we went on—took the ditch—these mothers must
cut through a barricade of children! If we did not go
on, we betrayed our trust, lost our share of the Front—let
the Huns behind the lines through a gap made by the
failure of the women of the —nth!\par

“We seemed to stand there for hours, but it was only
a second. The Huns had thrust their guns between the
children, and were holding their fire—the devilish cat
and mouse game!\par

“Then one of the women captains stumbled forward
and made the sign of the cross. It is the voiceless battle
cry of the Avengers and signs supreme sacrifice for all
the Front means. She lifted her right hand in the sweep
of victory—on her wrist was bound the packet of death
they carry in case of capture by the kultur beasts—and
fell, for the Huns opened fire the instant they saw her
gesture.\par

“But the message had gotten over! They could charge—they
must—and the cyanide would erase the intolerable
memory forever! I looked at those nearest and saw
they would go through with it, but men—their faces
were set with the look of the face of Christ on the cross!”\par

He stopped, breathing heavily, and looked from one
American to the other.\par

“You won’t believe it—I saw it and I cannot—but the
proof is there! As the women gripped to thrust, leaning
forward as if to force rebellious bodies toward that barricade,
there swept down upon us from the rear or above,
a sudden striding mist—a battalion of marching shadows
in a blur of the old red and blue that outstripped the
Avengers’ advance. There was a flash of charging steel
and the waving colors of the old —nth as they swept
over the untouched children into the trench.\par

“It’s all a blur, sir, I can’t tell you clearly, but they
turned their faces as they passed and—we knew our dead.
You could see the women cry out and lift their arms, each
to her own man as he halted an instant beside her.\par

“Madame Arouet was sobbing as if caught by a bullet,
‘Jean—Jean!—to have seen you again! Ah, my God!’
The tall corporal, just beyond, threw herself with high
piercing scream—arms outstretched—toward the smiling
shadow that was passing.\par

“The bravest man in the old —nth, where all were
brave, dropped behind as he bent over the fallen captain.
There was a quivering smile of recognition just as the
jerking heap settled into quiet; then, as if he waited for
it, a slender blur in horizon blue sprang to his side and
swept forward with the Battalion—though the captain
still lay where she had fallen!”\par

Fouquet gripped his comrade, arm and crutch together,
with a cry.\par

“Did you see our brave captain salute as he passed?
Joyously I shouted as I fell into step beside him, but—I
dropped back—I could not keep that pace! Barres—Barres—you
saw them? You must have seen them? It
was the old —nth come back to save their women from
the last hellish trap set by fiends! We know they had the
right. This was their battleground where once before
they had saved an army of France!”\par

Lieutenant Agor was leaning across the table with
staring eyes: “Then—that was what I—saw, sir?” He
turned to his commander, “I told you it was like the fog
blowing in off Frisco bay, and—”\par

Captain Hailes half rose, “My lieutenant said he lost
you when a mist obscured the contact platoon. He said
he saw—I—thought it was shell shock—I meant to
send him behind the lines—”\par

Barres shook his head slowly as he caught Fouquet
about the shoulder.\par

“{\itshape{Mon ami}}—I saw—I know! Very low I flew over
the gap to-day when it broke and widened. I felt the
White Battalion first, rushing through the planes—then
I saw them—a mist of the old red and blue with wondrous
swords!” His voice sank low, “From above I
saw one who led them—a shining one who, even as we
have read, smote the camp of the Assyrians”.\par

“It was the old —nth that followed. I knew them!”
His voice caught. “Did you see the rascals in the third
squad goose-stepping as they closed in on the Hun?”
With a break of unsteady laughter, “It was always their
final joke with the German, sir, before they got him.
No one could break them of it! Fouquet—we know! It
was the old —nth, our White Battalion!”\par

“A White Battalion!” Agor repeated the words
slowly, still staring.\par

The aviator shifted his crutch and drew himself erect.
“{\itshape{Mes amis}}, the Huns fling the taunt that France has
been bled white! To us it means a White Army—a
crowding host killed in battle—the red life of gallant
youth given so gloriously that it cannot die!\par

“And France bled white!... We know,” the words
halted, “the country for which we went to war is
maimed—scarred—she can never again be the same
France, but—” his lifted face gleamed through the
dim light, “our battle cry has changed! We no longer
fight ‘{\itshape{Pour la Patrie!}}’ but ‘{\itshape{Pour le Droit!}}’—the right
that is greater than country!”\par

With a sharp intake of breath he turned to his comrade.
Fouquet’s protesting look was gone. With the sure touch
of reality he picked up the story.\par

“It was all over in a breath, sir—like a mist swirling
along the trenches shot through with phantom steel, and
we knew our work was being done. When it lifted—the
ditch lay motionless!\par

“The women had dropped on their knees with their
arms about the children. We passed the poor little ones
through to the rear in charge of the wounded.\par

“The first trench was piled with dead—unmarked
dead! The communicating tunnels were cleared or quiet;
that was how we made up the forty seconds and followed
the barrage on time to the second ditch.\par

“I looked down the line as we made ready for the second
charge. Not a Hun cried ‘Kamarad!’ or tried to
surrender when they saw the faces of the Avengers. The
second ditch was piled with nearly as many dead as the
first—marked dead! The Avengers and the White Battalion
had retaken the ground for which the —nth had
given their lives.\par

“That is all, sir,” the gaunt figure in mud-stained blue
straightened, “excepting that the fouling Beast is going
in the end—we know! He cannot stand against the unconquerable
dead. And when we march through Berlin,
the White Armies will march at the head of the column—”
he lifted his hand in salute, “{\itshape{Pour le Droit!}}”\par

The crippled aviator balanced on crutches as he
brought up his hand.\par

“{\itshape{Pour le Droit!}}”\par

Noiselessly the men of the Foreign Legion pushed back
their chairs and stood at salute. Silently they faced each
other in a long moment of understanding. The major in
blue dropped his arm and with smiling eyes gripped the
hand of the man in khaki.\par

He flung open the door of the dugout, humming the
Song of France in marching time. The young officers,
French and American, fell into step together.\par

“Gentlemen—to Headquarters!”\par

The lilting voices filled the low room to the accent of
marching feet.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“{\itshape{Allons, enfants de la patrie,}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Le jour de gloire est arrivé!}}”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
\penalty-300%
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\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{THE YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

\penalty-300%
\label{addresses-of-american-magazines-publishing-short-stories}%
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\vskip 3.5ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Large\bfseries%
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{ADDRESSES OF AMERICAN MAGAZINES PUBLISHING SHORT STORIES}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 2.3ex\nobreak

{\noindent}
{\scshape{Note.}} {\itshape{This address list does not aim to be complete, but is
based simply on the magazines which I have considered for this
volume.}}\par

\vs{1}
\begin{alltt}
{\noindent}
Adventure, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City.
Ainslee’s Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City.
All-Story Weekly, 280 Broadway, New York City.
American Magazine, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Argosy, 280 Broadway, New York City.
Atlantic Monthly, 41 Mt. Vernon Street, Boston, Mass.
Bellman, 118 South 6th Street, Minneapolis, Minn.
Black Cat, Salem, Mass.
Boston Evening Transcript, 324 Washington Street, Boston, Mass.
Catholic World, 120 West 60th Street, New York City.
Century Magazine, 353 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Collier’s Weekly, 416 West 13th Street, New York City.
Cosmopolitan Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.
Country Gentleman, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa.
Delineator, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City.
Detective Story Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City.
Everybody’s Magazine, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City.
Forum, 118 East 28th Street, New York City.
Good Housekeeping, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.
Harper’s Bazar, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.
Harper’s Magazine, Franklin Square, New York City.
Hearst’s Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.
Illustrated Sunday Magazine, 193 Main Street, Buffalo, N. Y.
Independent, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.
Ladies’ Home Journal, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa.
Liberator, 34 Union Square, East, New York City.
Little Review, 24 West 16th Street, New York City.
Live Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City.
McCall’s Magazine 236 West 37th Street, New York City.
McClure’s Magazine, 251 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Magnificat, Manchester, N. H.
Metropolitan Magazine, 432 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Midland, Moorhead, Minn.
Modern School, Stelton, N. J.
Munsey’s Magazine, 280 Broadway, New York City.
Outlook, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Pagan, 7 East 15th Street, New York City.
Parisienne, Printing Crafts Building, 461 Eighth Avenue, New York City.
Pictorial Review, 216 West 39th Street, New York City.
Popular Magazine, 79th Seventh Avenue, New York City.
Queen’s Work, 3200 Russell Avenue, St. Louis, Mo.
Reedy’s Mirror, Syndicate Trust Building, St. Louis, Mo.
Saturday Evening Post, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa.
Scribner’s Magazine, 597 Fifth Avenue, New York City.
Short Stories, Garden City, Long Island, N. Y.
Smart Set, Printing Crafts Building, New York City.
Snappy Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City.
Southern Woman’s Magazine, American Building, Nashville, Tenn.
Stratford Journal, 32 Oliver Street, Boston, Mass.
Sunset Magazine, 460 Fourth Street, San Francisco, Cal.
Today’s Housewife, 461 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Touchstone, 118 East 30th Street, New York City.
University Magazine, Montreal, P. Q., Canada.
Woman’s Home Companion, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Woman’s World, 107 So. Clinton Street, Chicago, Ill.
Youth’s Companion, 881 Commonwealth Avenue, Boston, Mass.
\end{alltt}

\vs{1}
\penalty-300%
\label{the-biographical-roll-of-honor-of-american-short-stories}%
\hypertarget{the-biographical-roll-of-honor-of-american-short-stories}{}%
\vskip 3.5ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Large\bfseries%
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{THE BIOGRAPHICAL ROLL OF HONOR OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 2.3ex\nobreak

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}}
\endgraf}
\par\nobreak

\vs{2}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Note.}} {\itshape{Only stories by American authors are listed. The best
sixty stories are indicated by an asterisk before the title of the
story. The index figures 1, 2, 3, and 4 prefixed to the name of
the author indicate that his work has been included in the Rolls
of Honor for 1914, 1915, 1916, and 1917 respectively. The list
excludes reprints.}}\par

{\bfseries{ABDULLAH, ACHMED.}} Born at Kabul, Afghanistan, May 12, 1881,
of Arab and Tartar stock. Educated in India, England,
France, and Germany. Bachelor of Letters, Sorbonne, Paris.
Served in British-Indian and Ottoman armies. Writer of short
stories, novels, and plays. Expert linguist. Chief interests,
outside his profession, music, international politics, society.
First story published, “The Strength of the Little Thin
Thread,” Collier’s Weekly, Oct. 5, 1912. Author of “The Red
Stain,” 1915; “Bucking the Tiger,” 1917; “The Blue-Eyed
Manchu,” 1917; “The Last Manchu,” 1918; “The Trail of the
Beast,” 1918; “The Web,” 1919. Lives in New York City.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Cobbler’s Wax.\par}
{\vl Light.\par}
{\vl *Simple Act of Piety.\par}
{\vl Two-Handed Sword.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(34) {\bfseries{ANDERSON, SHERWOOD}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Man of Ideas.\par}
{\vl Senility.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(34) {\bfseries{ANDREWS, MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Ditch.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(34) {\bfseries{BABCOCK, EDWINA STANTON}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Cruelties.\par}
{\vl *“Goddess Size.”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{BEEDE, RALPH G.}} Born in Redfield, S. D., June 3, 1895. Educated
in public schools, Rolla, N. D., and Shattuck Military
School, Faribault, Minn. Three years at University of North
Dakota. Managed newspapers in Winnebago, Neb., and Makoti,
N. D. Has taught school and was superintendent of
schools at Goodrich, N. D., for two years. Chief interests,
writing and music. First story published, “Cera,” Harper’s
Magazine, May, 1918.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Cera\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(4) {\bfseries{BEER, THOMAS}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Beneficiary.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\bfseries{BRANGWYN, JOHN.}}” First story published, “Bell-Tower of
P’an-Ku.” His first book will be published soon. He lives in
Washington, D. C.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Bell-Tower of P’an-Ku.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{BROWN, HEARTY EARL.}} Born 1886, Schoolcraft, Mich. Degrees
A.B. and M.A. from University of Michigan. Member of the
English Faculty, University of Kansas. First published story,
“The Marrying Time,” Atlantic Monthly, October, 1918. Lives
in Lawrence, Kansas.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Marrying Time.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(23) {\bfseries{BROWN, KATHARINE HOLLAND.}} Born in Alton, Ill. Educated
in Washington, D. C., and at University of Michigan. Profession,
writer of fiction. Chief interest, writing. First published
stories: “2620 Oxford Place,” Lippincott’s Magazine,
August, 1900, “The Mathematics Man,” Woman’s Home
Companion, August, 1900. Books published: “Diane,” 1904;
“Dawn,” 1907; “The Messenger,” 1910; “White Roses,” 1910;
“Philippa at Halcyon,” 1910; “Uncertain Irene,” 1911; “The
Hallowell Partnership,” 1912; “Wages of Honor,” 1917. Lives
at Long Beach, Cal.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Buster.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{BROWNELL, AGNES MARY.}} Born at Concordia, Kans. Educated
in Concordia public and high schools, supplemented by four
years in a western school of music. Music teacher. Chief interests,
music, an ineradicable habit of prowling around libraries,
and out-of-door jaunts. First published story, “The Fifer,”
Youth’s Companion, June 28, 1917. Lives at Concordia, Kans.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Sanctuary.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(14) {\bfseries{BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Wings of the Morning.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{BUTLER, ELLIS PARKER.}} Born at Muscatine, Iowa, Dec. 5, 1869.
One year in Muscatine high school. Bill clerk, bookkeeper,
salesman, editor, and now acting Cashier of Flushing National
Bank, of which he is Vice-President. Chief interest, letting
himself know he is alive. First published story, “Shorty and
Frank’s Adventure,” in a deceased publication whose name is
forgotten. Author of “Pigs is Pigs,” 1906; “French Decorative
Styles,” 1906; “The Incubator Baby,” 1906; “Mr. Perkins
of Portland,” 1906; “The Great American Pie Co.,” 1907;
“Confessions of a Daddy,” 1907; “Kilo,” 1907; “The Cheerful
Smugglers,” 1908; “That Pup,” 1908; “The Thin Santa
Claus,” 1909; “Mike Flannery on Duty and Off,” 1909; “Water
Goats and Other Troubles,” 1910; “Adventures of a Suburbanite,”
1911; “The Jack Knife Man,” 1913; “Red Head and
Whistle Breeches,” 1916; “Dominie Dean,” 1917; and “Philo
Gubb,” 1918. Lives in Flushing, N. Y.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Sorry Tale of Hennery K. Lunk.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(2) {\bfseries{BUTLER, KATHARINE.}} Born in Baltimore, Md., Oct 2, 1890,
of New England parentage. Has lived in Salem, Mass., and
the nearby inland countryside of Essex County since 1896.
Education desultory. First published story, “In No Strange
Land,” Atlantic Monthly, March, 1915. Lives in Danvers,
Mass.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Black Pearl.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{CABELL, JAMES BRANCH.}} Born in Richmond, Va., April 14, 1879.
Educated at McGuire’s School in Richmond, and graduated
from College of William and Mary, 1898. Professions in
order: school teacher, proof reader, newspaper reporter, and
coal miner: at present, genealogist and writer. First published
stories: “Love Letters of Falstaff,” Harper’s Monthly, March,
1902; and “As Played Before His Highness” (republished as
“The Ducal Audience”), Smart Set, 1902. Author of the following
volumes: (novels) “The Eagle’s Shadow,” 1904; “The
Cords of Vanity,” 1909; “The Soul of Melicent,” 1913; “The
Rivet in Grandfather’s Neck,” 1915; “The Cream of the Jest,”
1917; (tales) “The Line of Love,” 1905; “Gallantry,” 1907;
“Chivalry,” 1909; “The Certain Hour,” 1916; (essays) “Beyond
Life,” 1918; (verse) “From the Hidden Way,” 1916;
(genealogy) “Branchiana,” 1906; “Branch of Abingdon,”
1911; “The Majors and Their Marriages,” 1915. Lives at
Dumbarton Grange, Dumbarton, Va.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Some Ladies and Jurgen.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(23) {\bfseries{CANFIELD, DOROTHY (MRS. JOHN R. FISHER).}} Born at Lawrence,
Kans., Feb. 17, 1879. Graduate of Ohio State University
and Columbia University. Secretary Horace Mann School,
1902-05. Married, 1907. Has traveled widely in Europe.
Now assisting Miss Winifred Holt in War Relief Work at
Paris. Author of “Corneille and Racine in England,” 1904;
(with G. R. Carpenter) “English Rhetoric and Composition,”
1906; “What Shall We Do Now?” 1906; “Gunhild,” 1907;
“The Squirrel-Cage,” 1912; “The Montessori Mother,” 1913;
“Mothers and Children,” 1914; “Hillsboro People,” 1915;
“The Bent Twig,” 1915; “The Real Motive,” 1916; (with
Sarah Cleghorn) “Fellow Captains,” 1916; “Understood
Betsy,” 1917; “Home Fires In France,” 1918. Lives at Arlington,
Vt.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Little Kansas Leaven.\par}
{\vl On the Edge.\par}
{\vl Pharmacienne.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{CARVER, GEORGE.}}\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
In a Moment of Time.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(234) {\bfseries{COBB, IRVIN S.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Gallowsmith.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(4) {\bfseries{CRABBE, BERTHA HELEN}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Wild-Wing.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{DICKINSON, ROY.}} Born at Newark, N. J., March 14, 1888. Educated
at Newark Academy and Princeton University, graduating
in 1909. Profession, advertising and manufacturing. Five
years with Cosmopolitan Magazine. Chief interests, labor psychology
and the other fellow’s viewpoint. First story published,
“Playing Hookey,” Delineator, November, 1916. Now
Captain in the Ordnance Department at Washington. Engaged
in work for stimulating industry in ordnance plants.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Some of Our Folks, and War.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(4) {\bfseries{DOBIE, CHARLES CALDWELL.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Open Window.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(134) {\bfseries{DWIGHT, H. G.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}) {\itshape{and}} {\bfseries{TAYLOR, JOHN.}}\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Emerald of Tamerlane.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{“ELDERLY SPINSTER” (MARGARET WILSON).}} Born in Iowa, Jan.
16, 1882. Graduated from University of Chicago, 1904. Lived
in India for the most part, 1904 to 1916. Since then she has
been resting, gardening, and farming. Chief interest, the
Americanization of American children through the school in
which she is teaching. First published story, “Taffeta Trousers,”
Atlantic Monthly, December, 1917.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
God’s Little Joke.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{ELLERBE, ALMA ESTABROOK,}} and {\bfseries{ELLERBE, PAUL LEE.}} Mrs.
Ellerbe was born in Greenfield, Ind., and educated at Oxford
College, Ohio. Chief interests, people, writing, and automobiling.
First published magazine story, “The Requital,”
Harper’s Magazine, September, 1903. Author of “The Rule
of Three.” Mr. Ellerbe was born in Montgomery, Ala. Had
one year in which he scrupulously refrained from study at the
University of the South, Sewanee, Tenn. Now Assistant
Chief, Americanization section, Council of National Defense.
Chief interests: English poetry, music, writing, automobiling.
First published story, “The Vacant Forty,” Lippincott’s Magazine,
March, 1913. Has been chief naturalization examiner for
the U. S. Department of Labor at Denver. Chautauqua lecturer.
Mr. and Mrs. Ellerbe plan to do all their writing in collaboration,
preferably in a cabin in the Colorado Rockies.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Citizen Paper.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{FISHER, DOROTHY CANFIELD.}}\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\bfseries{CANFIELD, DOROTHY.}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{FREEDLEY, MARY MITCHELL.}} Born in Philadelphia, Feb. 14, 1894.
Granddaughter of S. Weir Mitchell. Previous to her marriage
she was much interested in the betterment of economic conditions
relating to woman’s labor, and at one time organized and
managed The Philadelphia Trades School for Girls. She is
the wife of an actor, Vinton Freedley, and her interests are
mainly of the stage and things theatrical. She has never done
any previous writing and is at present chiefly concerned with
the business of “being a woman” and the wife of a soldier.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Blind Vision.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(1234) {\bfseries{FREEMAN, MARY E. WILKINS.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Jade Bracelet\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(4) {\bfseries{GEER, CORNELIA THROOP.}} Born in New York City, Feb. 15,
1894. Educated at Brearley School, New York. Graduated
from Barnard College, Columbia University, 1917. Instructor
in English, Bryn Mawr College, 1918. Interested in Woman’s
Land Army of America, and worked as farm hand at its Bedford
Unit in summers of 1917 and 1918. First published story,
“Pearls Before Swine,” Atlantic Monthly, October, 1917.
Lives in New York City.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Irish of It.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{GEROULD, GORDON HALL.}} Born at Goffstown, N. H., Oct. 4, 1877.
Graduate of Dartmouth College and Oxford University.
Studied also in Paris. On Faculty of Bryn Mawr College,
1901 to 1905, and since that time successively Assistant Professor
and Professor of English at Princeton University. Captain
Ordnance Department, U. S. A., 1918. Married Katharine
Fullerton, 1910. First story published, “Justification,” Scribner’s
Magazine, October, 1911. Publications largely the result
of studies in mediæval literature, folk lore, and hagiography,
appearing in learned journals here and abroad. Books: “Sir
Guy of Warwick,” 1905, “Selected Essays of Henry Fielding,”
1905; “The Grateful Dead,” 1908; “Saints’ Lives,” 1916; “Peter
Sanders, Retired,” 1917. Lives in Princeton, N. J.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Imagination.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(1234) {\bfseries{GEROULD, KATHARINE FULLERTON.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Marchpane.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{GILBERT, GEORGE.}} Born in Binghamton, N. Y., Sept. 27, 1874.
Educated in public schools. Became newsboy, messenger,
“rambler,” telegrapher, lineman, and press operator before
reaching eighteen. Served as editor-in-chief of several important
inland newspapers. Confidential clerk to Republican whip,
J. W. Dwight, in Congressional sessions 1909-10. An editor
again in Binghamton. First published story, “The Encouragement
of Reuben,” Pets and Animals, July and August, 1900.
Chief interests: Mrs. Gilbert, their son, flower garden, fishing,
playing typewriter sonatas. Lives in Binghamton, N. Y.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Ashes of Roses.\par}
{\vl *In Maulmain Fever-Ward.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(4) {\bfseries{GLASPELL, SUSAN.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*“Beloved Husband.”\par}
{\vl *“Poor Ed.”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{GOODMAN, HENRY.}} Born in Roumania of Jewish parents, May 30,
1893. Came to the United States in 1900. Graduated from the
Columbia School of Journalism in 1915. Subsequently journalist
on the New York Tribune and New York World. First
story published, “Billy’s Mother,” Pearson’s Magazine, June,
1917. Chief interest, writing poetry and short stories. Lives
in New York City.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Conquered.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(134) {\bfseries{GORDON, ARMISTEAD C.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Sinjinn, Surviving.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{HALDEMAN-JULIUS, EMANUEL.}} {\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Julius, Emanuel Haldeman-}}.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{HALL, MAY EMERY.}} Born in Providence, R. I., Sept. 16, 1874.
Educated at high and normal schools in Providence, supplemented
by special University courses. Taught for five years
in Providence public schools. Chief interests, the World War,
study and travel. Author of “Dutch Days,” 1914, “Roger Williams,”
1917. Writer of magazine articles. Lives at Douglaston, L. I., N. Y.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Whiteford’s Masterpiece.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(3) {\bfseries{HAWES, CHARLES BOARDMAN.}}\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Even So.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(2) {\bfseries{HECHT, BEN.}} Born in New York City, Feb. 28, 1896. But
left for the Middle West as soon as he learned to walk. Educated
in public schools, Racine, Wis. Has always wanted to be
an anthropologist. First published story, “Life,” Little Review,
November, 1915. Lives in Chicago.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Decay.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(4) {\bfseries{HEMENWAY, HETTY.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Their War.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{“HENRY, ETTA.”}} Pseudonym of a woman student at Columbia
University, who has published several excellent short stories.
Lives in St. Paul, Minnesota.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Kaddish.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{HERGESHEIMER, JOSEPH.}} Born in Philadelphia, Feb. 15, 1880.
Educated at a Quaker school in Philadelphia and at Pennsylvania
Academy of Fine Arts. His first magazine contribution
was a set of prose impressions of Atlantic City in The Forum,
September, 1913. Author of “The Lay Anthony,” 1914;
“Mountain Blood,” 1915; “The Three Black Pennys,” 1917;
“Gold and Iron,” 1918; “Java Head,” 1919. Lives in West
Chester, Pa.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Black Key.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{HOUGH, EMERSON.}} Born at Newton, Ia., June 28, 1857. High
school education at Newton, and graduated from State University
of Iowa, 1880. Practised law in New Mexico in 1882.
Came to Chicago in 1889 and had charge of the Western office
of Forest and Stream, 1889 to 1902. Fond of amateur sport.
“I have never seen a game of professional baseball and don’t
intend to. I care little for the movies, and detest the comic
supplements of the Sunday newspapers. I read moderately
and like historical fiction of the old type. I don’t care so much
for jig-time and jazz-time.” First published story, “Far from
the Crowd,” Forest and Stream, about 1881. “My father was a
great sportsman, a great mathematician, a great Christian. I
myself have always been a sportsman, but as to mathematics
and Christianity I do not say so much.” Author of “The Singing
Mouse Stories,” 1895; “The Story of the Cowboy,” 1897;
“The Girl at the Half-way House,” 1900; “The Mississippi
Bubble,” 1902; “The Way to the West,” 1903; “The Law of
the Land,” 1904; “Heart’s Desire,” 1905; “The King of Gee
Whiz,” 1906; “The Story of the Outlaw,” 1906; “The Way of
a Man,” 1907; “Fifty-four Forty or Fight,” 1909; “The Sowing,”
1909; “The Young Alaskans,” 1910; “The Purchase
Price,” 1911; “Young Alaskans on the Trail,” 1911; “John
Rawn,” 1912; “The Lady and the Pirate,” 1913; “Young Alaskans
in the Rockies,” 1913; “The Magnificent Adventure,”
1915; “The Man Next Door,” 1916; “The Broken Gate,” 1917;
“Young Alaskans in the Far North,” 1918; “The Way Out,”
1918. President of the Society of Midland Authors. Lives in
Chicago.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Clan Gordon.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(2) {\bfseries{HUGHES, RUPERT.}} Born in Lancaster, Mo., Jan. 31, 1872.
Educated at public schools, Lancaster, Mo., and Keokuk, Ia.
Graduate of Western Reserve University, 1892, M.A. (Yale),
1899. Chief interests: literature, military work, music, and history.
Married, 1908. Assistant editor Godey’s Magazine, Current
Literature, and The Criterion before 1901. With Encyclopedia
Britannica, 1902 to 1905. Captain U. S. A. on Mexican
border service, 1916. Assistant to Adjutant-General, New
York, 1917. Now Major in the U. S. A., stationed at Washington,
D. C. First short story published, probably “The Man
Who Could Stop His Heart,” The Adelbert, 1889. Books:
“The Lake Rim Athletic Club,” 1898; “The Dozen from Lake
Rim,” 1899; “American Composers,” 1900; “Gyges’ Ring,”
1901; “The Whirlwind,” 1902; “The Musical Guide,” 1903;
“Love Affairs of Great Musicians,” 1903; “Songs by Thirty
Americans,” 1904; “Zal,” 1905; “Colonel Crockett’s Coöperative
Christmas,” 1906; “The Lake Rim Cruise,” 1910; “The
Gift-Wife,” 1910; “Excuse Me,” 1911; “Miss 318,” 1911; “The
Old Nest,” 1912; “The Amiable Crimes of Dirk Memling,”
1913; “The Lady Who Smoked Cigars,” 1913; “What Will
People Say?” 1914; “The Music Lovers’ Cyclopedia,” 1914;
“The Last Rose of Summer,” 1914; “Empty Pockets,” 1915;
“Clipped Wings,” 1916; “The Thirteenth Commandment,”
1916; “In a Little Town,” 1917; “We Can’t Have Everything,”
1917; “Long Ever Ago,” 1918; “The Unpardonable Sin,” 1918;
and many successful plays. Lives at Bedford Hills, N. Y.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*At the Back of God Speed.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{HUMPHREY, GEORGE.}} Born at Boughton, Eng., July 17, 1889.
Educated at Faversham School, England; Oxford and Leipsig
Universities. Professor of ancient history at Saint Francis
Xavier’s University, Antigonish, Nova Scotia. Now at Harvard
University.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Father’s Hand.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(234) {\bfseries{HURST, FANNIE.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Hers {\itshape{Not}} to Reason Why.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(2) {\bfseries{JOHNSON, ARTHUR.}} Born in Boston, 1881. Graduate of Harvard
University. Practised law since 1905. Chief interests: his
profession, poetry, human nature, literature, art. Cares more
for poetry than anything else. First story published, “Frankie
and Jenny,” American Magazine, December, 1913. Now engaged
in war work at Washington. Home, Cambridge, Mass.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
His New Mortal Coil.\par}
{\vl *Little Family.\par}
{\vl *Visit of the Master.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(4) {\bfseries{JONES, (E.) CLEMENT.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Mongrel.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{JULIUS, EMANUEL HALDEMAN-.}} Born in Philadelphia, July 30,
1888. Self educated. “I left home as a kid and meandered
around doing odd jobs—from being a bell boy in a school for
polite young ladies to holding copy in a newspaper proof room.
At twenty I became a reporter in New York. Later I did
newspaper work in Chicago, Milwaukee, and Los Angeles. I
have edited and contributed to many labor and radical periodicals.
I am managing editor of The New Appeal, which is the
largest Socialist paper in the world. I am also director of a
thoroughly capitalistic bank. Married in 1916. My chief interest
right now is in getting the baby weaned.” Books: “The
Color of Life,” 1916; “Somewhere in Europe,” 1917; “The
Pest,” 1916. Lives in Girard, Kans.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Ring.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(3) {\bfseries{KING, BASIL.}} Born in Charlottetown, P. E. I., Canada, Feb.
26, 1859. Educated at St. Peter’s School, Charlottetown, and
King’s College, Windsor, N. S. Married, 1893. First story
published, “The Eleventh Hour,” Atlantic Monthly, February,
1901. Books: “Griselda,” 1901; “Let Not Man Put Asunder,”
1902; “In the Garden of Charity,” 1903; “Steps of Honor,”
1905; “The Giant’s Strength,” 1906; “The Inner Shrine,”
1909; “The Wild Olive,” 1910; “The Street Called Straight,”
1912; “The Way Home,” 1913; “The Letter of the Contract,”
1914; “The Side of the Angels,” 1915; “The Lifted Veil,”
1917; “The High Heart,” 1917; “Abraham’s Bosom,” 1918.
Lives in Boston.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Going West.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(4) {\bfseries{KLINE, BURTON}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*In the Open Code.\par}
{\vl Singular Smile.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(4) {\bfseries{KRYSTO, CHRISTINA}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Mother of Stasya.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{LEWIS, SINCLAIR.}} Born at Sauk Centre, Minn., Feb. 7, 1885.
Educated at local schools, and graduate of Yale University.
Newspaper reporter, assistant editor of Adventure and of
Transatlantic Tales, editor of the Publishers’ Newspaper Syndicate,
editor for George H. Doran Company and Frederick A.
Stokes Company. First published story appeared in Pacific
Monthly about 1905. Books: “Our Mr. Wrenn,” 1914; “The
Trail of the Hawk,” 1915; “Job,” 1917; “The Innocents,”
1917. Lives at Port Washington, L. I., N. Y.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Willow Walk.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{LIEBERMAN, ELIAS.}} Born in Petrograd, Russia, Oct. 30, 1883.
His parents emigrated with him to New York in 1891. Graduate
of the College of the City of New York and New York
University. Head of the English Department, Bushwick High
School, Brooklyn, N. Y. Aside from life itself, magazine and
newspaper work has always been his chief interest. First published
story, “The Open Door,” Lippincott’s Magazine, September,
1913. Books: “The American Short Story,” 1912;
“Paved Streets,” 1918. Lives in Brooklyn, N. Y.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Tower of Confusion.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(3) {\bfseries{MARKS, JEANNETTE.}} Born in Chattanooga, Tenn., 1875. Educated
in Philadelphia, Dresden, and Wellesley College. Has
travelled much in England and Wales. Fond of outdoor
sports. Lecturer in English literature at Mt. Holyoke College.
Member of the Committee on Habit Forming Drugs, American
Public Health Association. First story published, “Mors Triumphans,”
Outlook, May 20, 1905. Books: “The Cheerful
Cricket,” 1907; “The English Pastoral Drama,” 1908;
“Through Welsh Doorways,” 1909; “The End of a Song,”
1911; “A Girl’s School Days and After,” 1911; “Gallant Little
Wales,” 1912; “Vacation Camping for Girls,” 1913; “Leviathan,”
1913; “Early English Hero Tales,” 1915; “Three Welsh
Plays,” 1917. Winner of the Welsh National Theatre Prize,
1911. Lives at South Hadley, Mass.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Haymakers.\par}
{\vl *Old Lady Hudson.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(1) {\bfseries{MORRIS, GOUVERNEUR.}} Born in New York City, Feb. 7, 1876.
Graduated from Yale University, 1898. Books: “A Bunch of
Grapes,” 1897; “Tom Beauling,” 1901; “Aladdin O’Brien,”
1902; “The Pagan’s Progress,” 1904; “Ellen and Mr. Man,”
1904; “The Footprint,” 1908; “Putting on the Screws,” 1909;
“Spread Eagle,” 1910; “The Voice in the Rice,” 1910; “It,”
1912; “If You Touch Them They Vanish,” 1913; “The Penalty,”
1915; “When My Ship Comes In,” 1915; “The Goddess,”
1915; “The Seven Darlings,” 1915; “We Three,” 1916.
Lives in New York City.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Unsent Letter.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{MORTEN, MARJORY.}} Born in New York City. Educated in boarding
schools, studied art in Paris and New York. Married
Alexander Morten, 1909. First story published, “Sophy So-and-So,”
Harper’s Magazine, August, 1915. Lives in New
York City.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Nettle and Foxglove.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{MOSELEY, KATHARINE PRESCOTT.}} Born in Newburyport, Mass.
Niece of Mrs. Harriet Prescott Spofford. Privately educated
in Washington, D. C. Her father, a secretary of the I. C. Commission,
spent over twenty years in his well-known work for
the amelioration of railroad employees. His life was written
by James Morgan. Miss Moseley’s life has been spent between
Newburyport, Washington, and Boston, with trips abroad. Her
chief interests are in music and gardening. Her home is at
Deer Island, Newburyport, Mass.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Story Vinton Heard at Mallorie.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(23) {\bfseries{MYERS, WALTER L.}} Born in Lawrence, Kans., 1886, and
reared in Iowa. Educated in Iowa public schools, State University
of Iowa and Harvard University. In civil life Assistant
Professor of English, University of Iowa. Now Second
Lieutenant, Machine-Gun Training Centre, Camp Hancock,
Ga. Chief interest, literature. First published story, “At the
Crossing of the Trails,” Outing, 1909.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Clouds.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(4) {\bfseries{O’HIGGINS, HARVEY J.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Owen Carey.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{OPPENHEIM, JAMES.}} Born at St. Paul, Minn., May 24, 1882.
Educated at Columbia University. Engaged in Social Settlement
Work in New York, 1901 to 1903. Married, 1905. Teacher
and Acting Superintendent, Hebrew Technical School for
Girls, New York, 1905 to 1907. Editor, the Seven Arts Magazine,
1916-17. First story published in a school paper at age
of thirteen. Books: “Doctor Rast,” 1909; “Monday Morning,”
1909; “Wild Oats,” 1910; “The Pioneers,” 1910; “Pay-Envelopes,”
1911; “The Nine-Tenths,” 1911; “The Olympian,”
1912; “Idle Wives,” 1914; “Songs for the New Age,” 1914;
“The Beloved,” 1915; “War and Laughter,” 1916; “The Book
of Self,” 1917; “Night,” 1918. Chief interests: running a Ford
in the Litchfield Hills, taking care of chickens and gas engines,
analytic psychology, talking with a friend, and writing poetry.
Lives in New York City.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
* Second-Rater.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(34) {\bfseries{O’SULLIVAN, VINCENT.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Exhibit C-470.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{PATTERSON, ELIZABETH.}} Born in Old Fort Seward, Jamestown,
Dakota Territory, and spent her childhood in the picturesque
life of isolated army posts. Daughter of Brigadier-General
John S. Patterson, U. S. A. Educated at Cooperstown, N. Y.,
High School. Chief interests, traveling and out-of-door
things. Expects to spend the coming winter in France in Red
Cross service. First story published, “Sir Galahad,” All-Story
Weekly, May 18, 1918. Lives in Cooperstown, N. Y.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Sir Galahad.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{PATTERSON, NORMA.}} Born at Jasper, Texas, July 6, 1891. Educated
at Beaumont High School and University of Nashville.
Chief interest at present, turning out khaki-colored sweaters.
Is an earnest student of places, words, people, and national
issues. First published story, “The Roll of Honor,” Holland’s
Magazine, 1915. Lives in San Antonio, Tex.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Unto Each His Crown.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{PAYNE, WILL.}} Born on a farm in Whiteside County, Ill., Jan. 9,
1855. Public-school education. Chief interests: writing and
three grandchildren. “My first magazine story was published
in the Century about 1891, but while I have a clear recollection
of the indignation of the gentleman who unconsciously sat as
a model for the leading character, I can’t, to save me, recover the
title.” Member of National Institute of Arts and Letters.
Engaged in journalism, 1890 to 1904. Books: “Jerry the
Dreamer,” 1896; “The Money Captain,” 1898; “The Story of
Eva,” 1901; “On Fortune’s Road,” 1902; “Mr. Salt,” 1903;
“When Love Speaks,” 1906; “The Automatic Capitalist,” 1909;
“The Losing-Game,” 1909. Lives in Paw Paw, Mich.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*His Escape.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{PELLEY, WILLIAM DUDLEY.}} An accomplished writer of Vermont
stories, proprietor of the St. Johnsbury Caledonian, and editorial
free lance. Is now traveling in Siberia. Lives at Bennington,
Vt.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Toast to Forty-Five.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(4) {\bfseries{PERRY, LAWRENCE.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Poet.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{PRATT, LUCY.}} Born at Deerfield, Mass., July 29, 1874. Educated
at Deerfield Academy, private school at Nyack, N. Y., Boston
Normal School of Gymnastics, and Massachusetts Institute of
Technology. Teacher at Hampton Institute, 1897 to 1904.
First story published, “The Entrance of Ezekiel.” Books:
“Ezekiel,” 1909; “Ezekiel Expands,” 1914; “Felix Tells It,”
1915. Chief interests: human beings, music, literature, and
changing seasons. Lives at Cambridge, Mass.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Green Umbrellas.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(4) {\bfseries{PULVER, MARY BRECHT.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*David and Jonathan.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{PUTNAM, GEORGE PALMER.}} Born at Rye, N. Y., Sept. 7, 1887.
Educated in public schools and King’s School, Stamford, Conn.,
Gunnery School, Washington, D. C., Harvard University, and
University of California. Journalist, newspaper owner, author,
Mayor of Bend, Ore., and Secretary to the Governor of Oregon.
Enlisted in the army and went to the Mexican border. Has
been in Department of Justice for eight months and is now in
the Officers’ Training Camp, Louisville, Ky. Chief interests:
outdoor world, travel, politics, and people. First published
story, “The Sixth Man,” Ladies’ Home Journal, February, 1918.
Books: “The Southland of North America,” 1913; “Outings
in Oregon,” 1915; “The Smiting of the Rock,” 1917. Home:
Bend, Ore.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Sixth Man.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{RANCK, EDWIN CARTY.}} Born in Lexington, Ky., 1879. Educated
in private schools and Harvard. Newspaper man since 1898.
On staffs of newspapers in Lexington and Covington, Ky.
Dramatic editor, Cincinnati Post, 1906; St. Louis Star, 1907
and 1908; Brooklyn Eagle, 1916 to 1918. Has been in France
as war correspondent. Now press representative and play
reader for the Greenwich Village Theatre, New York City.
First published story, “The Chosen People,” Lippincott’s
Magazine, September, 1906. Books: “History of Covington,”
1903; “Poems for Pale People,” 1906; “The Night Riders,”
1912; “The Doughboys’ Book,” 1919. Lives in New York City.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Out o’ Luck.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{RHODES, HARRISON (GARFIELD).}} Born at Cleveland, Ohio, June 2,
1871. Educated at public schools, Cleveland, Adelbert College
of Western Reserve University, and Harvard University.
Chief interests, the war, travel, human society, and writing.
First published story, “The Impertinence of Charles Edward,”
McClure’s Magazine, January, 1903. Books: “The Lady and
the Ladder,” 1906; “Charles Edward,” 1907; “The Flight to
Eden,” 1907; “Guide Book to Florida,” 1912; “In Vacation
America,” 1915. Lives in New York City.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Extra Men.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{RIVERS, STUART.}}\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Leading Lady of the Discards.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{RUSSELL, JOHN.}} Born at Davenport, Ia., April 22, 1885. Son of
Charles Edward Russell, publicist. Educated in Brooklyn,
Chicago, and Northwestern University. Left college to make
a tour of the world. Spent some time in the South Seas. Reporter
and special writer New York Herald, 1907. Special
correspondent to Panama and Peru, 1908. Staff interviewer,
teacher, and fiction writer, New York Herald Sunday Magazine,
1908 to 1911. Free lance magazine contributor under seven
pseudonyms until 1916. On volunteer mission for U. S. Public
Information, England and Ireland, 1918. First published story,
“First Assistant to the Substitute,” Circle Magazine, July, 1907.
Chief interests, fiction and travel. Married Grace Nye Bolster
of Chicago; daughter, Lydia. No acknowledged books.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Adversary.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(3) {\bfseries{SEDGWICK, ANNE DOUGLAS. (MRS. BASIL DE SÉLINCOURT).}}
Born at Englewood, N. J., March 28, 1873. Educated by governess
at home. Left America when nine years of age, and
has since lived abroad, chiefly in Paris and London. Has
studied painting and exhibited at Paris. Married, 1908.
Books: “The Dull Miss Archinard,” 1898; “The Confounding
of Camelia,” 1899; “The Rescue,” 1902; “Paths of Judgment,”
1904; “The Shadow of Life,” 1906; “A Fountain Sealed,”
1907; “Amabel Channice,” 1908; “Franklin Winslow Kane,”
1910; “Tante,” 1911; “The Nest,” 1912; “The Encounter,”
1914. Lives near Oxford, England.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Daffodils.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(1234) {\bfseries{SINGMASTER, ELSIE.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Release.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(234) {\bfseries{SMITH, GORDON ARTHUR.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Return.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(34) {\bfseries{SPRINGER, FLETA CAMPBELL.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Solitaire.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(234) {\bfseries{STEELE, WILBUR DANIEL.}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Always Summer.\par}
{\vl *Dark Hour.\par}
{\vl Eternal Youth.\par}
{\vl Man’s a Fool.\par}
{\vl Perfect Face.\par}
{\vl *Taste of the Old Boy.\par}
{\vl *Wages of Sin.\par}
{\vl White Man.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{STREET, JULIAN.}} Born in Chicago, April 12, 1879. Educated in
Chicago public schools and Ridley College, St. Catharines, Ontario,
Can. His first writing was done when he helped to revive
the school paper there. At nineteen became a reporter on New
York Mail and Express. “Became dramatic editor of that
paper at twenty-one—just about the kind of dramatic editor
you might expect a twenty-one-year old to be.” Then in the
advertising business for awhile and abroad for a year. First
published story, “My Enemy—the Motor,” McClure’s Magazine,
July, 1906. “I was fortunate in having such friends as
Booth Tarkington and Harry Leon Wilson, with whom I went
abroad, and who encouraged my early efforts to write. The
greatest honor I have ever had in my work was an invitation
from Booth Tarkington to collaborate with him upon a play,
‘The Country Cousin,’ which is still running. I work slowly
and laboriously, and my production is small, because, though
I love writing, it is very difficult for me. I dislike exercise but
am fond of poker, which I play badly. My chief interests,
aside from my wife and two children, are in what Mark Twain
called ‘the damned human race,’ and in Havana cigars.”
Books: “My Enemy—the Motor,” 1908; “The Need of
Change,” 1909; “Paris à la Carte,” 1911; “Ship-Bored,” 1911;
“The Goldfish,” 1912; “Welcome to our City,” 1913; “Abroad
at Home,” 1914; “The Most Interesting American,” 1915;
“American Adventures,” 1917. Lives in New York City.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Bird of Serbia.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(3) {\bfseries{TARKINGTON, BOOTH.}} Born in Indianapolis, July 29, 1869.
Educated at Exeter Academy, Purdue University, and Princeton
University. Member of National Institute of Arts and
Letters. Books: “The Gentleman from Indiana,” 1899; “Monsieur
Beaucaire,” 1900; “The Two Vanrevels,” 1902; “Cherry,”
1903; “In the Arena,” 1905; “The Conquest of Canaan,” 1905;
“The Beautiful Lady,” 1905; “His Own People,” 1907; “The
Guest of Quesnay,” 1908; “Beasley’s Christmas Party,” 1909;
“Beauty and the Jacobin,” 1911; “The Flirt,” 1913; “Penrod,”
1914; “The Turmoil,” 1915; “Penrod and Sam,” 1916; “Seventeen,”
1916; “The Magnificent Ambersons,” 1918. Plays:
“Monsieur Beaucaire” (with E. G. Sutherland), 1901; “The
Man from Home” (with Harry Leon Wilson), 1906; “Cameo
Kirby,” 1907; “Your Humble Servant,” 1908; “Springtime,”
1908; “Getting a Polish,” 1909; “The Country Cousin” (with
Julian Street), 1917. Lives in Indianapolis.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Three Zoölogical Wishes.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{TOLMAN, ALBERT W.}} Born at Rockport, Me., Nov. 29, 1866.
Brought up in Portland, Me. Educated in Portland public and
high schools, graduate of Bowdoin College and Harvard University.
Tutor in Greek and rhetoric, Bowdoin College, 1889 to
1890. Instructor in elocution and rhetoric, 1890 to 1893.
Elected Assistant Professor of English, 1893, but resigned on
account of poor health. Practised law, 1898 to 1913, at the
same time writing adventure stories, principally for the Youth’s
Companion. For last few years has devoted himself almost
wholly to writing. First published story probably “On the
Monument,” Golden Days, about 1886. Book, “Jim Spurling,
Fisherman,” 1918. Lives in Portland, Me.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Five Rungs Gone.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{VENABLE, EDWARD C.}}\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Ali Babette.”\par}
{\vl *At Isham’s.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
(34) {\bfseries{VORSE, MARY HEATON}} ({\itshape{for biography, see 1917}}).\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*De Vilmarte’s Luck.\par}
{\vl *Huntington’s Credit.\par}
{\vl River Road.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{WILLIAMS, BEN AMES.}} Born in Macon, Miss., March 7, 1889.
Brought up in Jackson, Ohio. Educated at West Newton,
Mass., and Cardiff, Wales. Graduated from Dartmouth College,
1910. Newspaper man in Jackson, Ohio, Oklahoma City,
and Boston until 1916, now devotes himself entirely to fiction.
“I married a Wellesley girl, who insists that she and our two
boys are properly my chief interest. Fiction writing comes
next; and after that tennis, golf, fishing, swimming, gunning,
and the general run of outdoor stuff, with chess for rainy-day
wear. My first published story—my eighty-fourth in the order
of writing—was ‘The Wings of Lias,’ Smith’s Magazine,
July, 1915. Like a good many others, I owe a debt to Robert
H. Davis of Munsey’s for the encouragement that kept me
going.” Lives in Newton Centre, Mass.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Right Whale’s Flukes.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{WILSON, MARGARET.}} {\itshape{See}} {\bfseries{“Elderly Spinster.”}}\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{WINSLOW, THYRA SAMTER.}} Born in Fort Smith, Ark., 1889. Ancestors
on both sides included writers. Attended public and
private schools, Cincinnati Art Academy, and University of
Missouri. Feature writer on the Fort Smith Southwest American
and the Chicago Tribune. Experimental work included
principalship of an Oklahoma school and theatrical experience
from the chorus to ingénue. In 1912 married John Seymour
Winslow, son of Chief Justice John Bradley Winslow of the
Wisconsin Supreme Court. Interests: all printed matter,
people, the theatre, interior decoration, and psychology. First
story, “Little Emma,” The Smart Set, December, 1915. Her
subsequent stories are appearing mainly in the same publication.
Lives in New York City.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Eva Duveen.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{WOOD, FRANCES GILCHRIST.}} Born half a century ago, near the
small prairie town of Carthage, Ill. Graduate of Carthage
College, and has done much postgraduate work, credit due to
student ancestry. In earlier years worked as reporter and editor
on western newspapers, city and small town, and in railway
administration with her father, a combination that carried
her well over the States and Mexico. Present interests centre,
by turn, in the game of writing; children, including her own;
community festivals; gardening and all out of doors; as well
as a passion for pursuing the historic ghost through haunt of
house and highway. First published story, “The White Battalion,”
The Bookman, May, 1918. Books: “The Children’s
Pageant,” 1913; “Pageant of Ridgewood,” 1915; “Cartoons of
Dress,” 1917. Lives in New York City.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
As Between Mothers.\par}
{\vl *White Battalion.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\bfseries{WOOD, JOHN SEYMOUR.}} Born at Utica, N. Y., Oct. 1, 1853. Graduate
of Yale University and Columbia Law School. Married,
1880. Has practised law in New York City since 1876. Books:
“Gramercy Park,” 1892; “A Daughter of Venice,” 1892; “College
Days,” 1895; “A Coign of Vantage,” 1896; “Yale Yarns,”
1897. Editor of Bachelor of Arts, 1896 to 1898. Lives in New
York City.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*In the House of Morphy.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
\penalty-300%
\label{the-roll-of-honor-of-foreign-short-stories-in-american-magazines}%
\hypertarget{the-roll-of-honor-of-foreign-short-stories-in-american-magazines}{}%
\vskip 3.5ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Large\bfseries%
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{THE ROLL OF HONOR OF FOREIGN SHORT STORIES IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 2.3ex\nobreak

