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diff --git a/77328-0.txt b/77328-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ac84c95 --- /dev/null +++ b/77328-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,23715 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77328 *** + + + + + THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1925 + + + + + +----------------------------------------------+ + | BY EDWARD J. O’BRIEN | + | | + | | + | WHITE FOUNTAINS. (_Small, Maynard._) 1917. | + | THE FORGOTTEN THRESHOLD. (_Dutton._) 1919 | + | DISTANT MUSIC. (_Small, Maynard._) 1921. | + | THE ADVANCE OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY. | + | (_Dodd, Mead._) 1923. | + | | + | THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1915. | + | (_Small, Maynard._) 1916. | + | THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1916. | + | (_Small, Maynard._) 1917. | + | THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1917. | + | (_Small, Maynard._) 1918. | + | THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1918. | + | (_Small, Maynard._) 1919. | + | THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1919. | + | (_Small, Maynard._) 1920. | + | THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1920. | + | (_Small, Maynard._) 1921. | + | THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1921. | + | (_Small, Maynard._) 1922. | + | THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1922. | + | (_Small, Maynard._) 1923. | + | THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1923. | + | (_Small, Maynard._) 1924. | + | THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1924. | + | (_Small, Maynard._) 1925. | + | THE MASQUE OF POETS. (_Dodd, Mead._) 1918. | + | THE GREAT MODERN ENGLISH STORIES. | + | (_Boni and Liveright._) 1919. | + | | + | | + | BY EDWARD J. O’BRIEN AND | + | JOHN COURNOS | + | | + | THE BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES OF 1922. | + | (_Small, Maynard._) 1922. | + | THE BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES OF 1923. | + | (_Small, Maynard._) 1923. | + | THE BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES OF 1924. | + | (_Small, Maynard._) 1924. | + | THE BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES OF 1925. | + | (_Small, Maynard._) 1925. | + +----------------------------------------------+ + + + + + THE + BEST SHORT STORIES + OF 1925 + + AND THE + + YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN + SHORT STORY + + EDITED BY + EDWARD J. O’BRIEN + + [Illustration: colophon] + + BOSTON + SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY + PUBLISHERS + + + + +Copyright, 1924, by The Atlantic Monthly Company. + +Copyright, 1925, by The Boston Transcript Company. + +Copyright, 1925, by The Reviewer, The Century Co., Harcourt, Brace, +and Co., The Pictorial Review Company, Harper & Brothers, The Atlantic +Monthly Company, Liberty Weekly, Incorporated, P. F. Collier & Son +Company, The Dial Publishing Company, Inc., and Boni and Liveright, Inc. + +Copyright, 1926, by Sandra Alexander, Sherwood Anderson, Barry +Benefield, Konrad Bercovici, Bella Cohen, Charles Caldwell Dobie, +Rudolph Fisher, Katharine Fullerton Gerould, Walter Gilkyson, Ring W. +Lardner, Robert Robinson, Evelyn Scott, May Stanley, Wilbur Daniel +Steele, Milton Waldman, Glenway Wescott, Barrett Willoughby, and Elinor +Wylie. + +Copyright, 1926, by Small, Maynard & Company, Inc. + + Second Printing + Third Printing + Fourth Printing + + + Printed in the United States of America + + THE MURRAY PRINTING COMPANY + CAMBRIDGE, MASS. + + THE BOSTON BOOKBINDING COMPANY + CAMBRIDGE, MASS. + + + + + TO ROMER + + + + + BY WAY OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT AND + REQUEST + + +Grateful acknowledgment for permission to include the stories and other +material in this volume is made to the following authors and editors: + + To the Editors of _The Boston Evening Transcript_, _The + Reviewer_, _The Century Magazine_, _The Pictorial Review_, + _Harper’s Magazine_, _The Atlantic Monthly_, _Liberty_, + _Collier’s Weekly_, and _The Dial_; and to Messrs. + Harcourt, Brace, and Company, Messrs. Boni and Liveright, + Inc., Miss Sandra Alexander, Mr. Sherwood Anderson, Mr. + Nathan Asch, Mr. Barry Benefield, Mr. Konrad Bercovici, + Miss Bella Cohen, Mr. Charles Caldwell Dobie, Mr. Rudolph + Fisher, Mrs. Katharine Fullerton Gerould, Mr. Walter + Gilkyson, Mr. Manuel Komroff, Mr. Ring W. Lardner, Mr. + Robert Robinson, Miss Evelyn Scott, Miss May Stanley, Mr. + Wilbur Daniel Steele, Mr. Milton Waldman, Mr. Glenway + Wescott, Miss Barrett Willoughby, and Mrs. Elinor Wylie. + +I wish to make particular acknowledgments for editorial assistance +to Mrs. W. J. Turner, Miss Katharine Macdonald, and Mr. Francis J. +Hannigan. + +In dedicating the present volume to my wife, I wish to record her +invaluable coöperation in making this volume, as well as “The Best +British Short Stories of 1925,” less faulty than it otherwise might +have been during my prolonged illness last summer. + +I shall be grateful to my readers for corrections, and particularly for +suggestions leading to the wider usefulness of these annual volumes. +In particular, I shall welcome the receipt from authors, editors and +publishers, of stories printed during the period between October, 1924, +and September, 1925, inclusive, which have qualities of distinction +and yet are not printed in periodicals falling under my regular +attention. + +Communications may be addressed to me _Care of Small, Maynard & +Company, 41 Mount Vernon