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}}
\endgraf}
\par\nobreak

\vs{2}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Note.}} {\itshape{Stories of special excellence are indicated by an asterisk.
The index figures 1, 2, 3, and 4 prefixed to the name of the
author indicate that his work has been included in the Rolls of
Honor for 1914, 1915, 1916, and 1917 respectively. The list excludes
reprints.}}\par

\penalty-300%
\label{i-english-and-irish-authors}%
\hypertarget{i-english-and-irish-authors}{}%
\vskip 3.25ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\large\bfseries%
{\centering
{\Large\strut{I. }}{\scshape{{\Large\strut{English and Irish Authors}}}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 1.5ex\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
(234) {\scshape{Aumonier, Stacy.}} *Bitter End.\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl *Source of Irritation.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
}

{\vl (23) {\scshape{Blackwood, Algernon.}} *S. O. S.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl (2) {\scshape{Colum, Padraic.}} *Sea Maiden Who Became a Sea-Swan.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl (134) “{\scshape{Conrad, Joseph.}}” *Commanding Officer.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl {\scshape{Couch, Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-.}} {\itshape{See}} Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur Thomas.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl (4) {\scshape{Dudeney, Mrs. Henry.}} “Willow Walk.”\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl {\scshape{Friedlaender, V. H.}} Last Day.\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl Miracle.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
}

{\vl (1234) {\scshape{Galsworthy, John.}} “Cafard!”\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl *Gray Angel.\par}
{\vl *Indian Summer of a Forsyte.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
}

{\vl {\scshape{Hinkson, Katharine Tynan.}} Boys of the House.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl (4) {\scshape{Mordaunt, Elinor.}} *High Seas.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl {\scshape{Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur Thomas.}} Old Æson.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl {\scshape{Stephens, James.}} Crêpe de Chine.\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl Darling.\par}
{\vl *Desire.\par}
{\vl Sawdust.\par}
{\vl School-fellows.\par}
{\vl Wolf.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
}

{\vl {\scshape{Tynan, Katharine.}} {\itshape{See}} Hinkson, Katharine Tynan.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl {\scshape{Watson, E. L. Grant.}} *Cobwebs and Starshine.\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl *Man and Brute.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
}

{\vl {\scshape{Windeler, B.}} *Elimus.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
\penalty-300%
\label{ii-translations}%
\hypertarget{ii-translations}{}%
\vskip 3.25ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\large\bfseries%
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{II. }}{\scshape{{\Large\strut{Translations}}}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 1.5ex\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\scshape{Alaihem, Sholom.}} ({\itshape{Yiddish.}}) *Great Prize.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl {\scshape{Anonymous.}} *Bistoquet’s Triumph. ({\itshape{French.}})\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl Oratorio. ({\itshape{French.}})\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
}

{\vl {\scshape{Becquer, Gustav A.}} ({\itshape{Spanish.}}) *Our Lady’s Bracelet.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl {\scshape{Bertheroy, Jean.}} ({\itshape{French.}}) Cathedral.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl (4) {\scshape{Boutet, Frédéric.}} ({\itshape{French.}}) Rift.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl (34) {\scshape{Chekhov, Anton.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}}) *Overspiced.\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl *Scandal Monger.\par}
{\vl *Vengeance.\par}
{\vl *Who Was She?\par}
{\vl *Work of Art\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
}

{\vl {\scshape{Crussol, M.}} ({\itshape{French.}}) Love in War Time.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl {\scshape{Daudet, Alphonse.}} ({\itshape{French.}}) *Last Lesson.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl {\scshape{Efimovich, L.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}}) *Early Spring.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl (3) “{\scshape{Gorki, Maxim.}}” ({\itshape{Russian.}}) *Makar Chudra.\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl *Man Who Could Not Die.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
}

{\vl {\scshape{Jaloux, Edmond.}} ({\itshape{French.}}) *Vagabond.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl {\scshape{Mauclair, Camille.}} ({\itshape{French.}}) Inner Man.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl {\scshape{Stronny, Vladimir.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}}) *Father and Son.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl {\scshape{Villiers de l’Isle-Adam.}} ({\itshape{French.}}) *Heroism of Doctor Halidonhill.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
\penalty-300%
\label{the-best-books-of-short-stories-of-1918-a-critical-summary}%
\hypertarget{the-best-books-of-short-stories-of-1918-a-critical-summary}{}%
\vskip 3.5ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Large\bfseries%
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{THE BEST BOOKS OF SHORT STORIES OF 1918: A CRITICAL SUMMARY}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 2.3ex\nobreak

{\noindent}
{\scshape{The Ten Best American Books.}}\par

\begin{itemize}
\item[1.] Bierce. Can Such Things Be? Boni \& Liveright.\par

\item[2.] Bierce. In the Midst of Life. Boni \& Liveright.\par

\item[3.] Brown. The Flying Teuton. Macmillan.\par

\item[4.] Burt. John O’May. Scribner.\par

\item[5.] Hergesheimer. Gold and Iron. Knopf.\par

\item[6.] Hughes. Long Ever Ago. Harper.\par

\item[7.] Hurst. Gaslight Sonatas. Harper.\par

\item[8.] Steele. Land’s End. Harper.\par

\item[9.] Wolcott. A Gray Dream. Yale.\par

\item[10.] Wormser. The Scarecrow. Dutton.\par
\end{itemize}

{\scshape{The Ten Best English Books.}}\par

\begin{itemize}
\item[1.] Blackwood. The Empty House. Dutton.\par

\item[2.] Blackwood. John Silence. Dutton.\par

\item[3.] Blackwood. The Listener. Dutton.\par

\item[4.] Blackwood. The Lost Valley. Dutton.\par

\item[5.] Buchan. The Watcher by the Threshold. Doran.\par

\item[6.] Galsworthy. Five Tales. Scribner.\par

\item[7.] Harker. Children of the Dear Cotswolds. Scribner.\par

\item[8.] Jacks. The Country Air. Holt.\par

\item[9.] Phillpotts. Chronicles of Saint Tid. Macmillan.\par

\item[10.] Sélincourt. Nine Tales. Dodd, Mead.\par
\end{itemize}

{\scshape{The Ten Best Translations.}}\par

\begin{itemize}
\item[1.] Andreyev. The Seven That Were Hanged. Boni \& Liveright.\par

\item[2.] Barbusse. We Others. Dutton.\par

\item[3.] Chekhov. The Wife. Macmillan.\par

\item[4.] Chekhov. The Witch. Macmillan.\par

\item[5.] Dantchenko. Peasant Tales of Russia. McBride.\par

\item[6.] Dostoevsky. White Nights. Macmillan.\par

\item[7.] Gogol. Taras Bulba. Dutton.\par

\item[8.] Gorky. Creatures That Once Were Men. Boni \& Liveright.\par

\item[9.] Gorky. Stories of the Steppe. Stratford.\par

\item[10.] Tagore. Mashi. Macmillan.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\itshape{Below follows a record of eighty-seven distinctive volumes published
during 1918, before November first.}}\par}
\end{itemize}

\vs{1}
\penalty-300%
\label{i-american-authors}%
\hypertarget{i-american-authors}{}%
\vskip 3.25ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\large\bfseries%
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{I. }}{\scshape{{\Large\strut{American Authors}}}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 1.5ex\nobreak

{\noindent}
{\scshape{Her Country}}, by {\itshape{Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews}} (Charles
Scribner’s Sons). In this short story by Mrs. Andrews there is
a fine emotional quality, and the spiritual values, though nowhere
overstressed, will remind the reader of “The Perfect Tribute,”
which still remains Mrs. Andrews’ best story. Written to assist
the last Liberty Bond campaign, its significant interest is independent
of its timeliness.\par

{\scshape{In the Midst of Life}} and {\scshape{Can Such Things Be?}} by {\itshape{Ambrose
Bierce}} (Boni \& Liveright). To an Englishman, the lack of familiarity
we show with Ambrose Bierce’s stories is a mystery. If
he were asked to mention our foremost short story writers, he
would think of Poe, Hawthorne, Harte, O. Henry, and Bierce.
Yet the name of Ambrose Bierce is almost unknown in this
country. His publishers are to be congratulated on the critical
acumen that prompted them to reissue Bierce’s stories in a new
popular edition. No writer, with the possible exceptions of
Stephen Crane and Henri Barbusse, has written of war with
more passionate vividness. Such stories as “The Horseman in
the Sky,” “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” and “Chickamauga”
are among the best stories ever written by an American,
and in the field of the macabre Bierce at his best is very nearly the
equal of Poe. I suppose that “In the Midst of Life” is the better
volume, but “Can Such Things Be?” almost rivals it in interest.\par

{\scshape{Helen of Troy}}, and {\scshape{Rose}}, by {\itshape{Phyllis Bottome}} (The Century
Company). These two novelettes are studies in national and
temperamental contrasts. Their deft characterization, subtle
humor, and sense of place entitle them to a place beside the best
novels of Ethel Sidgwick. They reveal a disciplined sense of
poetry and a tolerance of outlook which spring from an older
background than most American work.\par

{\scshape{The Flying Teuton and Other Stories}}, by {\itshape{Alice Brown}} (The
Macmillan Company). Last year I had occasion to express my
belief that “The Flying Teuton” was the best short story that
had been inspired by the war up to that time. It comes to us
now in book form with a collection of Miss Brown’s other
stories of war and peace, revealing the old qualities of courage,
imagination, poetry, and dramatic irony which we have come to
associate with the name of Miss Brown. I regard the book as
her most satisfying contribution to the short story since “Meadow
Sweet.”\par

{\scshape{John O’May}}, by {\itshape{Maxwell Struthers Burt}} (Charles Scribner’s
Sons). The wish which I expressed last year that Mr. Burt’s
stories should be collected in book form is now gratified by the
appearance of this volume. It is one of the few indispensable collections
of the year by an American author, and gives Mr. Burt
a place among American short story writers beside that of Mrs.
Gerould, Wilbur Daniel Steele, H. G. Dwight, and Charles Caldwell
Dobie. Few writers have a more thoughtful technique or
a more unerring sense of dramatic values.\par

{\scshape{Home Fires in France}}, by {\itshape{Dorothy Canfield}} (Henry Holt \&
Company). Here is a homely record of the new spirit that the
war has developed in the homes of France, and of the human
intercourse so rapidly cemented between the French people and
ourselves. There is a quiet glow in these stories which idealizes
the sufferings of France, and brings home to us poignantly the
present realities of her sufferings. If the volume lacks the conscious
art of “Hillsboro People,” its substance has been shaped
by a personal experience so intense that the book should live as
a memorial long after the incidents which it records have passed.\par

{\scshape{Rush-Light Stories}}, by {\itshape{Maud Chapin}} (Duffield \& Company).
These poetic studies in place, though reminiscent of Gautier, are
freshly told in a style that adequately mirrors the backgrounds
of which they treat. I find them to be delicately wrought, with
a prismatic beauty of phrasing, which errs slightly on the side of
preciosity.\par

{\scshape{The Thunders of Silence}}, by {\itshape{Irvin S. Cobb}} (George H.
Doran Company). When this short story appeared in the Saturday
Evening Post this year, it was discussed widely as a polemic.
It is not literature, but it is journalism at its very best, and has
fine story values.\par

{\scshape{Free and Other Stories}}, by {\itshape{Theodore Dreiser}} (Boni \& Liveright).
This collection of stories is uneven, but the best of it is
the best of Mr. Dreiser. In “The Lost Phœbe,” which I reprinted
as one of the best short stories of 1917, a new legend was
added to American letters which had much of the glamor of
leisureliness of Hawthorne. Such a story as “McEwen of the
Shining Slave Makers” is a fine imaginative projection into a
new world, mirroring ironically our human passions in the warfare
of two tribes of ants under the blades of a grass forest. Of
the social studies in this volume, all show the exact observation
and conscientious accumulation of detail for which Mr. Dreiser
is noted, and the absence of selective power in many cases which
often weakens his best work.\par

{\scshape{Battles Royal Down North}} and {\scshape{Harbor Tales Down
North}}, by {\itshape{Norman Duncan}} (Fleming H. Revell Company).
These two collections contain the last stories which we shall have
from the pen of Norman Duncan. Reverting as they do to the
Labrador shores of which he is the chief interpreter, they show
no flagging in Mr. Duncan’s power. No other writer has portrayed
so vividly the wet gray shores of the Labrador, nor interpreted
so sympathetically the character of the Labrador “Liveyere.”
Such a story as “The Little Nipper o’ Hide-an’-Seek
Harbor” has not been surpassed by Mr. Duncan in his earlier
books, and as one who knows the Labrador personally, I can testify
to the reality and imaginative truth of Mr. Duncan’s epic
chronicles.\par

{\scshape{Tales of Giants from Brazil}}, by {\itshape{Elsie Spicer Eells}} (Dodd,
Mead \& Company). These adaptations from the collections of
Romero and others are an excellent introduction to the Portuguese
folk lore of Brazil. They are told by Mrs. Eells in a
simple style which preserves their folk quality without any attempt
to refine upon it.\par

{\scshape{Cheerful—By Request}}, by {\itshape{Edna Ferber}} (Doubleday, Page
\& Co.). Miss Ferber is at her best in such a story as “The
Tough Old Dog.” In this story she has not sentimentalized her
substance, but has accepted the sentimental values inherent in the
theme and chronicled them faithfully. Such a story as this is the
product of regionalism in its best sense. In other stories in this
volume Miss Ferber’s characterization is of varying degrees of
success. In the best of these stories her characters are individualized;
in those which are less successful they remain types. But
the volume is an important addition to the year’s books by virtue
of three or four stories included in it.\par

{\scshape{Edgewater People}}, by {\itshape{Mary E. Wilkins Freeman}} (Harper \&
Brothers). While this volume does not as a whole represent
Mrs. Freeman’s art at its best, it contains two fine stories in “The
Ring With the Green Stone” and “A Retreat to the Goal,” while
“The Old Man of the Field” has much of Mrs. Freeman’s
familiar charm. These stories have the unity of New England
village life.\par

{\scshape{Great Ghost Stories}}, edited by {\itshape{Joseph Lewis French}} (Dodd,
Mead \& Company). This collection is fairly representative of the
best ghost stories that can be gathered, though one misses “The
Canterville Ghost” and “The Apparition of Mrs. Veal,” as well as
any representation of Poe, de Maupassant, or Bierce. But it does
contain twelve stories which may fairly be regarded as classics
in their field, and there is not one of them which is not of absorbing
interest.\par

{\scshape{Mimi}}, by {\scshape{J. U. Giesy}} (Harper \& Brothers). This novelette
is an idyl of the Latin quarter of Paris during the first year of
the Great War. Written in the tradition of Murger, it has his
qualities and defects. It is slightly overstressed and somewhat
carelessly written, but it has the human touch and good characterization.
I commend it to the reader for its quiet emotional
appeal.\par

{\scshape{Hindu Fairy Tales}}, by {\itshape{Florence Griswold}} (Lothrop, Lee \&
Shepard Co.). These fairy tales retold for children from the
“Jataka” are narrated in a simple style which is unpretentious
but effective. The legends upon which they are based are among
the oldest of the human race, but they retain much of their freshness
in this version.\par

{\scshape{Uncle Remus Returns}}, by {\itshape{Joel Chandler Harris}} (Houghton,
Mifflin Co.). This volume falls into two parts. It includes six
new folk stories by Uncle Remus as told to the son of the little
boy who was the eager listener in the earlier volumes. These
stories rank with the best of their predecessors. To these have
been added five sketches from newspaper files, which are purely
ephemeral.\par

{\scshape{The Ransom of Red Chief and Other Stories}}, by {\itshape{O. Henry}},
as chosen for boys by {\itshape{Franklin K. Mathiews}} (Doubleday, Page
\& Co.). It was a happy thought which inspired Mr. Mathiews to
make his selection. In it the reader will find many old favorites
well balanced by less familiar stories. Mr. Mathiews knew well
that no coaxing was necessary to introduce these stories to boys,
and has wisely dispensed with any educational apparatus.\par

{\scshape{Gold and Iron}}, by {\itshape{Joseph Hergesheimer}} (Alfred A. Knopf).
In these three careful studies in time and place Mr. Hergesheimer
has sought to reproduce certain aspects of our American
tradition. With a meticulous attention to detail, and a keen eye
for salient incident, he has slowly built up three portraits which
rank with the best that American fiction has given us in the past
few years. The comparison with Mr. Galsworthy is an obvious
one, but emphasizes a difference rather than a resemblance.
There is a certain asceticism of color and emotion in these novelettes
alien to Mr. Galsworthy’s romantic temperament.\par

{\scshape{Long Ever Ago}}, by {\itshape{Rupert Hughes}} (Harper \& Brothers).
During the past few years I have had frequent occasion to comment
upon these admirable studies of Irish American life as they
first appeared in the magazines. I regard them as the definitive
chronicle of the first Irish American generation in its process of
assimilation by New York. But it is more than this, for it is a
series of richly humorous little dramas, with an inimitable flavor
of their own.\par

{\scshape{Tales From a Famished Land}}, by {\itshape{Edward Eyre Hunt}}
(Doubleday, Page \& Co.). Mr. Hunt has been a prominent
official of the American Relief Commission in Belgium, and these
poignant stories, continuing as they do the record of Mr. Hunt’s
earlier book, “War Bread,” are largely based on actual happenings.
But the author has looked upon events with the imaginative
eye of a born story writer, and it is hard to forget such finely
wrought pictures as “Ghosts” and “Saint Dympna’s Miracle.”\par

{\scshape{Gaslight Sonatas}}, by {\itshape{Fannie Hurst}} (Harper \& Brothers). I
have expressed my opinion so frequently as to the permanent
human values of Miss Hurst’s work that I can only remark here
that “Gaslight Sonatas” is one of the very few permanent short
story books. Of the seven stories in the volume two have been
previously published in volumes of this annual.\par

{\scshape{Abraham’s Bosom}}, by {\itshape{Basil King}} (Harper \& Brothers). This
short story, now republished in book form from the Saturday
Evening Post, is an imaginative rendering of spiritual experience
independent of sensory phenomena. Its effectiveness is due to its
direct sense of reality and incisive characterization.\par

{\scshape{Modern Short Stories}}: {\itshape{A Book for High Schools}}, Edited
with Introduction and Notes by {\itshape{Frederick Houk Law}} (Century
Company). This collection of twenty-two stories drawn entirely
from contemporary work is a most persuasive introduction of
the short story to young readers. The selection is catholic, and
should make the student familiar with many types of plot, characterization
and style. The selection ranges from Lafcadio
Hearn to Tolstoy, and from Richard Harding Davis to Fiona
Macleod. Such notable stories of the past year or two as Phyllis
Bottome’s “Brother Leo” and Stacy Aumonier’s “A Source of
Irritation” afford a refreshing change from the conventional
routine. Mr. Law has succeeded almost admirably in coating the
educational pill.\par

{\scshape{The Land Where the Sunsets Go}}, by {\itshape{Orville H. Leonard}}
(Sherman, French \& Company). This volume was published in
1917 somewhat obscurely, but it has certain remarkable qualities
which would make me sorry to neglect it. These sketches of the
American desert are divided somewhat evenly between verse and
prose. The verse is very bad, and the prose is very good. While
the prose sketches are not short stories in the strict sense of the
word, they contain much fine characterization and a pictorial
value which place them easily first among all imaginative records
of the American desert.\par

{\scshape{The Red One}}, by {\itshape{Jack London}} (The Macmillan Company).
These four short stories include the best of the work upon which
Mr. London was engaged at the time of his death. “Like Argus
of the Ancient Times” is a true saga full of the open spaces and
the zest of youth lingering on into old age. “The Hussy” also
takes its place among the best of Mr. London’s later stories.
While the other stories are distinctive I cannot report upon them
so favorably.\par

{\scshape{Canadian Wonder Tales}}, by {\itshape{Cyrus Macmillan}} (John Lane
Company). These stories are drawn from all parts of Canada
and include both Indian and French Canadian legends. While
they lack the naïve reality of the folk storyteller’s method, the
selection is excellent, and should prove a revelation to the American
reader of the rich, though neglected, treasures which lie at
our back door. Until Mr. C. M. Barbeau of Ottawa renders his
invaluable collections accessible in more popular form, this collection
will be practically the only introduction of these treasures
to the general reader.\par

{\scshape{Famous Ghost Stories}}, edited by {\itshape{J. Walker McSpadden}} (The
Thomas Y. Crowell Company). This selection follows more
conventional lines than that of Mr. French, which I spoke of
above, but it contains Defoe’s “True Relation of the Apparition
of One Mrs. Veal,” which is perhaps the best ghost story ever
written, and which has the advantage of relative unfamiliarity.
The other thirteen stories are by Sir Walter Scott, Mrs. Gaskell,
Bulwer-Lytton, H. B. Marryat, Fitz-James O’Brien, Hawthorne,
Irving, Poe, Kipling, and Dickens. The publisher should be congratulated
on the best piece of bookmaking of the year.\par

{\scshape{E. K. Means}} (G. P. Putnam’s Sons). This book is so good
that it needs no title, but raises the question as to what its successor
will be called. It is a series of negro farces in narrative
form chronicling the joys and tribulations of Vinegar Atts, Figger
Bush, Pap Curtain, Hitch Diamond and other Louisiana
negroes. The town of Tickfall will have its pilgrims some day
if this book finds the audience it so richly deserves.\par

{\scshape{Shandygaff}}, by {\itshape{Christopher Morley}} (Doubleday, Page \&
Co.). Mr. Morley says that this book contains short stories and
I will leave to the reader the delightful task of hunting them.
Meanwhile I beg the question and step aside after introducing
the reader to good discourse on many subjects by a man who
knows how to talk.\par

{\scshape{Uncle Abner}}, by {\itshape{Melville Davisson Post}} (D. Appleton and
Company). Few writers have so conscientious a technique as
Mr. Post, or such a fine sense of plot. This collection of mystery
stories is woven around the personality of Uncle Abner,
whose Greek sense of justice is inflexible. All of these stories
are masterly examples of the justifiable surprise ending, yet have
the logic and dramatic power which we have come to associate
with Athenian tragedy. Their effectiveness is largely due to the
value of under statement.\par

{\scshape{Sketches in Duneland}}, by {\itshape{Earl H. Reed}} (John Lane Company).
These studies of the dune country of Lake Michigan fall
into two groups. The second and larger group consists of character
studies drawn from the quaint denizens of this district with
skilful humor and fine characterization. “Holy Zeke,” “The
Love Affair of Happy Cal,” and “The Resurrection of Bill
Saunders” are the best stories in this collection, though the
whole is very good indeed.\par

{\scshape{Miss Mink’s Soldier}}, by {\itshape{Alice Hegan Rice}} (Century Company).
This is a pleasant collection of Mrs. Rice’s better short
stories. They will give quiet pleasure to the reader who is not
too exacting and show a wide range of human interest.\par

{\scshape{The Key of the Fields}} and {\scshape{Boldero}}, by {\itshape{Henry Milner Rideout}}
(Duffield \& Company). These two picaresque novelettes
have the magical glamor of fairy tales set in Maxfield Parrish
landscapes. They have given me great pleasure by reason of
their prismatic quality and their whimsical humor. Mr. Rideout
is a conscious stylist who never falls into preciosity, but we must
accept his world without qualification if we are to enter properly
into the spirit of his work.\par

{\scshape{The Best College Short Stories}}, edited by {\itshape{Henry T. Schnittkind}}
(The Stratford Company). Mr. Schnittkind aims to consider
annually the best short stories in college magazines, following
the same principles which I have adopted in the present series
of volumes. The idea is excellent, and the results are surprisingly
good. I find in this collection three stories which
would have won a place on my annual Roll of Honor: “The
Tomte Gubbe” by Alma P. Abrahamson, “The Dead City” by
Isidor Schneider, and “Angèle” by John Jones Sharon. The
volume includes a large amount of valuable illustrative material,
including contributions by many magazine editors and successful
writers.\par

{\scshape{The Scar that Tripled}}, by {\itshape{William G. Shepherd}} (Harper \&
Brothers). In this short story Mr. Shepherd relates with vivid
detail the true story of the lad whose meeting with Richard
Harding Davis at Salonica suggested to the latter the story of
“The Deserter.” To my mind it is a better story than “The
Deserter,” and one which will have a quiet life of its own for
some time.\par

{\scshape{Land’s End and Other Stories}}, by {\itshape{Wilbur Daniel Steele}}
(Harper \& Brothers). I consider this the best volume of short
stories by an American author published this year. It rightly
claims a place in our literature by virtue of Mr. Steele’s sensitive
fidelity to the more abiding romance of ordinary life. These
stories have a quality of romantic escape which is rare. Behind
the complications which his men and women weave for one another
looms the eternal but ever-changing pattern of the sea.
Few writers show such economy in the use of their material.
These stories will last because of their imaginative reality, their
warm color, and their finality of artistic execution.\par

{\scshape{Mr. Squem and Some Male Triangles}}, by {\itshape{Arthur Russell
Taylor}} (George H. Doran Company). These sketches have an
American philosophy with more background than the casual
reader may at first realize. They help to interpret much that
would bewilder the foreigner, and their unassuming excellence
is noteworthy.\par

{\scshape{Atlantic Narratives}} (First and second series), edited with
an Introduction by {\itshape{Charles Swain Thomas}} (The Atlantic
Monthly Press). These two volumes are a well chosen selection
from the rich store of short stories published in the Atlantic
Monthly during the past few years. Edited for college and high
school use, the second series is specially adapted to younger
readers. Speaking generally, I should say that these collections
would be of more use in classes in English narrative than in
short story classes, but my personal emphasis would be on the
special pleasure they will give the general reader, who will find
such old favorites as “Little Selves” by Mary Lerner, “In No
Strange Land” by Katharine Butler, “The Garden of Memories”
by C. A. Mercer, and “Babanchik” by Christina Krysto
reprinted in a format which is a delight to the eye. It would be
pleasant if these collections should prove to be the forerunners
of an annual series of Atlantic stories.\par

{\scshape{The Rose-Bush of a Thousand Years}}, by {\itshape{Mabel Wagnalls}}
(Funk \& Wagnalls Company). When the first part of this book
was published in a magazine during 1916 its story value instantly
attracted my attention, and later it became familiar to a wider
public through the screen version in which Madame Nazimova
took the principal part. The present reprint has been long called
for, and would have gained if the crude and inartistic second
part had been omitted. It forms no essential part of the story
and is clearly an addition dictated by supposed moving picture
demands.\par

{\scshape{A Book of Short Stories}}, edited by {\itshape{Blanche Colton Williams}}
(D. Appleton and Company). This collection of thirteen stories
for high schools is an admirable collection along well-trodden
paths, and to it is added a wealth of biographical and critical
material, well-ordered and clearly exposed. The general reader
will wish to have the volume on his shelves, because it renders
accessible for the first time in book form Major Frederick Stuart
Greene’s remarkable story, “Molly McGuire, Fourteen.” It is
the finest testimony I know of the quality of Dr. Williams’ teaching
that a pupil of hers should have produced so notable a story
in her classrooms.\par

{\scshape{A Gray Dream}}, by {\itshape{Laura Wolcott}} (Yale University Press).
This collection of short stories and reminiscences has all the
quiet glow of Indian summer, dreaming over the past with serene
conviction and an unconquerable youth of the spirit. The best
that New England Puritanism had to reveal is chronicled in
these stories, which will remind more than one reader of Emily
Dickinson. They have a finished style which achieves its end
without undue pomp and circumstance.\par

{\scshape{The Scarecrow and Other Stories}}, by {\itshape{G. Ranger Wormser}}
(E. P. Dutton \& Company). These stories by Miss Wormser
are the most interesting short story discovery of the year. They
are subtle studies in unfamiliar regions of the spirit, and their
vivid imaginative quality is not unlike that of Algernon Blackwood,
though Miss Wormser’s style is somewhat more self-conscious.
I believe that this volume heralds a remarkable future.\par

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{The Tideway}}, by “{\itshape{John Ayscough}}” (Benziger Brothers).
This collection of stories has much of Henry Harland’s charm,
with a more complete mastery of plot. These stories are, many
of them, studies in social atmosphere, and if their substance is
tenuous, Monsignor Bickerstaffe-Drew has made the most of it.\par

{\scshape{Johnny Pryde}}, by {\itshape{J. J. Bell}} (Fleming H. Revell Company).
The dry merriment of this little book is infectious, and makes it
a worthy successor to the best of Wee Macgreegor’s earlier
adventures.\par

{\scshape{The Empty House}}, {\scshape{John Silence}}, {\scshape{The Listener}}, and {\scshape{The
Lost Valley}}, by {\itshape{Algernon Blackwood}} (E. P. Dutton \& Company).
The present reprint of four of Algernon Blackwood’s
earlier collections of short stories gives me the opportunity to
call attention to four books for which I care more personally
than for the short stories of any other English writer. No contemporary
has continued the magic tradition of Keats and Coleridge
more successfully than Mr. Blackwood, particularly in
“The Listener” and “The Lost Valley.” These two books at
least will last longer than any other volume of short stories by
an English or American writer published this year.\par

{\scshape{The Watcher by the Threshold}}, by {\itshape{John Buchan}} (George
H. Doran Company). Seven or eight years ago a remarkable
book of animistic stories by a writer then unknown to me was
issued in this country. It at once awakened my enthusiasm for
the writer’s work, and I felt that an important new figure had
come into view. But “The Moon Endureth” attracted almost
no attention and has since been forgotten. Mr. Buchan has published
other pleasant books since then but the present collection
is the first to recapture something of the same beauty, and in recommending
it cordially to the public I earnestly hope that Mr.
Buchan’s publishers will find it possible to reissue “The Moon
Endureth.”\par

{\scshape{Nights in London}}, by {\itshape{Thomas Burke}} (Henry Holt \& Company).
Strictly speaking, this is not a volume of short stories,
but to those who greatly admired “Limehouse Nights” last year
this volume will be found to hold the same fascination of style
and to make clearer the human background out of which that
book flowered.\par

{\scshape{Gentlemen at Arms}}, by “{\itshape{Centurion}}” (Doubleday, Page \&
Co.). This volume stands out as a distinguished record from the
host of personal experiences which the war has produced. I
think it quite the best of the English collection, and a volume
which the earlier Kipling might have been proud to sign. There
is a poignancy about these studies which is relieved by a well-considered
art.\par

{\scshape{Under the Hermes}}, by “{\itshape{Richard Dehan}}” (Dodd, Mead \&
Company). This book is written solely with the worthy object
of entertaining the reader. Five or six years ago, I remember
steaming down the Labrador in a decrepit little boat called,
rather magnificently, the {\itshape{Stella Maris}} (and fisherman’s rumor
had it that Lady Morris was so honored by the christening), and
my only companion for a week in the stuffy cabin was an independent
fur trader on his way to his winter post near Nain. His
baggage consisted of two crates of jam and two volumes by
“Richard Dehan,” and I remember how we banished sleep for
several nights and days by reading them to each other, and then
beginning all over again. If I knew where Richard White was
now, I would send him a copy of “Under the Hermes” to see if
the old magic still lingered. It is a collection of good stories
imaginatively told.\par

{\scshape{Tales of War}}, by {\itshape{Lord Dunsany}} (Little, Brown \& Company).
This volume is a series of sketches and essays dealing with Lord
Dunsany’s experiences in the Great War, but it contains one of
his best short stories,—“The Prayer of the Men of Daleswood,”—and
several fine imaginative fables.\par

{\scshape{Five Tales}}, by {\itshape{John Galsworthy}} (Charles Scribner’s Sons).
This collection of short stories and novelettes should be set on
the book shelf beside “The Dark Flower” as one of Galsworthy’s
two most signal contributions to the poetic interpretation
of life. It is not too much to say that this volume takes its
place in the great English line.\par

{\scshape{The Quest of the Face}}, by {\itshape{Stephen Graham}} (The Macmillan
Company). This volume does not represent the author at his
best, but the passionate mysticism which Mr. Graham has voiced
so nobly in his Russian books still flames through these pages,
and there are several sketches in the volume which I should have
felt sorry to have missed.\par

{\scshape{Children of the Dear Cotswolds}}, by {\itshape{L. Allen Harker}}
(Charles Scribner’s Sons). These quiet pastoral studies, to be
fully enjoyed, should be read aloud slowly by the winter fire, and
I think the reader will agree with me that they are a very delicate
series of studies in place. Mrs. Harker’s readers have a freemasonry
of their own to which the password is a love for England
and its forgotten Cotswold places.\par

{\scshape{The Country Air}}, by {\itshape{L. P. Jacks}} (Henry Holt \& Company).
It is my particular pride that I was one of the first to hail the
remarkable qualities of Mr. Jacks’ “Wild Shepherds.” I suppose
that the present volume will never be widely popular, but
to those who enjoy clean human observation, a broad philosophical
outlook, and an imaginative transmutation of facts, this
volume will be always welcome.\par

{\scshape{Waysiders}}, by {\itshape{Seumas O’Kelly}} (Frederick A. Stokes Company).
As Daniel Corkery was the Irish discovery of last year,
so Seumas O’Kelly is the most remarkable Irish find of the present
season. These studies lack the disciplined art of Mr. Corkery,
but they have the same rich imagination, deep folk spirit,
and close observation which distinguished “A Munster Twilight.”\par

{\scshape{Chronicles of Saint Tid}}, by {\itshape{Eden Phillpotts}} (The Macmillan
Company). Mr. Phillpotts has done well to collect his magazine
stories of the past ten years. As a novelist he seems to me inferior
to “John Trevena,” who also deals with Dartmoor characters,
but the short story with its narrow confines affords him an
excellent opportunity to chronicle the whims of human nature
which he has observed, and to set down simple chronicles of the
countryside which have a romantic atmosphere of their own.\par

{\scshape{Nine Tales}}, by {\itshape{Hugh de Sélincourt}} (Dodd, Mead \& Company).
To those of us who found in “A Soldier of Life” last
year a novel which revealed far more of the spiritual realities of
this war than “Mr. Britling Sees it Through,” these stories have
been awaited with eagerness. In “The Sacrifice,” Mr. de Sélincourt
has surpassed this novel for human revelation of war’s
spiritual effect on England, and “Sense of Sin” is as fine a
story in a different manner. The whole book is an eloquent plea
for spiritual freedom based on physical health and imaginative
life. An art so delicate as this is rare.\par

{\scshape{Some Happenings}}, by {\itshape{Horace Annesley Vachell}} (George H.
Doran Company). This is an entertaining collection of stories,
by an English writer in the American manner, and ranges in
breadth of interest from stories of the American West to English
mystery stories and French pastorals.\par

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{The Seven That Were Hanged}}, by {\itshape{Leonid Andreyev}} (Boni \&
Liveright). These two sombre studies in death rank among the
masterpieces of modern Russian literature. “The Seven That
Were Hanged” is a study in the human reactions of seven different
men between their condemnation and execution. Andreyev
is a master of character, relentless in his probing, inevitable in
his conclusions. “The Red Laugh,” which is also included in
this volume, is an unforgettable study of the horrors of warfare.\par

{\scshape{Lazarus}}, by {\itshape{Leonid Andreyev}}, and {\scshape{The Gentleman from
San Francisco}}, by {\itshape{Ivan Bunin}}, translated by {\itshape{Abraham Yarmolinsky}}
(The Stratford Company). These stories, published together
in one volume, are in vivid contrast. In “Lazarus” Andreyev
has written one of his two great prose poems, relating
how Lazarus revealed the mystery of the grave. “The Gentleman
from San Francisco” has poetry too, but it is essentially an
ironic study of the artificial values of commercial prosperity.\par

{\scshape{We Others: Stories of Fate, Love, and Pity}}, by {\itshape{Henri Barbusse}},
translated by {\itshape{Fitzwater Wray}} (E. P. Dutton \& Company).
This collection of early stories by Monsieur Barbusse would have
been important even if the author was not already known to us
by “Under Fire” and “The Inferno.” It includes forty-five
short stories of remarkable technique in small compass, sounding
almost every note of the human comedy and tragedy with the
utmost economy of means and finish of construction. It is perhaps
not an accident that the first two stories are the best, but
the collection is unusually even and seems sure of reasonable
permanence.\par

{\scshape{Czech Folk Tales}}, selected and translated by {\itshape{Josef Baudis}}
(The Macmillan Company). This is probably the best volume of
fairy stories published this year and should interest students of
folk lore and the general reader as well as children. There is
a wild poetry in these brief tales, which is well rendered in Dr.
Baudis’s translation.\par

{\scshape{Tales from Boccaccio}} (The Stratford Company). It was a
happy thought of the publishers to select these seven stories at
which the most puritan cannot carp, and to present them to us in
such an attractive form. An old translation is used whose style
faithfully mirrors that of Boccaccio.\par

{\scshape{The Wife}} (The Macmillan Company), {\scshape{The Witch}} (The
Macmillan Company), and {\scshape{Nine Humorous Tales}} (The Stratford
Company), by {\itshape{Anton Chekhov}}. Two new volumes have
been added this year to Mrs. Garnett’s admirable edition of
Chekhov. It is now universally admitted that Chekhov ranks
with Poe and de Maupassant as one of the three supreme masters
of the short story. “The Wife” contains at least two of
Chekhov’s masterpieces: “A Dreary Story” and “Gooseberries.”
With these two stories I should rank “Gusev” and “In the
Ravine.” The little book issued by the Stratford Company reprints
nine of Chekhov’s less familiar stories, some of which cannot
yet be obtained in English elsewhere.\par

{\scshape{Peasant Tales of Russia}}, by {\itshape{V. I. Nemirovitch-Dantchenko}},
translated by {\itshape{Claud Field}} (Robert M. McBride \& Company).
These four poetic stories by one of the less known Russian masters
are tragic studies of human conflict, softened by pity and
a deep-rooted religious belief. They are admirably translated
in a style which reflects much of the poetry of the original.
“The Deserted Mine” is one of the great short stories of the
world.\par

{\scshape{White Nights, and Other Stories}}, by {\itshape{Fyodor Dostoevsky}},
translated by {\itshape{Constance Garnett}} (The Macmillan Company).
These seven short stories and novelettes range over a period of
more than twenty years in Dostoevsky’s career. “White Nights,”
which is one of his earliest works, is a poem of young love and
its effect on solitude and spiritual isolation. “A Faint Heart,”
which was written seven or eight years afterwards, is a study of
the will and morbid melancholy. It anticipates many of the findings
of modern psychiatry. “A Little Hero,” written immediately
afterwards, is a kind of autobiography, and sheds much
light on Dostoevsky’s early life. But “Notes from Underground”
is the masterpiece of the book, and is one of the chief
clues to Dostoevsky’s own philosophy.\par

{\scshape{Jewish Fairy Tales}}, translated by {\itshape{Gerald Friedlander}} (Bloch
Publishing Company). This collection of eight stories, translated
from the Talmud, Yalkut, and other sources, has been
wisely selected to cultivate the imagination of Jewish children,
but should prove of much interest to the general reader who is
likely to be unfamiliar with most of these legends.\par

{\scshape{Taras Bulba, and Other Tales}}, by {\itshape{Nikolai V. Gogol}} (E. P.
Dutton \& Company). “Taras Bulba” and five of Gogol’s best
short stories are now added to Everyman’s Library. The title story
is the national epic of Little Russia, and has a Homeric quality
of spaciousness, dignity, and imagination which places it among
the world’s great masterpieces. The other stories show Gogol in
many moods, but chiefly as Russia’s greatest humorous writer.\par

{\scshape{Creatures That Once Were Men}} (Boni \& Liveright) and
{\scshape{Stories of the Steppe}} (The Stratford Company), by “{\itshape{Maxim
Gorky}}.” These two volumes are in sufficient contrast to one another.
The former contains five stories of life among the submerged
classes of Russia, which are nobly told with simplicity,
imaginative power, and sceptical philosophy. “Stories of the
Steppe” contains three prose poems full of a wild gypsy poetry.\par

{\scshape{Men in War}}, by {\itshape{Andreas Latsko}} (Boni \& Liveright). These
six realistic studies of warfare by an Austrian whose book has
been suppressed in his own country are a terrific indictment of
the militaristic spirit which has brought on the great conflict and
continued it relentlessly for four years. It shares with Barbusse’s
“Under Fire” the distinction of being one of the two
masterpieces written by combatants during the last four years,
and the spirit of the two books will be found to be essentially
the same.\par

{\scshape{Tales of Wartime France}}, by Contemporary French Writers.
Translated by {\itshape{William L. McPherson}} (Dodd, Mead \& Company).
This anthology of thirty war stories is well selected,
and shows that the war has produced many excellent French
stories. One and all, they illustrate the spirit of the nation, and
show an artistic reticence which contrasts favorably with the
work of English and American writers.\par

{\scshape{French Short Stories}}, Edited for School Use, by {\itshape{Harry C.
Schweikert}} (Scott, Foresman and Company). This collection of
eighteen stories for the most part follows conventional lines, but
the choice is excellent and introduces the reader to several unfamiliar
stories by Coppée, Bazin, Claretie, and Lemaître. The
critical apparatus is competent, and the biographical notes should
prove useful.\par

{\scshape{The Spanish Fairy Book}}, by {\itshape{Gertrudis Segovia}}, translated by
{\itshape{Elisabeth Vernon Quinn}} (Frederick A. Stokes Company). These
eight fairy stories show much imagination, a pleasant unpretentious
style, and a fine sense of form. While written for quite
young children, they also possess much folk lore value.\par

{\scshape{Serbian Fairy Tales}}, translated by {\itshape{Elodie L. Mijatovich}}
(Robert M. McBride \& Co.). I would rank this with Dr.
Baudis’s “Czech Folk Tales” as one of the two best books of
fairy tales published this year. Like Ispirescu’s collection of
Roumanian stories it seems to bear traces of a secret animistic
doctrine disclosing the mystery of change, and to have crystallized
in literary form through centuries of traditional storytelling.\par

{\scshape{Mashi, and Other Stories}}, by {\itshape{Sir Rabindranath Tagore}} (The
Macmillan Company). Of these stories it is difficult to speak
without undue enthusiasm. With admirable economy of means,
Tagore has succeeded in conveying the utmost subtlety of nostalgic
remembrance, and the sensuous beauty of shrouded landscape
in which he projects his figures sustains profound emotional
revelation without undue tightening of the literary fabric.
His literary method is a strange one to us, but it might well be
the beginning of a new short story tradition in which an American
writer could find inspiration as fresh as the new impulse that
the discovery of Japanese prints brought to Whistler and others
that followed him.\par

{\scshape{Paulownia}}: Seven Stories from Contemporary Japanese
Writers, translated by {\itshape{Torao Taketomo}} (Duffield \& Company).
These stories reveal a new world to us, as significant in its way
as the world of Tagore’s stories. Some of these Japanese
writers have been influenced by European models, but their spirit
is essentially national, and springs from an imaginative quality
which it is hard for us at first to recapture. All the stories have
a finished art, and so has Mr. Torao Taketomo’s translation.\par

{\scshape{What Men Live By, and Other Stories}}, by {\itshape{Leo Tolstoi}},
translated by {\itshape{L. and A. Maude}} (The Stratford Company). This
collection includes four familiar stories by Tolstoi chosen for
their social doctrine. The format of the book is pleasant, and
the choice of stories excellent.\par

\penalty-300%
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\vskip 3.5ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Large\bfseries%
{\centering
{\Large\strut{VOLUMES OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918: AN INDEX}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 2.3ex\nobreak

{\noindent}
{\scshape{NOTE.}} {\itshape{An asterisk before a title indicates distinction. This
list includes single short stories, collections of short stories,
textbooks, and a few continuous narratives based on short stories
previously published in magazines.}}\par

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\vskip 3.25ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\large\bfseries%
{\centering
{\Large\strut{I. }}{\scshape{{\Large\strut{American Authors}}}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 1.5ex\nobreak

\begin{description}
\item[{\noindent}
{\scshape{Andrews, Mary Raymond Shipman.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Her Country. Scribner.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Anonymous.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Thompson. Houghton-Mifflin.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Antin, Mary.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Lie, The. Atlantic Monthly Press.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bacheller, Irving A.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Story of a Passion. Roycrofters.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bacon, Josephine Daskam.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
On Our Hill. Scribner.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bagnold, Enid.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Diary Without Dates. Luce.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Barton, George.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Strange Adventures of Bromley Barnes. Page.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bell, Robert B. H.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Laughing Bear. Shores.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bellegarde, Sophie de.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Russian Soldier-Peasant. Young Churchman.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bierce, Ambrose.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Can Such Things Be? Boni and Liveright.\par}
{\vl *In the Midst of Life. Boni and Liveright.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bottome, Phyllis.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Helen of Troy, and Rose. Century.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Brown, Alice.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Flying Teuton. Macmillan.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Buffum, G. Tower.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
On Two Frontiers. Lothrop, Lee and Shepard.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Burt, Maxwell Struthers.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*John O’May, and Other Stories. Scribner.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Butler, Ellis Parker.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Philo Gubb. Houghton-Mifflin.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Canfield, Dorothy.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Home Fires in France. Holt\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Chapin, Maud.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Rush-light Stories. Duffield.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cobb, Irvin S.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Thunders of Silence. Doran.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Davis, J. Frank.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Almanzar. Holt.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dodge, Henry Irving.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Skinner’s Big Idea. Harper.\par}
{\vl Yellow Dog. Harper.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dougherty, Harry Vincent.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Way of the Transgressor. Roycrofters.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Douglas, A. Donald.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
From their Galleries. Four Seas.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dreiser, Theodore.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Free, and Other Stories. Boni and Liveright.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Driggs, Laurence la Tourette.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Adventures of Arnold Adair, American Ace. Little, Brown.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Duncan, Norman.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Battles Royal Down North. Revell.\par}
{\vl *Harbor Tales Down North. Revell.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Eells, Elsie Spicer.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Tales of Giants from Brazil. Dodd, Mead.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ferber, Edna.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Cheerful—By Request. Doubleday, Page.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Foote, John Taintor.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Lucky Seven. Appleton.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ford, Sewell.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
House of Torchy. Clode.\par}
{\vl Shorty McCabe Looks ’Em Over. Clode.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Fox, Frances Margaret.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Seven Little Wise Men. Page.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Frazer, Elizabeth.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Old Glory and Verdun. Duffield.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Freeman, Mary E. Wilkins.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Edgewater People. Harper.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{French, Joseph Lewis}}, {\itshape{editor}}.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Great Ghost Stories. Dodd, Mead.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ganoe, William Addleman.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Ruggs—R. O. T. C. Atlantic Monthly Press.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gatlin, Dana.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Full Measure of Devotion. Doubleday, Page.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Giesy, J. U.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Mimi. Harper.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Glass, Montague.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Worrying Won’t Win. Harper.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Goldsberry, Louise Dunham.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Ted. Badger.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Greene, Frances Nimmo.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
America First. Scribner.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Griswold, Florence.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Hindu Fairy Tales. Lothrop, Lee and Shepard.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hamby, William H.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Way of Success. Laird and Lee.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hardy, Thomas.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Two Wessex Tales. Four Seas.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Harris, Joel Chandler.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Uncle Remus Returns. Houghton-Mifflin.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Hay, Timothy.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Rollins, Montgomery.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hearn, Lafcadio.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Japanese Fairy Tales. Boni and Liveright.\par}
{\vl *Karma. Boni and Liveright.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Henry, O.}}” ({\scshape{Sidney Porter.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Ransom of Red Chief and Other O. Henry Stories for Boys, As Chosen by Franklin K. Mathiews.
Doubleday, Page.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hergesheimer, Joseph.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Gold and Iron. Knopf.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Herring, J. L.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Saturday Night Sketches. Badger.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hughes, Rupert.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Long Ever Ago. Harper.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hunt, Edward Eyre.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Tales from a Famished Land. Doubleday, Page.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hurst, Fannie.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Gaslight Sonatas. Harper.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{James, Henry.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Gabrielle de Bergerac. Boni and Liveright.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{King, Basil.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Abraham’s Bosom. Harper.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Law, Frederick Houk}}, {\itshape{editor}}.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Modern Short Stories. Century.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Leonard, Orville H.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Land Where the Sunsets Go. Sherman, French.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Levinger, Elma Ehrlich.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Jewish Holyday Stories. Bloch. Pub. Co.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{London, Jack.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Red One. Macmillan.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{McKenna}}, “{\scshape{Jawn.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Stories. Published by the Author.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{MacLean, Annie Marion.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Cheero!” Woman’s Press.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{McSpadden, J. W.}}, {\itshape{editor}}.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Famous Ghost Stories. Crowell.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mahon, Shiela.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Irish Joy Stories. Mahon Press.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Marcy, Mary Edna Tobias.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Stories of the Cave People. Kerr.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Masson, Thomas L.}}, {\itshape{editor}}.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Best Short Stories. Doubleday, Page.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Masters, Edgar Lee.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Toward the Gulf. Macmillan.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mayo, Katharine.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Standard Bearers. Houghton-Mifflin.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Means, E. K.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Putnam.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Merwin, Samuel.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Henry is Twenty. Bobbs-Merrill.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Morley, Christopher.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Shandygaff. Doubleday, Page.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Morse, Richard.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Fear God in Your Own Village. Holt\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Murphy, Marguerite.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Necklace of Jewels. Page.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Neal, Robert W.}}, {\itshape{editor}}.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
To-day’s Short Stories Analyzed. Oxford University Press.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{O’Brien, Edward J.}}, {\itshape{editor}}.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Best Short Stories of 1917. Small, Maynard.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Orcutt, William Dana.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
White Road of Mystery. Lane.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Poe, Edgar Allan.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Gold-Bug and Other Tales. Four Seas.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Porter, Sidney.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “Henry, O.”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Post, Melville Davisson.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Uncle Abner—Master of Mysteries. Appleton.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pratt, A. H.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
My Tussle with the Devil. I. M. Y. Co.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Reed, Earl H.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Sketches in Duneland. Lane.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Reeve, Arthur B.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Panama Plot. Harper.\par}
{\vl Soul Scar. Harper.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rice, Alice Hegan.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Miss Mink’s Soldier. Century.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Richmond, Grace S.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Enlisting Wife. Doubleday, Page.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rideout, Henry Milner.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Key of the Fields, and Boldero. Duffield.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Robbins, Leo.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Mary the Merry. Stratford Co.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Roberts, Elizabeth Judson.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Indian Stories of the Southwest. Wagner.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rollins, Montgomery.}} (“{\scshape{Timothy Hay.}}”)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Over Here Stories. Marshall Jones Co.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rutledge, Archibald Hamilton.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Tom and I On the Old Plantation. Stokes.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sanborn, Gertrude.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Blithesome Jottings. Four Seas.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Schnittkind, Henry T.}}, {\itshape{editor}}.] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Best College Short Stories. Stratford Co.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Shepherd, William Gunn.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Scar That Tripled. Harper.\par}
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\item[
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{\scshape{Skinner, Ada M.}}, {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Eleanor L.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Pearl Story Book. Duffield.\par}
{\vl Turquoise Story Book. Duffield.\par}
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Slaughter, Gertrude.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Two Children in Old Paris. Macmillan.\par}
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Smith, Charlotte Curtis.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Old Cobblestone House. Rochester, N. Y. Craftsman Press.\par}
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\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Steele, Wilbur Daniel.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Land’s End and Other Stories. Harper.\par}
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\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Steinberg, Judah.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Breakfast of the Birds. Jewish Publication Soc. of Am.\par}
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Taylor, Arthur Russell.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Mr. Squem and Some Male Triangles. Doran.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Thomas, Charles Swain}}, {\itshape{editor}}.] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Atlantic Narratives, First Series. Atlantic Monthly Co.\par}
{\vl *Atlantic Narratives, Second Series. Atlantic Monthly Co.\par}
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{\scshape{Train, Arthur.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Mortmain. Scribner.\par}
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{\scshape{Tweedy, Frank.}}] 

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{\vl {\noindent}
Discarded Confidante. Neale.\par}
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Van Loan, Charles E.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Fore! Doran.\par}
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\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wagnalls, Mabel.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Rose-Bush of a Thousand Years. Funk and Wagnalls.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wagner, Rob.}}] 

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{\vl {\noindent}
Film Folk. Century.\par}
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Waldo, Nigel.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Wallflowers. Hannis Jordan Co.\par}
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{\scshape{Wharton, Edith.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Marne. Appleton.\par}
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{White, Stewart Edward.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Simba. Doubleday, Page.\par}
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{\scshape{Widdemer, Margaret.}}] 

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{\vl {\noindent}
You’re Only Young Once. Holt.\par}
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\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Williams, Blanche Colton}}, {\itshape{editor}}.] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Book of Short Stories. Appleton.\par}
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wolcott, Laura.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Gray Dream. Yale Univ. Press.\par}
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{\scshape{Wormser, C. Ranger.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Scarecrows. Dutton.\par}
\end{verse}
\end{description}

\vs{1}
\penalty-300%
\label{id5}%
\hypertarget{id5}{}%
\vskip 3.25ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\large\bfseries%
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{II. }}{\scshape{{\Large\strut{English and Irish Authors}}}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 1.5ex\nobreak

\begin{description}
\item[{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Ayscough, John.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Tideway. Benziger.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Bartimeus.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Long Trick. Doran.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bell, John Joy.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Johnny Pryde. Revell.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Blackwood, Algernon.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Empty House. Dutton.\par}
{\vl *John Silence. Dutton.\par}
{\vl *Listener. Dutton.\par}
{\vl *Lost Valley. Dutton.\par}
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{\scshape{Brebner, Percy James.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Christopher Quarles. Dutton.\par}
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\item[
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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Buchan, John.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Watcher by the Threshold. Doran.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Burke, Thomas.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Nights in London. Holt.\par}
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cable, Boyd.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Front Lines. Dutton.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Centurion.}}”] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Morgan, Captain J. H.\par}
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\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Copplestone, Bennet.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Lost Naval Papers. Dutton.\par}
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“{\scshape{Dehan, Richard.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Under the Hermes. Dodd, Mead.\par}
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{\scshape{Doyle, A. Conan.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Danger. Doran.\par}
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\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dunsany, Lord.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Book of Wonder. (Modern Library.) Boni and Liveright.\par}
{\vl *Tales of War. Little, Brown.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Empey, Arthur Guy.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Tales from a Dugout. Century.\par}
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{\scshape{Evans, Caradoc.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Capel Sion. Boni and Liveright.\par}
{\vl *My Own People. Boni and Liveright.\par}
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{\scshape{Galsworthy, John.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Five Tales. Scribner.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Graham, Stephen.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Quest of the Face. Macmillan.\par}
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Graves, Clotilde.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “Dehan, Richard.”\par}
\end{verse}

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“{\scshape{Hanshew, T. W.}}” ({\scshape{Charlotte May Kingsley.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Cleek, the Master Detective. Doubleday, Page.\par}
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Harker, L. Allen.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Children of the Dear Cotswolds. Scribner.\par}
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{\scshape{Hodgson, William Hope.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Captain Gault. McBride.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Jacks, L. P.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Country Air. Holt.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kipling, Rudyard.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Tales. Four Seas.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Moore, George.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Story-Teller’s Holiday. Boni and Liveright.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Morgan, Captain J. H.}} (“Centurion.”)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Gentlemen at Arms. Doubleday, Page.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Morrison, Arthur.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Tales of Mean Streets. Goodman.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Noyes, Alfred.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Walking Shadows. Stokes.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{O’Kelly, Seumas.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Waysiders. Stokes.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pearse, Padraic.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Collected Works. Stokes.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pertwee, Roland.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Transactions of Lord Louis Lewis. Dodd, Mead.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Phillpotts, Eden.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Chronicles of St. Tid. Macmillan.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sabatini, Rafael.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Historical Nights’ Entertainment. Lippincott.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Sapper.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Human Touch. Doran.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sélincourt, Hugh de.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Nine Tales. Dodd, Mead.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Stockley, Cynthia.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Blue Aloes. Putnam.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Trevena, John.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*By Violence. Four Seas.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Vachel, Horace Annesley.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Some Happenings. Doran.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Walker, Dugald Stewart.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Dream Boats. Doubleday, Page.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wilde, Oscar.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Fairy Tales and Poems in Prose. Boni and Liveright.\par}
{\vl *House of Pomegranates. Moffat, Yard.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Yeats, W. B.}}, {\itshape{editor}}.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Irish Fairy and Folk Tales. (Modern Library.) Boni and Liveright.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Yeo.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Soldier Men. Lane.\par}
\end{verse}
\end{description}

\vs{1}
\penalty-300%
\label{id6}%
\hypertarget{id6}{}%
\vskip 3.25ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\large\bfseries%
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{III. }}{\scshape{{\Large\strut{Translations}}}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 1.5ex\nobreak

\begin{description}
\item[{\noindent}
{\scshape{Andreyev, Leonid Nikolaevich.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
({\itshape{See also}} Modern Russian Classics.)\par}
{\vl *Seven That Were Hanged, and The Red Laugh. (Modern Library.) Boni and Liveright.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Andreyev, Leonid Nikolaevich}}, and {\scshape{Bunin, Ivan Alexeivich}}. ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Lazarus (by Andreieff) and The Gentleman from San Francisco (by Bunin). Stratford Co.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Artzibashev, Michael.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Modern Russian Classics.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Balzac, Honoré de.}} ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Short Stories. (Modern Library.) Boni and Liveright.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Barbusse, Henri.}} ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*We Others. Dutton.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Baŭdes, Joseph}}, {\itshape{editor}}. ({\itshape{Czech.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Czech Folk Tales. Macmillan.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Boccaccio de Certaldo, Giovanni.}} ({\itshape{Italian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Tales from Boccaccio. Stratford.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bosschère, Jean de.}} ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Folk Tales of Flanders. Dodd, Mead.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bunin, Ivan Alexeivich.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Andreyev, Leonid Nikolaevich, {\itshape{and}} Bunin, Ivan Alexeivich.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Chekhov, Anton.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
({\itshape{See also}} Modern Russian Classics.)\par}
{\vl *Nine Humorous Tales. Stratford.\par}
{\vl *Wife. Macmillan.\par}
{\vl *Witch. Macmillan.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dantchenko, V. I. Nemirovitch-.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Peasant Tales of Russia. McBride.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dostoevskii, Fyodor Mikhailovich.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*White Nights. Macmillan.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Friedlander, Gerald}}, {\itshape{translator}}. ({\itshape{Yiddish.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Jewish Fairy Stories. Bloch.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gogol, Nikolai Vassilyevitch.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Taras Bulba. Dutton.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Goldberg, Isaac}}, {\itshape{editor}}. ({\itshape{Portuguese.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Brazilian Tales. Four Seas.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gorky, Maxim.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
({\itshape{See also}} Modern Russian Classics.)\par}
{\vl *Creatures That Once Were Men. Boni and Liveright.\par}
{\vl *Stories of the Steppe. Stratford.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Latzko, Andreas.}} ({\itshape{German.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Men in War. Boni and Liveright.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{McPherson, William}}, {\itshape{editor}}. ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Tales of Wartime France. Dodd, Mead.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Maupassant, Guy de.}} ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Mademoiselle Fifi. Four Seas.\par}
{\vl *Selected Short Stories. Current Literature Pub. Co.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mendés, Catulle.}} ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Fairy Spinning Wheel. Four Seas.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mijatovich, Elodie L.}}, {\itshape{translator}}. ({\itshape{Serbian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Serbian Fairy Tales. McBride.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Modern Russian Classics.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}}) (Stories by Andreyev, Sologub, Gorky, Chekhov, and Artzibashev.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Four Seas.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Nemirovitch-dantchenko, V. I.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Dantchenko, V. I. Nemirovitch-.}}\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Schweikert, Harry C.}}, {\itshape{editor}}. ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*French Short Stories. Scott, Foresman.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Segovia, Gertrudis.}} ({\itshape{Spanish.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Spanish Fairy Book. Stokes.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Sologub, Feodor.}}” ({\scshape{Feodor Kuzmitch Teternikov.}}) ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

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{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Modern Russian Classics.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Tagore, Sir Rabindranath.}} ({\itshape{Bengali.}})] 

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{\vl {\noindent}
*Mashi, and Other Stories. Macmillan.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Taketomo, Torao}}, {\itshape{editor}}. ({\itshape{Japanese.}})] 

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{\vl {\noindent}
*Paulownia. Duffield.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Tchekhov, Anton.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

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{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Chekhov, Anton.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Tolstoy, Lyof.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Death of Ivan Ilyitch, and Other Stories. Boni and Liveright.\par}
{\vl *What Men Live By. Stratford.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Underwood, Edna Worthley.}}] 

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{\vl {\noindent}
*Famous Stories from Foreign Countries. Four Seas.\par}
\end{verse}
\end{description}

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{\centering
{\Large\strut{THE BEST SIXTY AMERICAN SHORT STORIES}}
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}

\unskip\vskip 2.3ex\nobreak

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{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918: A CRITICAL SUMMARY}}
\endgraf}
\par\nobreak

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{\noindent}
{\itshape{The sixty short stories published in the American magazines
between January and October, 1918, which I shall discuss in this
article are chosen from a larger group of about one hundred and
twenty stories, whose literary excellence justifies me in including
them in my annual “Roll of Honor.” The stories which are included
in this Roll of Honor have been chosen from the stories
published in seventy-four American periodicals during the first
ten months of 1918. In selecting them I have sought to accept
the author’s point of view and manner of treatment, and to measure
simply his degree of success in accomplishing what he set out
to achieve. I have permitted no personal preference or prejudice
to influence my mind consciously for or against a story. But I
must confess that it has been difficult to eliminate personal admiration
completely in the further winnowing which has resulted
in this selection of sixty stories. Below are set forth the particular
qualities which have seemed to me to justify in each case
the inclusion of a story in this list.}}\par

1. {\scshape{A Simple Act of Piety}}, by {\itshape{Achmed Abdullah}} (The All-Story
Weekly). To those who enjoyed last year Thomas Burke’s
“Limehouse Nights,” the series of Pell Street stories which
Captain Abdullah is publishing in the Century Magazine, Collier’s
Weekly, and the All-Story Weekly will be welcome. To a vivid
sense of color and an economy of dramatic situation, “A Simple
Act of Piety,” which is the best of these stories, adds a fine appreciation
of the Oriental point of view. The characterization
is almost subjective it is so real, and the story is a fine crystallization
of the poetry inherent in New York Chinatown life.\par

2. {\scshape{The Man of Ideas}}, by {\itshape{Sherwood Anderson}} (Little Review),
points the way to a new American realism. Those who
have read Mr. Anderson’s other Winesburg stories in the Seven
Arts and the Little Review will remember that he has set himself
the task of portraying the spiritual values of a small Ohio community
without sentimentality. These stories suggest the Spoon
River Anthology, and indeed the tradition inaugurated by Edgar
Lee Masters, Sherwood Anderson, and other realists of the new
Chicago School seems likely to carry on the vision of Walt Whitman
to new goals of achievement.\par

3. {\scshape{Cruelties}} (Harper’s Magazine) and 4. “{\scshape{Goddess Size}}”
(Harper’s Magazine), by {\itshape{Edwina Stanton Babcock}}. When Miss
Babcock published “The Excursion” last year in the Pictorial
Review, I expressed my belief that it was one of the best five
American short stories of the year. I regard these two stories
as marking a significant advance in Miss Babcock’s art. Her
characterization of these Nantucket folks has a subtle humor and
poetry linked to a faithful realism. Miss Babcock continues to
prove herself a leader in short-story regionalism. “Cruelties”
is very quietly done and no point is over-stressed. In fact I find
a greater reticence in these stories than in Miss Babcock’s earlier
work, and this is all to the good.\par

5. {\scshape{The Bell-Tower of P’An-Ku}}, by “{\itshape{John Brangwyn}}” (Century
Magazine). This story by an American novelist, whose name
is not to be revealed, comes with a definite message to Americans
from China. It is an allegory quietly setting forth the essence of
the imaginative attitude toward life. Like a shifting tapestry,
pictures weave to and fro, and the way is opened to us to see the
vision that the unknown Chinese master saw.\par

6. {\scshape{Buster}}, by {\itshape{Katharine Holland Brown}} (Scribner’s Magazine).
Here in clear swift portraiture Miss Brown has caught
the spirit of America, youthful and eager, living dangerously and
happily, and prepared to face danger, and, if necessary, seek it.
“Buster” is a study of the typical young American who finds
himself at last as an aviator in France. No story could better
interpret our spirit to the English and French imagination.\par

7. {\scshape{The Sorry Tale of Hennery K. Lunk}}, by {\itshape{Ellis Parker
Butler}} (Harper’s Magazine). This tale of a mournful mariner
ashore on the banks of the Mississippi would have delighted
Mark Twain. I hope Mr. Butler will forgive me if I state that
it contains more poetry than prose. But after all, mournful
mariners come and go, while their stories go on forever.\par

8. {\scshape{The Black Pearl}}, by {\itshape{Katharine Butler}} (Atlantic Monthly).
This story, redolent of the East, is an admirable study in atmosphere.
It has all the nostalgia of a half-forgotten dream, and
yet it is so confidently set forth that we may enter its background
without difficulty. Style is not a common quality, I
regret to say, in American short stories, but the picture portrayed
in “The Black Pearl” is well nigh flawless.\par

9. {\scshape{Some Ladies and Jurgen}}, by {\itshape{James Branch Cabell}} (Smart
Set), is a wilful apologue of poets and their wives which will
delight the thoughtful while disappointing the serious. It is
really a prose poem without any moral whatever, unless perhaps
the moral Miss Guiney once pointed out when she said that tall
talk always reminded her of the Himalayas. I commend the
fable to all would-be poets.\par

10. {\scshape{The Gallowsmith}}, by {\itshape{Irvin S. Cobb}} (All-Story Weekly).
This story, which marks a great departure from Mr. Cobb’s usual
vein, is one of the most grim stories an American magazine has
ever published, but it is a masterly portrait of a professional
hangman which the reader cannot easily forget. With vivid
completeness of detail, and characterization which is admirably
suggestive, Mr. Cobb manages the situation in such a way that its
conclusion is inevitable, yet unexpected.\par

11. {\scshape{The Open Window}}, by {\itshape{Charles Caldwell Dobie}} (Harper’s
Magazine), is a sequel to “Laughter,” which I published
last year as one of the best short stories of 1917. Unlike most
sequels, it is perhaps better than its predecessor, and the mastery
of his art which Mr. Dobie shows only serves to confirm my prediction
of two years ago, that in Mr. Dobie America would find
before long one of its four or five best short-story writers. An
adventurous publisher, anxious to issue the best that is being
written in American fiction, cannot afford to neglect Mr. Dobie.\par

12. {\scshape{The Emerald of Tamerlane}}, by {\itshape{H. G. Dwight and John
Taylor}} (Century Magazine). Every discriminating reader knows
H. G. Dwight’s book of short stories entitled “Stamboul Nights,”
and admires its quality of romantic mystery and poetic description.
“The Emerald of Tamerlane” admirably sustains Mr.
Dwight’s reputation for vivid realization of Persian life.\par

13. {\scshape{Blind Vision}}, by {\itshape{Mary Mitchell Freedley}} (Century Magazine).
This story, by S. Weir Mitchell’s granddaughter, marks
not only Mrs. Freedley’s first appearance in print, but the arrival
of a remarkable new talent. It is a study of an American aviator
and a spiritual problem that he had to decide, and is set down
with exceptional artistic economy.\par

14. {\scshape{The Irish of It}}, by {\itshape{Cornelia Throop Geer}} (Atlantic
Monthly). This little study, which is hardly more than a dialogue,
is inimitable in its deft humorous characterization. It is
good news to be able to report that Miss Geer is planning a volume
of stories about these Irish boys and girls whose poetry of
thought and action is so coaxing.\par

15. {\scshape{Imagination}}, by {\itshape{Gordon Hall Gerould}} (Scribner’s Magazine).
Captain Gerould has taken his subject quietly and handled
it with a thoughtful sense of its possibilities. This study of a
successful writer of best sellers, with his egregious solemnity
and lack of imagination, is delightfully rendered. The subtlety
of the author’s psychology will not blind the reader to its essential
truth.\par

16. {\scshape{Marchpane}}, by {\itshape{Katharine Fullerton Gerould}} (Harper’s
Magazine). Mrs. Gerould has only published one short story
this year, but fortunately it ranks among her best. It is written
with all her usual close observation of abnormal psychological
situations. The art of few stories is concealed so successfully, and
the story is one of which Henry James would have been proud.\par

17. {\scshape{In Maulmain Fever-Ward}}, by {\itshape{George Gilbert}}. This story,
which appeared in a Chicago magazine, is the first of an unusual
series of stories dealing with East Indian life. It is full of a
wild poetry of speech and action, set against a background of
almost oppressive natural beauty. I think that the story would
have gained by a little more reticence, but the groundwork is
firm and the detail admirably rendered.\par

18. “{\scshape{Beloved Husband}}” (Harper’s Magazine) and 19. “{\scshape{Poor
Ed}}” (The Liberator), by {\itshape{Susan Glaspell}}. Susan Glaspell has
already won a high reputation in three equally difficult fields,
those of the novel, the drama, and the short story. Considering
her as a short-story writer only, we may say that these two
stories reflect the best that she has done, with the possible exception
of the story entitled “A Jury of Her Peers,” which I
reprinted in “The Best Short Stories of 1917.” Both are studies
in suppressed ambition, set forth with a gentle humor which does
not fail by virtue of overstress. Susan Glaspell is at her best
in “Poor Ed,” a study in the triumph of failure.\par

20. {\scshape{Sinjinn Surviving}}, by {\itshape{Armistead C. Gordon}} (Harper’s
Magazine). This story is one more addition to Mr. Gordon’s
studies of Virginia negro plantation life. It introduces us once
more to Ommirandy and Uncle Jonas, and is a quiet idyl of the
life that survived in Virginia after the fall of the Confederacy.\par

21. {\scshape{Even So}}, by {\itshape{Charles Boardman Hawes}} (The Bellman).
The art of Mr. Hawes has developed so quietly during the past
few years that it has not attracted the attention it richly deserves.
This study of life and death many years ago in the Southern
Seas recaptures much of the magic of the old sailing-ship days
when the {\itshape{Helen of Troy}} and other American clippers came
bravely into port. The story has a fine legendary quality.\par

22. {\scshape{Decay}}, by {\itshape{Ben Hecht}} (Little Review). When Mr. Hecht
published “Life” in the Little Review some few years ago I predicted
that the future would reveal the fulfilment of his remarkable
promise, although I was not quite sure whether Mr. Hecht
would find himself most fully in the short story or in the novel.
During these years his output has been small but distinguished,
and the present study of Chicago life shows a marked advance
in technique. Nevertheless I now think that the novel is Mr.
Hecht’s natural vehicle, and that when his first novel appears it
will create a profound literary impression.\par

23. {\scshape{Their War}}, by {\itshape{Hetty Hemenway}} (Atlantic Monthly).
When Miss Hemenway published “Four Days” in the Atlantic
Monthly last year, it created more discussion than any other war
story of the year. Her new story, which is in as quiet a key,
represents an advance in her art, and the two stories taken together
represent one of the few important contributions America
has made to the imaginative literature of the war. The war has
taught us that youth is old enough, under the stress of events, to
speak for itself, and there is a brave frankness about Mrs. Richard’s
exposition of this truth which brings it home to all.\par

24. {\scshape{At the Back of God Speed}}, by {\itshape{Rupert Hughes}} (Hearst’s
Magazine). Three years ago Mr. Hughes published in the Metropolitan
Magazine two stories which were as fine in their way
as the best of Irvin Cobb’s humorous stories. In “Michaeleen!
Michaelawn!” and “Sent for Out” Mr. Hughes depicted with
his wonted kindliness and pathos the first generation of successful
Irish immigrants. “At the Back of God Speed” now completes
the series, which form as a whole the most faithful portrait
yet drawn of the Americanized Irishman.\par

25. {\scshape{The Father’s Hand}}, by {\itshape{George Humphrey}} (The Bookman).
Although Mr. Humphrey was born in England he has
now definitely adopted us and I suppose we may claim him as an
American writer. This brief and touching study of one minor
incident in the Great War shows a fine sense of human values,
whose artistic effect is enhanced by deliberate understatement.\par

26. {\scshape{Her’s}} {\itshape{NOT}} {\scshape{to Reason Why}}, by {\itshape{Fannie Hurst}} (Cosmopolitan).
This story was published in 1917, when it unaccountably
failed to attract my attention, and as an act of prosaic justice
I now chronicle it, because I believe it to be the best story Miss
Hurst has yet published. The temptation to oversentimentalize
the theme must have been almost irresistible, but the author has
not failed in reticence and this study of a certain aspect of New
York life will not be soon forgotten.\par

27. {\scshape{The Little Family}} (Harper’s Magazine) and 28. {\scshape{The
Visit of the Master}} (Harper’s Magazine), by {\itshape{Arthur Johnson}}.
These stories have nothing in common except the fact that they
reinforce Mr. Johnson’s claim this year to rank with Mrs.
Gerould, Wilbur Daniel Steele, H. G. Dwight, and Charles Caldwell
Dobie as one of the most finished artists in America to-day.
“The Visit of the Master” is an altogether delightful social
comedy, not without a moral. “The Little Family,” on the other
hand, is a poignant study of the effect of war on the gentle
imaginations of two lonely men. Its quality makes us think of
the relation between Stevenson and his old nurse, and stylistically
it is admirable. I suggest with all diffidence, and from a
point of view of frank personal preference that it is very possibly
the best short story of the year.\par

29. {\scshape{In the Open Code}}, by {\itshape{Burton Kline}} (The Stratford Journal).
This brief tale in sharp outline recounts a single human
incident. Romantic in treatment, it is told with the eye on the
object. It is a finished piece of workmanship.\par

30. {\scshape{The Willow Walk}}, by {\itshape{Sinclair Lewis}} (Saturday Evening
Post). It was an interesting problem which presented itself to
Mr. Lewis when he thought of writing this story. Could a
criminal of marked intellectual ability create a dual personality
for himself by inventing an imaginary brother, give up his own
personality after his crime, and live on undetected in the continuous
imaginative realization of his new personality? Mr. Lewis
has studied the psychological effects of such a successful impersonation
and shown the destructive force of mental suggestion
on the soul, in a manner which is in interesting contrast to that
employed by Charles Caldwell Dobie in the story which I have
mentioned above.\par

31. {\scshape{The Haymakers}} (Stratford Journal) and 32. {\scshape{Old Lady
Hudson}} (The Midland), by {\itshape{Jeannette Marks}}. These two allegorical
stories are written in what is usually a most hazardous literary
form. I think that Miss Marks has steered clear of Scylla
and Charybdis successfully, and pointed out to a somewhat deaf
world the imaginative realities which underlie the commercial
crust of our American civilization. These stories, and others of
similar tenor, are to be published shortly in a volume entitled
“Forgotten Sins.”\par