Street, Boston, Mass._ + + E. J. O. + + + + + CONTENTS + + PAGE + INTRODUCTION. By the Editor xiii + + THE GIFT. By Sandra Alexander 1 + (From _The Reviewer_) + + THE RETURN. By Sherwood Anderson 21 + (From _The Century Magazine_) + + GERTRUDE DONOVAN. By Nathan Asch 39 + (From _The Transatlantic Review_) + + GUARD OF HONOR. By Barry Benefield 53 + (From _The Pictorial Review_) + + THE BEGGAR OF ALCAZAR. By Konrad Bercovici 64 + (From _The Century Magazine_) + + THE LAUGH. By Bella Cohen 81 + (From _The Calendar of Modern Letters_) + + THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY. By Charles Caldwell + Dobie 85 + (From _Harper’s Magazine_) + + THE CITY OF REFUGE. By Rudolph Fisher 105 + (From _The Atlantic Monthly_) + + AN ARMY WITH BANNERS. By Katharine Fullerton + Gerould 122 + (From _Harper’s Magazine_) + + COWARD’S CASTLE. By Walter Gilkyson 148 + (From _The Atlantic Monthly_) + + HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE FREE? By Manuel Komroff 167 + (From _The Atlantic Monthly_) + + HAIRCUT. By Ring Lardner 174 + (From _Liberty_) + + THE ILL WIND. By Robert Robinson 186 + (From _Collier’s Weekly_) + + THE OLD LADY. By Evelyn Scott 195 + (From _The Dial_) + + OLD MAN LEDGE. By May Stanley 207 + (From _The Pictorial Review_) + + SIX DOLLARS. By Wilbur Daniel Steele 228 + (From _The Pictorial Review_) + + THE HOME TOWN. By Milton Waldman 253 + (From _The London Mercury_) + + FIRE AND WATER. By Glenway Wescott 270 + (From _Collier’s Weekly_) + + THE DEVIL DRUM. By Barrett Willoughby 287 + (From _The Century Magazine_) + + GIDEON’S REVENGE. By Elinor Wylie 311 + (From _The Century Magazine_) + + THE YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY, + OCTOBER, 1924, TO SEPTEMBER, 1925 323 + + Abbreviations 325 + + Addresses of Magazines Publishing Short Stories 330 + + Biographical Roll of Honor of American Short Stories 334 + + Roll of Honor of Foreign Short Stories in American + Magazines 345 + + The Best Books of Short Stories 349 + + Volumes of Short Stories Published in the United + States: An Index 351 + + Articles on the Short Story in American Magazines: + An Index 355 + + Index of Short Stories in Books 389 + + I. American Authors 389 + + II. British and Irish Authors 395 + + III. Translations 402 + + Magazine Averages 406 + + Index of Short Stories Published in American + Magazines 409 + + I. American Authors 410 + + II. British and Irish Authors 441 + + III. Translations 446 + + + + + INTRODUCTION + + + I + +Is it, as Henry Adams suggests, a fiction that society educates itself +or aims at a conscious purpose? In Europe at all events, as he points +out, society has not done so. European society at the present time +is old. Its youth was not more conscious than that of the average +man whose character is formed by the blows and punches of fate. But +in America society is young and at least self-conscious. Comparative +peace surrounds it: experience of similarly thinking nations is at its +service. With these advantages can it consciously form a new and finer +civilization within itself, with new values from the experience of the +old European civilization and values, now of doubtful worth? America, +intellectually, is of European descent. Her language, her law, are +not alien to those of the old world. When, therefore, one asks if her +society can educate itself toward a conscious purpose, one must not +answer that question with the experiences of Asiatic civilizations in +mind. + +Since 1914, it has been very clear that a new energy has begun to stir +in America. It is as if the mass of the people has begun to realize +itself not as a congregation of settlers, farmers and prospectors, +but as a nation capable of an ideal somewhat different in spirit from +those which, as it can perceive from its newspapers, animate the +nations of Europe. In other words, America has begun to realize that +she is capable of at any rate desiring an independent ideal worthy of +attainment. + +It is not in the works of such writers as Emerson, Whitman, Henry +Adams, and Edwin Arlington Robinson, nor in the works of the younger +writers who seek inspiration outside the sphere of American life, that +one finds this realization actively leading American public thought. It +is in such, at first sight, unusual forms of philosophical expression +as acts of law, social customs, and even newspaper articles. There one +hears the voice of the American nation beginning to assert that the old +codes which it inherited from Europe have come under its criticism. +This criticism, one feels, arises from a definite and conscious +comparison of an inherited ideal with one which is being gradually +formulated by the whole nation. + +In order to follow an ideal of this particular and, one might say, +personal kind, it is necessary that the nation which seeks after it +should, in the first place, attempt to know itself. One sees that, in +every way, America today tries by self-expression to realize her own +character. In the East, in the West, particularly in the Middle West, +every individual who is not wholly absorbed in making money or in +furthering the material welfare of his country attempts at some time +during his life to say what he thinks of the world as he sees it. His +world is not an old world of traditions. There is no traditional way of +expressing his thoughts about it ready to his hand, nor is every man +a great literary artist. He has had, therefore, to invent a form of +expression that is not too great a tax upon his powers. + +Few men or women are capable of sustaining their energies through +the length of a novel or of a work of philosophy, and fewer have the +gift of poetry. It would seem, therefore, that almost of necessity +the American people has adopted the short story as its particular +form of art: not the sketch nor the episodic tale, but a fairly long +and systematically constructed piece of writing in which primarily +it liberates its own feelings, and by which secondarily it tells a +tale. The American short story, therefore, has an immense and peculiar +interest and value. One feels in it the striving of a nation to express +itself, and thereby to come to a knowledge of its own character, in +order completely and consciously to follow an ideal which it hopes to +set before itself. + +But whether through the evolutions of human life it is possible to +follow a fixed ideal, whether it is possible for a whole nation +consciously to mould its future, whether even it is possible for a +people to realize its own character clearly enough to be able to impose +a philosophy upon it, only the future can tell. One is inclined +to think that it is impossible, but that does not detract from the +extraordinary interest which the phenomenon of a nation seeking +self-realization arouses. + +Whatever the result of America’s conscious attempt at self-education +may be, the record of it, in the form at any rate of the short +story, whether good or bad, will be of the greatest value to future +generations. + + + II + +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 +American work, and the psychological and imaginative reality which +American writers have conferred upon it. + +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. + +The present record covers the period from October, 1924, to September, +1925, inclusive. During this period 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 attains 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. + +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 materials, and by the most direct and appealing +presentation of it in portrayal and characterization. + +The short stories which I have examined in this study, as in previous +years, have fallen naturally into four groups. The first 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 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. + +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. + +Finally, I have recorded the names of a small group of stories +which possess, I believe, the even finer 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 +American literature. If all of these stories by American authors were +republished, they would not occupy more space than six or seven novels +of average length. My selection of them does not imply the critical +belief that they are great stories. A year which produced one great +story would be an exceptional one. It is simply to be taken as meaning +that I have found the equivalent of six or seven volumes worthy of +republication among all the stories published during the period under +consideration. 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. +Several stories which I dislike personally are to be found on the +“Rolls of Honor.” The general and particular results of my study will +be found explained and carefully detailed in the supplementary part of +this volume. + + EDWARD J. O’BRIEN. + + London. + November 3, 1925. + + + + + THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1925 + + + + +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. + + + + + THE GIFT[1] + + By SANDRA ALEXANDER + + (From _The Reviewer_) + + +The sun came up around the bend of the river. The top of it, huge +and misshapen, had just cleared the mass of juniper and swamp myrtle +when Annie Sherrod opened the kitchen door and came down the rickety +back steps into the yard. She carried in one hand a bucket of clabber +for the pigs and in the other a tin pail full to the brim with a +stirring of corn meal and sweet milk for the chickens. As she reached +the chicken coop the sun shook away the dark myrtle and gave its red +reflection to the river. The water tugged and pulled it out of shape +as it flowed on by to the sound. The river and the dried mud along its +banks shone brightly, but the woman noticed none of this red glory of +sunrise. She scattered the meal and emptied the sour milk in the pig +trough, and then filled the empty bucket with the dark water and gave +it to the chickens to drink. + +The sun had now risen so high that the reflection spread like burnished +copper on the face of the water, and Annie shaded her eyes as she +looked down at the fish trap anchored close to the bank. The fish +trap was made of two hoops of seine and two dug-outs. The hoops were +balanced upon a greased pole between the dugouts. The faintest puff of +wind caused the top hoop to dip down until it was caught by the current +and dragged under. As it came up the opposite hoop was pushed down. The +hoops dipped and turned endlessly in the river current and sometimes +brought up fish. When the hoops reached the top of their circle the +fish fell out and down into the dugouts, sometimes to the right, +sometimes to the left. “Lazy man fishin’” they called the trap on the +river. + +There were plenty of fish this morning, silver river herrings, and +Annie gathered them up and carried them back to the house. + +She busied herself with breakfast and when it stood smoking hot on the +stove, she went down the hall to a room at the front of the house. +“Henry,” she called, outside the closed door, “it’s time to get +up--brekfast’s ready.” A voice answered her and she went