33. {\scshape{Nettle and Foxglove}}, by {\itshape{Marjory Morten}} (Century Magazine).
This is a study in conflicting temperaments which is very
gently rendered with an art that recalls in its subtlety that of
Miss Ethel Sidgwick’s novels. A collection of Mrs. Morten’s
studies, reprinted from the files of the Century Magazine, would
make an interesting volume.\par

34. {\scshape{The Story Vinton Heard at Mallorie}}, by {\itshape{Katharine
Prescott Moseley}} (Scribner’s Magazine). Miss Moseley, who is
a niece of Mrs. Harriet Prescott Spofford, shares with Mrs.
Frances G. Wood the distinction of having contributed one of the
two most enduring legends this year to the supernatural literature
of the war. One of the most significant aspects of the
American short story during the past two years has been its increasing
preoccupation with supernatural beliefs, especially as
they have a bearing on the fortunes of the war. Arthur Machen
perhaps inaugurated this movement with his remarkable story
about the angels of Mons, but the spirit was implicit before that
in much American work. In editing a series of War Echoes for
The Bookman last year, I had occasion to read the manuscripts
of several hundred war stories, and it was a gratifying surprise
to find that fully sixty per cent of these stories dealt with some
supernatural aspect of the war.\par

35. {\scshape{Clouds}}, by {\itshape{Walter L. Myers}} (The Midland). This remarkable
study of place is one of the best stories so far produced
in the literary revival throughout the Middle West which centres
around the nucleus of The Midland. I wish that The Midland
would publish a volume of stories selected from its columns
during the last three years. Such a book would quickly earn a
permanent place on our shelves.\par

36. {\scshape{Owen Carey}}, by {\itshape{Harvey J. O’Higgins}} (The Century Magazine).
I believe this story to be the most distinguished in the
series of imaginary American portraits that Mr. O’Higgins has
been publishing during the past two years. These studies aim
to take as a starting point the lives of men and women successful
in many different fields, and to depict in each case the thing
which may have seemed perfectly trivial at the time, but which
actually proved to be the turning point in their careers. It is
such an incident in the life of a successful romantic novelist
which Mr. O’Higgins portrays in this story.\par

37. {\scshape{The Second-Rater}}, by {\itshape{James Oppenheim}} (Century Magazine).
In this brilliant study of artistic temperament, Mr. Oppenheim
portrays the spiritual struggle of an artist in such a way as to
reveal the finer grain. The author has been clearly influenced by
Henry James, but the texture of his story is a little loosely woven.\par

38. {\scshape{Unto Each His Crown}}, by {\itshape{Norma Patterson}} (The Bookman).
This nervously written study of death in battle and the
discovery it awakened is the work of a new writer who should
have a brilliant future if my judgment does not betray me. Like
Miss Moseley’s story, it is a study in the supernatural implications
of the war. There is a proud joy in it which the reader
will find infectious.\par

39. {\scshape{His Escape}}, by {\itshape{Will Payne}} (Saturday Evening Post). I
regard this as the best newspaper story published in America
since “The Stolen Story.” It has quick dramatic action, well
stressed conflict, clean-cut characterization, and a thoroughly
adequate conclusion. If the style is somewhat staccato, this is
perhaps in harmony with the character of the story.\par

40. {\scshape{The Toast to Forty-Five}}, by {\itshape{William Dudley Pelley}} (Pictorial
Review). Mr. Pelley has “the human touch.” His stories
of Paris, Vermont, have a homely quality which never over-stresses
the emotional values, even when it almost seems as if
the author were going to sentimentalize them. No work could be
more indigenous to the soil. Its very roughnesses are a product
of environment. Though Mr. Pelley as yet entirely lacks style,
there is a driving force within him which should finally shape a
personal style in much the same manner as may be observed in
the evolution of Irvin S. Cobb’s best work.\par

41. {\scshape{The Poet}}, by {\itshape{Lawrence Perry}} (Harper’s Magazine).
This story is a study in courage similar in quality to “A Certain
Rich Man,” which I published last year in “The Best Short
Stories of 1917.” It is very deliberately built up as a literary
problem, but with unquestionable artistic sincerity. It would
have been easy to key this story too tightly from an emotional
point of view, but Mr. Perry’s feeling in the matter has been
sure.\par

42. {\scshape{Green Umbrellas}}, by {\itshape{Lucy Pratt}} (Pictorial Review).
Symbolism is woven into this story as modestly as in “The Sun
Chaser” by Jeannette Marks, which appeared in the same magazine
during 1916. Miss Pratt has abandoned her negro character
stories for the time being, and written about a little boy who
brings his parents together. It is slightly sentimentalized, but
this is a weakness which the other excellent qualities of the story
largely neutralize.\par

43. {\scshape{David and Jonathan}}, by {\itshape{Mary Brecht Pulver}} (Mother’s
Magazine). This idyl of boyhood friendship, which may not
have come to the attention of many readers, has interested me
as much as Roland Pertwee’s notable study of adolescence, entitled
“Red and White.” It is a study in loyalties seen from a
boy’s point of view, mirroring as it does later, if no firmer, loyalties
of men and women.\par

44. {\scshape{The Sixth Man}}, by {\itshape{George Palmer Putnam}} (Ladies’
Home Journal). It is claimed by the author of this story that it
is based on fact. Whether this is so or not, it is an interesting
study of a possible historical situation woven around the death
of Edith Cavell. It seems to me a made story rather than a told
story, but granting this weakness which has not been sufficiently
covered, it is noteworthy in its way.\par

45. {\scshape{Extra Men}}, by {\itshape{Harrison Rhodes}} (Harper’s Magazine).
This story is an instance of atmosphere perfectly realized in brief
compass. But it is more than that. It is a new legend for American
literature fairly comparable to Irving’s “Rip Van Winkle”
and Hawthorne’s “The Gray Champion,” in its portraiture of
Washington and all the armies of the American dead sailing for
France with the American troopships in the morning.\par

46. {\scshape{Daffodils}}, by {\itshape{Anne Douglas Sedgwick}} (Atlantic Monthly).
Of the series of stories based on the symbolism of flowers which
Mrs. de Sélincourt has contributed during the past few years to
American magazines, “Daffodils” is probably the best. Full of
the spirit of young England and the many thousand youths
mown in Flanders like a field of daffodils in glad surrender, this
story reflects the spiritual analogies of the flower in the human
heart. It is the same spirit of eternal English youth which is
reflected in Rupert Brooke’s last sonnets.\par

47. {\scshape{Release}}, by {\itshape{Elsie Singmaster}} (Pictorial Review). One
more memory of Lincoln, uniting the tradition of the Civil War
with the tradition of the present war, is evoked by Elsie Singmaster
in this story. There is very little action in “Release” of
a physical kind, but the spiritual values are dynamic, and the
story is told with a processional dignity attained in other stories
only by this author.\par

48. {\scshape{The Return}}, by {\itshape{Gordon Arthur Smith}} (Scribner’s Magazine).
From the romantic fortunes of Ferdinand Taillandy, Mr.
Smith has turned to a poignant study of French war life. With
great reticence and gentleness he has idealized the return of a
soldier home to his greatest desire, and so added one more to the
notable chronicles of supernatural life which the war has evoked
from American artists.\par

49. {\scshape{Solitaire}}, by {\itshape{Fleta Campbell Springer}} (Harper’s Magazine).
I regard this as one of the two best short stories of the
year, though in saying so I wish to put forward no more than a
personal judgment. The character whom Mrs. Springer has
created is unlike any other in American fiction, and yet, in his
modesty, efficiency, and sensitiveness, a most natural American
individual. There are many different passions for perfection
among men, most of them secret, and of these I think that the
passion of Corey is not the least noble.\par

50. {\scshape{The Dark Hour}} (Atlantic Monthly), 51. {\scshape{A Taste of the
Old Boy}} (Collier’s Weekly), and 52. {\scshape{The Wages of Sin}} (Pictorial
Review), by {\itshape{Wilbur Daniel Steele}}. Once more it is necessary
to affirm that Wilbur Daniel Steele shares with Mrs. Katharine
Fullerton Gerould the distinction of first place among contemporary
American short-story artists. I still think that “Ching,
Ching, Chinaman” is the best short story that Mr. Steele has
yet written, and that its only close rival is “A White Horse
Winter,” but “The Dark Hour” I should place third in an anthology
of Mr. Steele’s stories, and first in an anthology of American
war stories. In its message to the American people it yields
in significance only to the best of President Wilson’s state papers,
and serves to crystallize the issue before the country in this war
as unforgetably as William Vaughn Moody crystallized the war
issue less than twenty years ago in his “Ode in Time of Hesitation,”
also published in the Atlantic Monthly. In the light of
present events, Mr. Steele’s message has only increased in
significance. Of the two other stories, “The Wages of Sin” takes
its rightful place with the other Urkey Island stories which I
have discussed in the past. “A Taste of the Old Boy” is one
more war legend for our anthology.\par

53. {\scshape{The Bird of Serbia}}, by {\itshape{Julian Street}} (Collier’s Weekly).
Repeatedly in the course of this article I have had occasion to
point out that the best of the year’s war stories are creating new
legends. How a bird in a cage in a little Serbian village may
have been the cause of the Great War is persuasively set forth
by Mr. Street in this story. The conclusion is one of the best
examples of a justifiable surprise ending that I know of, and the
human quality of Mr. Street’s characterization renders its inherent
improbability psychologically convincing.\par

54. {\scshape{The Three Zoölogical Wishes}}, by {\itshape{Booth Tarkington}}
(Collier’s Weekly). This is the most amusing study of adolescence
that Mr. Tarkington has given us. It has countless subtle
touches of observation which quietly build up two remarkably
accurate portraits. I regard it as the best of the new series which
Mr. Tarkington has been publishing in Collier’s Weekly.\par

55. {\scshape{Five Rungs Gone}}, by {\itshape{Albert W. Tolman}} (Youth’s Companion).
For many years the most interesting weekly feature
of the Youth’s Companion has been the danger story in which
the youthful hero escapes from extraordinary peril by virtue of
courage and great intellectual ingenuity. Most of these stories
are built on a regular formula and cannot claim much literary
value. But now and then a situation is so vividly realized, and
the situation so logically deduced, that the story has literary justification.
And “Five Rungs Gone” is altogether exceptional
in this respect.\par

56. {\scshape{At Isham’s}}, by {\itshape{Edward C. Venable}} (Scribner’s Magazine).
The zest of this story consists in the intellectual subtlety of mental
conflict. It contrasts the characters of several {\itshape{habitués}} of a
New York café who form a little group each night for endless
discussion. The value of the story rests in the manner in which
events bring out variations in character, and the solution of the
story is as absorbing as a chess problem.\par

57. {\scshape{De Vilmarte’s Luck}} (Harper’s Magazine) and 58. {\scshape{Huntington’s
Credit}} (Harper’s Magazine), by {\itshape{Mary Heaton Vorse}}.
In these two stories there is a marked contrast of subject matter.
“De Vilmarte’s Luck” is a study of the artistic temperament,
with fine ironies keenly portrayed. The war provides the
story with a solution which reveals the finer grain. In “Huntington’s
Credit” we have a study in suppressed desires, very
quietly told, with a poignancy softened somehow by the quality
of character. In these two stories Mary Heaton Vorse has given
us the best work written by her in the last four years.\par

59. {\scshape{The White Battalion}}, by {\itshape{Frances Gilchrist Wood}} (The
Bookman). Here is the last of the fine supernatural legends inspired
during the past year by the Great War. The White Battalion
of the dead which fights on the side of the Allies is comparable
to the marching host seen by Harrison Rhodes in “Extra
Men,” but there is an {\itshape{élan}} in this story which suggests a deeper
spiritual background.\par

60. {\scshape{In the House of Morphy}}, by {\itshape{John Seymour Wood}} (Scribner’s
Magazine). This legend of old New Orleans has the romantic
glow of Mr. Cable’s best novels linked to a well-developed
plot with a fine quality of logical surprise. It is one of the best
stories written by a fastidious artist of the old school who appears
seldom in our magazines, and always with the finest substance
that he can give.\par

\penalty-300%
\label{articles-on-the-short-story-january-to-october-1918}%
\hypertarget{articles-on-the-short-story-january-to-october-1918}{}%
\vskip 3.5ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Large\bfseries%
{\centering
{\Large\strut{ARTICLES ON THE SHORT STORY, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 2.3ex\nobreak

{\noindent}
{\itshape{The following abbreviations are used in this index:—}}\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{Atl.}} .....................Atlantic Monthly\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Bel.}} .....................Bellman\par}
{\vl {\itshape{B. E. T.}} ................Boston Evening Transcript\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Bk. News Mo.}} ........Book News Monthly\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Book.}} ...............Bookman\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Cen.}} ................Century Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{C. O.}} ...............Current Opinion\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Cos.}} ................Cosmopolitan\par}
{\vl {\itshape{F. A. Suppl.}} ........Fine Arts Supplement\par}
{\vl {\itshape{For.}} ................Forum\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Lit. R.}} .............Little Review\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Liv. Age}} ............Living Age\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Mir.}} ................Reedy’s Mirror\par}
{\vl {\itshape{N. A. Rev.}} ..........North American Review\par}
{\vl {\itshape{N. Rep.}} .............New Republic\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Outl. (London)}} ......London Outlook\par}
{\vl {\itshape{So. Atl. Quart.}} .....South Atlantic Quarterly\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Strat. J.}} ...........Stratford Journal\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Yale R.}} .............Yale Review\par}
{\vl {\itshape{(161)}} ...............Page 161\par}
{\vl {\itshape{(11:161)}} ............Volume 11, page 161\par}
\end{verse}
}

\begin{description}
\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
American Short Stories of 1917, The Best Sixty-Three.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Edward J. O’Brien. Book. Feb. (46:696.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
American Short Story.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By William Stanley Braithwaite. B. E. T. May 15. (pt. 2. p. 6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Anonymous.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Short Story Art and the Magazines. Strat. J. July-Aug. (78.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Artzibashev, Michael.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Russian Revolutions and Literature.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Asch, Sholom.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Yiddish Writers.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ashmun, Margaret.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Ivan Turgenev. B. E. T. Oct. 19. (pt. 3. p. 4.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Beaucrispin, Raoul de.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Edgar Allan Poe. Bk. News Mo. April. (36:281.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Belshaw, Alexander.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of Moore’s “A Story Teller’s Holiday.” Chicago Daily News. Aug. 21.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Bennett’s Books, Arnold.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Randolph Edgar. Bel. July 13. (25:48.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bergengren, Ralph.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of Morley’s “Shandygaff.” B. E. T. June 12. (pt. 2. p. 6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Best Short Stories of 1917.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Edward J. O’Brien. B. E. T. Jan. 19. (pt 3. p. 5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Best Sixty-Three American Short Stories of 1917.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Edward J. O’Brien. Book. Feb. (46:696.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Bierce, Ambrose.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
C. O. Sept. (65:184.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Bierce, Ambrose: America’s Neglected Satirist.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Wilson Follett. Dial. July 18. (65:49.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Bierce, Ambrose: A Rejected Guest.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Louise Gebhard Cann. Strat. J. June. (38.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bourne, Randolph.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of Latzko’s “Men in War.” Dial. May 23. (64:486.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Boynton, H. W.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Told and Made. (Reviews of Short-Story Collections.) Nation. April 4. (106:394.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bradley, William Aspenwall.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“A Queer Fellow.” (Booth Tarkington.) Dial. March 28. (64:297.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Braithwaite, William Stanley.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
American Short Story. B. E. T. May 15. (pt. 2. p. 6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Brégy, Katherine.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Lord Dunsany. America. June 15. (19:241.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Brooks, Van Wyck.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
On Creating a Usable Past. Dial. April 11. (64:337.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Brown, Alice.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Reviews of “The Flying Teuton.” Nation. May 11. (106:575.) By Dorothea Lawrance Mann. B. E. T. July 10. (pt. 2. p. 6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Burgess, Gelett (The Irritating Mr. Burgess.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Vincent Starrett. Mir. Oct. 11. (27:511.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Burt, Maxwell Struthers.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Tricks and Inventions.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Burton, Richard.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
A Debauch of O. Henry. Bel. Jan. 26. (24:93.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Cabell, James Branch.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Wilson Follett. Dial. April 25. (64:392.)\par}
{\vl By Ben Hecht. Chicago Daily News. April 10.\par}
{\vl By Vincent Starrett. Chicago Herald and Examiner. F. A. Suppl. May 11. (I.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Canby, Henry Seidel.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
On a Certain Condescension Toward Fiction. Cen. Feb. (95:549.)\par}
{\vl Sentimental America. Atl. April. (121:500.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cann, Louise Gebhard.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Ambrose Bierce: A Rejected Guest. Strat. J. June. (38.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Chambers, Art of Robert W.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Rupert Hughes. Cos. June. (80.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Chekhov, Anton.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Louis S. Friedland. Dial. Jan. 3. (64:27.)\par}
{\vl By George Rapall Noyes. Nation. Oct 12. (107:406.)\par}
{\vl {\itshape{See also}} Russian Revolutions and Literature.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Colum, Padraic.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Conquistadore. (R. B. Cunninghame-Graham.) N. Rep. July 6. (15:296.)\par}
{\vl Irishry. (With review of Pearse’s “Collected Works.”) Nation. Sept. 21. (107:317.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Conrad, Joseph.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By J. M. Robertson. N. A. Rev. Sept (208:439.)\par}
{\vl By Arthur L. Salmon. Bk. News Mo. Aug. (36:442.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Cunninghame-Graham, R. B.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Padraic Colum. N. Rep. July 6. (15:296.)\par}
{\vl By Amy Wellington. Book. April. (47:155.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Davis, Richard Harding.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Francis Hackett. N. Rep. March 2. (14:149.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Dostoevsky, Fedor.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Russian Revolutions and Literature.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Doyle, A. Conan.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Starrett, Vincent.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Dreiser, Theodore.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of “Free.” By Edwin F. Edgett. B. E. T. Aug. 28. (pt. 2. p. 6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Dunsany, Lord.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Katherine Brégy. America. June 15. (19:241.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Eaton, Walter Prichard.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Diogenes in Search of a “Hero.” B. E. T. Oct. 16. (pt 2. p. 4.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Edgar, Randolph.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Arnold Bennett’s Books. Bel. July 13. (25:48.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Edgett, Edwin F.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of Dreiser’s “Free.” B. E. T. Aug. 28. (pt 2. p. 6.)\par}
{\vl Review of Ferber’s “Cheerful—By Request.” B. E. T. Sept 14. (pt 3. p. 6.)\par}
{\vl Review of Galsworthy’s “Five Tales.” B. E. T. April 10. (pt. 2. p. 8.)\par}
{\vl Review of Harris’s “Life of Joel Chandler Harris.” B. E. T. Sept 18. (pt. 2. p. 6.)\par}
{\vl Review of Harris’s “Uncle Remus Returns.” B. E. T. Aug. 21. (pt 2. p. 6.)\par}
{\vl Review of Hergesheimer’s “Gold and Iron.” B. E. T. May 15. (pt 2. p. 6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Editor’s Way, In the.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Isaac Goldberg. B. E. T. Feb. 16. (pt 3. p. 5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Farrère, Claude.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} French Literature During the War and After.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Ferber, Edna.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of “Cheerful—By Request,” by Edwin F. Edgett. B. E. T. Sept. 14. (pt 3. p. 6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Follett, Wilson.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
America’s Neglected Satirist. (Ambrose Bierce.) Dial. July 18. (65:49.)\par}
{\vl Gossip on James Branch Cabell. Dial. April 25. (64:392.)
Humanism and Fiction. Atl. Oct. (122:503.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
French Literature During the War and After (with Notices of Farrère and Mille).] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Theodore Stanton. Strat. J. (2:40.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Friedland, Louis S.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Anton Chekhov. Dial. Jan. 3. (64:27.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Galsworthy, John.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Reviews of “Five Tales.” London Nation. Sept 28. (23:692.)\par}
{\vl By A. C. N. N. Rep. Aug. 10. (16:53.)\par}
{\vl By E. F. Edgett. B. E. T. April 10. (pt 2. p. 8.)\par}
{\vl By Frank Swinnerton. Outl. (London.) Aug. 10. (42:131.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Garnett, Edward.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Edward Thomas. Dial. Feb. 14. (64:135.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gerould, Katharine Fullerton.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
War Novels {[}and Short Stories{]}. Yale R. Oct. (8:159.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Goldberg, Isaac.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
East Side Unearths a Dickens. (H. Gutman.) B. E. T. Sept 11. (pt. 2. p. 5.)\par}
{\vl In the Editor’s Way. B. E. T. Feb. 16. (pt. 3. p. 5.)\par}
{\vl New York’s Yiddish Writers. (Pinski, Asch, Raisin, Libin, Kobrin.) Book. Feb. (46:684.)\par}
{\vl Pinski, Maeterlinck of America. B. E. T. July 17. (pt. 2. p. 4.)\par}
{\vl Tales from the Yiddish. (Leon Kobrin.) B. E. T. Aug. 14. (pt. 2. p. 6.)\par}
{\vl Touching on the Impersonal. B. E. T. Aug. 21. (pt 2. p. 4.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Grim Thirteen, The. ({\itshape{Review.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Louis Untermeyer. Dial. Jan. 17. (64:70.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Gutman, H. (East Side Unearths a Dickens.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Isaac Goldberg. B. E. T. Sept 11. (pt. 2. p. 5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hackett, Francis.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Richard Harding Davis. N. Rep. March 2. (14:149.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Harman, H. E.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Joel Chandler Harris: The Prose Poet of the South. So. Atl. Quart. July. (17:243.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Harris, Joel Chandler.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Joel Chandler Harris. By H. E. Harman. So. Atl. Quart. July. (17:243.)\par}
{\vl Review of His “Life and Letters.” By E. F. Edgett. B. E. T. Sept. 18. (pt. 2. p. 6.)\par}
{\vl Review of “Uncle Remus Returns.” By E. F. Edgett. B. E. T. Aug. 21. (pt. 2. p. 6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hecht, Ben.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Concerning James Branch Cabell. Chicago Daily News. April 10.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“Henry, O.”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By C. Alphonso Smith. Nation. May 11. (106:567.)\par}
{\vl By Richard Burton. Bel. Jan. 26. (24:93.)\par}
{\vl Letters of “O. Henry.” By G. H. Sargent B. E. T. April 27. (pt. 3. p. 4.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hergesheimer, Joseph.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Some Veracious Paragraphs. Book. Sept. (48:8.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Hergesheimer, Joseph. Review of “Gold and Iron.”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Edwin F. Edgett B. E. T. May 15. (pt. 2. p. 6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hughes, Rupert.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Art of Robert W. Chambers. Cos. June. (80.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Hughes, Interview with Rupert.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By “Pendennis.” For. Jan. (59:77.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Humanism and Fiction.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Wilson Follett Atl. Oct. (122:503.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Hurst, Fannie: Genius of the Short Story.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Kathleen Norris. Cos. Sept (93.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hutchings, Emily Grant.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of Tagore’s “Mashi.” Mir. Oct 4. (27:500.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Irishry. (With review of Pearse’s “Collected Works.”)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Padraic Colum. Nation. Sept. 21. (107:317.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Is American Life Divorced from American Literature?] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
C. O. March. (64:206.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
James, Henry.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Articles by. Ethel Colburn Mayne, Ezra Pound, A. R. Orage, T. S. Eliot, John Rodker, and Theodora Bosanquet. Lit. R. Aug. (pp. 1-64.) Sept. (pp. 50-53.)\par}
{\vl By Francis X. Talbot, S. J. America. Oct 12. (20:19.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Joyce, James.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Scofield Thayer. Dial. Sept. 19. (65:201.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kadison, Alexander.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Ovid as a Short-Story Writer in the Light of Modern Technique. Poet-Lore. March-April. (29:206.)\par}
\end{verse}
\end{description}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Kipling Anatomized. (Review of Hart’s “Kipling the Story Writer.”) Nation. Sept. 28. (107:350.)\par

\begin{description}
\item[Kobrin, Leon. (Tales from the Yiddish.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Isaac Goldberg. B. E. T. Aug. 14. (pt. 2. p. 6.)\par}
{\vl {\itshape{See also}} Yiddish Writers.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lansing, Ruth.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Robert Louis Stevenson’s French Reading As Shown in His Correspondence. Poet-Lore. March-April (29:218.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Latzko, Andreas. “Men in War.”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review by Randolph Bourne. Dial. May 23. (64:486.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Lemaitre, Jules.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Desmond MacCarthy. New Statesman. April 27. (11:71.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Libin, Zalmon.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Yiddish Writers.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lighton, William R.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Something Rotten in the State of Fiction. B. E. T. Aug. 14. (pt. 2. p. 5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Lincoln, Joseph C.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Reed, Charles Francis. For. Feb. (59:219.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Lyons, A. Neil.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Constance Mayfield Rourke. N. Rep. June 8. (15:180.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{MacCarthy, Desmond.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Jules Lemaitre. New Statesman. April 27. (11:71.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{McIntire, Ruth.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Imperturbable Artist. (Leonard Merrick.) Dial. June 6. (64:527.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mann, Dorothea Lawrance.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of Brown’s “The Flying Teuton.” B. E. T. July 10. (pt. 2. p. 6.)\par}
{\vl Review of Train’s “Mortmain.” B. E. T. Sept. 21. (pt. 3. p. 6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Merrick, Leonard.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Ruth McIntire. Dial. June 6. (64:527.)\par}
{\vl By R. Ellis Roberts. Liv. Age. Sept. 28. (298:775.)\par}
{\vl Review of “While Paris Laughed.” By Rebecca West Outl. (London.) Aug. 17. (42:159.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Mille, Pierre.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} French Literature During the War and After.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Moore, George. “A Story Teller’s Holiday.”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review by Alexander Belshaw. Chicago Daily News. Aug. 21.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Morley, Christopher. “Shandygaff.”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review by Ralph Bergengren. B. E. T. June 12. (pt 2. p. 6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
N., A. C.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Interior Fiction. (Galsworthy’s “Five Tales.”) N. Rep. Aug. 10. (16:53.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Norris, Kathleen.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Genius of the Short Story. (Fannie Hurst.) Cos. Sept. (93.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Noyes, George Rapall.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Chekhov. Nation. Oct 12. (107:406.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{O’Brien, Edward J.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Best Short Stories of 1917. B. E. T. Jan. 19. (pt 3. p. 5.)\par}
{\vl Best Sixty-Three American Short Stories of 1917. Book. Feb. (46:696.)\par}
{\vl Review of Williams’s “Handbook of Story-Writing.” Book. Jan. (46:612.)\par}
{\vl Some Books of Short Stories. Book. May. (47:299.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Olgin, Moissaye J.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Survey of Russian Literature. (I.) Book. Oct. (48:191.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Ovid as a Short-Story Writer.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Alexander Kadison. Poet-Lore. March-April. (29:206.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Pearse, Padraic.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Irishry.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Pendennis.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“My Types”—Rupert Hughes. For. Jan. (59:77.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Phelps, William Lyon.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Russian Revolutions and Literature. (With reviews of Dostoevsky, Chekhov, and Artzibashev.) Yale R. Oct. (8:191.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Pinski, David, Maeterlinck of America.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Isaac Goldberg. B. E. T. July 17. (pt 2. p. 4.)\par}
{\vl {\itshape{See also}} Yiddish Writers.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Poe, Edgar Allan.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Raoul de Beaucrispin. Bk. News Mo. April. (36:281.)\par}
{\vl By Francis X. Talbot, S. J. America. June 1. (19:193.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Post, Melville Davisson.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Tricks and Inventions.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Raisin, Abraham.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Yiddish Writers.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Reed, Charles Francis.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Joseph C. Lincoln. For. Feb. (59:219.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“Renaissance in the Eighties.”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Nation. Oct. 12. (107:404.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Roberts, R. Ellis.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Leonard Merrick. Liv. Age. Sept 28. (298:775.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Robertson, J. M.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Art of Joseph Conrad. N. A. Rev. Sept (208:439.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rourke, Constance Mayfield.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
English Raconteur. (A. Neil Lyons.) N. Rep. June 8. (15:180.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Russian Literature, Survey of. (I.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Moissaye J. Olgin. Book. Oct. (48:191.)\par}
\end{verse}
\end{description}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Russian Revolutions and Literature. (With reviews of Dostoevsky, Chekhov, and Artzibashev.) By William Lyon Phelps. Yale R. Oct. (8:191.)\par

Sabatini, Rafael. “Historical Nights’ Entertainment.” (Review.) Nation (London.) Feb. 2. (22:577.)\par

\begin{description}
\item[{\scshape{Salmon, Arthur L.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Joseph Conrad. Bk. News Mo. Aug. (36:442.)\par}
\end{verse}
\end{description}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Saltus, Edgar. C. O. Oct. (65:254.)\par

\begin{description}
\item[{\scshape{Sargent, George H.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Letters of “O. Henry.” B. E. T. April 27. (pt. 3. p. 4.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Scarborough, Dorothy.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of Steele’s “Land’s End.” N. Y. Sun. Books and Book World. Sept. 29. (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Sélincourt, Hugh de.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of “Nine Tales.” By Myron R. Williams. Dial. March 14. (64:241.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Sherlock Holmes, In Praise of.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Vincent Starrett. Mir. Feb. 22. (27:106.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Short-Story Art and the Magazines.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By a Magazine Editor. Strat. J. July-Aug. (78.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Smith, Arthur Cosslett.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Vincent Starrett. Mir. Oct. 18. (27:522.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Smith, C. Alphonso.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“O. Henry.” Nation. May 11. (106:567.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Stanton, Theodore.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
French Literature During the War and After. (With Notices of Farrère and Mille.) Strat. J. (2:40.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Starrett, Vincent.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Arthur Cosslett Smith. Mir. Oct. 18. (27:522.)\par}
{\vl In Praise of Sherlock Holmes. Mir. Feb. 22. (27:106.)\par}
{\vl Irritating Mr. Burgess. Mir. Oct. 11. (27:511.)\par}
{\vl James Branch Cabell. Chicago Herald and Examiner. F. A. Suppl. May 11. (1.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Steele, Wilbur Daniel.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of “Land’s End.” By Dorothy Scarborough. N. Y. Sun. Books and Book World. Sept. 29. (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Stevenson’s French Reading As Shown in His Correspondence.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Ruth Lansing. Poet-Lore. March-April. (29:218.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Swinnerton, Frank.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of Galsworthy’s “Five Tales.” Outl. (London.) Aug. 10. (42:131.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Tagore, Rabindranath.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of “Mashi.” By Emily Grant Hutchings. Mir. Oct. 4. (27:500.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Talbot, S. J., Francis X.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Edgar Allan Poe. America. June 1. (19:193.)\par}
{\vl Henry James. America. Oct 12. (20:19.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Tarkington, Booth. (“A Queer Fellow.”)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By William Aspenwall Bradley. Dial. March 28. (64:297.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Thayer, Scofield.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
James Joyce. Dial. Sept. 19. (65:201.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Thomas, Edward.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Edward Garnett. Dial. Feb. 14. (64:135.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Train, Arthur.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of “Mortmain,” by Dorothea Lawrance Mann. B. E. T. Sept. 21. (pt. 3. p. 6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Tricks and Inventions.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
(Including reviews of Post’s “Uncle Abner” and Burt’s “John O’May.”) Nation. Oct 19. (107:453.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Turgenev, Ivan.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Margaret Ashmun. B. E. T. Oct. 19. (pt. 3. p. 4.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Untermeyer Louis.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of “The Grim Thirteen.” Dial. Jan. 17. (64:70.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
War Novels {[}and Short Stories{]}.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Katharine Fullerton Gerould. Yale R. Oct. (8:159.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wellington, Amy.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Artist-Fighter in English Prose: Cunninghame Graham. Book. April. (47:155.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{West, Rebecca.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of Merrick’s “While Paris Laughed.” Outl. (London.) Aug. 17. (42:159.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Williams, Blanche Cotton. Review of “A Handbook on Story-Writing.”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Edward J. O’Brien. Book. Jan. (46:612.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Williams, Myron R.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Review of Sélincourt’s “Nine Tales.” Dial. March 14. (64:241.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Yiddish Writers, New York’s. (Pinski, Asch, Raisin, Libin, Kobrin.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Isaac Goldberg. Book. Feb. (46:684.)\par}
\end{verse}
\end{description}


\vs{1}
\penalty-300%
\label{magazine-averages-january-to-october-1918}%
\hypertarget{magazine-averages-january-to-october-1918}{}%
\vskip 3.5ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Large\bfseries%
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{MAGAZINE AVERAGES, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 2.3ex\nobreak

{\noindent}
{\itshape{The following table includes the averages of American periodicals
published during the ten-month period before November 1,
1918. One, two, and three a’s are employed to indicate relative
distinction. “Three-a stories” are of somewhat permanent
literary value. The table excludes reprints, but not
translations.}}\par

\begin{table}[h!tbp]
\label{table-13}%
\hypertarget{table-13}{}%
\footnotesize








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PERIODICALS
(Jan.-Oct.)\@arstrut}}\ht0\ht\@arstrutbox\dp0 0pt\box0 & 

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NO. OF
STORIES
PUBLSHED\@arstrut}}\ht0\ht\@arstrutbox\dp0 0pt\box0 & 

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PUBLISHED\@arstrut}}\setlength{\dimen0}{0.091\tablewidth}\wd0\dimen0\box0 & & & 

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PERCENTAGE OF
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STORIES
PUBLISHED\@arstrut}}\setlength{\dimen0}{0.091\tablewidth}\wd0\dimen0\box0 & &\tabularnewline

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\otoprule
\setlength{\dimen0}{0.273\tablewidth}\setbox0\vbox{\hsize\dimen0\parbox{\dimen0}{\raggedright\setlength{\parskip}{1em}\noindent\@arstrut
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\setlength{\dimen0}{0.091\tablewidth}\setbox0\vbox{\hsize\dimen0\parbox{\dimen0}{\centering\setlength{\parskip}{1em}\noindent\@arstrut
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\setlength{\dimen0}{0.091\tablewidth}\setbox0\vbox{\hsize\dimen0\parbox{\dimen0}{\centering\setlength{\parskip}{1em}\noindent\@arstrut
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\setlength{\dimen0}{0.091\tablewidth}\setbox0\vbox{\hsize\dimen0\parbox{\dimen0}{\centering\setlength{\parskip}{1em}\noindent\@arstrut
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\setlength{\dimen0}{0.273\tablewidth}\setbox0\vbox{\hsize\dimen0\parbox{\dimen0}{\raggedright\setlength{\parskip}{1em}\noindent\@arstrut
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\setlength{\dimen0}{0.182\tablewidth}\setbox0\vbox{\hsize\dimen0\parbox{\dimen0}{\centering\setlength{\parskip}{1em}\noindent\@arstrut
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\setlength{\dimen0}{0.091\tablewidth}\setbox0\vbox{\hsize\dimen0\parbox{\dimen0}{\centering\setlength{\parskip}{1em}\noindent\@arstrut
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\setlength{\dimen0}{0.091\tablewidth}\setbox0\vbox{\hsize\dimen0\parbox{\dimen0}{\centering\setlength{\parskip}{1em}\noindent\@arstrut
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\setlength{\dimen0}{0.091\tablewidth}\setbox0\vbox{\hsize\dimen0\parbox{\dimen0}{\centering\setlength{\parskip}{1em}\noindent\@arstrut
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\setlength{\dimen0}{0.273\tablewidth}\setbox0\vbox{\hsize\dimen0\parbox{\dimen0}{\raggedright\setlength{\parskip}{1em}\noindent\@arstrut
American Magazine\@arstrut}}\box0 & 

\setlength{\dimen0}{0.182\tablewidth}\setbox0\vbox{\hsize\dimen0\parbox{\dimen0}{\centering\setlength{\parskip}{1em}\noindent\@arstrut
40\@arstrut}}\box0 & 

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\bottomrule
\end{longtable}
\end{table}

{\itshape{The following tables indicate the rank, during the period between
January and October, 1918, inclusive, by number and percentage
of distinctive stories published, of the nineteen periodicals
coming within the scope of my examination which have published
during that period over twenty-one stories and which have exceeded
an average of 15 per cent in stories of distinction. The
lists exclude reprints, but not translations.}}\par

\penalty-300%
\label{by-percentage-of-distinctive-stories}%
\hypertarget{by-percentage-of-distinctive-stories}{}%
\vskip 3.25ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\large\bfseries%
{\centering
{\Large\strut{BY PERCENTAGE OF DISTINCTIVE STORIES}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 1.5ex\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}\begin{itemize}
\item[1.] 
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Stratford Journal (including translations) .....96\%\par

\item[2.] Bellman .....88\%\par

\item[3.] New York Tribune (translations only) .....86\%\par

\item[4.] Century .....83\%\par

\item[5.] Harper’s Magazine ..... 77\%\par

\item[6.] Scribner’s Magazine .....75\%\par

\item[7.] Pictorial Review .....52\%\par

\item[8.] Metropolitan Magazine .....48\%\par

\item[9.] Collier’s Weekly .....46\%\par

\item[10.] American Magazine .....43\%\par

\item[11.] Delineator .....42\%\par

\item[12.] Ladies’ Home Journal .....36\%\par

\item[13.] Cosmopolitan .....33\%\par

\item[14.] Every Week .....32\%\par

\item[15.] Saturday Evening Post .....27\%\par

\item[16.] Everybody’s Magazine .....27\%\par

\item[17.] Harper’s Bazar .....24\%\par

\item[18.] Sunset Magazine .....23\%\par

\item[19.] Good Housekeeping ..... 22\%\par
\end{itemize}
}

\vs{1}
\penalty-300%
\label{by-number-of-distinctive-stories}%
\hypertarget{by-number-of-distinctive-stories}{}%
\vskip 3.25ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\large\bfseries%
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{BY NUMBER OF DISTINCTIVE STORIES}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 1.5ex\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}\begin{itemize}
\item[1.] 
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Harper’s Magazine .....47\par

\item[2.] Saturday Evening Post .....44\par

\item[3.] New York Tribune (translations only) .....37\par

\item[4.] Collier’s Weekly .....36\par

\item[5.] Century Magazine .....34\par

\item[6.] Scribner’s Magazine .....33\par

\item[7.] Stratford Journal (including translations) .....27\par

\item[8.] Bellman .....21\par

\item[9.] Cosmopolitan .....18\par

\item[10.] American Magazine .....17\par

\item[11.] Every Week .....17\par

\item[12.] Metropolitan .....16\par

\item[13.] Pictorial Review .....16\par

\item[14.] Ladies’ Home Journal .....14\par

\item[15.] Delineator .....10\par

\item[16.] Everybody’s Magazine .....9\par

\item[17.] Harper’s Bazar .....7\par

\item[18.] Sunset Magazine .....6\par

\item[19.] Good Housekeeping .....6\par
\end{itemize}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\itshape{The following periodicals have published during the same
period eight or more “two-asterisk stories” The list excludes
reprints, but not translations. Periodicals represented in this list
during 1915 as well are indicated by an asterisk. Periodicals represented
in this list during 1916 are indicated by a dagger, and
during 1917 by the sign §.}}\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}\begin{itemize}
\item[1.] 
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*†§ Century Magazine .....27\par

\item[2.] *†§ Harper’s Magazine .....26\par

\item[3.] *†§ Scribner’s Magazine .....22\par

\item[4.] Stratford Journal (including translations) .....18\par

\item[5.] † New York Tribune (translations only) .....18\par

\item[6.] *†§ Collier’s Weekly .....18\par

\item[7.] § Atlantic Monthly .....13\par

\item[8.] All-Story Weekly .....10\par

\item[9.] †§ Pictorial Review ..... 9\par

\item[10.] *†§ Smart Set .....9\par

\item[11.] *†§ Saturday Evening Post .....9\par

\item[12.] Youth’s Companion ..... 9\par
\end{itemize}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\itshape{The following periodicals have published during the same
period four or more “three-asterisk stories.” The list excludes
reprints, but not translations. Periodicals represented in this list
during 1915 as well are indicated by an asterisk. Periodicals represented
in this list during 1916 are indicated by a dagger, and
during 1917 by the sign §.}}\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}\begin{itemize}
\item[1.] 
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*†§ Harper’s Magazine .....20\par

\item[2.] *†§ Century Magazine .....16\par

\item[3.] *†§ Scribner’s Magazine .....14\par

\item[4.] § Stratford Journal (including translations).....14\par

\item[5.] § Atlantic Monthly .....9\par

\item[6.] †§ Pictorial Review ..... 8\par

\item[7.] New York Tribune (translations only) .....7\par

\item[8.] Smart Set .....7\par

\item[9.] *† Collier’s Weekly .....6\par

\item[10.] All-Story Weekly .....5\par

\item[11.] Little Review .....4\par
\end{itemize}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\itshape{Ties in the above lists have been decided by taking relative rank
in other lists into account.}} The New York Tribune {\itshape{and}} The
Stratford Journal {\itshape{gain their high place chiefly through translations
of foreign stories, and allowance should be made for this
in any qualitative estimate.}}\par

{\itshape{Looking back over a period of four years it is interesting to see
what magazines have maintained a steady lead during this period.
Of the eight magazines whose percentage of distinctive stories
has led,}} Scribner’s Magazine {\itshape{has maintained the highest average
of distinction. Below follow the percentages of these eight
magazines:}}\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}\begin{itemize}
\item[1.] 
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Scribner’s Magazine .....76.5\%\par

\item[2.] Century Magazine .....74.8\par

\item[3.] Harper’s Magazine .....70.3\par

\item[4.] Bellman .....70.0\par

\item[5.] Metropolitan Magazine .....48.5\par

\item[6.] American Magazine .....45.0\par

\item[7.] Everybody’s Magazine .....44.3\par

\item[8.] Pictorial Review .....43.8\par
\end{itemize}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\itshape{Five magazines during this four-year period far surpass all
others in the number of distinctive stories published during that
time, and}} Harper’s Magazine {\itshape{leads its nearest competitor by
forty-nine stories. The list follows:}}\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}\begin{itemize}
\item[1.] 
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Harper’s Magazine .....232\par

\item[2.] Saturday Evening Post .....183\par

\item[3.] Collier’s Weekly .....178\par

\item[4.] Scribner’s Magazine .....166\par

\item[5.] Century Magazine .....151\par
\end{itemize}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\itshape{Reprints have not been taken into account in the last two lists.}}\par

\penalty-300%
\label{index-of-short-stories-in-books-january-to-october-1918}%
\hypertarget{index-of-short-stories-in-books-january-to-october-1918}{}%
\vskip 3.5ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Large\bfseries%
{\centering
{\Large\strut{INDEX OF SHORT STORIES IN BOOKS, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 2.3ex\nobreak

{\noindent}
ABBREVIATIONS\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{Andrews A}} ........Andrews. Her Country\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Andreyev A}} .......Andreyev. Seven That Were Hanged\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Andreyev B}} .......Andreyev and Bunin. Lazarus, and Gentleman\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl from San Francisco.\par}
}

{\vl {\itshape{Atlantic A}} .......Thomas. Atlantic Narratives: First Series\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Atlantic B}} .......Thomas. Atlantic Narratives: Second Series\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Bierce A}} .........Bierce. In the Midst of Life\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Bierce B}} .........Bierce. Can Such Things Be?\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Boccaccio}} ........Boccaccio. Tales\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Brown}} ............Brown. Flying Teuton\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Buchan}} ...........Buchan. The Watcher by the Threshold\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Burt}} .............Burt. John O’May, and Other Stories\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Canfield A}} .......Canfield. Home Fires In France\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Chekhov A}} ........Chekhov. Nine Humorous Tales\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Chekhov B}} ........Chekhov. The Wife\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Chekhov C}} ........Chekhov. The Witch\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Cobb A}} ...........Cobb. The Thunders of Silence\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Dantchenko}} .......Dantchenko. Peasant Tales of Russia\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Dostoevsky A}} .....Dostoevsky. White Nights, and Other Stories\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Dreiser}} ..........Dreiser. Free, and Other Stories\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Duncan A}} .........Duncan. Battles Royal Down North\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Duncan B}} .........Duncan. Harbor Tales Down North\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Dunsany A}} ........Dunsany. Tales of War\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Ferber}} ...........Ferber. Cheerful—By Request\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Freeman}} ..........Freeman. Edgewater People\par}
{\vl {\itshape{French}} ...........French. Great Ghost Stories\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Galsworthy A}} .....Galsworthy. Five Tales\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Gogol}} ............Gogol. Taras Bulba\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Gorky A}} ..........Gorky. Creatures That Once Were Men\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Gorky B}} ..........Gorky. Stories of the Steppe\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Harris}} ...........Harris. Uncle Remus Returns\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Henry}} ............“O. Henry.” Ransom of Red Chief\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Hergesheimer}} .....Hergesheimer. Gold and Iron\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Hughes}} ...........Hughes. Long Ever Ago\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Hurst}} ............Hurst. Gaslight Sonatas\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Jacks A}} ..........Jacks. The Country Air\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Law}} ..............Law. Modern Short Stories\par}
{\vl {\itshape{London}} ...........London. The Red One\par}
{\vl {\itshape{McPherson}} ........McPherson. Tales of Wartime France\par}
{\vl {\itshape{McSpadden}} ........McSpadden. Famous Ghost Stories\par}
{\vl {\itshape{O’Kelly}} ..........O’Kelly. Waysiders\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Phillpotts}} .......Phillpotts. Chronicles of Saint Tid\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Post}} .............Post. Uncle Abner: Master of Mysteries\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Schweikert}} .......Schweikert. French Short Stories\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Steele}} ...........Steele. Land’s End, and Other Stories\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Tagore}} ...........Tagore. Mashi, and Other Stories\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Taketomo}} .........Taketomo. Paulownia\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Tolstoi}} ..........Tolstoi. What Men Live By\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Williams}} .........Williams. A Book of Short Stories\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Wormser}} ..........Wormser. The Scarecrow, and Other Stories\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
\penalty-300%
\label{id7}%
\hypertarget{id7}{}%
\vskip 3.25ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\large\bfseries%
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{I. }}{\scshape{{\Large\strut{American Authors}}}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 1.5ex\nobreak

\begin{description}
\item[{\noindent}
{\scshape{Andrews, Mary Raymond Shipman.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Her Country. Andrews A. 1.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Antin, Mary.}} ({\scshape{Mrs. Amadeus William Grabau.}}) (1881- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Lie. Atlantic B. 1.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Ashe, Elizabeth.}}” ({\scshape{Georgiana Pentlarge.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Blue Reefers. Atlantic B. 29.\par}
{\vl Glory-Box. Atlantic A. 68.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bierce, Ambrose}} (1842-?)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Adventure at Brownville. Bierce A. 247.\par}
{\vl Affair at Coulter’s Notch. Bierce A. 105.\par}
{\vl Affair of Outposts. Bierce A. 146.\par}
{\vl Applicant. Bierce A. 281.\par}
{\vl Arrest. Bierce B. 340.\par}
{\vl At Old Man Eckert’s. Bierce B. 389.\par}
{\vl Baby Tramp. Bierce B. 185.\par}
{\vl Baffled Ambuscade. Bierce B. 356.\par}
{\vl Beyond the Wall. Bierce B. 210.\par}
{\vl Boarded Window. Bierce A. 364.\par}
{\vl Charles Ashmore’s Nail. Bierce B. 421.\par}
{\vl Chickamauga. Bierce A. 46.\par}
{\vl Cold Greeting. Bierce B. 331.\par}
{\vl Coup de Grâce. Bierce A. 122.\par}
{\vl Damned Thing. Bierce B. 280.\par}
{\vl Death of Halpin Frayser. Bierce B. 13.\par}
{\vl Diagnosis of Death. Bierce B. 81.\par}
{\vl Difficulty of Crossing a Field. Bierce B. 415.\par}
{\vl Eyes of the Panther. Bierce A. 385.\par}
{\vl Famous Gilson Bequest. Bierce A. 266.\par}
{\vl Fruitless Assignment. Bierce B. 377.\par}
{\vl George Thurston. Bierce A. 209.\par}
{\vl Haïti the Shepherd. Bierce B. 297.\par}
{\vl Haunted Valley. Bierce B. 134.\par}
{\vl Holy Terror. Bierce A. 324.\par}
{\vl Horseman in the Sky. Bierce A. 15.\par}
{\vl Inhabitant of Carcosa. Bierce B. 308.\par}
{\vl John Bartine’s Watch. Bierce B. 268.\par}
{\vl John Mortonson’s Funeral. Bierce B. 252.\par}
{\vl Jug of Sirup. Bierce B. 155.\par}
{\vl Killed at Resaca. Bierce A. 93.\par}
{\vl Lady from Red Horse. Bierce A. 373.\par}
{\vl Man and the Snake. Bierce A. 311.\par}
{\vl Man Out of the Nose. Bierce A. 233.\par}
{\vl Man with Two Lives. Bierce B. 345.\par}
{\vl Middle Toe of the Right Foot. Bierce B. 235.\par}
{\vl Mocking-Bird. Bierce A. 218.\par}
{\vl Moonlit Road. Bierce B. 62.\par}
{\vl Moxon’s Master. Bierce B. 88.\par}
{\vl Night-Doings at “Deadman’s.” Bierce B. 194.\par}
{\vl Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge. Bierce A. 27.\par}
{\vl One Kind of Officer. Bierce A. 178.\par}
{\vl One of the Missing. Bierce A. 71.\par}
{\vl One of Twins. Bierce B. 112.\par}
{\vl One Officer, One Man. Bierce A. 197.\par}
{\vl One Summer Night. Bierce B. 58.\par}
{\vl Other Lodgers. Bierce B. 400.\par}
{\vl Parker Adderson, Philosopher. Bierce A. 133.\par}
{\vl Present at a Hanging. Bierce B. 327.\par}
{\vl Psychological Shipwreck. Bierce B. 227.\par}
{\vl Realm of the Unreal. Bierce B. 255.\par}
{\vl Resumed Identity. Bierce B. 174.\par}
{\vl Secret of Macarger’s Gulch. Bierce B. 44.\par}
{\vl Son of the Gods. Bierce A. 58.\par}
{\vl Spook House. Bierce B. 393.\par}
{\vl Staley Fleming’s Hallucination. Bierce B. 169.\par}
{\vl Story of a Conscience. Bierce A. 165.\par}
{\vl Stranger. Bierce B. 315.\par}
{\vl Suitable Surroundings. Bierce A. 350.\par}
{\vl Thing at Nolan. Bierce B. 405.\par}
{\vl Three and One are One. Bierce B. 350.\par}
{\vl Tough Tussle. Bierce B. 106.\par}
{\vl Two Military Executions. Bierce B. 361.\par}
{\vl Unfinished Race. Bierce B. 419.\par}
{\vl Vine on a House. Bierce B. 383.\par}
{\vl Watcher by the Dead. Bierce A. 290.\par}
{\vl Wireless Message. Bierce B. 335.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bottome, Phyllis.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Brother Leo. Law. 221.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Brown, Alice.}} (1857- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Citizen and His Wife. Brown. 97\par}
{\vl Empire of Death. Brown. 48.\par}
{\vl Father. Brown. 265.\par}
{\vl Flags on the Tower. Brown. 178.\par}
{\vl Flying Teuton. Brown. 1.\par}
{\vl Island. Brown. 24.\par}
{\vl Man and the Militant. Brown. 69.\par}
{\vl Mid-Victorian. Brown. 231.\par}
{\vl Nemesis. Brown. 299.\par}
{\vl Torch of Life. Brown. 122.\par}
{\vl Trial at Ravello. Brown. 200.\par}
{\vl Tryst. Brown. 140.\par}
{\vl Waves. Brown. 160.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Burt, Maxwell Struthers.}} (1882- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Closed Doors. Burt. 117.\par}
{\vl Cup of Tea. Burt. 75.\par}
{\vl Glory of the Wild Green Earth. Burt. 217.\par}
{\vl John O’May. Burt. 1.\par}
{\vl Panache. Burt. 183.\par}
{\vl Water-Hole. Burt. 149.\par}
{\vl Wings of the Morning. Burt. 37.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Butler, Katharine.}} (1890- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
In No Strange Land. Atlantic A. 201.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Canby, Henry Seidel.}} (1878- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Business is Business. Atlantic A. 152.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Canfield, Dorothy.}} ({\scshape{Dorothy Canfield Fisher.}}) (1879- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Eyes for the Blind. Canfield A. 173.\par}
{\vl Fair Exchange. Canfield A. 84.\par}
{\vl First Time After. Canfield A. 194.\par}
{\vl Hats. Canfield A. 204.\par}
{\vl Honeymoon ... Vive l’Amérique. Canfield A. 227.\par}
{\vl Little Kansas Leaven. Canfield A. 132.\par}
{\vl Permissionaire. Canfield A. 27.\par}
{\vl Pharmacienne. Canfield A. 259.\par}
{\vl Refugee. Canfield A. 111.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Carman, Kathleen.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Debt. Atlantic B. 40.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cobb, Irvin Shrewsbury.}} (1876- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Thunders of Silence. Cobb A. 9.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Comer, Cornelia Atwood}} ({\scshape{Pratt}}).] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Preliminaries. Atlantic A. 1.\par}
{\vl Seth Miles and the Sacred Fire. Atlantic B. 50.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Davis, Richard Harding.}} (1864-1916.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
On the Fever Ship. Law. 53.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{De la Roche, Mazo.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Buried Treasure. Atlantic B. 69.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dobie, Charles Caldwell.}} (1881- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Failure. Atlantic A. 136.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dodge, Mary Mapes.}} (1838-1905.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Crow-Child. Law. 9.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Donnell, Annie Hamilton.}} (1862- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Princess of Make-Believe. Atlantic B. 94.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Doty, Madeleine Zabriskie.}} (1878- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Little Brother. Atlantic A. 208.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dreiser, Theodore.}} (1871- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Cruise of the “Idlewild.” Dreiser. 300.\par}
{\vl Free. Dreiser. 9.\par}
{\vl Lost Phœbe. Dreiser. 112.\par}
{\vl McEwen of the Shining Slave Makers. Dreiser. 54.\par}
{\vl Married. Dreiser. 323.\par}
{\vl Nigger Jeff. Dreiser. 76.\par}
{\vl Old Rogaum and His Theresa. Dreiser. 201.\par}
{\vl Second Choice. Dreiser. 135.\par}
{\vl Story of Stories. Dreiser. 163.\par}
{\vl When the Old Century Was New. Dreiser. 351.\par}
{\vl Will You Walk Into My Parlor? Dreiser. 229.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Duncan, Norman.}} (1871-1916.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Art of Terry Lute. Duncan B. 91.\par}
{\vl Crœsus of Gingerbread Cove. Duncan B. 141.\par}
{\vl Doctor of Afternoon Arm. Duncan B. 115.\par}
{\vl Idyl of Rickety Tickle. Duncan B. 255.\par}
{\vl Last Lucifer. Duncan A. 169.\par}
{\vl Little Nipper o’ Hide-an’-Seek Harbor. Duncan B. 189.\par}
{\vl Long Arm. Duncan A. 67.\par}
{\vl Madman’s Luck. Duncan B. 17.\par}
{\vl Madonna of Tinkle Tickle. Duncan B. 165.\par}
{\vl Rose of Great Price. Duncan A. 17.\par}
{\vl Siren of Scalawag Run. Duncan B. 59.\par}
{\vl Small Sam Small. Duncan B. 223.\par}
{\vl White Water. Duncan A. 225.\par}
{\vl Wreck of the Rough-an’-Tumble. Duncan A. 251.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dunning, James Edmund.}} (1873- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Two Apples. Atlantic B. 100.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dwight, Harry Griswold.}} (1875- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
In the Pasha’s Garden. Atlantic A. 98.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dyer, Walter Alden.}} (1878- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Gulliver the Great. Law. 2.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Eastman, Rebecca (Lane) Hooper.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Purple Star. Atlantic B. 105.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Fahnestock, Zephine Humphrey.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Humphrey, Zephine.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ferber, Edna.}} (1887- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Cheerful—By Request. Ferber. 3.\par}
{\vl Eldest. Ferber. 113.\par}
{\vl Gay Old Dog. Ferber. 38.\par}
{\vl Girl Who Went Right. Ferber. 200.\par}
{\vl Guiding Miss Gowd. Ferber. 250.\par}
{\vl Hooker-Up-the-Back. Ferber. 224.\par}
{\vl Shore Leave. Ferber. 329.\par}
{\vl Sophy-As-She-Might-Have-Been. Ferber. 278.\par}
{\vl That’s Marriage. Ferber. 143.\par}
{\vl Three of Them. Ferber. 305.\par}
{\vl Tough Guy. Ferber. 73.\par}
{\vl Woman Who Tried to Be Good. Ferber. 181.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Fisher, Dorothy Canfield.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Canfield, Dorothy}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Freeman, Mary E. Wilkins.}} (1862- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Both Cheeks. Freeman. 215.\par}
{\vl Flowering Bush. Freeman. 101.\par}
{\vl Gala Dress. Williams. 117.\par}
{\vl Liar. Freeman. 153.\par}
{\vl Old Man of the Field. Freeman. 26.\par}
{\vl Outside of the House. Freeman. 128.\par}
{\vl “Retreat to the Goal.” Freeman. 285.\par}
{\vl Sarah Edgewater. Freeman. 3.\par}
{\vl Soldier Man. Freeman. 232.\par}
{\vl Sour Sweetings. Freeman. 186.\par}
{\vl Value Received. Freeman. 74.\par}
{\vl Voice of the Clock. Freeman. 51.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ganoe, William Addleman.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Ruggs—R. O. T. C. Atlantic B. 125.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Garland, Hamlin.}} (1860- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Under the Lion’s Paw. Williams. 133.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gerould, Katharine Fullerton.}} (1879- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Moth of Peace. Atlantic A. 180.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gray, David.}} (1870- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Her First Horse Show. Law. 117.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Green, Captain and Mrs. F. J.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “{\scshape{Louriet, F. J.}}”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Greene, Frederick Stuart.}} (1870- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Molly McGuire, Fourteen.” Williams. 223.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Harris, Joel Chandler.}} (1848-1908.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Adventures of Simon and Susanna. Law. 3.\par}
{\vl Brother Rabbit, Brother Fox, and Two Fat Pullets. Harris. 79.\par}
{\vl Brother Rabbit’s Bear Hunt. Harris. 1.\par}
{\vl How Brother Rabbit Brought Family Trouble on Brother Fox. Harris. 103.\par}
{\vl Impty-Umpty and the Blacksmith. Harris. 26.\par}
{\vl Most Beautiful Bird in the World. Harris. 127.\par}
{\vl Taily-po. Harris. 52.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Harte, Francis Bret.}} (1839-1902.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Tennessee’s Partner. Williams. 48.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hawthorne, Nathaniel.}} (1804-1864.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Gray Champion. McSpadden. 157.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hearn, Lafcadio.}} (1850-1904.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Soul of the Great Bell. Law. 17.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Henry, O.}}” ({\scshape{William Sydney Porter.}}) (1867-1910.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Adventures of Shamrock Jolnes. Henry. 119.\par}
{\vl After Twenty Years. Henry. 212.\par}
{\vl Blackjack Bargainer. Henry. 301. Williams. 163.\par}
{\vl Chaparral Christmas Gift. Henry. 92.\par}
{\vl Clarion Call. Henry. 230.\par}
{\vl Cop and the Anthem. Henry. 143.\par}
{\vl Double-Dyed Receiver. Henry. 259.\par}
{\vl Foreign Policy of Co. 99. Henry. 156.\par}
{\vl Girl and the Habit. Henry. 201.\par}
{\vl Jeff Peters as a Personal Magnet. Henry. 65.\par}
{\vl Jimmie Hayes and Muriel. Henry. 24.\par}
{\vl Lost on Dress Parade. Henry. 178.\par}
{\vl Love-Philtre of Ikey Schoenstein. Henry. 191.\par}
{\vl Memoirs of a Yellow Dog. Henry. 168.\par}
{\vl New York by Camp Fire Light. Henry. 111.\par}
{\vl One Dollar’s Worth. Henry. 78.\par}
{\vl Ransom of Red Chief. Henry. 3.\par}
{\vl Reformation of Calliope. Henry. 48.\par}
{\vl Retrieved Reformation. Henry. 244. Law. 212.\par}
{\vl Roads We Take. Henry. 102.\par}
{\vl Sleuths. Henry. 131.\par}
{\vl Technical Error. Henry. 35.\par}
{\vl Theory and the Hound. Henry. 281.\par}
{\vl “What You Want.” Henry. 219.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hergesheimer, Joseph.}} (1880- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Dark Fleece. Hergesheimer. 227.\par}
{\vl Tubal Cain. Hergesheimer. 111.\par}
{\vl Wild Oranges. Hergesheimer. 11.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Huffaker, Lucy.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Way of Life. Atlantic B. 145.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hughes, Rupert.}} (1872- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
After-Honor. Hughes. 221.\par}
{\vl At the Back of Godspeed. Hughes. 146.\par}
{\vl Bitterness of Sweets. Hughes. 250.\par}
{\vl Canavan, the Man Who Had His Way. Hughes. 189.\par}
{\vl Except He Were a Bird. Hughes. 86.\par}
{\vl Immortal Youth. Hughes. 281.\par}
{\vl Long Ever Ago. Hughes. 116.\par}
{\vl Michaeleen! Michaelawn! Hughes. 21.\par}
{\vl Murphy That Made America. Hughes. 1.\par}
{\vl Sent For Out. Hughes. 45.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Humphrey (Harriette) Zephine.}} ({\scshape{Mrs. Wallace Weir Fahnestock.}}) (1874- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Nothing. Atlantic A. 167.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hurst, Fannie.}} (1889- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Bitter-Sweet. Hurst. 1.\par}
{\vl Get Ready the Wreaths. Hurst. 229.\par}
{\vl Golden Fleece. Hurst. 149.\par}
{\vl Her’s {\itshape{Not}} to Reason Why. Hurst. 116.\par}
{\vl Ice-Water, Pl—! Hurst. 78.\par}
{\vl Nightshade. Hurst. 187.\par}
{\vl Sieve of Fulfilment. Hurst. 40.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Irving, Washington.}} (1783-1859.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Lady With the Velvet Collar. McSpadden. 179.\par}
{\vl Legend of the Moor’s Legacy. Williams. 13.\par}
{\vl Storm-Ship. McSpadden. 169.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Johnson, Owen.}} (1878- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
One Hundred in the Dark. Law. 192.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Jordan, Elizabeth.}} (1867- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Comforter. Williams. 205.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kemper, S. H.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Woman’s Sphere. Atlantic B. 181.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Krysto, Christina.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Babanchik. Atlantic B. 190.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lerner, Mary.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Little Selves. Atlantic A. 121.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{London, Jack.}} (1876-1916.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Hussy. London. 51.\par}
{\vl Like Argus of the Ancient Times. London. 89.\par}
{\vl Princess. London. 142.\par}
{\vl Red One. London. 1.\par}
{\vl War. Law. 141.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Louriet, F. J.}}” ({\scshape{Captain}} and {\scshape{Mrs. F. J. Green.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
What Road Goeth He? Atlantic A. 217.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lynn, Margaret.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Legacy of Richard Hughes. Atlantic A. 290.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mackubin, Ellen.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Rosita. Atlantic B. 207.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mercer, C. A.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Garden of Memories. Atlantic A. 252.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mirrielees, Edith Ronald.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Perjured. Atlantic B. 222.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mitchell, Silas Weir.}} (1829-1914.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Dilemma. Law. 160.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Montague, Margaret Prescott.}} (1878- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Of Water and the Spirit. Atlantic A. 310.\par}
{\vl What Mr. Grey Said. Atlantic B. 237.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Nicholson, Meredith.}} (1866- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Boulevard of Rogues. Atlantic B. 274.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Norris, Kathleen (Thompson.)}} (1880- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
What Happened to Alanna. Atlantic B. 282.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{O. Henry.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “Henry, O.”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{O’Brien, Fitz-James.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
What Was It? French. 346. McSpadden. 135.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pentlarge, Georgiana.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “Ashe, Elizabeth.”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Poe, Edgar Allan.}} (1809-1849.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Cask of Amontillado. Williams. 36.\par}
{\vl Ligeia. Cross. 109. McSpadden. 189.\par}
{\vl MS. Found in a Bottle. McSpadden. 213.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Porter, William Sydney.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “Henry, O.”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Portor, Laura Spencer.}} ({\scshape{Mrs. Francis Pope.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Spendthrifts. Atlantic B. 298.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Post, Melville Davisson.}} (1871- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Act of God. Post. 64.\par}
{\vl Adopted Daughter. Post. 303.\par}
{\vl Age of Miracles. Post. 136.\par}
{\vl Angel of the Lord. Post. 41.\par}
{\vl Concealed Path. Post. 266.\par}
{\vl Devil’s Tools. Post. 171.\par}
{\vl Doomdorf Mystery. Post. 1.\par}
{\vl Edge of the Shadow. Post. 286.\par}
{\vl Hidden Law. Post. 191.\par}
{\vl House of the Dead Man. Post. 101.\par}
{\vl Mystery of Chance. Post. 249.\par}
{\vl Naboth’s Vineyard. Post. 323.\par}
{\vl Riddle. Post. 208.\par}
{\vl Straw Man. Post. 227.\par}
{\vl Tenth Commandment. Post. 153.\par}
{\vl Treasure Hunter. Post. 82.\par}
{\vl Twilight Adventure. Post. 118.\par}
{\vl Wrong Hand. Post. 21.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pratt, Lucy.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Children Wanted. Atlantic B. 323.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Robertson, Morgan.}} (1861-1915.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Battle of the Monsters. Law. 147.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Roche, Mazo de la.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} De la Roche, Mazo.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sedgwick, Anne Douglas.}} ({\scshape{Mrs. Basil de Sélincourt.}}) (1873- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Hepaticas. Atlantic A. 30.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sélincourt, Mrs. Basil de.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Sedgwick, Anne Douglas.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Seton, Ernest Thompson.}} (1860- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Ten Trails. Law. 22.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sherwood, Margaret Pollock.}} (1864- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Clearest Voice. Atlantic A. 259.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Singmaster, Elsie.}} ({\scshape{Elsie Singmaster Lewars.}}) (1879- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Squire. Atlantic B. 339.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Starr, Ernest.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Clearer Sight. Atlantic A. 227.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Steele, Wilbur Daniel.}} (1886- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Devil of a Fellow. Steele. 154.\par}
{\vl Down on Their Knees. Steele. 84.\par}
{\vl Ked’s Hand. Steele. 249.\par}
{\vl Killer’s Son. Steele. 121.\par}
{\vl Land’s End. Steele. 1.\par}
{\vl Man’s a Fool. Steele. 210.\par}
{\vl Romance. Steele. 275.\par}
{\vl White Horse Winter. Steele. 60.\par}
{\vl Woman at Seven Brothers. Steele. 29.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Stone, Amy Wentworth.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Possessing Prudence. Atlantic A. 56.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Stuart, Ruth McEnery.}} (1856-1917.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Sonny’s Schoolin’. Law. 105.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Taylor, Arthur Russell.}} (  -1918.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Mr. Squem. Atlantic A. 326\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Townsend, Charles Haskins.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Gregory and the Scuttle. Atlantic B. 350.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wilkins, Mary E.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Freeman, Mary E. Wilkins.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wormser, G. Ranger.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Before the Dawn. Wormser. 211.\par}
{\vl China-Ching. Wormser. 163.\par}
{\vl Effigy. Wormser. 105.\par}
{\vl Faith. Wormser. 125.\par}
{\vl Flowers. Wormser. 61.\par}
{\vl Haunted. Wormser. 37.\par}
{\vl Mutter Schwegel. Wormser. 21.\par}
{\vl Scarecrow. Wormser. 1.\par}
{\vl Shadow. Wormser. 81.\par}
{\vl Stillness. Wormser. 229.\par}
{\vl Wood of Living Trees. Wormser. 187.\par}
{\vl Yellow. Wormser. 147.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wyatt, Edith Franklin.}} (1873- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
In November. Atlantic B. 357.\par}
\end{verse}
\end{description}

\vs{1}
\penalty-300%
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\hypertarget{id8}{}%
\vskip 3.25ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\large\bfseries%
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{\centering
{\Large\strut{II. }}{\scshape{{\Large\strut{English and Irish Authors}}}}
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}

\unskip\vskip 1.5ex\nobreak

\begin{description}
\item[{\noindent}
{\scshape{Aumonier, Stacy.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Source of Irritation. Law. 69.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Barrie, Sir James Matthew.}} (1860- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
My Husband’s Book. Law. 135.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bland, Edith Nesbit.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “Nesbit, E.”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Buchan, John.}} (1875- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Basilissa. Buchan. 255.\par}
{\vl Divus Johnston. Buchan. 286.\par}
{\vl Far Islands. Buchan. 100.\par}
{\vl King of Ypres. Buchan. 301.\par}
{\vl No-Man’s Land. Buchan. 13.\par}
{\vl Outgoing of the Tide. Buchan. 204.\par}
{\vl Rime of True Thomas. Buchan. 238.\par}
{\vl Watcher by the Threshold. Buchan. 137.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bulwer-Lytton, Lord Edward George.}} (1803-1873.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Haunted and the Haunters. {\itshape{See}} House and the Brain.\par}
{\vl House and the Brain. French. 1. McSpadden. 73.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Couch, Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur Thomas.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Defoe, Daniel.}} (1659?-1731.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Apparition of Mrs. Veal. McSpadden. 1.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dickens, Charles.}} (1812-1870.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Bagman’s Story. McSpadden. 281.\par}
{\vl To Be Taken with a Grain of Salt. McSpadden. 263.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan.}} (1859- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Red-Headed League. Law. 166.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dunsany, Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, Eighteenth Baron.}} (1878- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Prayer of the Men of Daleswood. Dunsany A. 1.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Edwards, Amelia Ann Blandford.}} (1831-1892.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Four-Fifteen Express. French. 187.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Galsworthy, John.}} (1867- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Apple Tree. Galsworthy A. 199.\par}
{\vl Buttercup-Night. Atlantic A. 22.\par}
{\vl First and the Last. Galsworthy A. 1.\par}
{\vl Indian Summer of a Forsyte. Galsworthy A. 309.\par}
{\vl Juryman. Galsworthy A. 279.\par}
{\vl Stoic. Galsworthy A. 77.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gaskell, Elizabeth Cleghorn.}} (1810-1865.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Old Nurse’s Story. McSpadden. 39.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gibbon, Perceval.}} (1879- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Wood Ladies. Law. 38.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hardy, Thomas.}} (1840- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Withered Arm. French. 246.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Jacks, Lawrence Pearsall.}} (1860- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Farmer Jeremy and His Ways. Jacks A. 1.\par}
{\vl Farmer Perryman’s Tall Hat. Jacks A. 59.\par}
{\vl Gravedigger Scene. Jacks A. 83.\par}
{\vl “Macbeth” and “Banquo” on the Blasted Heath. Jacks A. 94.\par}
{\vl Mary. Jacks A. 113.\par}
{\vl “That Sort of Thing.” Jacks A. 175.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Jacobs, William Wymark.}} (1863- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Well. Williams. 186.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{James, Montague Rhodes.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Stalls of Barchester Cathedral. French. 324.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kipling, Rudyard.}} (1865- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Moti-Guj—Mutineer. Law. 84.\par}
{\vl Phantom R’ickshaw. McSpadden. 229.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lucas, Edward Verrall.}} (1868- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
One Left. Atlantic A. 283.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lytton, Lord Edward George Bulwer-.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Bulwer-Lytton, Lord Edward George.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Maclaren, Ian.}}” ({\scshape{John Watson.}}) (1850-1907.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Fight with Death. Law. 238.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Macleod, Fiona.}}” ({\scshape{William Sharp.}}) (1856-1905.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Dan-nan-ron. Law. 248.\par}
{\vl Green Branches. French. 166.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Marryatt, H. B.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Were-Wolf. French. 221. McSpadden. 109.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Morrison, Arthur.}} (1863- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
On the Stairs. Williams. 155.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Nesbit, E.}}” ({\scshape{Edith Nesbit Bland.}}) (1858- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Marble Child. Atlantic A. 270.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{O’Kelly, Seumas.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Both Sides of the Pond. O’Kelly. 36.\par}
{\vl Building. O’Kelly. 173.\par}
{\vl Can With the Diamond Notch. O’Kelly. 1.\par}
{\vl Gray Lake. O’Kelly. 140.\par}
{\vl Home-Coming. O’Kelly. 113.\par}
{\vl Rector. O’Kelly. 104.\par}
{\vl Shoemaker. O’Kelly. 85.\par}
{\vl Sick Call. O’Kelly. 69.\par}
{\vl Wayside Burial. O’Kelly. 128.\par}
{\vl White Goat. O’Kelly. 54.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Oliphant, Margaret.}} (1828-1897.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Open Door. French. 62.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Phillpotts, Eden.}} (1862- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Better Man. Phillpotts. 217.\par}
{\vl Church Grim. Phillpotts. 1.\par}
{\vl Dream. Phillpotts. 52.\par}
{\vl Farmer Sleep’s Savings. Phillpotts. 251.\par}
{\vl “Green Man” and “The Tiger.” Phillpotts. 157.\par}
{\vl House in Two Parishes. Phillpotts. 65.\par}
{\vl Jenifer and the Twain. Phillpotts. 271.\par}
{\vl Legacy. Phillpotts. 179.\par}
{\vl Lie to the Dead. Phillpotts. 233.\par}
{\vl Panting after Christopher. Phillpotts. 292.\par}
{\vl Rare Poppy. Phillpotts. 109.\par}
{\vl Reed Pond. Phillpotts. 83.\par}
{\vl Revolver. Phillpotts. 128.\par}
{\vl Saint and the Lovers. Phillpotts. 196.\par}
{\vl Silver Thimble Farm. Phillpotts. 31.\par}
{\vl Touch of “Fearfulness.” Phillpotts. 306.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“Q.”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur Thomas.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur Thomas.}} (“Q.”) (1863-  ).] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Roll-Call of the Reef. French. 38.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Scott, Sir Walter.}} (1771-1832.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Tapestried Chamber. McSpadden. 15.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sharp, William.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “Macleod, Fiona.”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Stevenson, Robert Louis.}} (1850-1894.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Sire de Malétroit’s Door. Williams. 74.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Watson, John.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “Maclaren, Ian.”\par}
\end{verse}
\end{description}

\vs{1}
\penalty-300%
\label{id9}%
\hypertarget{id9}{}%
\vskip 3.25ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\large\bfseries%
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{III. }}{\scshape{{\Large\strut{Translations}}}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 1.5ex\nobreak

\begin{description}
\item[{\noindent}
{\scshape{Aicard, Jean.}} (1848- .) ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Mariette’s Gift. McPherson. 142.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Andreyev, Leonid Nikolaevich.}} (1871- .) ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Lazarus. Andreyev B. 9.\par}
{\vl Red Laugh. Andreyev A. 103.\par}
{\vl Seven That Were Hanged. Andreyev A. 1.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Anonymous.}} ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Evocation. McPherson. 195.\par}
{\vl Pipe. McPherson. 160.\par}
{\vl Rendezvous. McPherson. 167.\par}
{\vl Sacrifice. McPherson. 180.\par}
{\vl Slacker with a Soul. McPherson. 188.\par}
{\vl Sonata to the Star. McPherson. 153.\par}
{\vl Voice of the Church Bell. McPherson. 173.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Arnaud, Arsène.}} ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “Claretie, Jules.”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Balzac, Honoré de.}} (1799-1850.) ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Atheist’s Mass. Schweikert. 45.\par}
{\vl Colonel Chabert. Schweikert. 67.\par}
{\vl Episode of the Reign of Terror. Schweikert. 21.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bazin, René.}} (1853- .) ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Birds in the Letter-Box. Schweikert. 292.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Benjamin, René.}} ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Hindoo Commissariat. McPherson. 134.\par}
{\vl In a Roadstead of France. McPherson. 121.\par}
{\vl Simplicity of Heroism. McPherson. 128.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Boccaccio de Certaldo, Giovanni.}} (1313-1375.) ({\itshape{Italian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Befriending His Enemy. Boccaccio. 47.\par}
{\vl Calandrino’s Story. Boccaccio. 38.\par}
{\vl Iphigenia, Mistress of Cimon. Boccaccio. 26.\par}
{\vl Scoundrel Becomes a Saint. Boccaccio. 5.\par}
{\vl Story of Griselda. Boccaccio. 54.\par}
{\vl Story of the Three Rings. Boccaccio. 18.\par}
{\vl Tragedy of Illicit Love. Boccaccio. 22.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Boutet, Frédéric.}} ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Convalescent’s Return. McPherson. 54.\par}
{\vl Medallion. McPherson. 59.\par}
{\vl Messenger. McPherson. 48.\par}
{\vl Promise. McPherson. 65.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bunin, Ivan.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Gentleman from San Francisco. Andreyev B. 32.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Chatrian, Erckmann-.}}” ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “Erckmann-Chatrian.”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich.}} (1860-1904.) ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
About Love. Chekhov B. 287.\par}
{\vl Agafya. Chekhov C. 117.\par}
{\vl At Christmas Time. Chekhov C. 135.\par}
{\vl Carelessness. Chekhov A. 38.\par}
{\vl Difficult People. Chekhov B. 73.\par}
{\vl Dreams. Chekhov C. 85.\par}
{\vl Gooseberries. Chekhov B. 269.\par}
{\vl Grasshopper. Chekhov B. 89.\par}
{\vl Gusev. Chekhov C. 145.\par}
{\vl Happiness. Chekhov C. 251.\par}
{\vl Her Gentleman Friend. Chekhov A. 22.\par}
{\vl Huntsman. Chekhov C. 241.\par}
{\vl In the Ravine. Chekhov C. 177.\par}
{\vl Lottery Ticket. Chekhov B. 303.\par}
{\vl Malefactor. Chekhov C. 269.\par}
{\vl Man in a Case. Chekhov B. 247.\par}
{\vl New Villa. Chekhov C. 61.\par}
{\vl Overspiced. Chekhov A. 55.\par}
{\vl Peasant Wives. Chekhov C. 25.\par}
{\vl Peasants. Chekhov C. 279.\par}
{\vl Pipe. Chekhov C. 101.\par}
{\vl Post. Chekhov C. 49.\par}
{\vl Privy Councillor. Chekhov B. 219.\par}
{\vl Scandal Monger. Chekhov A. 33.\par}
{\vl Student. Chekhov C. 169.\par}
{\vl Such Is Fame! Chekhov A. 46.\par}
{\vl That “Fresh Kid.” Chekhov A. 43.\par}
{\vl Vengeance. Chekhov A. 16.\par}
{\vl Who Was She? Chekhov A. 27.\par}
{\vl Wife. Chekhov B. 3.\par}
{\vl Witch. Chekhov C. 3.\par}
{\vl Work of Art. Chekhov A. 11.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Claretie, Jules.}}” ({\scshape{Arsène Arnaud.}}) (1840- .) ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Boum-Boum. Schweikert. 301.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Coppee, François-Edouard-Joachim.}} (1842-1908.) ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Piece of Bread. Schweikert. 274.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dantchenko, V. I. Nemirovitch-.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Deserted Mine. Dantchenko. 3.\par}
{\vl Luck of Ivan the Forgetful. Dantchenko. 129.\par}
{\vl Mahoud’s Family. Dantchenko. 61.\par}
{\vl Misunderstanding. Dantchenko. 91.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Daudet, Alphonse.}} (1840-1897.) ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Last Lesson. Schweikert. 247. Williams. 65.\par}
{\vl Pope’s Mule. Schweikert. 251.\par}
{\vl Reverend Father Gaucher’s Elixir. Schweikert. 262.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Delarue-Madrus, Lucie.}} ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Godmother. McPherson. 97.\par}
{\vl Godmother II. McPherson. 103.\par}
{\vl Red Rose. McPherson. 109.\par}
{\vl Rivals. McPherson. 115.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dostoevsky, Fyodor Mikhailovich.}} (1822-1881.) ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Christmas Tree and a Wedding. Dostoevsky A. 200.\par}
{\vl Faint Heart. Dostoevsky A. 156.\par}
{\vl Little Hero. Dostoevsky A. 223.\par}
{\vl Mr. Prohartchin. Dostoevsky A. 258.\par}
{\vl Notes from Underground. Dostoevsky A. 50.\par}
{\vl Polunkov. Dostoevsky A. 208.\par}
{\vl White Nights. Dostoevsky A. 1.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Erckmann-Chatrian.}}” ({\itshape{French.}}) {[}Emile Erckmann (1822-1899) and Louis Gratien Charles Alexandre Chatrian. (1826-1890.){]}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Mysterious Sketch. French. 143.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{France, Anatole.}}” ({\scshape{Jacques-Anatole Thibault.}}) (1844- .) ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Juggler of Notre Dame. Schweikert. 284.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gautier, Theophile.}} (1811-1872.) ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Clarimonde. French. 281.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gogol, Nikolai Vassilievich.}} (1809-1852.) ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Calash. Gogol. 299.\par}
{\vl Cloak. Gogol. 155.\par}
{\vl How the Two Ivans Quarrelled. Gogol. 189.\par}
{\vl Mysterious Portrait. Gogol. 243.\par}
{\vl St. John’s Eve. Gogol. 137.\par}
{\vl Taras Bulba. Gogol. 1.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Gorky, Maxim.}}” ({\scshape{Alexei Maximovich Pyeshkov.}}) (1868- .) ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Because of Monotony. Gorky B. 27.\par}
{\vl Chelkash. Gorky A. 125.\par}
{\vl Creatures That Once Were Men. Gorky A. 13.\par}
{\vl Makar Chudra. Gorky B. 9.\par}
{\vl Man Who Could Not Die. Gorky B. 49.\par}
{\vl My Fellow-Traveller. Gorky A. 178.\par}
{\vl On a Raft. Gorky A. 229.\par}
{\vl Twenty-Six Men and a Girl. Gorky A. 104.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hoffmann, Ernest Theodor Wilhelm}} ({\scshape{Amadeus}}). (1776-1822.) ({\itshape{German.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Deserted House. French. 115.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kafu, Nagai.}} ({\itshape{Japanese.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Bill-Collecting. Taketomo. 71.\par}
{\vl Ukiyoe. Taketomo. 105.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lemaître, (François Elie) Jules.}} (1853-1914.) ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Siren. Schweikert. 310.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Level, Maurice.}} ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
After the War. McPherson. 42.\par}
{\vl At the Movies. McPherson. 24.\par}
{\vl Great Scene. McPherson. 36.\par}
{\vl Little Soldier. McPherson. 30.\par}
{\vl Spirit of Alsace. McPherson. 13.\par}
{\vl Under Ether. McPherson. 7.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Machard, Alfred.}} ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Repatriation. McPherson. 1.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Madrus, Lucie Delarue-.}} ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Delarue-Madrus, Lucie.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Maupassant, Henri René Albert Guy de.}} (1850-1893.) ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Fright. Schweikert. 219.\par}
{\vl Hand. Schweikert. 235.\par}
{\vl Necklace. Schweikert. 194. Williams. 102.\par}
{\vl Two Friends. Schweikert. 227.\par}
{\vl Wreck. Schweikert. 205.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mérimée, Prosper.}} (1803-1870.) ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Mateo Falcone. Schweikert. 144.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mille, Pierre.}} (1864- .) ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Apologue of Kadir Bakch. McPherson. 78.\par}
{\vl How They Do It. McPherson. 70.\par}
{\vl Man Who Was Afraid. McPherson. 83.\par}
{\vl Soldier Who Conquered Sleep. McPherson. 90.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Musset, Alfred de.}} (1810-1857.) ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Croisilles. Schweikert. 160.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Nemirovitch-Dantchenko, V. I.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Dantchenko, V. I. Nemirovitch-.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ogwali, Mori.}} ({\itshape{Japanese.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Hanako. Taketomo. 35.\par}
{\vl Pier. Taketomo. 55.\par}
{\vl Takase Bune. Taketomo. 3.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pyeshkov, Alexei Maximovich.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “Gorky, Maxim.”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Tagore, Sir Rabindranath.}} (1861- .) ({\itshape{Bengali.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Auspicious Vision. Tagore. 49.\par}
{\vl Castaway. Tagore. 185.\par}
{\vl Elder Sister. Tagore. 123.\par}
{\vl Mashi. Tagore. 3.\par}
{\vl My Fair Neighbour. Tagore. 215.\par}
{\vl Postmaster. Tagore. 159.\par}
{\vl Raja and Rani. Tagore. 77.\par}
{\vl Riddle Solved. Tagore. 107.\par}
{\vl River Stairs. Tagore. 173.\par}
{\vl Saved. Tagore. 207.\par}
{\vl Skeleton. Tagore. 31.\par}
{\vl Subha. Tagore. 145.\par}
{\vl Supreme Night. Tagore. 61.\par}
{\vl Trust Property. Tagore. 87.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Tchekhov, Anton.}} ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} Chekhov, Anton.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Thibault, Jacques-Anatole.}} ({\itshape{French.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “France, Anatole.”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Tolstoi, Lyof Nikolaievitch, Count.}} (1828-1910.) ({\itshape{Russian.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Coffee-House of Surat. Tolstoi. 39.\par}
{\vl How Much Land Does a Man Need? Tolstoi. 48.\par}
{\vl Three Questions. Tolstoi. 34.\par}
{\vl What Men Live By. Tolstoi. 9.\par}
{\vl Where Love Is, There God is Also. Law. 23.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Toson, Shimazaki.}} ({\itshape{Japanese.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Domestic Animal. Taketomo. 117.\par}
{\vl Tsugaru Strait. Taketomo. 135.\par}
\end{verse}
\end{description}