on to the next +room, opened the door and entered. + +It was dark in there and the air smelled of stale bedding. Annie +propped up a window and pushed open a broken shutter. The sun threw a +broad streak of light across a bed in the corner which held a sleeping +man. He roused himself, shivered, and threw one protecting arm across +his eyes to shut out the sudden glare. “Can’t you let me be?” he said. +Annie did not look at him: “Brekfast’s done,” she said and went out. + +The table stood under the window in the kitchen. She wiped the oilcloth +top with a damp cloth and set it with thick china plates and cups. She +“dished up” the smoking food, filled the cups with coffee and put the +pot back on the stove. Then she sat down at one end of the table and +stared in front of her. + +Her brooding face was lifeless in its repose. There was no thought +going on back of the woman’s dulled eyes. She sat, heavy and relaxed, +a little forward in the chair, and stared straight in front of her. +Mechanically she lifted a hand now and then to frighten away the swarms +of flies that hovered over the food before her. The sound of a tapping +stick and carefully placed feet in the hall roused her. She sagged +to her feet and went to the door. A man with a cane in one hand and +the other spread out before him stopped beside her. “Annie,” he said +inquiringly. + +“Here I be,” she said, catching hold of his hand to guide him to the +table. + +“I smell fish this morning,” the blind man said cheerfully, as he +spread his hands to touch the knife and fork at his place. + +“Yes, we got fish.” Annie speared one with a fork and took out the +backbone. She put milk and sugar in his coffee, cut up a piece of +fat pork and put the plate down in front of him. “There you air!” She +helped her own plate and sat down again. + +They ate in silence. + +Down the hall a door slammed. “Will’s late,” the blind man said. + +“Yeah--he wuz drunk agin las’ night!” + +The blind man made soft clucking noises, his tongue against his closed +teeth. + +Will came through the kitchen, glancing at the table as he went by on +his way to the back porch. There was a sound of water poured in a tin +basin. “Ain’t ther’ a towel ’round here some place?” he called. Annie +got up, took a towel from the cupboard drawer out to him, and came back +to her breakfast. In a little while he came in, sat down between them +and helped himself to food. + + + II + +The two men were brothers, Henry and William Sherrod. The blind man was +stout, his sandy hair thin on his round head. William was slim in build +and the bones of his face prominent. His hair was thick and the color +of Henry’s. His eyes were blue and quick with impatience. Henry’s were +blue and flat with the vacancy of blindness. + +Will leaned forward and took another fish from the heaped plate in +front of him. + +“Got in purtty late las’ night, didn’t you, Will?” Henry had finished +his breakfast, and sat leaning back in his chair, his pale eyes staring +in the direction of his brother. + +Will did not lift his head from his plate. “Uh-huh,” he said. + +“Who’d you see up town?” Henry went on. + +“Nobody much. I--” he cleared his mouth of the fish bones--“I went to +the movin’ picher place.” + +“Oh, you did, did you?” There was an eager interest in Henry’s voice. +He leaned forward and waited for Will to go on. Then he prompted +him: “Ain’t you goin’ to tell us what you saw? Annie here wants to +know--don’t you, Annie?” + +Annie roused herself from the stupor she had fallen into. “I ain’t +pertikler,” she said. + +Will suddenly scowled at the blind man. He paid no attention to Annie. +“It warn’t so much. Jest one o’ them regler pichers. L’s see--” he ran +his hand through his thick hair in the effort to think. “Thar was a +woman an’ two men--an’--an’ she liked purtty things an’--an’ all. An’ +one man was poor an’ tother was rich--so she runned away with him--an’ +then he did something crooked--bet on a horse or sumpin like that--an’ +so her husban’ come an’ got her. It was like that!” + +Henry sighed when Will had finished. “It must er been a real good +picher. Minds me er one I saw onct over to Adamton.” + +“Yeah! Everything ’minds you er somethin’ you seen over to Adamton. +It’s right bad you cain’t go back over there.” Henry dropped his head +at the sound of Will’s voice. + +Annie had not looked up from her plate or seemed to listen to Will’s +recital, but now she stared straight at him, and under the scorn in her +gaze he hesitated. “You lay off’n Henry,” she said. + +“What you got to do with it? You better dry up yerself!” But as she +still stared at him, his eyes wavered and he returned to his breakfast. + +Almost paralyzed by this exchange between husband and wife, not because +it was new or the first time he had heard it, but because he so keenly +realized his helplessness, Henry’s hands fumbled with his knife and +fork. They made outlandish noises against his empty plate. + +“Have some more fish, Henry?” Annie lowered her voice as she spoke to +him. + +“Believe I had a plenty, Annie.” + +“Gimme ’nother cup er coffee.” Will held his cup back toward the +stove without turning. Annie filled it for him. She had finished her +breakfast and she went slowly about the kitchen, testing the water in +the iron kettle and scraping the dishes clean. She gathered them into a +pile and carried them to a table nearer the stove. + +Henry tilted back his chair and lighted a pipe. Will sucked noisily +at his second cup of coffee, his arms propped on the table, one hand +supporting his head. + +“Going to do Four Acre?” Henry