\vs{1}
\penalty-300%
\label{index-of-short-stories-published-in-american-magazines-january-to-october-1918}%
\hypertarget{index-of-short-stories-published-in-american-magazines-january-to-october-1918}{}%
\vskip 3.5ex
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Large\bfseries%
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\Large\strut{INDEX OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}}
\endgraf}
}

\unskip\vskip 2.3ex\nobreak

{\noindent}
{\itshape{All short stories published in the following magazines and
newspapers, January to October, inclusive, 1918, are indexed.}}\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
American Magazine\par}
{\vl Atlantic Monthly\par}
{\vl Bellman\par}
{\vl Bookman\par}
{\vl Boston Evening Transcript\par}
{\vl Catholic World\par}
{\vl Century\par}
{\vl Collier’s Weekly\par}
{\vl Current Opinion\par}
{\vl Delineator\par}
{\vl Everybody’s Magazine\par}
{\vl Every Week\par}
{\vl Forum\par}
{\vl Good Housekeeping\par}
{\vl Harper’s Magazine\par}
{\vl Independent\par}
{\vl Ladies’ Home Journal\par}
{\vl Liberator\par}
{\vl Little Review\par}
{\vl McClure’s Magazine\par}
{\vl Metropolitan\par}
{\vl Midland\par}
{\vl Modern School\par}
{\vl New Republic\par}
{\vl New York Tribune\par}
{\vl Outlook\par}
{\vl Pagan\par}
{\vl Pictorial Review\par}
{\vl Poetry\par}
{\vl Reedy’s Mirror\par}
{\vl Russian Review\par}
{\vl Saturday Evening Post\par}
{\vl Scribner’s Magazine\par}
{\vl Stratford Journal\par}
{\vl Sunset Magazine\par}
{\vl Touchstone\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\itshape{Short stories, of distinction only, published in the following
magazines and newspapers during the same period are indexed.}}\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Adventure\par}
{\vl Ainslee’s Magazine\par}
{\vl All-Story Weekly\par}
{\vl Black Cat\par}
{\vl Cosmopolitan\par}
{\vl Country Gentleman\par}
{\vl Harper’s Bazar\par}
{\vl Hearst’s Magazine\par}
{\vl Illustrated Sunday Magazine\par}
{\vl Live Stories\par}
{\vl McCall’s Magazine\par}
{\vl Magnificat\par}
{\vl Milestones\par}
{\vl Munsey’s Magazine\par}
{\vl Parisienne\par}
{\vl Queen’s Work\par}
{\vl Saucy Stories\par}
{\vl Short Stories\par}
{\vl Smart Set\par}
{\vl Snappy Stories\par}
{\vl Southern Woman’s Magazine\par}
{\vl Today’s Housewife\par}
{\vl Woman’s Home Companion\par}
{\vl Woman’s World\par}
{\vl Youth’s Companion\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\itshape{Certain stories of distinction published in the following magazines
during this period are indexed, because they have been specially
called to my attention.}}\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
American Hebrew\par}
{\vl American Weekly Jewish News\par}
{\vl Argosy\par}
{\vl California Writers’ Club Monthly Bulletin\par}
{\vl Canadian Courier\par}
{\vl Christian Herald\par}
{\vl Mother’s Magazine\par}
{\vl People’s Favorite Magazine\par}
{\vl Popular Magazine\par}
{\vl University Magazine\par}
{\vl Visitor\par}
{\vl Waste Basket\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\itshape{One, two, or three asterisks are prefixed to the titles of stories
to indicate distinction. Three asterisks prefixed to a title indicate
the more or less permanent literary value of the story, and
entitle it to a place on the annual “Rolls of Honor.” A asterisk
before the name of an author indicates that he is not an American.
Cross references after an author’s name refer to previous
volumes of this series.}} (H) {\itshape{after the name of an author indicates
that other stories by this author, published in American
magazines between 1900 and 1914 are to be found indexed in
*“The Standard Index of Short Stories,” *by Francis J. Hannigan,
published by Small, Maynard \& Company, 1918. The figures in
parenthesis after the title of a story refer to the volume and page
number of the magazine. In cases where successive numbers of
a magazine are not paged consecutively, the page number only is
given in this index.}}\par

{\itshape{The following abbreviations are used in the index:—}}\par

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{Adv.}} ..........Adventure\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Ain.}} ..........Ainslee’s Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{All.}} ..........All-Story Weekly\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Am.}} ...........American Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Am. Heb.}} ......American Hebrew\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Am. W. J. N.}} ..American Weekly Jewish News\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Arg.}} ..........Argosy\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Atl.}} ..........Atlantic Monthly\par}
{\vl {\itshape{B. C.}} .........Black Cat\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Bel.}} ..........Bellman\par}
{\vl {\itshape{B. E. T.}} ......Boston Evening Transcript\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Book.}} .........Bookman\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Cal.}} ..........California Writers’ Club Monthly Bulletin\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Can. Courier}} ..Canadian Courier\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Cath. W.}} ......Catholic World\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Cen.}} ..........Century Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{C. G.}} .........Country Gentleman\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Christ. H.}} ....Christian Herald\par}
{\vl {\itshape{C. O.}} .........Current Opinion\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Col.}} ..........Collier’s Weekly\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Cos.}} ..........Cosmopolitan\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Del.}} ..........Delineator\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Ev.}} ...........Everybody’s Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{E. W.}} .........Every Week\par}
{\vl {\itshape{For.}} ..........Forum\par}
{\vl {\itshape{G. H.}} .........Good Housekeeping\par}
{\vl {\itshape{(H)}} ...........*See* Hannigan’s “Standard Index of Short Stories”\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Harp. B.}} ......Harper’s Bazar\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Harp. M.}} ......Harper’s Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Hear.}} .........Hearst’s Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Ind.}} ..........Independent\par}
{\vl {\itshape{I. S. M.}} ......Illustrated Sunday Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{L. H. J.}} ......Ladies’ Home Journal\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Lib.}} ..........Liberator\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Lit. R.}} .......Little Review\par}
{\vl {\itshape{L. St.}} ........Live Stories\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Mag.}} ..........Magnificat\par}
{\vl {\itshape{McC.}} ..........McClure’s Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{McCall}} ........McCall’s Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Met.}} ..........Metropolitan\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Mid.}} ..........Midland\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Mile}} ..........Milestones\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Mir.}} ..........Reedy’s Mirror\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Mod. S.}} .......Modern School\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Moth.}} .........Mother’s Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Mun.}} ..........Munsey’s Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{N. Rep.}} .......New Republic\par}
{\vl {\itshape{N. Y. Trib.}} ...N. Y. Tribune Sunday Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Outl.}} .........Outlook\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Pag.}} ..........Pagan\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Par.}} ..........Parisienne\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Peop.}} .........People’s Favorite Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Pict. R.}} ......Pictorial Review\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Poetry}} ........Poetry: A Magazine of Verse\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Pop.}} ..........Popular Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Q. W.}} .........Queen’s Work\par}
{\vl {\itshape{(R)}} ...........Reprint\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Rus. R.}} .......Russian Review\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Sau. St.}} ......Saucy Stories\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Scr.}} ..........Scribner’s Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{S. E. P.}} ......Saturday Evening Post\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Sh. St.}} .......Short Stories\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Sn. St.}} .......Snappy Stories\par}
{\vl {\itshape{So. Wo. M.}} ....Southern Woman’s Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{S. S.}} .........Smart Set\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Strat. J.}} .....Stratford Journal\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Sun.}} ..........Sunset Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Tod.}} ..........Today’s Housewife\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Touch.}} ........Touchstone\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Univ.}} .........University Magazine\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Vis.}} ..........Visitor\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Waste}} .........Waste Basket\par}
{\vl {\itshape{W. H. C.}} ......Woman’s Home Companion\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Wom. W.}} .......Woman’s World\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Y. C.}} .........Youth’s Companion\par}
{\vl ({\itshape{161}}) .........Page 161\par}
{\vl ({\itshape{11:161}}) ......Volume 11, page 161\par}
{\vl ({\itshape{See 1915}}) ....See “Best Short Stories of 1915.”\par}
\end{verse}

\begin{description}
\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Abbott, Eleanor Hallowell.}} ({\scshape{Mrs. Fordyce Coburn.}}) (1872- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Man from Down the Gulf. L. H. J. June. (19.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Abbott, Frances.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Elsie—Heels, Hair, Nails, and Heart of Gold. Del. April. (16.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Abbott, Helen Raymond.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Eternal Balance. Cen. Oct. (96:813.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Abdullah, Achmed.}} ({\scshape{Achmed Abdullah Nadir Khan el-Durani el-Idrissyeh.}}) (“{\scshape{A. A. Nadir.}}”) (1881- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*After Youth. For. March. (59:334.)\par}
{\vl ***Cobbler’s Wax. Cen. July (96:319.)\par}
{\vl ***Light. All. May 18. (84:211.)\par}
{\vl *Pell Street Spring Song. Arg. Sept. 28. (99:606.)\par}
{\vl **Reprisal. Col. Jan. 26. (20.)\par}
{\vl **River of Hate. Tod. Oct. (8.)\par}
{\vl ***Simple Act of Piety. All. April 20. (83:216.)\par}
{\vl *Taint. L. St. July. (29.)\par}
{\vl Thingumajee Thingumabob Jones. McC. July. (10.)\par}
{\vl ***Two-Handed Sword. Col. May 11. (18.)\par}
{\vl ***Wings. All. Aug. 10. (87:219.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Adams, Morris.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Planned in Berlin. All. April 27. (83:562.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Adams, Russell.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Adopting Bobby. E. W. Feb. 2. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Adams, Samuel Hopkins.}} (1871- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Beggar’s Purse. S. E. P. March 23. (3.)\par}
{\vl **Bribe. Col. July 27. (8.)\par}
{\vl Common Cause. S. E. P. July 27. (5.)\par}
{\vl “Excess Baggage.” Col. Jan. 5. (18.)-Jan. 12. (16.)\par}
{\vl Front-Page Frankie. Ev. April. (35.)\par}
{\vl *Little Privacy. Col. March 9. (18.)\par}
{\vl *Orator of the Day. Col. May 25. (8.)\par}
{\vl Three Days’ Leave. Met. July. (15.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Addis, H. A. Noureddin.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Sword of Kara Mahmoud. Adv. March 18. (38.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Addison, Thomas.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Chicken Logan and the Flag. Ev. Sept. (33.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Agee, Fannie Heaslip Lea.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Lea, Fannie Heaslip}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Aldrich, Darragh.}} ({\itshape{See 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Mothers of Men. Harp. M. June. (137:114.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Aleihem, Sholom.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Great Prize. Pag. March. (4.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Alexander, Mary.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Kilbourne, Fannie}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Amid, John.}}” ({\scshape{M. M. Stearns.}}) (1884- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Kale in Season. Col. Oct. 5. (13.)\par}
{\vl *Pepper Tree. Bel. April 6. (24:382.)\par}
{\vl *Prem Singh. ({\itshape{R.}}) C. O. March. (64:214.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Andell, Frances M.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Bobbed Hair. Pag. July. (58.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Anderson, Edna.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Her Own People. Sun. Jan. (42.)\par}
{\vl *Lamps of Midsummer. Sun. Aug. (38.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Anderson, Frederick Irving.}} (1877- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Dummkopf! McC. Oct. (22.)\par}
{\vl Golden Fleece. S. E. P. May 4. (20.)\par}
{\vl Mad Hour. McC. June. (13.)\par}
{\vl Touch on His Shoulder. McC. March. (20.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Anderson, Sherwood.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Man of Ideas. Lit. R. June. (22.)\par}
{\vl ***Senility. Lit. R. Sept. (37.)\par}
{\vl **White Streak. S. S. July. (27.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Andrews, Grayman.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*At Twelve Twenty-Five. Y. C. April 25. (92:209.)\par}
{\vl *Awakening of “Sam-nambulist.” Y. C. March 21. (92:145.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Andrews, Mary Raymond Shipman.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Diamonds in the Apple Tree. (L. H. J.) Jan. (19.)\par}
{\vl ***Ditch. Scr. April. (63:405.)\par}
{\vl **Her Country. Del. May. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Anonymous.}} ({\itshape{See also}} “Elderly Spinster.”)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Adieu. N. Y. Trib. July. (28.)\par}
{\vl *Alibi. N. Y. Trib. June 9.\par}
{\vl ***Bistoquet’s Triumph. N. Y. Trib. May 5.\par}
{\vl Chrysalis and Butterfly. N. Y. Trib. Aug. 11.\par}
{\vl Confession of a Lawyer’s Wife. Del. Sept. (6.)\par}
{\vl Educating Robert S. E. P. May 4. (26.)\par}
{\vl *His Brother. Y. C. April 4. (III.)\par}
{\vl **Home Again. ({\itshape{R.}}) Mir. June 28. (27:393.)\par}
{\vl *Martyrs. B. E. T. June 15. (Pt. 3. p. 5.)\par}
{\vl ***Oratorio. N. Y. Trib. June 2.\par}
{\vl *Poilu’s Romance. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 13.\par}
{\vl Rival. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 8.\par}
{\vl *Robelot’s Reasons. N. Y. Trib. April 28.\par}
{\vl **Terrorist. Lib. April. (14.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Armstrong, William.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Freedom’s Sunrise. Del. Aug. (5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Asch, Sholom.}} ({\itshape{See 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Daughter of Gentlefolk. Pag. Feb. (4.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ashmun, Margaret Eliza.}} ({\itshape{See 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Culture. Cen. Oct. (96:785.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Aspinwall, Marguerite.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Red Cross Plot in Arden. L. H. J. Sept. (12.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Aumonier, Stacy.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Bitter End. Pict. R. Oct. (22.)\par}
{\vl **Return. Cen. April. (95:780.)\par}
{\vl ***Source of Irritation. Cen. Jan. (95:321.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Austin, F. Britten.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*“And the Earth Opened Her Mouth.” S. E. P. Feb. 16. (14.)\par}
{\vl *Iron Cross. S. E. P. May 18. (9.)\par}
{\vl *Magic of Mohammed Din. Red Bk. Aug. (37.)\par}
{\vl *Other Side. Red Bk. Oct. (23.)\par}
{\vl **Peace. S. E. P. April 27. (3.)\par}
{\vl *Plateau of Thirst. Red Bk. May. (45.)\par}
{\vl *Prisoner in the Château. Red Bk. July. (35.)\par}
{\vl *Spy. S. E. P. Jan. 19. (14.)\par}
{\vl There! S. E. P. Oct. 19. (8.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Austin, Mary (Hunter).}} (1868- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Divorcing of Sina. Sun. June. (26.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Babcock, Edwina Stanton.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Cruelties. Harp. M. May. (136:852.)\par}
{\vl ***“Goddess-Size.” Harp. M. Jan. (136:176.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bacheller, Irving.}} (1859- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Kind o’ Hankerin’ For Your Folks. Ind. May 11. (94:250.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bacon, Josephine Daskam.}} (1876- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}} ) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Alice of the Red Tape. S. E. P. March 30. (13.)\par}
{\vl Fruits of the Earth. S. E. P. May 25. (5.)\par}
{\vl *Our Best Friends. Del. Sept. (14.)\par}
{\vl *Presto! Change! Del. Jan. (13.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Baker, Virginia.}} (1859- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Subjugation of William the Kaiser. Atl. Aug. (122:206.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Balmer, Edwin.}} (1883- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Error in Chaos. Col. Jan. 5. (20.)\par}
{\vl Forced Landing. Col. Feb. 9. (16.)\par}
{\vl Helpmates. E. W. Feb. 2. (6.)\par}
{\vl Out of the Deep. Ev. Aug. (13.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Banks, Helen Ward.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Highbrow Courtship. Tod. Feb. (5.)\par}
{\vl Jim and the Giant. Scr. Feb. (63:219.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Barcỳnska, Countess.}} ({\itshape{See 1915.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*City of Her Soul. Sun. Sept. (12.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Barnard, Floy Tolbert.}} (1879- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Ginger of the Amb’lance. Harp. M. Sept. (137:480.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Barnes, Djuna.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Renunciation. S. S. Oct. (65.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Barratt, Louise Rand Bascom.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Bascom, Louise Rand}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Barrows, Albert W.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Pro Patria. Sun. Aug. (29.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bartlett, Frederick Orin.}} (1876- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Davenports. L. H. J. Sept. (23.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bartley, Nalbro.}} (1888- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Bargain True. S. E. P. May 11. (24.)\par}
{\vl *Cudgel and the Creel. Del. Jan. (6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bascom, Louise Rand}} ({\scshape{Mrs. G. W. Barratt}}). ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Two Dog-Collars. G. H. Oct. (19.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Beadle, Charles.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Autocrat. Ev. June. (41.)\par}
{\vl *Idol of “It.” Adv. July 3. (106.)\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Beale, Will C.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“I’m the Only Mother This Child’s Ever Had.” Am. Aug. (30.)\par}
\end{verse}

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\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Beatty, Jerome.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“There’s Hits in Every Bat.” Col. Aug. 17. (11.)\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Becquer, Gustav A.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Our Lady’s Bracelet. Strat. J. April. (3.)\par}
\end{verse}

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\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Beede, Ralph G.}} (1895- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Cera. Harp. M. May. (136:869.)\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Beer, Richard Cameron.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
One Large Night! S. E. P. April 20. (41.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Beer, Thomas.}} (1889- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Absent Without Leave. S. E. P. July 20. (37.)\par}
{\vl ***Beneficiary. Cen. Aug. (96:453.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Behrman, S. N.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Surrender. Lib. May. (16.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Bell, J(ohn) J(oy).}} (1871- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Life Belt. Bel. Jan. 26. (24:99.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Benjamin, René.}} ({\itshape{See 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*His Furlough—At the Front. N. Y. Trib. Mar. 17.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Bertheroy, Jean.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Cathedral. N. Y. Trib. Aug. 25.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Beston, Henry B.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
On Night Patrol. Outl. Oct. 2. (119:172.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Betts, Thomas Jeffries.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Unfit. Scr. May. (63:564.)\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Bezançon, H.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Romance of Louise Rosier. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 15.\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Binet-Valmer.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Pacifist. N. Y. Trib. June 30.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
*“{\scshape{Birmingham, George A.}}” ({\scshape{Canon James O. Hannay.}}) (1865- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Upright Judge. E. W. April 13. (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

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\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Blackwood, Algernon.}} (1869- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***S. O. S. Cen. March. (95:653.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bloch, Bertram.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Boy Who Was Ten. Sn. St. May 4. (47.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Boggs, Russell A.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Landing Venus. S. E. P. Jan. 5. (30.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bottome, Phyllis.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Great Exception. I. S. M. Early Summer No. (3.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Bourget, Paul.}} (1852- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Captain V——s’ Narrative. B. E. T. June 15. (Pt. 3. p. 5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Boutet, Frédéric.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Cousin of Madame Moreau. N. Y. Trib. Mar. 10.\par}
{\vl **Her Turn. N. Y. Trib. April 14.\par}
{\vl **On the Night Express. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 27.\par}
{\vl ***Rift. N. Y. Trib. June 16.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*“{\scshape{Bowen, Marjorie.}}” ({\scshape{Gabrielle Margaret Vere Campbell Costanzo.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Gilt Sedan Chair. All. May 18. (84:328.)\par}
{\vl *Heartsease. All. June 29. (85:724.)\par}
{\vl *Scoured Silk. All. June 8. (85:136.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Bracco, Roberto.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Hunchback. Strat. J. Oct. (3:151.) B. E. T. Mar. 2. (Pt. 3. p. 4.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Braley, Berton.}} (1882- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Hot Off the Griddle. Ev. Jan. (34.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Brand, Max.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*John Ovington Returns. All. June 8. (85:25.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Brangwyn, John.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Bell-Tower of P’an-ku. Cen. April. (95:865.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Brassill, Winifred.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Poor Donkey! Q. W. April. (8:93.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Breck, John.}}” ({\scshape{Elizabeth C. A. Smith.}}) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Yellow-Footed Bird Col. April 20. (23.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Bréville, A. de.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Their Boy. N. Y. Trib. July 7.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Brighouse, Harold.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Happy Hangman. S. S. June. (45.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Brooks, Alden.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Out of the Sky. Cos. May. (36.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Brown, Alice.}} (1857- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Gifts. W. H. C. May. (13.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Brown, Bernice.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*In April. E. W. May 11. (15)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Brown, Hearty Earl.}} (1886- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Marrying Time. Atl. Oct. (122:493.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Brown, Katharine Holland.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Actor and His Part. Col. May 18. (9.)\par}
{\vl ***Buster. Scr. Aug. (64:153.)\par}
{\vl *Pretender. G. H. Aug. (27.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Brown, Royal.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Hash and Moth Balls. L. H. J. Jan. (11.)\par}
{\vl His First Stenographer. L. H. J. April. (14.)\par}
{\vl Not a Chinaman’s Chance. Am. July. (39.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Browne, Porter Emerson.}} (1879- .) ({\itshape{See 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“All In.” McC. Jan. (18.)\par}
{\vl Higher the Fewer. Col. Jan. 19. (20.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Brownell, Agnes Mary.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Sanctuary. Mid. Sept.-Oct. (4:254.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Brubaker, Howard.}} (1882- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Cruise of the “Fearless Four.” Harp. M. June. (137:40.)\par}
{\vl *Journey into Journalism. Harp. M. March. (136:532.)\par}
{\vl *Round Trip to Crime. Harp. M. Jan. (136:276.)\par}
{\vl Ruby Crosses the Rubicon. Col. March 30. (20.)\par}
{\vl *Uncivil Government. Harp. M. Oct. (137:698.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bryson, Lyman Lloyd.}} (1888- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Man’s Word. Mid. Jan.-Feb. (4:27.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Buch, Vera.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Spring Comes Again. Lib. July. (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Buell, Katharine.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Man with the Hands. Met. Sept. (36.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Bunker, William Mitchell.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Good Luck, Jim!” Sun. Feb. (43.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Burleson, Adèle Steiner.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Acid Test. Wom. W. April. (7.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Burnet, Dana.}} (1888- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Private Pettigrew’s Girl. S. E. P. Sept. 14. (5.)\par}
{\vl *“Red, White, and Blue. McC. Aug. (19.)\par}
{\vl String of Beads. S. E. P. April 20. (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Burt, Maxwell Struthers.}} (1882- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Wings of the Morning. Scr. July. (64:35.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Burton, Agnes Boulton.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Letter. Sn. St. Oct. 3. (27.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Butler, Ellis Parker.}} (1869- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Big Money Billings. S. E. P. April 3. (19.)\par}
{\vl Billy Brad, Convict. S. E. P. Oct. 12. (32.)\par}
{\vl Matey. S. E. P. Sept. 14. (45.)\par}
{\vl Mrs. Dugan’s Discovery. G. H. June. (44.)\par}
{\vl ***Sorry Tale of Hennery K. Lunk. Harp. M. May. (136:913.)\par}
{\vl *“Thief! Thief!” Am. Aug. (53.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Butler, Katharine.}} (1890- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Black Pearl. Atl. June, (121:767.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Byrne, Donn.}}” ({\scshape{Bryan Oswald Donn-Byrne.}}) (1888- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Case of Blackmail. Am. Oct. (22.)\par}
{\vl Clay Feet. Col. July 6. (8).\par}
{\vl *Fiddler’s Green. S. E. P. Feb. 23. (9.)\par}
{\vl *Patrick Leary’s Son. Ev. Aug. (51.)\par}
{\vl *Sister of Shining Swords. Col. May 25. (12.)\par}
{\vl Sweet Honey in All Mouths. S. E. P. April 13. (14.)\par}
{\vl *Wife of the Red-Haired Man. Red Bk. June. (23).\par}
{\vl *Woman of the Shee. S. E. P. July 6. (54.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Byrne, Lawrence.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Diplomatic Messenger. S. E. P. April 27. (14.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cabell, James Branch.}} (1879- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Some Ladies and Jurgen. S. S. July. (93.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Cable, Boyd.}} ({\itshape{See 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Bring Home the B’us. Sh. St. June. (85.)\par}
{\vl *Nightmare. Sh. St. July. (105.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Caine, William.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Chance, the Juggler. Cen. Jan. (95:366.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Camp, (Charles) Wadsworth.}} (1879- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Secret of the Frame House. Col. May 4. (20.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Campbell, Gabrielle Margaret Vere.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “{\scshape{Bowen, Marjorie.}}”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Canfield, Dorothy.}} ({\scshape{Dorothea Frances Canfield Fisher.}}) (1879- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Eyes for the Blind. Del. Oct. (10.)\par}
{\vl **Fair Exchange. Ev. Sept. (18.)\par}
{\vl **First Time After. Ev. July. (30.)\par}
{\vl **Honeymoon à l’Amércaine. Pict. R. Oct. (12.)\par}
{\vl *Institution. Pict. R. June. (14.)\par}
{\vl ***Little Kansas Leaven. Pict. R. Aug. (14.)\par}
{\vl ***On the Edge. Col. Aug. 24. (8.)\par}
{\vl **Permissionnaire. Col. June 8. (6.)\par}
{\vl ***Pharmacienne. Pict. R. Sept. (14.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Carver, George.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***In a Moment of Time. Strat. J. Sept. (3:134).\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cary, Lucian.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Facing the Facts. S. E. P. July 20. (10.)\par}
{\vl Putting It Over on the Old Home Town. Col. Sept. 28. (8.)\par}
{\vl Right Sort of Man. Col. June 15. (11.)\par}
{\vl Supper for Two. Col. Jan. 26. (15.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Castle, Everett Rhodes.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Business Will Be Business. S. E. P. April 20. (73.)\par}
{\vl Georgette Methods. S. E. P. April 6. (37.)\par}
{\vl Heaven Will Protect the Working Girl. S. E. P. June 1. (14.)\par}
{\vl Job VII, Ten. S. E. P. March 23. (63.)\par}
{\vl Old Dog Tray. S. E. P. July 27. (9.)\par}
{\vl Tinge. S. E. P. Feb. 16. (8.)\par}
{\vl Uplift and Peach Melbas. S. E. P. March 2. (55.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cather, Willa Sibert.}} (1875- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Ardessa. Cen. May. (96:105.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Catton, George L.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Some Joke. B. C. April. (38.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Chalmers, Stephen.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Keefer, Ralph D.}}, {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Chalmers, Stephen}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Channing, Grace Ellery.}} ({\scshape{Grace Ellery Channing Stetson.}}) (1862- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Years of a Man. S. E. P. Aug. 31. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich.}} (1860-1904.) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917 under}} {\scshape{Tchekov}}.) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Carelessness. Strat. J. Feb. (3.)\par}
{\vl *Her Gentleman Friend. Strat. J. May. (11.)\par}
{\vl ***Overspiced. Strat. J. Feb. (8.)\par}
{\vl ***Scandal Monger. Strat. J. Jan. (18.)\par}
{\vl *Such is Fame. Strat. J. May. (3.)\par}
{\vl *That “Fresh Kid.” Strat. J. May. (15.)\par}
{\vl ***Vengeance. Strat. J. Jan. (13.)\par}
{\vl ***Who Was She? Strat. J. Jan. (8.)\par}
{\vl ***Work of Art. Strat. J. Jan. (3.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Chenault, Fletcher.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Camel Flaggers. Col. March 30. (24.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Chester, George Randolph}} (1869- .) {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Chester, Lillian}}. ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, 1917, and “H” under}} {\scshape{Chester, George Randolph}}.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Has-Been. S. E. P. Sept. 14. (12.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Child, Richard Washburn.}} (1881- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Face at the Window. Red Bk. July. (99.)\par}
{\vl Fixer. Pict. R. Sept. (10.)\par}
{\vl Glove. S. E. P. Oct. 12. (6.)\par}
{\vl Her Ghastly Smile. Pict. R. Feb. (22.)\par}
{\vl *On Her Back. Pict. R. March. (14.)\par}
{\vl *Smothered. Pict. R. Aug. (22.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Christmas, Grace V.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*In the Medici Gardens. Cath. W. Aug. (107:661.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cleveland, H. I.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*On the Turn of the Wheel. Y. C. Feb. 28. (92:106.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cloud, Virginia Woodward.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Laughing Duchess. Bel. March 23. (24:323.)\par}
{\vl *Sword of Solomon. Bel. May 25. (24:575.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Clover, Nathan.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Promise. B. C. March. (24.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cobb, Irvin S(hrewsbury).}} (1876- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Gallowsmith. All. Feb. 9. (80:529.)\par}
{\vl **Luck Piece. S. E. P. Feb. 2. (3.)\par}
{\vl *Thunders of Silence. S. E. P. Feb. 9. (3.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cochran, Jean Carter.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Brass Incense-Burner. Outl. Feb. 27. (118:328.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cohen, Inez Lopez.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “{\scshape{Lopez, Inez.}}”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cohen, Octavus Roy.}} (1891- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916 and 1917. See also}} {\scshape{Cohen, Octavus Roy}}, {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Levison, Eric}}, {\itshape{and 1917 under this head}}.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Long Lane. Del. Feb. (15.)\par}
{\vl *Master of the Gray House. So. Wo. M. Feb. (20.)\par}
{\vl Missing Clink. S. E. P. Oct. 19. (33.)\par}
{\vl **Road to the Front. Sn. St. Sept. 18. (75.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cohen, Octavus Roy}}, (1891- .), {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Levison, Eric}}. ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Between Decks. E. W. June 15. (9.)\par}
{\vl Destroyer. Peop. March 10. (184).\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Collier, Tarleton.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Penalty. Pag. Oct. (27.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Colton, John.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Great. E. W. June 22. (15.)\par}
{\vl **Lusitania Night. E. W. May 18. (15.)\par}
{\vl Oh, This War! S. E. P. Aug. 10. (16.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Colum, Padraic.}} (1881- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Ass and the Seal. Mod. S. April. (5:114.)\par}
{\vl ***Sea Maiden Who Became a Sea-Swan. Mod. S. Aug. (5:243.)\par}
{\vl **Young Cuckoo. Mod. S. April. (5:112.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Comfort, Will Levington.}} (1878- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**“Cameo” Corrigan. Touch. Jan. (2:362.)\par}
{\vl *Gift of the Sands. Red Bk. March. (63.)\par}
{\vl *Leave No Wounded Behind. Ev. Jan. (19.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Condon, Frank.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Fair Enough. S. E. P. Sept. 21. (28.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Coney, Rosamond.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Taking a Chance. Outl. June 26. (119:346.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Connolly, James Brendan.}} (1868- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Bill Green Puts Out to Sea. Scr. Oct. (64:474.)\par}
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\item[
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{\noindent}
*“{\scshape{Conrad, Joseph.}}” ({\scshape{Joseph Conrad Korzeniowski.}}) (1857- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Commanding Officer. Met. Feb. (24.)\par}
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\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cook, Mrs. George Cram.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Glaspell, Susan}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cooke, Marjorie Benton.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*“They also Serve.” Met. Sept. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cooper, Frederic Taber.}} (1864- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*My Friend the Enemy. Sn. St. Sept. 3. (59.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Corelli, Marie.}} (1864- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Left on Fifth Avenue. L. H. J. Oct. (11.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Costello, Fanny Kemble.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Johnson, Fanny Kemble}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Couch, Sir Arthur T. Quiller-.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur T.}}\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cox, Eleanor Rogers.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Finover of the Fair Eyelids. Del. Feb. (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Crabb, Arthur.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
In Connection with the Old Murray Place. Col. June 29. (12.)\par}
{\vl Master. S. E. P. March 2. (38.)\par}
{\vl Par One Hundred. G. H. Sept. (33.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Crabbe, Bertha Helen.}} (1887- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Day Follows Day. Touch. July. (3:331.)\par}
{\vl *Mother of the World. Bel. Aug. 31. (25:241.)\par}
{\vl **Red Sunset Bel. April 27. (24:459.) Mir. May 17. (27:294.)\par}
{\vl ***Wild-Wing. Bel. June 22. (24:690.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cranston, Claudia.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Thin Day. Atl. July. (122:54.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Crenshaw, Hansell.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Money Magic. Scr. July. (64:97.)\par}
{\vl Ravenwood—913. Scr. May. (63:579.)\par}
{\vl *Tune in the Dark. Scr. June. (63:733.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cross, Ruth.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Toll. Touch. July. (3:309.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Crussol, M.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Love in War Time. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 1.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Curtiss, Philip (Everett).}} (1885- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Prince Charming, Ph.D. S. E. P. June 8. (14.)\par}
{\vl Son of One-Horse Jack. E. W. April 27. (7.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Curwood, James Oliver.}} (1878- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Jacqueline. G. H. Aug. (39.)\par}
{\vl **Nomads of the North, Red Bk. May. (23.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Cutting, Mary Stewart (Doubleday).}} (1851- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Bridge. Del. Aug. (18.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dalrymple, C. Leona.}} (1885- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Peter’s Client. Met. April. (26.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Daniel, Hawthorne.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**American. Outl. April 17. (118:632.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Daudet, Alphonse.}} (1840-1897.) ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Last Lesson. ({\itshape{R.}}) Strat. J. July-Aug. (3:3.)\par}
{\vl ***M. Seguin’s Goat. ({\itshape{R.}}) Mir. May 31. (27:327.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Davies, Oma Almona.}} ({\itshape{See 1915.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Pa and Ol’ Cass’. All. Feb. 23. (81:332.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Davis, J. Frank.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“All Right, Mother!” E. W. May 11. (8.)\par}
{\vl Luck of Cingalo. E. W. Jan. 26. (7.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Davis, Richard Harding.}} (1864-1916.) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***My Disreputable Friend Mr. Raegan ({\itshape{R.}}) I. S. M. 17th No. (3.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Day, Holman Francis.}} (1865- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Stars and Wagons. S. E. P. Feb. 16. (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Delano, Edith Barnard.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Great Big Five Dollar Bill. Wom. W. Jan.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Delarue-Madrus, Lucie.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Red Rose. ({\itshape{R.}}) C. O. Jan. (64:59).\par}
{\vl **Repatriated. N. Y. Trib. May 26.\par}
{\vl **Two Deaths of Little Pierre. N. Y. Trib. Feb. 17.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Derby, Jeannette.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Blue. Pag. April-May. (4.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Derieux, Samuel A.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Crisis in Room 25. Am. Feb. (42.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Detlefs, Louise.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*At the Pike. Sn. St. April 4. (39.)\par}
{\vl *Exceptional Case. Sn. St. Feb. 4. (32:285.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Dickens, Charles.}} (1812-1870). ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Cheeryble Brothers’ Banquet. ({\itshape{R.}}) Ind. Mar. 9. (93:418.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dickenson, Edwin C.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
She-Quitter. Scr. Oct. (64:421.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dickinson, Roy.}} (1888- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Some of Our Folks, and War. Ind. March 9. (93:412.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dickson, Harris.}} (1868- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Devilment on Middling-Fair. Col. Feb. 9. (18.)\par}
{\vl Little Mother of Rivergift. McC. Jan. (5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Dimov, Ossip.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 under}} {\scshape{Dymow, Ossip}}.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Come With Me. Strat. J. April. (11.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dingle, A. E.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Steward. All. Oct. 12. (89:491.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dobie, Charles Caldwell.}} (1881- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Open Window. Harp. M. Aug. (137:319.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dodge, Henry Irving.}} (1861- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Yellow Dog. S. E. P. May 4. (6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dodge, Louis.}} (1870- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Troop Dog. Y. C. Feb. 28. (92:98.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Donworth, Grace.}} ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Mary Emeline’s Idea. Wom. W. May. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dowlin, Mary.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“A-Swinging in the Lane.” Scr. Aug. (64:197.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan.}} (1859- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Three of Them. Ev. Sept. (42.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Drake, Jeanie.}} ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Major Münchausen of the Gap. Cath. W. April.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Drayham, William.}} ({\itshape{See 1915-1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Man of God. S. S. Oct. (95.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dreiser, Theodore.}} (1871- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Free. S. E. P. March 16. (13.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dresbach, Glenn Ward.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Murderer God Sentenced. Mid. March-April. (4:49.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dresser, Jasmine Stone van.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Van Dresser, Jasmine Stone.}}\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Dreveton, Eugéne.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*How General Melsau Put His Foot In It. N. Y. Trib. Aug. 4.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Driggs, Laurence la Tourette.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Arnold’s Escape to America. Outl. Feb. 20. (118:288.)\par}
{\vl **Her First Flight. Outl. Aug. 14. (119:588.)\par}
{\vl Reunion in the Sky. Outl. Feb. 13. (118:248.)\par}
{\vl Swiss Spy Found, and Arnold Lost. Outl. Feb. 6. (118:213.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ducros, Leslie-Leigh.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Rose from the Governor’s Wife. So. Wo. M. Jan. (12.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Dudeney, Mrs. Henry E.}} (1866- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Journey. Harp. M. Aug. (137:435.)\par}
{\vl ***“Willow Walk.” Harp. M. Sept. (137:467.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dunn, Henry Steele.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Alice-Blue Elephant. Sun. April. (17.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dunn, Violette Kimball.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*George Napoleon Washington and Jean Jacques. Met. Aug. (26.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Durand, Ruth Sawyer.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Sawyer, Ruth}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Duranty, Walter.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**In the Cage. Col. Mar. 23. (22.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dutton, Louise Elizabeth.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Strange Story of Mr. Smith. S. E. P. March 30. (5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dwelle, Helen.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Modern Arthur Comes to the Round Table. Waste. April-May. (11.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dwight, Harry Griswold}} (1875- .), {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Taylor, John}}. ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, 1917, and “H” under}} {\scshape{Dwight, H. G.}}, {\itshape{and 1917 under}} {\scshape{Taylor, John}}.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Emerald of Tamerlane. Cen. June. (96:147.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dwyer, James Francis.}} (1874- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Camera Joe. E. W. March 9. (9.)\par}
{\vl *Come Back of Old Dad Lane. L. H. J. March. (27.)\par}
{\vl *Friendly Sandbar. Tod. March. (4.)\par}
{\vl *Little Man in the Smoker. L. H. J. April. (18.)\par}
{\vl **Polished Nail. Sun. Sept. (17.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Dyer, Walter Alden.}} (1878- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Home. B. C. March. (27.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Dymow, Ossip.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Dimov, Ossip}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Eaton, Walter Prichard.}} (1878- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**He Understood Women. Cen. March. (95:673.)\par}
{\vl *Man Who Cost \$50,000. Col. May 4. (12.)\par}
{\vl Surinam Forest. E. W. Feb. 16. (6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Edginton, May.}} ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Feast of Epicurus. Col. July 6. (20.)\par}
{\vl Girl Who Would. S. E. P. Aug. 31. (14.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Efimovich, L.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Early Spring. Rus. R. April. (4:112.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Elderly Spinster.}}” ({\scshape{Margaret Wilson.}}) (1882- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***God’s Little Joke. Atl. May. (121:601.)\par}
{\vl **Story of Sapphire. Atl. Oct. (122:467.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Eldridge, Paul.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Golden Wedding. Pag. Oct. (5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*“{\scshape{Eliot, George.}}” ({\scshape{Marian Evans.}}) (1819-1880.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Party at the Red House. ({\itshape{R.}}) Ind. March 16. (93:460.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ellerbe, Alma Martin Estabrook.}} (1871- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 under}} {\scshape{Estabrook, Alma Martin}}, {\itshape{and 1917 under}} {\scshape{Ellerbe, Alma Estabrook}}.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Long Trail. Wom. W. Aug. (5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ellerbe, Alma Martin Estabrook}} (1871- .) {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Ellerbe, Paul Lee}}. ({\itshape{See 1915 under}} {\scshape{Estabrrok, Alma Martin}}, {\itshape{and 1917 under}} {\scshape{Ellerbe, Alma Estabrook}}.) ({\itshape{See “H” under}} {\scshape{Ellerbe, Paul Lee}}.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Citizen Paper. Cen. Feb. (95:605.)\par}
{\vl *Little Bigger. Wom. W. Sept. (11.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Emery, Gilbert.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Squads Right.” Ev. May. (31.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{English, Victoria.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Mr. Billings Gets His Chance. Cath. W. June. (107:373.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Erlande, Albert.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Frisquet’s Gratitude. N. Y. Trib. July 21.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ernest, Joseph.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Sky Witch. E. W. June 22. (8.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Evans, Ida May.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Contributions of Bascom Smith. S. E. P. Oct. 5. (66.)\par}
{\vl Omelets for Violets—A Fair Trade. Am. Jan. (13.)\par}
{\vl On the Banks of Wabash Avenue. G. H. June. (38.)\par}
{\vl Way of a Maid with a Man. S. E. P. Jan. 26. (13.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Exton, Thayer.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Our Tetrarchal Precieuse. Lit. R. July. (3.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ferber, Edna.}} (1887- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
One Hundred Per Cent. Met. Oct. (11.)\par}
{\vl *Shore Leave. Col. July 20. (6.)\par}
{\vl That’s Marriage. Met. May. (13.)\par}
{\vl **Three of Them. Col. Aug. 17. (5.)\par}
{\vl *Tough Guy. Met. April. (11.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ferris, Elmer Ellsworth.}} (1861- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Billy Crowther Enlists. Outl. June 19. (119:313.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Feuerlicht, Ethel.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*When the Heart Listeneth All. June 8. (85:166.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Field, Flora.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Lavinia. Del. Oct. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Fisguill, Richard.}}” ({\scshape{Wilson, Richard Henry.}}) (1870- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Ned’s Pancake Gal. Col. April 6. (16.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Fisher, Dorothy Canfield.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Canfield, Dorothy}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Fisher. Jr., Philip M.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Queer. All. Aug. 3. (87:24.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Flandrau, Grace Hodgson.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Stranger in His House. McC. Sept. (13.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Fletcher, A. Byers.}} ({\itshape{See 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Chips. Met. Aug. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Flower, Elliott.}} (1863- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Road to High Finance. Harp. M. Feb. (136:457.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Folsom, Elizabeth Irons.}} (1876- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Gethsemane. Pag. July. (6.)\par}
{\vl **Revolt of the Flesh. Lib. March.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Foote, John Taintor.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Otto. Am. April. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ford, Sewell.}} (1868- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
And Then, There Was Todd. E. W. Feb. 16. (10.)\par}
{\vl Forsythe at the Finish. E. W. March 2. (10.)\par}
{\vl House of Torchy. E. W. March 16. (15.)\par}
{\vl Late Returns on Rupert. E. W. Jan. 5. (10.)\par}
{\vl Low Tackle by Torchy. E. W. June 8. (18.)\par}
{\vl Side Bet on Bart. E. W. May 4. (10.)\par}
{\vl Slant at the Corners. E. W. April 6. (15.)\par}
{\vl Speed Work for Pipkin. E. W. Jan. 26. (10.)\par}
{\vl Tag Day at Torchy’s. E. W. May 25. (18.)\par}
{\vl Torchy Gets the Thumb Grip. E. W. April 20. (10.)\par}
{\vl What Aunt Abbie Has Coming. E. W. Jan. 12. (19.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Forman, Henry James.}} (1879- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Doctor of Cheerfulness. Col. May 18. (16.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Forrester, Izola L.}}, {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Page, Mann}}. ({\itshape{See “H” under}} {\scshape{Forrester, Izola L.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Skeepie’s Agent. Cen. Aug. (96:502.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Forsyth, Louise.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Mother. E. W. June 1. (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Foster, Maximilian.}} (1872- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Sure Thing. S. E. P. April 27. (5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Fox, Paul Hervey.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Barred Room. L. St. Aug. (67.)\par}
{\vl Till the Clouds Roll By. E. W. Feb. 2. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Fox, Stephen.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Woman of France. E. W. Feb. 23. (8.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Frank, Nanna E.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Story He Dared Not Tell. All. April 6. (82:737.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Freedley, Mary Mitchell.}} (1894- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Blind Vision. Cen. Jan. (95:346)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Freeman, Mary Eleanor Wilkins.}} (1862- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Flowering Bush. W. H. C. April. (18.)\par}
{\vl ***Jade Bracelet. For. April. (59:429.)\par}
{\vl *Prop. S. E. P. Jan. 5. (12.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Friedlaender, V. H.}} ({\itshape{See 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Last Day. S. S. Sept. (53.)\par}
{\vl ***Miracle. Atl. Sept. (122:309.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Froome, Jr., John Redhead.}} {\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Robinson, Eloise}}, {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Froome, Jr., John Redhead}}.] 