asked presently in a voice he meant to +be conciliating. + +“Yeah.” + +“It sure is goin’ to be a hot day.” + +“You’re dam’ right!” + +“Can’t yer put it off?” Henry went on. + +“Naw!” Will got up and stood with his hands on the back of his chair, +looking down at him. “You got a purtty sof’ snap sittin’ ’round all day +doin’ nothin’.” + +“Trade you!” Henry said quickly. + +“Like hell, you would!” He gave the chair a sudden push that sent it +against the table. “Whar’s them milk buckets?” + +Annie pointed to them and he took the two empty pails and went out. +There was a little space of silence as Annie poured the greasy dish +water out through the open window on the ground, where it ran off in a +rainbow streak down the slope of the yard. “Will oughter milk before +brekfast,” she said to Henry as she hung the pan on its nail. + +“Well, it’s purtty hard on him, doing all the work for bothen us.” +Henry shook his head solemnly. + +“You can’t help it!” Annie said fiercely. She went through the door +carrying a bucket of scraps--more food for the pigs. When she came +back she swept the kitchen, took the ashes from the cooling stove +and covered the table with a cloth, then she darkened the room and +went out. She swept the two bedrooms, beat the knobs out of the shuck +mattresses and spread them with yellow sheets, yellow from having been +washed in river water. When all this was done she returned to the +kitchen, strained and set away the milk Will had left for her on the +table. She carried it out to the wire-covered box nailed high up on the +porch, to keep away the swarming flies. Then she put on a slat bonnet, +took a knife and basket and went out into the garden. + + + III + +The Sherrod house stood on a rise of ground above the river. The +spring freshets never reached it, not even the famous one of ’98. The +front of the house faced the long red dirt track that led up to the +crossroads, and the back of it looked down on the river. The house +had never been painted, the clapboards had weathered an even gray, +and here and there patches of green moss clung to the roof and the +chimney bricks. Henry and William owned it jointly, together with the +sixty-acre farm on either side of it. + +Henry knew nothing of farming. When he was in his teens he had gone +away to work on one of the river steamers. In those days, twenty years +ago, steamers ran from across the sound, and up the river as far as +Jamesville, the town below the Sherrod place. There were no steamboats +on the river now. The railroad had built a long trestle across the +sound and put them all out of business. The old _Plymouth_, that Henry +had gone out on, was lying, a rotting hulk, at Adamton. The boat’s +trip from Adamton across the sound and up the river to Jamesville had +required a day. Then she was tied up at the dock until next morning +when her captain backed her around and headed her downstream and again +across the sound to Adamton. The railroad now hauled the cotton and +tobacco, and an occasional crop of peanuts from Jamesville to Adamton +in three hours. + +Henry had been fat even as a young man. He had a jolly laugh and took +life pretty much as he found it. He knew a lot of drummer jokes, +collected from travelers on the _Plymouth_. He told them to the old +folks and to Will whenever he came to the farm to spend a night. Will +listened to them with ill grace and Henry was forced to believe Will +jealous of him. He wooed Will with presents bought in the superior +stores of Adamton, and if he discovered Will was “courting” a town +girl, he stopped going to see her himself. He had a long talk with Will +when the old people died. He said if Will wanted him to he would give +up his job and come home, but Will said he didn’t need any river man +around. So Henry had kept on with the _Plymouth_. + +The farm was a lonely place and Will’s fine enthusiasm for farming +by himself soon wore itself out. He decided to get married and went +“courting” Annie Spruill, the daughter of a neighboring farmer. He +drove to her house in a shiny new buggy and a suit of clothes Henry had +bought for him over in Adamton. Will had intended painting the house +and making many improvements when he brought Annie home, but the spring +freshet in the river ruined his corn that year, and afterwards he never +seemed to get around to it. + +Annie had been a pretty girl when Will married her. In those days she +had bright brown eyes and black hair, but the eyes dimmed and ceased +to sparkle after a few years on the farm with Will. The work was +heavy, and Will, his disposition never good, fretted with his seeming +ill-luck, rarely provided her with any of the things women like. He had +drunk corn whiskey, and as Annie lost her good looks and became a drab +creature who rarely spoke, he drank worse. His unfaithfulness to her +was known throughout the county. + +Annie’s children died at birth. They were thin infants, old beyond the +knowledge of mortals. She had wept noisily for the first and a little +less for the second. She was carrying the third when Henry came home +to stay. A doctor in Adamton had told him he was losing his eyesight. +Will said he had been “kicked out of his job.” Annie was glad to have +him. He never lost his temper and he helped her around the house until +the blindness was upon him. He was resigned and at first made a joke +of his affliction. He sat in his rocking chair, never seeming to care +whether he moved again or not. He told Annie all the drummer jokes and +made her laugh long and loudly. He learned to knit and he sent away to +a mail order house for a fiddle. He taught himself to play “Pop Goes +the Weasel.” + +Annie’s third child was born. Henry held it in his arms until the tiny +overburdened heart ceased beating in thumps. He could not see the +age-old little face, nor the coppery spots on its forehead, but he knew +something was wrong. + +Doctor White in Jamesville told Will that he and Annie must not have +any more children, and that he was to come to town for treatment. Will +listened to him in sulky silence--and never went. + +Farm labor became harder to get. A great many farm hands had gone +north, lured by rumors of higher wages. Will rented out part of the +farm to a negro tenant. This man had a still down in the hollow and +Will bought molasses for him and sold the finished “monkey rum” in +Jamesville. It was only a small business, for Will had no money to buy +off the county officers and run the still on a large scale, but it was +quite big enough to furnish him with all he and his town friends wanted +to drink. Three or four times a week he drove into town with a jug +under the seat of the buggy and, after he had disposed of it, spent the +evening lounging around the drug store and talking to the girls from +the tobacco stemmery. He spent his money buying them silk stockings and +cheap perfume. + +During all this time Henry sat on at the farm, moving only when +necessity drove him. He grew stouter. He rarely told a drummer joke; +Annie knew them all, so there was no need. His clothes were worn and +shiny with grease from the food he spilled upon them. He had put his +fiddle away. He told Annie he had heard that people born on the river +came home to die on it. + + + IV + +It was twelve o’clock and Will came in from the field. The perspiration +streamed down his face and the top of his overalls was wet with it. +Annie put dinner on the table. She had cooked a piece of smoked hog +jowl and boiled some collards in the liquor, and there was a pudding of +yellow corn. At Will’s place stood a pitcher of milk, covered with a +cloth to keep the flies out. Will washed his hands and sat down; Henry +was already in his accustomed place. A cat came in and curled its sleek +sides around the table leg. Will kicked at it and the cat jumped in a +great arch through the kitchen door. + +“I’m going to kill ’at cat,” he said. No one answered him, no one spoke +throughout the meal. + +The kitchen was stifling hot. When Will had finished he carried his +chair out on the porch. A little breeze was stirring, he propped the +chair against the side of the house, sat down and closed his eyes. In +a minute more he was fast asleep. Annie washed the dishes and set the +kitchen to rights. As she crossed the porch on her way to the house she +leaned over and shook him awake: “Ain’t you ever goin’ to work?” she +said. + +He stretched himself and stood up: “Tain’t none of yore business, ifn’t +I don’t!” he told her as he crammed his hat on his head and went down +the back steps to the field. + +He came in early, long before sunset, and asked for a towel and hot +water. He took the bucket Annie gave him to their bedroom and whistled +as he washed and put on clean clothes. He joined them at supper in his +best suit of clothes and ate his food in a great hurry. + +“Goin’ to town again tonight, Will?” Henry asked. + +“None er yore business!” + +“Well,” Henry said mildly, “you needn’t take a feller’s head off when +he asks you a question.” + +Will’s eyes were red as he looked up, “Who ast you to put in? You mind +your own business--if you don’t, you know what’s good for you! I guess +I got a right to go to town when I dam’ please! Who does all the work +aroun’ here--you tell me that----” + +“I didn’t mean nothin’,” Henry said. + +“No, an’ you better not neither!” Will got up from his place. He turned +toward Annie, “An’ you needn’t leave no light burnin’ for me!” Annie +did not look at him. In a minute or two they heard him drive out of the +yard. He would be gone all night and in the morning would appear, sober +and sleepy, to spend the whole day lying in a stupor on a pallet at the +end of the porch, sleeping away the effects of the raw liquor he had +drunk. + +Henry tapped his way out to the porch and sat down in a rocking chair. +When Annie had put up the supper dishes she came out and joined him. It +was cooler out there. The sun had long since gone down and the river +had lost its look of parchedness. The water was black as it hurried by +to the sound. There were black shadows under the myrtle and willows on +the opposite bank, but the trees waved green higher up where the light +struck them. The sky back of them was soft with a scattering of white +clouds. Night flew close to the water. A crane’s broad wings circled +and went on downstream. The frogs began their nightly singing. + +Henry’s hands rested on his knees. Annie sat tense and drawn in her +chair, her hands on the arms and her head back against the high, broad +top of it. They were both rocking. Suddenly Henry’s chair ceased +rocking and he turned to Annie. + +“You ain’t right well, are you, Annie?” + +Annie did not answer him at once and he went on: “Seems to me like you +been ailin’ quite a spell. You don’t never say nothin’, but I kin feel +you moving ’round slow like. What’s the matter with you?” His slow +tones were anxious. + +Annie rocked all the harder. “Tain’t nothin’,” she said briefly. + +“Well, I’m right glad to hear it. Maybe you need a dost of +quinine--that’ll put you right in a jiffy----” + +“It’ll be a long time afore I’m right agin!” Annie said passionately. + +The full meaning of it