\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Fuessle, Newton A.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Million Heir. Mir. March 22. (27:167.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Fullerton, Hugh Stewart.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Insignificant “Dub.” Am. Oct. (28.)\par}
{\vl Li’l’ Ol’ Dove of Peace. Am. April. (38.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gale, Zona.}} (1874- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Arpeggio and Patriotism. Harp. M. April. (136:633.)\par}
{\vl Back-Door Cupid. L. H. J. Sept. (22.)\par}
{\vl New Day. L. H. J. April. (15.)\par}
{\vl When Nick Nordman Came Back Home. L. H. J. June. (18.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gallishaw, John.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Jake Bolton, 551. Cen. March. (95:625.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Galsworthy, John.}} (1867- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***“Cafard!” Scr. Jan. (63:18.)\par}
{\vl ***Gray Angel. Scr. March. (63:301.)\par}
{\vl ***Indian Summer of a Forsyte. Cos. Feb.-March.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ganoe, William Addleman.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Mushrooms. Scr. Oct. (64:482.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gasch, Marie Manning.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Manning, Marie}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gatlin, Dana.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Flame Divine. Hear. Sept. (34:183.)\par}
{\vl God Gave Them Youth. Col. March 16. (18.)\par}
{\vl Like a Singing Bird. Col. April 13. (14.)\par}
{\vl New York Stuff. McC. March. (13.)\par}
{\vl Star in the Window. McC. Aug. (24.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Geddes, O’Brien.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Cold Blooded Crime. Lib. July. (16.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Geer, Cornelia Throop.}} (1894- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Irish of It. Atl. March. (121:334.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gerould, Gordon Hall.}} (1877- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Imagination. Scr. Aug. (64:144.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gerould, Katharine Fullerton.}} (1879- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Marchpane. Harp. M. May. (136:781.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Gibbon, Perceval.}} (1879- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Miss Pilgrim’s Progress. Cos. May. (53.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gilbert, George.}} (1874- .) ({\itshape{See 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Ashes of Roses. All. Oct. 19. (89:691.)\par}
{\vl *Cupid’s Gosling. B. C. April. (10.)\par}
{\vl ***In Maulmain Fever-Ward. Green Bk. Oct. (759.)\par}
{\vl **King of the Shillibers. Christ. H. Aug. 28-Sept. 4. (41:979 {\itshape{and}} 1001.)\par}
{\vl *Tiger! Tiger! B. C. Oct. (3.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gillmore, Inez Haynes.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
({\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Irwin, Inez Haynes}}.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gilmore, Florence.}} ({\itshape{See 1915.}} ) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Golden Years. Cath. W. Oct. (108:64.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Glaspell, Susan (Keating).}} ({\scshape{Mrs. George Cram Cook.}}) (1882- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***“Beloved Husband.” Harp. M. April. (136:675.)\par}
{\vl *Good Luck. G. H. Sept. (44.)\par}
{\vl ***“Poor Ed.” Lib. March.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Glass, Jennie.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
In Japan. E. W. March 30. (15.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Going, (Ellen) Maud.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Sermon on the Wrath of God. Univ. Feb. (17:70.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Goldberg, Isaac.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*“East is East, ——.” Strat. J. May. (30.)\par}
{\vl Ingratitude. Strat. J. Sept. (3:138.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Goldman, Raymond Leslie.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*For Molly. E. W. May 4. (8.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Goodloe, Abbie Carter.}} (1867- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Cry-Baby. Scr. Aug. (64:188.)\par}
{\vl John Smith. Scr. Jan. (63: 100.)\par}
{\vl Letter in the Shirt. L. H. J. March. (20.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Goodman, Henry.}} (1893- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Conquered. Am. W. J. N. April 26. (5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Goodwin, E.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Devil Among The Skins. Ain. April (71.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gordon, Armistead Churchill.}} (1855- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Sinjinn, Surviving. Harp. M. Jan. (136:220.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gordon, Tziril.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Kosher Stuff. L. St. Sept. (57.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*“{\scshape{Gorky, Maxim.}}” ({\scshape{Alexei Maximovitch Pyeshkov.}}) (1868- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Because of Monotony. Strat. J. July-Aug. (3:53.)\par}
{\vl ***Makar Chudra. Strat. J. March. (3.)\par}
{\vl ***Man Who Could Not Die. Strat. J. June. (3.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Graeve, Oscar.}} (1884- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Fine and Dandy. Col. Oct. 19. (13.)\par}
{\vl *Four Tickets to Paradise. Col. Aug. 31. (7.)\par}
{\vl Peter the Penniless. Col. April 27. (22.)\par}
{\vl You Can’t Just Wait. Col. June 22. (16.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Greene, Harry Irving.}} (1868- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Lady of Lions. All. May 11. (84:20.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*“{\scshape{Greene, Lewis Patrick.}}” ({\scshape{Louis Montague Greene.}}) (1891- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Bound Twigs. Adv. June 18. (170.)\par}
{\vl *Snakes of Zari. Feb. 3. (165.)\par}
{\vl *White Kaffir. Adv. Feb. 18. (137.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Greenman, Frances.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Impossible Angela. L. H. J. Feb. (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Gurlitz, Amy Landon.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Changeling of the Gods. Met. Aug. (23.)\par}
{\vl Dog of War. Met. April. (16.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Haines, Donal Hamilton.}} (1886- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Bill. Outl. Jan. 16. (118:100).\par}
{\vl **Something ——! Col. July 13. (17.)\par}
{\vl *“Three Musketeers.” Col. Oct. 19. (15.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Haldeman-Julius, Emanuel.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Julius, Emanuel Haldeman-}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hale, Louise Closser.}} (1872- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Benefits Forgot. McC. July. (24.)\par}
{\vl High Cost of Living. McC. Jan. (11.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Hall, Holworthy.}}” ({\scshape{Harold Everett Porter.}}) (1887- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Boys—My Sister from the East!” Am. April. (21.)\par}
{\vl Getting After Mr. Lockett. McC. June. (16.)\par}
{\vl Hateful Person. McC. Oct. (7.)\par}
{\vl New York and Return. Am. Feb. (13.)\par}
{\vl Peter Breaks Through His Shell. Am. March. (19.)\par}
{\vl Swashbuckler. Pict. R. Aug. (24.)\par}
{\vl Through Clearing. Am. Jan. (21.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hall, Joseph.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Passed by the Censor. Col. Jan. 19. (42.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hall, May Emery.}} (1874- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Whiteford’s Masterpiece. B. E. T. April 13. (Pt. 3. p. 5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hall, Wilbur Jay.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Goda’mighty’s Pardner. Adv. April. 18. (80.)\par}
{\vl *Snob. E. W. Jan. 5. (7.)\par}
{\vl “Some Game Guy.” E. W. June 8. (7.)\par}
{\vl Text. Sun. Feb. (37.)\par}
{\vl Thief at Heart. Sun. Aug. (17.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hamby, William Henry.}} (1875- .) ({\itshape{See 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
From Him Who Waits. S. E. P. Oct. 19. (41.)\par}
{\vl They That Toil Not. S. E. P. Sept. 7. (65.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hamilton, Gertrude Brooke.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Boy Wanted. E. W. March 23. (8.)\par}
{\vl *Ever Heard of the Pan Club? Pict. R. March. (6.)\par}
{\vl *High Monkey-Monk. Pict. R. April. (17.)\par}
{\vl *Pantaloons. G. H. April. (41.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*“{\scshape{Hamsun, Knut.}}” ({\scshape{Knut Pedersen.}}) ({\itshape{See 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Call of Life. Strat. J. July-Aug. (3:13.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hankins, Arthur Preston.}} ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Kind of a Dog-Gone Christian. Am. Feb. (31.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hanna, Paul.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Caught with the Goods. All. May 11. (84:173.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Hannay, James O.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “{\scshape{Birmingham, George A.}}”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Haraucourt, Edmond.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Boche. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 13.\par}
{\vl *Man Who Murdered Sleep. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 27.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Harding, Meredith.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“To the Beginning of This Day.” Scr. June. (63:704.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Harker, Lizzie Allen.}} (1863- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Mrs. Cushion’s Children. Scr. May. (63:608.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Harlor, Th.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Retaliation. Tod. July. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Harris, Corra (May White).}} ({\scshape{Mrs. L. H. Harris.}}) (1869- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Miss Apsylla’s Furlough. G. H. Oct. (33.)\par}
{\vl Will Maker. S. E. P. March 9. (26.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Harris, Kennett.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Brachycephalic Bohunkus. S. E. P. Jan. 5. (5.)\par}
{\vl Corresponding Secretary. S. E. P. May 4. (10.)\par}
{\vl Doing It By Deputy. S. E. P. May 11. (16.)\par}
{\vl Tobermory. S. E. P. May 18. (14.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Harris, Raymond S.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Deer Hunt. Cen. March. (95:765.)\par}
{\vl *Little Annie. Cen. Feb. (95:619.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hartman, Lee Foster.}} (1879- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Earthen Vessels. Harp. M. March. (136:478.)\par}
{\vl **Last of the Argonauts. Harp. M. Sept. (137:540.)\par}
{\vl **Young Allyn’s Sixth Sense. Scr. Jan. (63:112.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Harvey, Alexander.}} (1868- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Elopement. Mir. Feb. 15. (27:92.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hawes, Charles Boardman.}} (1889- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Even So. Bel. March 16. (24:296.)\par}
{\vl *Million Years. Bel. April 20. (24:434.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Hawxhurst, E.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Letter from No Man’s Land. Harp. B. Jan. (40.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hecht, Ben.}} (1896- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Broken Necks. Lit. R. July. (12.)\par}
{\vl ***Decay. Lit. R. Sept. (39.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hegan, Alice Caldwell.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Rice, Alice Hegan}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hemenway, Hetty Lawrence.}} ({\scshape{Mrs. Auguste Richard.}}) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Their War. Atl. April. (121:444.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Henry, Etta.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Report to His Kaiser. Touch. Oct. (4:28.)\par}
{\vl ***Sophie and the Lieutenant. Touch. May. (3:137.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hergesheimer, Joseph.}} (1880- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Banked Fires. S. E. P. May 4. (14.)\par}
{\vl ***Black Key. Cen. May. (96:33.)\par}
{\vl *Egyptian Chariot. S. E. P. Sept. 14. (9.)\par}
{\vl Wars and Rumors. S. E. P. March 2. (5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hervey, John L.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Old Men’s Tragedy. Mir. Jan. 18. (27:35.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Heyliger, William.}} (1884- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Little Fingers. Pict. R. Feb. (16.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hibbard, George.}} (1858- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Somewhere in New York. Scr. Aug. (64:213.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hillis, Richard Dwight.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Night of the Hotel Bedroom. Met. Sept. (32.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hilty, Bernadine.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*In San Francisco. E. W. March 9. (18.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hinds, Roy W.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Dead Man Tells a Tale. Pop. Jan. 20. (126.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Hinkson, Katharine Tynan.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Boys of the House. Cath. W. Sept. (107:792.)\par}
{\vl **Connla and the Swineherd. Cath. W. May. (107:223.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Hirsch, Charles Henry.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Dalilah. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 20.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hogle, Imogene M.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**By the Way. B. E. T. Jan. 26. (Pt. 3. p. 5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hoke, Howard Markle.}} ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Julie—the Unconquerable. Am. March. (31.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Holt, H. P.}} ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Red’s Last Throw. Sun. April. (32.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hopper, James Marie.}} (1876- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Extra Fare Ticket. Met. July. (31.)\par}
{\vl *Kettle of House Joyful. Col. Feb. 2. (17.)\par}
{\vl Old Wars and New. Col. Sept. 21. (7.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Horton, Kate E.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Pink Crane. Cen. June. (96:241.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hough, Emerson.}} (1857- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Clan Gordon. So. Wo. M. Jan. (7.)\par}
{\vl Claxton, C. C. Sun. Feb. (17.)\par}
{\vl Claxton, M. P. Sun. May. (17.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Houston, Margaret Belle.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