sank into Henry’s mind in the long pause that +followed. He cleared his throat helplessly, and his voice, as he +questioned her, had a quaver in it: “You don’t mean you’re goin’ to--to +have another young ’un?” + +“Yes, I do, an’ I wish I was dead! I been thinkin’ I’d better go down +and jump in that river----” + +“Now, Annie, don’t talk like that!” Henry put out a hand and felt for +her in the dark. “That kind of talk ain’t right. You know what the +Bible says about takin’ your own life. It ain’t right. You ought not to +even think it----” he lapsed into silence. + +“Maybe you made a mistake--maybe it ain’t so,” he said after a little. + +“Yes, maybe!” Annie’s voice was bitter. + +“Does--does Will know?” + +“I ain’t told him, but he knows well enough--” she broke off and +suddenly stood up. “I--I forgot, I ain’t fed the cat.” She went swiftly +into the house. Through the blinds back of him Henry heard her fling +herself down on the bed and smother her sobs in the quilts. He rocked +violently, his fat, helpless hands around the knobs of the armchair. + +“It ain’t right! It ain’t right!” He repeated it to himself over and +over. + +The stars were out when Annie stole back to her place beside him. The +sky was powdery with them. Crickets chirped in the yard and the frogs +cried loudly out of the swamp. Annie’s chair began to move. At first it +went slowly back and forth and then it struck its gait. Henry’s rocker +kept time to it. + +“I been sittin’ here thinkin’ while you was gone, Annie. I been +thinkin’ somethin’ mighty curious--about us--an’ how things is fixed +in this world. It ain’t right, some of it. Now here’s us--Will all +time runnin’ after them girls in town--an’ drinkin’. An’ then there’s +you--you has to work too hard. Will don’t work hardly enough--he reely +ain’t able too--maybe if’n he was to stop drinkin’ he might----” + +“He won’t!” Annie interrupted. + +“No, I don’t guess he will. It’s a pity. I seen a lot of it up an’ down +the river in the old days--it don’t never lead to no good end. If you +was to have somebody to help do the cookin’--an’ was to go to meetin’ +now and then--an’ git some pretty clothes----” + +“Huh!” Annie’s rocker stopped. “Where you think we goin’ to get all +them things? I ain’t been to meetin’ in months--that’s how I git to +meetin’!” + +“I wasn’t sayin’ you was goin’ to git ’em. I was just thinkin’,” +Henry’s voice rebuked her. + +“Huh!” The rocking chair took up its accustomed gait again. + +“Maybe--maybe when yore time come--” Henry’s voice went on out of the +darkness, “maybe yore baby would live--and you could raise it up to be +a comfort to you.” + +Annie said nothing. + +“Then ther’s me. All my life long I took good care of myself. I never +had nothin’ much to do with girls--never drunk much--a toddy now an’ +then, that’s all--but look at me?” There was no bitterness in Henry’s +voice. “But here I am--a big lump--good for nothin’--I jest sit aroun’ +an’ make a lot of work for you.” + +“You’re a sight o’ company, Henry,” Annie interrupted. + +“Well, thank you, Annie, but I’ll never be good for nothin’ again. +An’ what I got to look forward to--just tell me that? Tain’t like I +got married an’ had some children--it wouldn’t matter so much then--I +wouldn’t keer--I’d be more resigned like----” + +Annie stopped rocking. + +Henry went on. “I sometimes sits an’ thinks about it for a good spell. +We don’t know if what the preacher says is true. We ain’t certain +’bout that kingdom up in the sky--leastways I ain’t----” Henry paused +uncertainly. “It may be agin’ the Scripters, but sometimes I think all +we got is right here on the earth--an’ it don’t seem right that some of +us gits so little.” + +Annie sat still under the weight of it. “No, it don’t, Henry,” she said +at last. + +“I lived pretty good. I didn’t miss much when I was on the river--but I +wish I’d got married. I wish I’d got a boy or girl to take keer of me +now.” He heaved a deep sigh. “Well, it’s like that--but don’t guess it +does any good to talk about it much.” + +“I never knowed you cared nothin’ ’bout children,” Annie’s voice held a +wondering interest. + +“No, I don’t reckon you did. I ain’t never talked about it to nobody +before.” + +There was a long pause broken only by the creak of the boards under the +two swaying chairs. + +“Henry,” Annie began again, and her voice was solemn “if ’n I was to +take keer of myself--same as Doctor White tole me last time--drink a +lot of milk and let some of the heavy work go--do you ’spose this baby +what’s comin’ would live?” + +“Maybe it would, Annie----” + +She leaned forward and touched him on the arm. “An’ if ’n it does +live, Henry,” she said in sudden excitement, “it’s goin’ to _be yore +chile_----” + +Henry stopped rocking. “What you mean, Annie?” + +“I mean I’m goin’ to give it to you--to grow up an’ be a comfort to +you. It’s going to be named Henry Sherrod--an’ you is goin’ to raise +it----” + +“But how can you do that, Annie--you can’t give Will’s child away?” + +“Can’t I?” the same scornful laugh was in Annie’s voice. “Will hadn’t +ought to have no children--the doctor done said so--an’ anyway he +shan’t tech it----” + +“But what’ll he say?” + +“He won’t say noth’n--you leave that to me!” + +“But look here, Annie,” Henry leaned toward her in the darkness, his +voice betraying his earnestness, “supposen you did--people would think +it kinder queer----” + +“Let ’em! Nobody never comes down here no more. When he gits big we’ll +go away----” + +“Where’ll we go?” + +“I dunno--some place!” Annie leaned back, relaxed. Her voice was full +of ease and