**Evening Before. L. H. J. May. (13.)\par

\item[{\scshape{Hughes, Rupert.}} (1872- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***At the Back of God Speed. Hear. April. (33:264.)\par}
{\vl *Kaiser’s Apotheosis. Hear. March. (33:184.)\par}
{\vl **Murphy That Saved America. Met. Feb. (7.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hull, Alexander.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Matter of Temperament. E. W. Jan. 19. (9.)\par}
{\vl *Quest of Gloria Harney. Am. Jan. (29.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hull, Helen R.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Alley Ways. Cen. Feb. (95:561.)\par}
{\vl Discovery. Touch. Aug. (3:401.)\par}
{\vl *Reluctant Hero. Harp. M. Jan. (136:257.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Humphrey, George.}} (1889- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Father’s Hand. Book. June. (47:401.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hunt, Edward Eyre.}} (1885- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Odyssey of Mr. Solslog. ({\itshape{R.}}) C. O. June. (64:428.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hurst, Fannie.}} (1889- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Bittersweet. Cos. March. (14.)\par}
{\vl **Boob Spelled Backward. Cos. April (28.)\par}
{\vl ***Hers {\itshape{Not}} to Reason Why. Cos. Jan., 1917.\par}
{\vl **Nightshade. Cos. Jan. (20.)\par}
{\vl **Petal on the Current. Cos. June. (42.)\par}
{\vl *She also Serves. Cos. Oct. (61.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hurst, S. B. H.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Maze of Memory. Adv. Aug. 3. (59.)\par}
{\vl **On the Far Edge. Adv. Oct. 3. (126.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Hurst, Veta.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Case of Uncle Marcel. Col. Jan. 5. (24.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ingersoll, Will E.}} ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Man Who Slept Till Noon. Harp. M. June. (137:76.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ingram, Eleanor Marie.}} (1886- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*King’s Noon. Mun. Sept. (64:733.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Irving, Washington.}} (1783-1859.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Old Fashioned Christmas Dinner. ({\itshape{R.}}) Ind. April 13. (94:88.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Irwin, Inez Haynes.}} ({\scshape{Inez Haynes Gillmore.}}) (1873- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 under}} {\scshape{Gillmore, Inez Haynes}}, {\itshape{and 1916 and 1917 under}} {\scshape{Irwin, Inez Haynes}}.) ({\itshape{See “H” under}} {\scshape{Gillmore, Inez Haynes}}.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
My Crescent Moon. Met. Jan. (24.)\par}
{\vl **Passed Word. E. W. March 2. (8.)\par}
{\vl Sylvia’s Sissies. L. H. J. Oct. (22.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Irwin, Wallace.}} (1875- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Country Mouse. S. E. P. March 9. (9.)\par}
{\vl Light That Paled. S. E. P. April 6. (19.)\par}
{\vl When the House Is on Fire. S. E. P. Jan. 19. (6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Jackson, Charles Tenney.}} (1874- .) ({\itshape{See 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Little Jigger This Mornin’. Adv. Oct. 18. (69.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Jacobs, W(illiam) W(ymark).}} (1863- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Shareholders. Hear. Oct. (34:261.)\par}
{\vl *Striking Home. Hear. June. (33:429.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Jacobsen, Norman.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Putnam, Nina Wilcox}}, {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Jacobsen, Norman}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Jaloux, Edmond.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Bachelor. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 29.\par}
{\vl ***Vagabond. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 20.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Jameson, Fred W.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Martin Yordi’s “Book.” All. July 6. (86:93.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Jay, Mae Foster.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Swings and Things. Sun. May. (33.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Jefferson, Charlotte.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Little Belgian Boy and His Dog. L. H. J. Feb. (12.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Jenkins, Charles Christopher.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**On the Wire. B. E. T. July 10. (Pt. 2. p. 4.)\par}
{\vl *Skipper’s Black Valise. Can. Courier. (5.)\par}
{\vl *Trail to the Skies. Can. Courier. March 2. (8.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Jesse, F(ryniwyd) Tennyson.}} ({\itshape{See 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Mademoiselle Lamotte of the Mantles. Met. Aug. (16.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Johnson, Alvin Saunders.}} (1874- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*On Land and Sea. N. Rep. Feb. 16. (14:79.)\par}
{\vl **Short Change. N. Rep. April 27. (14:381.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Johnson, Arthur.}} (1881- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***His New Mortal Coil. Cen. Aug. (96:475.)\par}
{\vl ***Little Family. Harp. M. Oct. (137:725.)\par}
{\vl ***Visit of the Master. Harp. M. Feb. (136:389.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Johnson, Burges.}} (1877- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Iron Heroines. Cen. June. (96:285.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Johnson, Fanny Kemble.}} ({\scshape{Fanny Kemble Costello.}}) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Butterfly Dust. Cen. April. (95:827.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Johnston, Charles.}} (1867- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Morris Coulston. Col. Feb. 16. (24.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Johnston, Erle.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Timber-Wolf. Cen. Feb. (95:529.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Johnston, William (Andrew).}} (1871- .) ({\itshape{U.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“File Ninety-Nine—P. H.” Pict. R. Sept. (28.)\par}
{\vl Man Who Never Was. G. H. July. (34.)\par}
{\vl Pay-Day. Del. Sept. (11.)\par}
{\vl Promoted. Del. Oct. (18.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Jones, E. Clement.}} (1890- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Mongrel. N. Rep. May 18. (15:75.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Jones, Frank Goewey.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
By Blistering Brindle Blazes! S. E. P. March 16. (29.)\par}
{\vl Doormat and the Bulldog. McC. Aug. (14.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Jones, Ruth Lambert.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
They’re With Us Still—the Spies. B. E. T. July 13. (Pt. 3. p. 4.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Julius, Emanuel Haldeman-.}} (1888- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Ring. Strat. J. April. (36.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Keefer, Ralph D.}}, {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Chalmers, Stephen}}. (1880- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Winged Lizard. Bel. June 1. (24:602.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kelland, Clarence Budington.}} (1881- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Bait. Pict. R. June. (20.)\par}
{\vl Error of Choice. Pict. R. May. (8.)\par}
{\vl *It Can’t Be Done. S. E. P. July 20. (58.)\par}
{\vl Pewter Porringer Tract. G. H. March. (12.)\par}
{\vl Renovation of Professor Bitter. Pict. R. July. (22.)\par}
{\vl Scattergood Makes It Round Numbers. S. E. P. Feb. 16. (28.)\par}
{\vl *Simeon Small, Militarist. Harp. M. May. (136:800.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kelley, Leon.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Odds on the Boy. McC. Feb. (24.)\par}
{\vl Tenants and Tears. McC. Jan. (20.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kennon, Harry B.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Carrying on. Mir. May 3. (27:264.)\par}
{\vl *Cash and Carry. Mir. July 19. (27:440.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kenyon, Camilla E. L.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Nanny and His Lordship. Sun. Sept. (30) and Oct. (34.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kerr, Sophie.}} (1880- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{See “H” under}} {\scshape{Underwood, Sophie Kerr}}.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**His Mark. S. E. P. Aug. 3. (14.)\par}
{\vl Leaks and Letters. McC. Feb. (7.)\par}
{\vl One of the By-Products. McC. Sept. (9.)\par}
{\vl Ties of Blood. Harp. M. June. (137:14.)\par}
{\vl Values. S. E. P. July 6. (8.)\par}
{\vl Without the Last Act. McC. April. (17.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kilbourne, Fannie.}} (“{\scshape{Mary Alexander.}}”) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917 under}} {\scshape{Kilbourne, Fannie}}, {\itshape{and 1917 under}} {\scshape{Alexander, Mary}}.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Girl Who Is Not Popular. Del. March. (13.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kilpatrick, Lewis H.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*When Breathitt Went to Battle. Bel. Aug. 10. (25:154.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kimball, Alice Mary.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Adventures of a Perfectly Nice Girl. Scr. Sept. (64:305.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{King, (William Benjamin) Basil.}} (1859- .) ({\itshape{See 1916.}} ) ({\itshape{H.}} )] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Abraham’s Bosom. S. E. P. March 30. (10.)\par}
{\vl ***Going West. Pict. R. Sept. (5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Kipling, Rudyard.}} (1865- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Flight of Fact. Met. June. (16.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kline, Burton.}} (1877- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***In the Open Code. Strat. J. Feb. (21.)\par}
{\vl **Lost Lenore. Strat. J. July-Aug. (3:36.)\par}
{\vl *Mrs. Carnes Adjusts Herself to the Universe. S. S. Jan. (109.)\par}
{\vl *Pillars of Society. S. S. June. (59.)\par}
{\vl ***Singular Smile. Strat. J. May. (25.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kling, Joseph.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Greenwich Village Idyll. Pag. Feb. (33.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Knight, Reynolds.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Spartan. Pop. Jan. 7. (159.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kollock, Adéle Force.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Excursion into Feminism. Cen. Aug. (96:570.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Korzeniowski, Joseph Conrad.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “{\scshape{Conrad, Joseph.}}”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kral, Carlos A. V.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Resurrection. Pag. June. (31.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Krysto, Christina.}} (1887- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Mother of Stasya. Atl. June. (121:742.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Kummer, Frederic Arnold.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Toymaker. Harp. B. July. (26.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lait, Jack.}} ({\scshape{Jacquin L.}}) (1882- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**“Gentlemen of the Jury—.” Am. Aug. (27.)\par}
{\vl *Heart of a Bum. Sh. St. July. (135.)\par}
{\vl *“I Wisht I Was a Wave.” Am. July. (46.)\par}
{\vl **Piker’s Baby. Sh. St. Jan. (94.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lamb, H. A.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Wolf’s War. Adv. Jan. 3. (166.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*“{\scshape{Lancaster, G. B.}}” ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Man Primeval. Scr. March. (63:336.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lardner, Ring W.}} (1885- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Call for Mr. Keefe! S. E. P. March 9. (3.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lawson, W. P.}} ({\itshape{See 1915.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Seeing Alma First. Col. May 11. (26.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lea, Fannie Heaslip.}} ({\scshape{Mrs. H. P. Agee.}}) (1884- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Half-Past the Eleventh Hour. G. H. July. (29.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lee, Jennette}} ({\scshape{Barbour Perry.}}) (1860- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Future of Edward. L. H. J. July. (26.)\par}
{\vl Jim Eagan’s Draft. E. W. April 6. (8.)\par}
{\vl Man in the Toy House. G. H. Feb. (30.)\par}
{\vl **Miss Cynthia’s Rosebush. Harp. M. July. (137:229.)\par}
{\vl Their Mother. L. H. J. May. (19.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Leinster, Murray.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Atmosphere. Arg. Jan. 26. (104.)\par}
{\vl *Cabin in the Wilderness. All. April 6. (82:647.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lerner, Mary.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Blue Eyes. Met. Feb. (14.)\par}
{\vl *House on the Knoll. Sun. Jan. (17.)\par}
{\vl *Splendid Legend. Harp. B. Oct. (42.)\par}
{\vl *Torches of Freedom. Tod. June. (4.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Level, Maurice.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Amateur. N. Y. Trib. Aug. 18.\par}
{\vl **His Village. N. Y. Trib. April 7.\par}
{\vl *Little Soldier. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 6.\par}
{\vl *Officer. N. Y. Trib. March 3.\par}
{\vl *Under Ether. N. Y. Trib. Feb. 3.\par}
{\vl **Wotan. N. Y. Trib. May 12.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Leverage, Henry.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Captain Percival. S. E. P. June 1. (10.)\par}
{\vl **Daybreak—Over There. All. April 6. (82:707.)\par}
{\vl *Harpooned. S. E. P. June 22. (10.)\par}
{\vl High Tension. S. E. P. Oct. 19. (24.)\par}
{\vl *Kelly. S. E. P. April 6. (16.)\par}
{\vl *Silver Greyhound. S. E. P. April 13. (5.)\par}
{\vl *Tagore’s Trigonometry. All. July 13. (86:262.)\par}
{\vl Whispering Wires. S. E. P. May 25. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Levison, Eric.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Cohen, Octavus Roy}}, {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Levison, Eric}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lewars, Elsie Singmaster.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Singmaster, Elsie}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lewis, Addison.}} (1889- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Elevator Stops at All Floors.” ({\itshape{R.}}) C. O. July. (65:57.)\par}
{\vl ***When Did You Write Your Mother Last? ({\itshape{R.}}) C. O. May. (64:357.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lewis, O. F.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Fathers’ and Sons’ Tournament. S. E. P. May 4. (18.)\par}
{\vl Miss Lucretia Bets a Church. L. H. J. July. (23.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lewis, Sinclair.}} (1885- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Afterglow. Col. Jan. 19. (14.)\par}
{\vl Detour—Roads Rough. E. W. March 30. (7.)\par}
{\vl Getting His Bit. Met. Sept. (12.)\par}
{\vl Invitation to Tea. E. W. June 1. (6.)\par}
{\vl Jazz. Met. Oct. (23.)\par}
{\vl Rose for Little Eva. McC. Feb. (13.)\par}
{\vl Shadowy Glass. S. E. P. June 22. (5.)\par}
{\vl Slip It to ’Em. Met. March. (26.)\par}
{\vl Swept Hearth. S. E. P. Sept. 21. (5.)\par}
{\vl Widower for a While. L. H. J. July. (13.)\par}
{\vl ***Willow Walk. S. E. P. Aug. 10. (8.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Liebe, Hapsburg.}} ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Blood of the Allisons. Adv. Aug. 18. (87.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lieberman, Elias.}} (1883- .) ({\itshape{See 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Tower of Confusion. Am. Heb. May 31. (76.)\par}
{\vl **Voice of Angels. Am. Heb. Oct. 4. (551.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lighton, William Rheem}} (1866- .), {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Lighton, Louis Duryea}}. ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917; and 1915, 1916, and 1917, and “H” under}} {\scshape{Lighton, William Rheem}}.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Billy Fortune and the Prune Fighter. Pict. R. April. (14.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Livingston, Armstrong.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Things That Are Caesar’s. All. March 30. (82:412.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Livingston, Ruby Erwin.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Luck of Forty-Four. Adv. June 18. (160.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{London, Jack.}} (1876-1916.) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*At the Rainbow’s End. ({\itshape{R.}}) I. S. M. 2nd. Jan. No. (3.)\par}
{\vl *Princess. Cos. June. (20.)\par}
{\vl *Red One. Cos. Oct. (34.)\par}
{\vl *Tears of Ah Kim. Cos. July. (32.)\par}
{\vl *Water-Baby. Cos. Sept. (80.)\par}
{\vl *When Alice Told Her Soul. Cos. March. (28.)\par}
{\vl *Where the Trail Forks. ({\itshape{R.}}) I. S. M. 1st Spring No. (5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Long, Lily Augusta.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Anne. McC. July. (29.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Loos, Anita.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Heart That Truly Loved. Pict. R. Aug. (26.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Lopez, Inez.}}” ({\scshape{Mrs. Octavus Roy Cohen.}}) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Another Viewpoint. All. Oct. 26. (90:64.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lorente, Mariano Joaquin.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Funeral. Mir. June 14. (27:357.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lowell, Amy.}} (1874- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Business As Usual. B. E. T. Feb. 16. (Pt. 3. p. 4.)\par}
{\vl *Landlady of the Whinton Inn Tells a Story. Poetry. Jan. (11:171.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ludwig, Frances A.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Roaring Chief Engineer of the Ætna. Am. Aug. (21.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Lyman, Chester L.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Mark of the Beast. Col. Aug. 10. (17.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{McCormack, Katherine.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*’Arf and ’Arf. Sn. St. May 18. (55.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{McCoy, William M.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Five Furlongs for Salvation. Col. Feb. 2. (20.)\par}
{\vl “Useless.” Am. Sept. (46.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{McCrea, Marion.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Funny-Looking Man. Pag. Aug.-Sept. (50.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{McCutcheon, George Barr.}} (1866- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Best Man Wins! McC. Sept. (23.)\par}
{\vl Perfect End of a Day. McC. July. (15.)\par}
{\vl “You Are Invited to Be Present.” McC. May. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Macfarlane, Peter Clark.}} (1871- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Bilge and the “Q” Boat. S. E. P. Oct. 5. (76.)\par}
{\vl Greatest Game. S. E. P. July 27. (12.)\par}
{\vl Kidnapping Cupid. S. E. P. Oct. 12. (17.)\par}
{\vl Mistakes of Bilge. S. E. P. Aug. 24. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{McGill, Anna Blanche.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*One of Our Patriots. Mag. Oct. (22:338.)\par}
{\vl *Terence and the Fairies. Mag. May. (22:28.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{MacGrath, Harold.}} (1871- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Kidnapped! McC. June. (27.)\par}
{\vl One Chance in a Thousand. G. H. May. (33.)\par}
{\vl Playing the Game. L. H. J. Aug. (23.)\par}
{\vl “Poor Black Sheep!” McC. Sept. (19.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Machard, Alfred.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**His Last Night on Leave, N. Y. Trib. Feb. 24.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{MacHarg, William Briggs.}} (1872- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Boy of Jim’s. L. H. J. Oct. (25.)\par}
{\vl *Thing That Sets Men Free. Harp. B. Oct. (28.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{McIntire, Ruth.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*How the War Came to Big Laurel. Mid. Jan.-Feb. (4:2.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mackall, (Alexander) Lawton}}. (1888- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Sans Camouflage.” Cen. Sept. (96:717.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mackay, Helen.}} (1876- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Their Places. Harp. M. Feb. (136:410.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{McKenna, Edmond.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Life-Line. E. W. March 30. (15.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{McKinney, Jean Webster.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Webster, Jean}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{McMorrow, Thomas.}} ({\itshape{See 1915.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Campaign of Aristide Cartouche. Ev. April. (47.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{McPartlin, Ellen E.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Sentinel Pine. Mag. Oct. (22:321.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Madrus, Lucie Delarue-.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Delarue-Madrus, Lucie}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mahoney, George Gordon.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“An’ a Man Must Go With a Woman.” Pag. Jan. (27.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Manning, Marie.}} ({\scshape{Mrs. Herman E. Gasch.}}) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Crucible of Time. Harp. M. March. (136:591.)\par}
{\vl Third Generation. McC. May. (15.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Marguier, Leo.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Horrible Slip of Monsieur Peinart. B. E. T. June 5. (Pt. 2. p. 4.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Marks, Jeannette A.}} (1875- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Haymakers. Strat. J. March. (35.)\par}
{\vl ***Old Lady Hudson. Mid. July-Aug. (4:181.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Marquis, Don (Robert Perry).}} (1878- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*McDermott and the War. Ev. Oct. (20.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Marshall, Edison.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Pike of the O. I. \& E. Sun. Jan. (26.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Martyn, Wyndham.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Vulture Woman, The. For. Jan. (59:69.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Mason, Alfred Edward Woodley.}} (1865- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Crystal Trench. Met. May. (26.)\par}
{\vl *Peiffer. Met. Jan.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mason, Grace Sartwell.}} (1877- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
April Fools. Met. May. (16.)\par}
{\vl Lotus Eater. G. H. Jan. (33.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Masters, Edgar Lee.}} (1868- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Clay Bailey at the Side Show. Mir. March 22. (27:164.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Matteson, Herman Howard.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Mowitch for Men. All. April 6. (82:600.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Matthews, Frances Aymar.}} ({\itshape{See 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Cherry Colored Dress. I. S. M. 1st. Feb. No. (6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Mauclair, Camille.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Counsel of the Sea. Tod. Aug. (6.)\par}
{\vl ***Inner Man. N. Y. Trib. March 31.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Maupassant, Henri René Albert Guy de}}. (1850-1893.) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Two Friends. B. E. T. Oct. 5. (Pt. 3. p. 5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Maxwell, Helena.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Case No. 16. Q. W. Aug. (9:40.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mayo, Katherine.}} ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Get Your Man. Outl. April 3. (118:537.)\par}
{\vl *Hot Weather. Outl. March 27. (118:486.)\par}
{\vl John G. Outl. March 20. (118:447.)\par}
{\vl *One Little Word from Home. Outl. Oct. 2. (119:168.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Means, E. K.}} ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Best Policy. All. July 13. (86:214.)\par}
{\vl *Stunt Dancers. All. May 4. (83:600.)\par}
{\vl *Tar and Feathers. All. March 23. (82: 214.)\par}
{\vl **Tombstone Test. All. June 22. (85:437.)\par}
{\vl **“Vally Sham.” All. May 18. (84:265.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Medbery, Helen Dearborn.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Warburton’s Daughter. L. H. J. Feb. (11.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Merriam, Sidney A.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Bill. Atl. May. (121:649.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Merritt, A.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*People of the Pit. All. Jan. 5. (79:376.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Merwin, Martha P.}} ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Somewhere In ——. Book. June. (47:404.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Michel, D. L.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Medusa. Pag. March. (31.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Mille, Pierre.}} (1864- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*His Grievance. N. Y. Trib. April 21.\par}
{\vl *Misadventure of Lieutenant Ward. N. Y. Trib. Feb. 10.\par}
{\vl *Monkey and the Scotchmen. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 6.\par}
{\vl *Spy. N. Y. Trib. July 14.\par}
{\vl *Wager. N. Y. Trib. March 24.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mills, Dorothy Culver.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Wristers. E. W. June 15. (18.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mitchell, Mary Esther.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Fire Unquenchable. Harp. M. Oct. (137:684.)\par}
{\vl *Gifts on the Altar. Harp. M. Sept. (137:572.)\par}
{\vl *“On Pinions Free.” Harp. M. May. (136:888.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mitchell, Ruth Comfort.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Episode of the Enemy Alien. Mir. March 29. (27:194.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Moore, Frederick Ferdinand.}} ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Book Soldier. Ev. March. (25.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Moore, John Trotwood.}} (1858- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Tom’s Last “Furage.” ({\itshape{R.}}) So. Wo. M. Feb. (15.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Mordaunt, Elinor.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***High Seas. Cen. Oct. (96:733.)\par}
{\vl **His White Stocking. Met. July. (24.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Morgan, Byron.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Junkpile Sweepstakes. S. E. P. Sept. 28. (9.)\par}
{\vl Roaring Road. S. E. P. Oct. 12. (8.)\par}
{\vl Undertaker’s Handicap. S. E. P. Oct. 5. (14.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Moriarty, Helen.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Curé and Little Jean. Mag. Jan. (21:145.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Morley, Christopher (Darlington).}} (1890- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Eleven Hours of Moonlight. L. H. J. June. (16.)\par}
{\vl Prize Package. Col. March 23. (14.)\par}
{\vl *Urn Burial. E. W. April 27. (10.)\par}
{\vl *Woman Who Polished the Apples. L. H. J. April. (20.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Moroso, John Antonio.}} (1874- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Boy Wanted. Harp. B. March. (31.)\par}
{\vl In the Spring. Col. Jan. 12. (21.)\par}
{\vl **Non Nobis. Del. June. (16.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Morris, Gouverneur.}} (1876- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Behind the Door. McC. July. (7.)\par}
{\vl *Sure-Thing Man. Cos. Oct. (44.)\par}
{\vl ***Unsent Letter. Cos. April. (16.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Morse, Richard.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Putting the Fear of God in Our Church. L. H. J. March. (21.)\par}
{\vl Putting the Fear of God in Our Village. L. H. J. April. (21.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Morten, Marjory.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Nettle and Foxglove. Cen. June. (96:197.)\par}
{\vl **Under the Owl. Cen. Sept. (96:591.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Moseley, Katharine Prescott.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Story Vinton Heard At Mallorie. Scr. Sept. (64:358.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mott, Frank Luther.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Eyes. Strat. J. July-Aug. (3:86.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Muilenburg, Walter J.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Last Spring. Mid. May-June. (4:129.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Muller, Julius Washington.}} (1868- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Morgan’s Loyalty. E. W. May 25. (6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Mullett, Mary B.}} ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Singer at the Window. Am. June. (29.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Myers, Walter L.}} (1886- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Clouds. Mid. March-April. (4:80.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Neely, Henry M.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Mr. Hoover.” Col. Sept. 21. (12.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Neidig, William Jonathan.}} (1870- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Snob. S. E. P. Sept. 28. (14.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*“{\scshape{Nesbit, E.}}” ({\scshape{Edith Nesbit Bland.}}) (1856- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Ruddick’s Yarn. All. Oct. 12. (89:403.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Newell, Maude Woodruff.}} ({\itshape{See 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Girl with the Leopard-skin Coat. Am. Oct. (11.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Nichols, Robert W.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*“Order of the Red Ravelings.” C. G. April 27. (12.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Nichols, T.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Captain Findlay’s Last Voyage. Adv. April 3. (141.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Nicholson, Meredith.}} (1866- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Hot Biscuits and Honey. L. H. J. April. (24.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Noyes, Alfred.}} (1880- .) ({\itshape{See 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Creative Impulse. S. E. P. April 20. (16.)\par}
{\vl Man from Buffalo. S. E. P. Feb. 23. (47.)\par}
{\vl Mystery of the Evening Star. L. H. J. June. (11.)\par}
{\vl Uncle Hyacinth. S. E. P. Feb. 2 (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Oemler, Marie Conway.}} (1879- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*To Be a Woman. Ain. April. (47.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{O’Hagan, Anne.}} ({\scshape{Anne O’Hagan Shinn.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Irrevocable. Harp. M. Feb. (136:441.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{O’Hara, Frank Hurburt.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Although Very Young. Am. Sept. (40.)\par}
{\vl Davida’s Uncle. Ev. March. (48.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{O’Higgins, Harvey Jerrold.}} (1876- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Conrad Norman. Cen. Sept. (96:644.)\par}
{\vl ***Owen Carey. Cen. Jan. (95:436.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Oppenheim, Edward Phillips.}} (1866- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Poetry by Compulsion. Harp. B. Jan. (36.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Oppenheim, James.}} (1882- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Gardener. Touch. Aug. (3:420.)\par}
{\vl ***Second-Rater. Cen. May. (96:124.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{O’Reilly, Edward S.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
What’s One Man’s Meat Pict. R. Oct. (24.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Orth, Jr., Charles D.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Peace Nature of Eb Hawkins. L. H. J. Aug. (10.)\par}
{\vl Two Bets and Betty. L. H. J. April. (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Osborn, Louie H.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Her Service Flag. E. W. April 13. (15.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Osborne, William Hamilton.}} (1873- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Infamous Inoculation. S. E. P. March 9. (13.)\par}
{\vl *Peter Grimwood Goes to War. B. C. April. (3.)\par}
{\vl Troop Train. S. E. P. May 11. (11.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{O’Sullivan, Vincent.}} (1872- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Exhibit C-470. Scr. Feb. (63:198.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Oswald, Jean-françois.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Everlasting Private. B. E. T. Aug. 31. (Pt. 3. p. 4.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Owen, Frank.}} ({\itshape{See 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Gentleman of the Desert. Vis. Jan. 27. (5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Oyen, (Olaf) Henry.}} (1883- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Love Winds of Port o’ Flowers. Ev. Feb. (53.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pabke, William Hugh.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Troops. All. Feb. 2. (80:380.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Page, Mann.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Forrester, Izola}}, {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Page, Mann}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Paine, Albert Bigelow.}} (1861- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Adventure in Decoration. Harp. M. Oct. (137:737.)\par}
{\vl Meanness of Pinchett. Harp. M. April. (136:761.)\par}
{\vl Northwest by North. Harp. M. July. (137:297.)\par}
{\vl Reforming Verny. Harp. M. Sept. (137:593.)\par}
{\vl Thwarted Pygmalion. Harp. M. March. (136:609.)\par}
{\vl Toy of Fate. Harp. M. Aug. (137:449.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Paine, Ralph D(elahaye.)}} (1871- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Bold Marine. Scr. Jan. (63:22.)\par}
{\vl *Recalled. Scr. Aug. (64:173.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Palmer, Vance.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Shanghaiing of Shard. Mile. June. (2.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Parmenter, Christine Whiting.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Supreme Moment. Del. April. (19.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Patterson, Elizabeth.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Sir Galahad. All. May 18. (84:300.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Patterson, Norma.}} (1891- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Unto Each His Crown. Book. May. (47:278.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pattullo, George.}} (1879- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Boy Howdy! S. E. P. Aug. 3. (5.)\par}
{\vl Hidden Shame. Pict. R. Feb. (14.)\par}
{\vl Madame Patsy and Those Kilts. June 15. (13.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Payne, Will.}} (1865- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Benway’s Luck. Oct. 26. (32.)\par}
{\vl ***His Escape. S. E. P. July 20. (14.)\par}
{\vl Iron Butcher. S. E .P. March 2. (14.)\par}
{\vl **Lumberman’s Story. S. E. P. Sept. 7. (28.)\par}
{\vl Old Thrifty. S. E. P. Oct. 19. (14.)\par}
{\vl Revival. S. E. P. Aug. 24. (14.)\par}
{\vl Samuel Crews’ Dilemma, S. E. P. Feb. 23. (14.)\par}
{\vl Without Prejudice. S. E. P. April (20. 12.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pearce, Ella Randall.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Trifle. E. W. June 15. (18.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Pedersen, Knut.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “{\scshape{Hamsun, Knut.}}”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pelley, William Dudley.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Aunt Julia. Am. Jan. (7.)\par}
{\vl *Bud Jones—Small Advertiser. Am. Feb. (21.)\par}
{\vl **One White Sheep in a Family of Black Ones. Am. June. (46.)\par}
{\vl *Paisley Shawl. McCall. Aug. (6)-Sept. (9.)\par}
{\vl *Through Thick and Thin. Am. May. (41.)\par}
{\vl ***Toast to Forty-Five. Pict. R. May. (5.)\par}
{\vl *Wanted—A Younger and More Practical Man. Am. March. (11.)\par}
{\vl *What Put “Pep” into John Stevens. Am. July. (20.)\par}
{\vl *Why the Judge Felt Safe. Am. Oct. (40.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pendexter, Hugh.}} (1875- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Salvage. E. W. March 9. (18.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Perez, Isaac Loeb.}} (1851- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Reincarnated Melody. Pag. Oct. (14.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Perry, Lawrence.}} (1875- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Migratory Moncktons. Harp. M. Oct. (137:632.)\par}
{\vl ***Poet. Harp. M. May. (136:830.)\par}
{\vl Tragressor. Harp. M. Feb.-March.\par}
{\vl **Trouble-Maker. Scr. Aug. (64:224.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Pertwee, Roland.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Her Eyes. L. H. J. May. (14.)\par}
{\vl *Little Landscape. Ev. Feb. (35.)\par}
{\vl Mary Eldon’s Aunt S. E. P. June 29. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Phillpotts, Eden.}} (1862- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Mystery of the Sailor Men. Bel. Feb. 16. (24:184.)\par}
{\vl *Peter Paul. Del. July. (6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pickthall, Marjorie}} ({\scshape{Lowry Christie}}.) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Forgiver. Bel. Jan. 5. (24:17.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pitt, Chart.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Watchers of the Wild. B. C. May. (3.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pope, Laura Spencer Portor.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Portor, Laura Spencer}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Porter, Harold Everett.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “{\scshape{Hall, Holworthy.}}”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Portor, Laura Spencer.}} ({\scshape{Laura Spencer Portor Pope.}}) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*For Love of Snow White. McCall. June. (6.)\par}
{\vl *Hearts Triumphant. Harp. M. Aug. (137:387.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Post, Melville Davisson.}} (1871- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Against the Sky of the Theater. L. H. J. Aug. (11.)\par}
{\vl **Fortune Teller. Red Bk. Aug. (75.)\par}
{\vl *Girl with the Ruby. L. H. J. March. (17.)\par}
{\vl **Satire of the Sea. Hear. Feb. (33:114.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Postelle, Catherine.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*At La Croix Rouge. Mir. May 17. (27:293.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Potter, Elizabeth Gray.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Inside the Wire. Sun. May. (37.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pottle, Juliet Wilbor Tompkins.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Tompkins, Juliet Wilbor}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Powers, Barnard.}} ({\itshape{See 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Dip in Diplomacy. Pict. R. Feb. (17.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pratt, Lucy.}} (1874- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Green Umbrellas. Pict. R. Oct. (18.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Price, Edith Ballinger.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Sister Heloise. Cen. July. (96:385)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Pulver, Mary Brecht.}} (1883- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
All Under the Flag. Ev. Jan. (53.)\par}
{\vl *Apple Tree. S. E. P. Sept. 14. (28.)\par}
{\vl ***David and Jonathan. Moth. June. (13:511.)\par}
{\vl Enter the Villain. S. E. P. July 13. (13.)\par}
{\vl *Fuller Brothers. S. E. P. June 29. (13.)\par}
{\vl Good Old Shoe. S. E. P. Oct. 12. (10.)\par}
{\vl Old Stuff. S. E. P. April 6. (8.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Putnam, George Palmer.}} (1887- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Sixth Man. L. H. J. Feb. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Putnam, Nina Wilcox.}} (1888- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Ladies Enlist. S. E. P. June 1. (5.)\par}
{\vl *Lamb of God. Ain. Jan. (65.)\par}
{\vl Pro Bonehead Publico. S. E. P. Sept. 28. (5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Putnam, Nina Wilcox}} (1888- .), {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Jacobsen, Norman}}.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Every Little Bit Helps. S. E. P. Feb. 16. (5.)-Feb. 23. (17.)\par}
{\vl Vulgar Dollar. S. E. P. Aug. 17. (5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Pyeshkov, Alexei Maximovich.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “{\scshape{Gorky, Maxim.}}”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur Thomas.}} (1863- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Cask Ashore. Bel. May 11. (24:522.)\par}
{\vl *Clock and the Pillar-Box. Bel. Jan. 12. (24:44.)\par}
{\vl ***Old Aeson. ({\itshape{R.}}) All. April 27. (83:409).\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Raisin, Ovro’om.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Dog. Pag. June. (4.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Ramsey, Alicia.}} ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Cloven Hoof. L. St. Jan. (13:245.)\par}
{\vl *Rendezvous. Ain. Feb. (68.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Ramuz, C. F.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Benoit. Pag. Aug.-Sept. (5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ranck, Edwin Carty.}} (1879- .) ({\itshape{See 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Out o’ Luck. B. E. T. Oct. 19. (Pt. 3. p. 5.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ranck, Reita Lambert.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Knight in Goloshes. Bel. June 8. (24:634.)\par}
{\vl Old Alpaca. Bel. Sept. 28. (25:253.)\par}
{\vl *Sunday. Bel. Feb. 23. (24:210.) Mir. June 21. (27:378.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Reely, Mary Katharine.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Ernestine at Forty. Pag. Oct. (37.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Reese, Lowell Otus.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Poor Little Freshmen. S. E. P. Sept. 28. (45.)\par}
{\vl Saved by Fire. Am. July. (51.)\par}
{\vl Who’s Who. S. E. P. May 4. (73.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Reynolds, Katharine.}} ({\itshape{See 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Bit of Home. Wom. W. Aug. (13.)\par}
{\vl *Soldiers Two. Wom. W. March. (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rhodes, Harrison (Garfield).}} (1871- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Extra Men. Harp. M. July. (137:164.)\par}
{\vl *Substitute. W. H. C. Oct. (13.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rice, Alice (Caldwell) Hegan.}} (1870- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Miss Mink’s Soldier. Cen. Aug. (96:433.)\par}
{\vl **Mrs. Wiggs’s Benefit Dance. ({\itshape{R.}}) Ind. May 25. (94:330.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rice, Louise.}} ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Old “Norwhal” Goes to Sea. Ev. July. (49.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rich, Bertha A.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Man She Loved. Am. April. (29.)\par}
{\vl Williams Sees Herself as Others Saw Her. Am. March. (44.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Richard, Hetty Hemenway.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Hemenway, Hetty Lawrence}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Richardson, Anna Steese.}} (1865- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
How the Great War Came To Me. McC. April. (15.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Richepin, Jean.}} (1849- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Constant Guinard. Pag. April-May. (36.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Richmond, Grace (Louise) S(mith).}} (1866- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Enlisted Wife. L. H. J. March. (29.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Richter, Conrad.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Nothing Else Matters. E. W. Jan. 12. (8.)\par}
{\vl Pippin of Pike County. E. W. March 16. (8.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rideout, Henry Milner.}} (1877- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*After Dark. S. E. P. March 23. (5.)\par}
{\vl *Goliah. S. E. P. Sept. 7. (12.)\par}
{\vl Saxby Gale. S. E. P. Feb. 9. (14.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Riley, Ellen Webb.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
John Augustus Viliken. Harp. M. Aug. (137:410.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rinehart, Mary Roberts.}} (1876- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*His Letters. McC. Sept. (7.)\par}
{\vl Twenty-Three and a Half Hours’ Leave. S. E. P. Aug. 24. (3.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ritchie, Robert Welles.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Big Day in Bugle. Sun. July. (17.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rivers, Stuart.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Leading Lady of the Discards. Scr. April. (63:448.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rives, Amélie}} ({\scshape{Princess Troubetzkoy}}.) (1863- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Gioia. Cos. Aug. (36.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rix, Alice.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
C. O. D. Sun. Oct. (27.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Robbins, Tod.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Silent, White, and Beautiful. S. S. April. (69.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Roberts, Charles George Douglas.}} (1860- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Lake of Long Sleep. Cos. June. (69.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Roberts, Kenneth L.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
With Neatness and Dispatch. S. E. P. Feb. 2. (12.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Robinson, Eloise.}} (1889- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*White Elephants. Harp. M. July. (137:178.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Robinson, Eloise}} (1889- .), {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Froome, Jr., John Redhead}}.] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Dead Dog. Harp. M. Sept. (137:513.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Roche, Arthur Somers.}} (1883- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Empty Sleeve. Col. March 30. (15.)\par}
{\vl Gun-Metal Case. Col. March 2. (8.)\par}
{\vl “Higher Up.” McC. May. (11.)\par}
{\vl Interrupted Tea. Col. March 16. (16.)\par}
{\vl Ivory Billiard Ball. Col. March 9. (14.)\par}
{\vl Last Bullet. Col. April 6. (14.)\par}
{\vl Second Cup. Col. March 23. (16.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Roe, Vingie E.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Alchemy of Love. Met. Oct. (15.)\par}
{\vl Clêche of Sunrise Basin. S. E. P. July 27. (28.)\par}
{\vl Face in the Loophole. Col. June 29. (18.)\par}
{\vl Girl at Enright’s. Sun. July. (27.)\par}
{\vl In Round Stone Valley. Col. Feb. 23. (18.)\par}
{\vl Strong Ones. McC. Feb. (10.)\par}
{\vl Surrender. Sun. March. (17.)-April. (27.)\par}
{\vl Wild Honey. Pict. R. July. (13.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Roland, Marcel.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Their Son. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 22.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Roof, Katharine Metcalf.}} ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Sentenced. All. Sept. 21. (88:597.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rothery, Julian.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*“There’s Life in the Old Dog Yet.” Am. June. (11.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rouse, William Merriam.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Old Man Wamsley’s Ghost. Mid. July-Aug. (4:148.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rowland, Henry C(ottrell).}} (1874- .) ({\itshape{See 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Merle. Harp. M. June. (137:94.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Rubinstein, Z. H.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Pity. Pag. Jan. (39.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Russell, John.}} (1885- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Adversary. Col. June 22. (8.)\par}
{\vl *Boston Limited. Col. Sept. 7. (10.)\par}
{\vl Foul Deeds. Harp. M. Jan. (136:239.)\par}
{\vl *Man Who Was Dead. Col. March 2. (16.)\par}
{\vl Slaver. Col. Feb. 16. (14.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Russell, Phillips.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Diurne—The Story of a Day’s Work. Lib. Aug. (24.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Rutledge, Marice.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Van Saanen, Marie Louise}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Ryerson, Florence.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Codfish and the Cattle Princess. Sun. Sept. (41.)\par}
{\vl *Simple Home Body. Sn. St. Jan. 18. (32:169.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Saanen, Marie Louise van.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Van Saanen, Marie Louise}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sangster, Jr., Margaret E.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*“From the Burning.” Sn. St. May 18. (29.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sawyer, Ruth.}} ({\scshape{Mrs. Albert C. Durand.}}) (1880- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Changeling. G. H. July. (49.)\par}
{\vl For the Honor of the San. G. H. Aug. (35.)\par}
{\vl *Leprechaun of Tin Can Alley. Col. June 8. (17.)\par}
{\vl *Man Who Feared Sleep. G. H. May. (18.)\par}
{\vl **Old King Cole. G. H. June. (30.)\par}
{\vl Psalm of David. Del. Feb. (8.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Saxby, Charles.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Mademoiselle Rahab. Ain. June. (22.)\par}
{\vl *Shoes. Ain. May. (50.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Scarborough, Dorothy.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Engagement-Ring. Harp. M. June. (137:57.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Schneider, Herman.}} (1872- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*From Every Stormy Wind That Blows. Outl. July 10. (119:420.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Schnittkind, Henry Thomas.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Three Trials. Strat. J. Oct. (3:185.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Scott, Emily W.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Archbishop of Rheims. Bel. Jan. 19. (24:72.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Scott, Margretta.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Certain Old Woman. B. E. T. Sept. 21. (Pt. 3. p. 5.)\par}
{\vl **Cousin Mary. B. E. T. July 31. (Pt. 2. p. 12.)\par}
{\vl *Invincible Youth. B. E. T. Oct. 16. (Pt. 2. p. 5.)\par}
{\vl *Neither Did Lettie. Mir. July 5. (27:411.)\par}
{\vl Reminder. Mir. May 24. (27:307.)\par}
{\vl *Yellow Jonquils. Mir. Oct. 18. (27:524.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Seawell, Molly Eliot.}} (1860-1916.) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Lance Corporal. Del. March. (14.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sedgwick, Anne Douglas.}} ({\scshape{Mrs. Basil de Sélincourt.}}) (1873- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Daffodils. Atl. Aug. (122:165.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Seiffert, Marjorie Allen.}} (1885- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Neighbor. Mir. Oct. 25. (27:539.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sélincourt, Mrs. Basil de.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Sedgwick, Anne Douglas}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Shaw, M. A.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Father Hugh. Mid. Jan.-Feb. (4:11.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Shearon, Lillian Nicholson.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Little Mixer. G. H. Jan. (25.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sheehan, Perley Poore.}} ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*On Board the “City of Arverne.” Scr. Sept. (64:335.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Shelton, Richard Barker.}} ({\itshape{See 1916; and 1917 under}} “{\scshape{Oxford, John Barton.}}”) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Blind God’s Altar. Del. Jan. (19.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sheridan, A. G.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*In Sanctuary. Cath. W. July. (107:511.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Shields, Gertrude M.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Steam Heat. Cen. July. (96:353.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Shinn, Anne O’Hagan.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{O’Hagan, Anne}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sholl, Anna Mcclure.}} ({\itshape{See 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Balsam of Mecca. Del. June. (12.)\par}
{\vl Red Flannel. E. W. April 13. (6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Singmaster, Elsie.}} ({\scshape{Elsie Singmaster Lewars.}}) (1879- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Adrian. Bel. May 4. (24:489.)\par}
{\vl **Grandmother’s Bread. C. G. April 20.\par}
{\vl *Jan. S. E. P. July 27. (73.)\par}
{\vl *Miss Pomfret. S. E. P. June 22. (14.)\par}
{\vl *Mrs. Pillow. S. E. P. Oct. 5. (16.)\par}
{\vl *Music Lesson. Y. C. Feb. 28. (92:97.)\par}
{\vl ***Release. Pict. R. June. (16.)\par}
{\vl *Spirit of ’63. Outl. July 3. (119:383.)\par}
{\vl *When a Man Has a Son. W. H. C. June. (15.)\par}
{\vl **Zion Hill. C. G. Dec. 22, 1917.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Skinner, Constance (Lindsay.)}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Consider This Woman. Del. May. (6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Slater, Mary White.}} (1870- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Jenkins. Harp. M. April. (136:735.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Slocombe, Herbert.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Wild Ride of Thornton Upton. Adv. May 3. (79.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Slyke, Lucille Van.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Van Slyke, Lucille}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Smith, Elizabeth C. A.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “{\scshape{Breck, John.}}”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Smith, Francis Hopkinson.}} (1838-1915.) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Colonel Carter Welcomes a Friend. ({\itshape{R.}}) Ind. April 27. (94:172.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Smith, Gordon Arthur.}} (1886- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Return. Scr. Feb. (63:163.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sneddon, Robert W.}} (1880- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Candid Critic. Par. Aug. (113.)\par}
{\vl *Fighting Proud. Bel. Feb. 9. (24:156.)\par}
{\vl *Fleur de Paris. Par. Jan. (105.)\par}
{\vl **Girl in the Red Hat. Par. June. (47.)\par}
{\vl *Last Rendezvous. Sau. St. Feb. (97.)\par}
{\vl *Richard of the Lion’s Heart. Par. Sept. (91.)\par}
{\vl *Son of Belgium. Ain. Aug. (125.)\par}
{\vl **Street of Lost Memories. Ain. Sept. (124.)\par}
{\vl *Tapping Hand. Par. Aug. (29.)\par}
{\vl *To the Immortal Memory of Hyacinthe Perronet. Par. April. (95.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sonnichsen, Albert.}} (1878- .)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Thirteenth Victim. L. H. J. Oct. (12.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sothern, Edward Hugh.}} (1859- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Raynor, J. P. Scr. Sept. (64:279.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Soutar, Andrew.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*“Entered in the Log.” L. St. Jan. (13:285.)\par}
{\vl Hostage. McC. Oct. (11.)\par}
{\vl Power Behind. Met. Jan.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Spadoni, Adriana.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Red Brothers. L. St. Aug. (51.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Spears, Raymond Smiley.}} (1876- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Hoarded Assets. Scr. June. (63:741.)\par}
{\vl Jim Tilou, Wastrel. Col. Jan. 19. (16.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Spinster, Elderly.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“{\itshape{See}} ”{\scshape{Elderly Spinster.}}”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Springer, Fleta Campbell.}} (1886- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916, and also 1917 under}} {\scshape{Campbell, Fleta}}.) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Solitaire. Harp. M. Jan. (136:195.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Springer, Norman.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}})] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Bag of Makings. S. E. P. March 23. (14.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Stacpoole, Henry de Vere.}} (1865- .) ({\itshape{See 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*White Eye. Pop. Jan. 20. (79.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Starrett, Vincent.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Head of Cromwell. B. C. Feb. (16.)\par}
{\vl *Miraculous Image. S. S. April. (101.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Stearns. M. M.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “{\scshape{Amid, John.}}”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Steele, Alice Garland.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“We Go Together—You and I.” Am. May. (21.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Steele, Wilbur Daniel.}} (1886- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Always Summer. Harp. M. April. (136:692.)\par}
{\vl ***Dark Hour. Atl. May. (121:677.)\par}
{\vl ***Eternal Youth. Scr. April. (63:473.)\par}
{\vl ***Man’s a Fool. Met. June. (25.)\par}
{\vl *Mr. Scattergood and the Other World. Harp. M. July. (137:258.)\par}
{\vl ***Perfect Face. Harp. M. Aug. (137:362.)\par}
{\vl ***Taste of the Old Boy. Col. Sept. 28. (11.)\par}
{\vl ***Wages of Sin. Pict. R. March. (8.)\par}
{\vl ***White Man. Harp. M. Feb. (136:423.)\par}
{\vl **“You’re Right, At That.” Col. Feb. 23. (16.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Steffens, (Joseph) Lincoln.}} (1866- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Midnight in Russia. McC. May. (22.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Stephens, C. A.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Guest Who Had Been in Jail. Y. C. April 11. (92:178.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Stephens, James.}} ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Crêpe de Chine. S. S. July. (23.)\par}
{\vl ***Darling. S. S. June. (41.)\par}
{\vl ***Desire. ({\itshape{R.}}) Mir. March 1. (27:120.)\par}
{\vl ***Sawdust. Cen. Sept. (96:668.)\par}
{\vl ***School-fellows. Cen. Sept. (96:674.)\par}
{\vl ***Wolf. Cen. Sept. (96:671.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Stetson, Grace Ellery Channing.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Channing, Grace Ellery}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Stewart, Charles David.}} (1868- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Canary Bird. Cen. April. (95:905.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Stock, Ralph.}} ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Dan of the Beach. Sun. June. (17.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Stolper, B. J.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Andy Jackson Helps Business. All. July 13. (86:363.)\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Storonny, Vladimir.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Father and Son. Rus. R. April. (4:118.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Stratton, Clarence.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Jeremiah in the Desert. Strat. J. June. (29.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Street, Julian (Leonard).}} (1879- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Bird of Serbia. Col. Aug. 31. (5.)\par}
{\vl *Eye of the Beholder. S. E. P. Oct. 26. (12.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Sullivan, Alan.}} (1868- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Crawshay Method. Mun. June. (64:180.)\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Swain, John D.}} ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Cipher. All. May 18. (84:355.)\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Swinnerton, Frank.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Silver Ring. Bel. Aug. 17. (25:184.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Swinney, Mary B.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Conquerable Soul. Mid. May-June. (4:110.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Synon, Mary.}} (1881- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Coonskin Caps. Scr. June (63:713.)\par}
{\vl *Not in the Theory. Pict. R. Jan. (14.)\par}
{\vl *Promised Land. Red Book. Aug. (99.)\par}
{\vl *Through His Wife. L. H. J. Aug. (20.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Tagore, Sir Rabindranath.}} ({\scshape{Ravindranatha Thakura.}}) (1861- .) ({\itshape{See 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Skeleton. C. O. Aug. (65:125.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\scshape{Tarkington, (Newton) Booth.}} (1869- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Captain Schlotterwerz. S. E. P. Jan. 26. (3.)\par}
{\vl **Feef and Meemuh. Col. June 1. (10.)\par}
{\vl **“First, Last, and Supper.” Col. Oct. 26. (5.)\par}
{\vl **Little Cousin Sarah. Col. Aug 3. (8.)\par}
{\vl Loneliness. McC. Aug. (13.)\par}
{\vl ***Three Zoölogical Wishes. Col. Sept. 14. (5.)\par}
{\vl **Too Gentle Julia. Col. April 20. (6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Taylor, Anne Ueland.}} ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
New Hat. E. W. June 1. (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Taylor, Arthur Russell.}} (-1918.) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Return of Mr. Squem. Atl. Feb. (121:239.)\par}
{\vl *“Up to the Good Man.” Atl. Sept. (122:363.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Taylor, John.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Dwight, H. G.}}, {\itshape{and}} {\scshape{Taylor, John}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Taylor, Katharine Haviland.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Fanchon, the Gay. Book. May. (47:275.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Tchekov, Anton.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Terhune, Albert Payson.}} (1872- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Cashing In. E. W. April 20. (6.)\par}
{\vl Dubbess. S. E. P. Aug. 17. (9.)\par}
{\vl Hunger Juggler. S. E. P. July 27. (14.)\par}
{\vl Wildcat. S. E. P. Oct. 19. (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Thackeray, William Makepeace.}} (1811-1863.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Colonel Newcome’s Return. ({\itshape{R.}}) Ind. March 23. (93:496.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Tharp, Vesta.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Drafted. Am. June. (50.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Thompson, James Henry.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Nicholas Drakos Goes Home. B. C. April. (22.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Tiffany, J. A.}}] 

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\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Short Circuit. I. S. M. 2nd Feb. No. (8.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Titus, Harold.}} (1888- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Dear Little Four-Flusher. Ev. May. (24.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Tolman, Albert W.}} (1866- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Fifteen By Eleven. Y. C. Aug. 8. (93:999.)\par}
{\vl ***Five Rungs Gone. Y. C. June 27. (93:329.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Tompkins, Juliet Wilbor.}} ({\scshape{Mrs. Juliet Wilbor Tompkins Pottle.}}) (1871- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Road to Health. S. E. P. Sept. 7. (8.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Tooker, Lewis Frank.}} (1855- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Man Who Was Made in His Own Image. Cen. Aug. (96:533.)\par}
\end{verse}

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{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Townend, W.}} ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Mr. Harrington’s Wife. Adv. Feb. 18. (68.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Train, Arthur (Cheney).}} (1875- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}} ) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*All the Comrades Were There. Red Book. Feb. (23.)\par}
{\vl Flag of His Country. McC. Aug. (9.)\par}
{\vl Spider of Warsaw. McC. June. (19.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\scshape{Trites, William Budd.}} (1872- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Triumph. McC. March. (6.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Troubetzkoy, Princess.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Rives, Amélie}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
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{\noindent}
{\scshape{Turner, George Kibbe.}} (1869- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Box of Candy. S. E. P. April 13. (16.)\par}
{\vl Decoy. S. E. P. March 2. (10.)\par}
{\vl Dreamwood. S. E. P. Aug. 3. (10.)\par}
{\vl Killing. S. E. P. July 13. (18.)\par}
{\vl Miser. S. E. P. Sept. 7. (37.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Turner, Maude Sperry.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
House That Lived. Del. March. (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Tynan, Katharine.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Hinkson, Katharine Tynan}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Underhill, Ruth Murray.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Cheeses from Torre. Sn. St. May 4. (81.)\par}
{\vl Real Eyetalian Vendetta. E. W. Feb. 9. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Underwood, Sophie Kerr.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Kerr, Sophie}}.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Unger, Edith.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*“Back Stairs.” Touch. Oct. (4:46.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Unterman, Elsa.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Less Than Equal. Lib. Oct. (13.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Updegraff, Robert R.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Bedford Loses His Business Leg. S. E. P. Oct. 26. (8.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Valdagne, Pierre.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Sister of Charity. N. Y. Trib. May 19.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Van Dresser, Jasmine Stone.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Gordon Hamilton—Sixteen. Met. Sept. (15.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Van Dyke, Henry.}} (1852- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Primitive and His Sandals. Scr. Aug. (64:142.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Van Loan, Charles Emmett.}} (1876- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Billy the Kid. S. E. P. June 29. (5.)\par}
{\vl For the Pictures. S. E. P. Oct. 19. (5.)\par}
{\vl Great and Only Lesley. S. E. P. April 27. (9.)\par}
{\vl Mixed Foursome. S. E. P. Jan. 12. (11.)\par}
{\vl Scrap Iron. S. E. P. May 18. (10.)\par}
{\vl “Similia Similibus Curantur.” S. E. P. March 23. (20.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Van Saanen, Marie Louise.}} (“{\scshape{Marice Rutledge.}}”) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{See “H” under}} {\scshape{Goetchius, Marie Louise}}.)] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Cerise. Cos. Sept. (36.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Van Slyke, Lucille Baldwin.}} (1880- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Blow Your Own Horn. Harp. B. Sept. (56.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“{\scshape{Vardon, Claire.}}”] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Retreat. Book. June. (47:409.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Vaughn, David.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Heart of Antoinette. Sn. St. Feb. 4. (32:257.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Veiller, Deems.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Voice of God. S. S. May. (117.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Venable, Edward Carrington.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***“Ali Babette.” Scr. May. (63:537.)\par}
{\vl ***At Isham’s. Scr. July. (64:51.)\par}
{\vl **Getting Out of Mufti. Scr. March. (63:329.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Villiers de l’Isle-Adam.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Heroism of Doctor Halidonhill. Pag. Jan. (18.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Von Wien, Florence E.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Lynoff. Pag. Aug.-Sept. (34.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Vorse, Mary (Marvin) Heaton.}} ({\scshape{Mary Heaton Vorse O’Brien.}}) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Case of Carolinda. Harp. M. Aug. (137:342.)\par}
{\vl ***De Vilmarte’s Luck. Harp. M. March. (136:571.)\par}
{\vl ***Huntington’s Credit. Harp. M. Feb. (136:327.)\par}
{\vl *Laugh. Harp. M. July. (137:203.)\par}
{\vl ***River Road. Harp. M. Oct. (137:608.)\par}
{\vl Strayed House. G. H. Sept. (39.)\par}
{\vl *Temperamental Husband. Touch. Jan. (2:391.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wade, Robert.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Cap’n Tristram’s Shipbuilding. Atl. July. (122:76.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wadsworth, Eulita.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Message. Mid. July-Aug. (4:172.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wall, R. N.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}} ) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Buffer. Ev. May. (42.)\par}
{\vl Outcast. E. W. May 18. (7.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Wallace, Edgar.}} (1875- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Annie—the Gun. Ev. Feb. (25.)\par}
{\vl Duke’s Museum. Ev. Sept. (54.)\par}
{\vl Enter the Americans! Ev. Aug. (58.)\par}
{\vl Last Load. Ev. July. (54.)\par}
{\vl *Law-Breaker and Frightfulness. Ev. March. (52.)\par}
{\vl Madness of Valentine. Col. Feb. 9. (22.)\par}
{\vl Man Behind the Circus. Ev. April. (25.)\par}
{\vl Man Called McGinnice. Ev. Oct. (47.)\par}
{\vl Question of Rank. Ev. May. (54.)\par}
{\vl Reprisal Raid. Ev. June. (47.)\par}
{\vl *Sleuth. Adv. Feb. 3. (101.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Warren, Maude (Lavinia) Radford.}} (1875- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Garden of the Unwithered Hearts. McCall. Sept. (7.)\par}
{\vl Road Through the Dark. Met. March. (12.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Watson, E. L. Grant.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Cobwebs and Starshine. S. S. June. (93.)\par}
{\vl ***Man and Brute. S. S. July. (57.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Watson, Jean.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Care. Mir. April 5. (27:208.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Webster, Henry Kitchell.}} (1875- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Harbor. Met. Jan. (11.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Webster, (Alice) Jean.}} ({\scshape{Mrs. G. F. Mckinney.}}) (1876-1916.) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
What Happened at School ({\itshape{R.}}) Ind. May 11. (94:255.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Welles, Harriet.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Duty First. Scr. June. (63:689.)\par}
{\vl *In the Day’s Work. Scr. Oct. (64:450.)\par}
{\vl **Wall. Scr. March. (63:369.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wells, Leila Burton.}} ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Invisible Divorce. Am. Sept. (29.)\par}
{\vl Jade Lady. S. E. P. April 20. (61.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Weston, George (T.).}} (1880- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Bloom of the Peach. S. E. P. Sept. 21. (12.)\par}
{\vl **Feminine Touch. S. E. P. Sept. 7. (14.)\par}
{\vl For the Love of Lulu. S. E. P. Feb. 2. (15.)\par}
{\vl Gem of the Old Rock. S. E. P. Oct. 5. (9.)\par}
{\vl **Girl Who Wasn’t Refined. S. E. P. Jan. 26. (9.)\par}
{\vl Grand Romantic Manner. S. E. P. Feb. 9. (8.)\par}
{\vl *Inspiration of M’sieur. S. E. P. March 16. (10.)\par}
{\vl Old Maids Have Warm Hearts. S. E. P. April 20. (5.)\par}
{\vl *Uncle Heiney and the Major. Ain. Feb. (92.)\par}
{\vl *Village Cut-Up. Pict. R. Oct. (20.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wharton, Edith}} ({\scshape{Newbold Jones}}.) (1862- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Marne. S. E. P. Oct. 26. (3.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wharton, Mabel H.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Refuge. Cal. Jan. (22.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Whitaker, Herman.}} (1867- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Sheep. Sun. March. (35.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Widdemer, Margaret.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Convent at Thomé. Sn. St. April 18. (63.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wien, Florence E. von.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} {\scshape{Von Wien, Florence E.}}\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wilcoxson, Elizabeth Gaines.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Dream. Pict. R. May. (10.)\par}
{\vl **Morning. E. W. Jan. 19. (7.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wiley, Hugh.}} ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Melting Point. Scr. Jan. (63:84.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Williams, Ben Ames.}} (1889- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Right Whale’s Flukes. Bel. June 29. (24:713.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Williams, Jesse Lynch.}} (1871- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Professor and the Painted Lady. Met. Feb. (9.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Willson, Dixie.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Imogene Novré. All. March 16. (82:102.)\par}
{\vl *Little John. All. July 27. (86:666.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wilson, Harry Leon.}} (1867- .) ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Ma Pettengill and the Animal Kingdom. S. E. P. May 11. (5.)\par}
{\vl *One Arrowhead Day. S. E. P. July 13. (8.)\par}
{\vl *Porch Wren. S. E. P. July 20. (5.)\par}
{\vl *Red Gap and the Big League Stuff. S. E. P. June 15. (9.)\par}
{\vl *Vendetta. S. E. P. July 6. (12.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wilson, John Fleming.}} (1877- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Commodore Erroll’s Subscription. S. E. P. Jan. 12. (16.)\par}
{\vl *Resurrection of Slack-Lime Jones. Red Bk. Sept. (39.)\par}
{\vl Sailorman Born. Col. April 27. (15.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wilson, Kathryne.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*In the Making. Sn. St. Oct. 3. (89.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wilson, Margaret.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “{\scshape{Elderly Spinster.}}”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wilson, Margaret Adelaide.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Bee-Loud Glade. Bel. Feb. 2. (24:121.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wilson, Richard Henry.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{See}} “{\scshape{Fisguill, Richard.}}”\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wimsatt, Genevieve.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Alibis. Sn. St. May 18. (35.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Windeler, B.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Elimus. Lit. R. April. (13.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Winslow, Thyra Samter.}} (1889- .) ({\itshape{See 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***Eva Duveen. S. S. June. (99.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Witwer, H. C.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Don’t Give Up the Tip. Am. Sept. (21.)\par}
{\vl Licking the Huns. McC. May. (5.)\par}
{\vl “Life Is Reel.” Am. June. (38.)\par}
{\vl Play Your Ace! Am. May. (26.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Wodehouse, Pelham Grenville.}} (1881- .) ({\itshape{See 1915, 1916, and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Jeeves and the Chump Cyril. S. E. P. June 8. (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wolff, William Almon, Jr.}} (1885- .) ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Loan of a Lady. Col. Sept. 7. (15.)\par}
{\vl Point—Set—March. Ev. Aug. (40.)\par}
{\vl Ruling Love. Ev. June. (35.)\par}
{\vl Situations Wanted—Male. Ev. Oct. (41.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wood, Eugene.}} (1860- .) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*Mystery of the Six Dessert-Plates. Red Book. May. (99.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wood, Frances Gilchrist.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***As Between Mothers. Tod. Sept. (3.)\par}
{\vl ***White Battalion. Book. May. (47:270.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wood, John Seymour.}} (1853- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
***In the House of Morphy. Scr. Feb. (63:231.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wood, Julia Francis.}} ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Parable for Fathers. Atl. Jan. (121:77.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Worts, George F.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Small-Town Stuff. Col. Aug. 10. (9.)\par}
{\vl Sparks Goes to War. Col. Oct. 26. (10.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Wright, Richardson (Little).}} (1886- .) ({\itshape{See 1915.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Thug. S. S. June. (111.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Wylie, I. A. R.}} ({\itshape{See 1916 and 1917.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Gift of Prophecy. G. H. Feb. (25.)\par}
{\vl Last Cure. G. H. May. (29.)\par}
{\vl Richard Enters the Lists. G. H. March. (28.)\par}
{\vl Two of a Trade. G. H. April (20.)\par}
{\vl Unmaking a Marquis. G. H. Jan. (21.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Yates, L. B.}} ({\itshape{See 1915 and 1916.}}) ({\itshape{H.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Caveat Emptor. S. E. P. May 18. (53.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Yezierska, Anzia.}} ({\itshape{See 1915.}})] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
**Where Lovers Dream. Met. March. (17.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Young, James C.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Kamerad.” McC. April. (11.)\par}
{\vl Man Who Knew His Place. McC. March. (26.)\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
*{\scshape{Yvignac, Henri d’.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
*End of a Friendship. N. Y. Trib. June 23.\par}
\end{verse}

\item[
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\scshape{Zerr, Gertrude A.}}] 

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Way Down in Dixie. Sun. July. (37.)\par}
\end{verse}
\end{description}

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\begin{topic}[h!t]
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\centerleft{{\Large\strut{Transcriber’s Note}}
}}
\endgraf}
\par

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{\noindent}
Spelling and obvious punctuation inaccuracies were corrected.\par

Given multiple authors and the use of dialect in some stories:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Archaic and variable spelling is preserved;\par

Hyphenation and accented word variations are preserved;\par

The authors’ punctuation styles are preserved.\par}
\end{topic}

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*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1918 ***\par

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\bookmark[level=1,page=1]{Contents}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=introduction]{INTRODUCTION}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=id2]{THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1918}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=a-simple-act-of-piety]{A SIMPLE ACT OF PIETY}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=cruelties]{CRUELTIES}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=buster]{BUSTER}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=the-open-window]{THE OPEN WINDOW}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=blind-vision]{BLIND VISION}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=imagination]{IMAGINATION}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=in-maulmain-fever-ward]{IN MAULMAIN FEVER-WARD}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=the-fathers-hand]{THE FATHER’S HAND}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=the-visit-of-the-master]{THE VISIT OF THE MASTER}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=in-the-open-code]{IN THE OPEN CODE}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=the-willow-walk]{THE WILLOW WALK}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=the-story-vinton-heard-at-mallorie]{THE STORY VINTON HEARD AT MALLORIE}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=the-toast-to-forty-five]{THE TOAST TO FORTY-FIVE}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=extra-men]{EXTRA MEN}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=solitaire]{SOLITAIRE}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=the-dark-hour]{THE DARK HOUR}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=the-bird-of-serbia]{THE BIRD OF SERBIA}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=at-ishams]{AT ISHAM’S}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=de-vilmartes-luck]{DE VILMARTE’S LUCK}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=the-white-battalion]{THE WHITE BATTALION}
\bookmark[level=2,dest=the-yearbook-of-the-american-short-story-january-to-october-1918]{THE YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=addresses-of-american-magazines-publishing-short-stories]{ADDRESSES OF AMERICAN MAGAZINES PUBLISHING SHORT STORIES}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=the-biographical-roll-of-honor-of-american-short-stories]{THE BIOGRAPHICAL ROLL OF HONOR OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=the-roll-of-honor-of-foreign-short-stories-in-american-magazines]{THE ROLL OF HONOR OF FOREIGN SHORT STORIES IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=the-best-books-of-short-stories-of-1918-a-critical-summary]{THE BEST BOOKS OF SHORT STORIES OF 1918: A CRITICAL SUMMARY}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=volumes-of-short-stories-published-january-to-october-1918-an-index]{VOLUMES OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918: AN INDEX}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=the-best-sixty-american-short-stories]{THE BEST SIXTY AMERICAN SHORT STORIES}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=articles-on-the-short-story-january-to-october-1918]{ARTICLES ON THE SHORT STORY, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=magazine-averages-january-to-october-1918]{MAGAZINE AVERAGES, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=index-of-short-stories-in-books-january-to-october-1918]{INDEX OF SHORT STORIES IN BOOKS, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}
\bookmark[level=3,dest=index-of-short-stories-published-in-american-magazines-january-to-october-1918]{INDEX OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918}
\hbox{}
\end{document}

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