happiness. “We’ll go away all right. Some place where +there’s movin’ pichers an’ ’lectric lights. He kin go to school--pay +school. I ain’t goin’ to sen’ my chile to no free school! Maybe he’ll +have a tobacco warehouse when he gits grown----” + +“Maybe he’ll be captain of a steamboat----” Henry’s voice took up the +chant. + +“Yes, an’ we’ll have a parlor an’ a organ----” + +“Maybe he’ll read the newspaper to me----” Henry’s voice was wistful. + +Once more the rockers rocked in cadence. It was cooler now, a little +wind blew from across the river and brought the steady “flop flop” of +the fish trap as it dipped down in the current. + +Henry loosed himself from the dream first. “It’s gettin’ kinder late,” +he said. “I reckon we all better be gettin’ to bed.” + +Annie drew a long breath. “Maybe it won’t live,” she said. + +“Maybe so,” Henry too seemed to have lost interest. He shuffled across +the porch and through the doorway, the tap of his stick preceding him +down the hall to his room. + +Annie sat on, her hands gripped tightly together in her lap. “Oh, God,” +she prayed, “I got to have somethin’--I got to have somethin’--” + + + V + +October was on the river. Swamp maples flaunted a blare of color as far +as eye could reach. The slim dagger leaves of the willows, already +yellow, fell to eddy in the current before the river swept them away. +Pokeberries were as black as ink. Green holly was swelling, turning +red for winter. Up in the bare branches of the gum trees mistletoe, in +round full bunches, swayed with every passing wind, the milky berries +gleaming against gray-green leaves. + +Annie Sherrod was jellying. She stood over the kitchen table pouring +the crimson juice of wild grapes into tumblers and sealing them with +round pieces of white paper dipped in rum and white of egg. + +Propped against the door in a split bottom chair, Henry was skimping +through the strains of “Pop Goes the Weasel,” on his fiddle. His head +was bent low, only the thin, reddish hair brushed carefully across the +top was visible to Annie as she looked across at him. + +“It sure is gran’ jelly!” she told him. + +Henry lowered the fiddle. “I can tell that jest by smellin’,” he said. + +Annie wiped her hands on her big checked apron. “I’m goin’ to git you +some in a saucer to taste in a minute. I never did see the beat of it +for jellyin’. Most times you has to wait ’till it gits cole--or set it +in the sun--but this here--” She dug her fingers in the cooling stuff +and lifted a mass of it high. It dropped with a soft “slosh,” heard +plainly across the room. Annie laughed, “Did you hear it?” she said. + +“Sure did!” + +“I got nine glasses,” Annie went on. “I aim to pick some more grapes +next week an’ do up a even dozen ’fore I stops.” + +Henry returned to his fiddling. The kitchen glowed in the afternoon +light. The stove shone red through the cracks and the kettle on it +poured out its song of steam. There was a red cloth on the eating table +and a bunch of goldenrod stuck in a tumbler decorating the center of +it. Over all, hung the rich, spicy aroma of the fox grapes. + +Annie brought a saucer half full of jelly over to Henry. + +“Here, taste it!” She filled a spoon and put it in his hand. She stood +over him as he sampled it, her hands akimbo on her hips. + +“Um----” Henry smacked his lips noisily. “It sure is good stuff!” + +“Tomorro’ is Sattiday. You an’ me is goin’ to hitch up and drive to +town right after brekfast and do some tradin’ at Latham’s. I already +done washed your other ves’--it was terrible greasy. You got to stop +dribblin’ things on yourself, Henry Sherrod. If n’ you don’t----” +Annie’s voice was mocking, she threatened him with a flourish of the +now empty saucer, “if n’ you don’t I’m goin’ to tie you up in one er my +apruns!” She threw back her head and laughed. + +“Huh! Huh!” Henry laughed with her. + +“You all seem mighty happy in here.” Will stood in the doorway. He +carried his gun slung across his shoulder. + +The laughter stopped in mid-air. Henry returned to fingering his +fiddle. Annie picked up the tray of jelly glasses and carried them out +on the back porch, passing Will in the doorway, where he grudgingly +made way for her. Coming back she took off her apron and, smoothing her +new calico dress down over her full hips, got out the big pasteboard +box she used for sewing. + +All this time Will stood glowering in the doorway. No one had spoken to +him. He seemed uncertain what to do, but as Annie fitted on her thimble +and lifted a tiny shirt from the garments in the box, and began to +stitch with fine stitches upon it, he turned and banged the door behind +him. + +“Huh!” Annie laughed, “Will don’t feel right comfortable ’roun’ me no +more. He ain’t forgot that piece er my mind I give him----” + +“You best not be too hard on him, Annie,” Henry lowered his fiddle. + +“If that ain’t jes’ like you, Henry Sherrod! Now you takin’ up for +Will!” + +“No, I ain’t,” Henry protested. + +“It’ll do him good. I notice he’s been stayin’ home pretty regular +nights lately.” + +“Yes, he has, an’ it’s a good sign----” + +“Time’ll tell.” + +Annie stitched on in silence. The needle moved methodically in and +out. Presently she began to hum under her breath. Then she interrupted +herself: “Henry,” she said, “why is it ducks’ eggs don’t bring as much +as hens’ eggs, can you tell me that?” + +“Seems to me you ought to git more for ’em.” + +“Well, you don’t! I got a lot of ’em, too, but they don’t bring much. +I believe I’m goin’ to do all my cookin’ with duck eggs and sell every +one of them hen eggs----” + +“That would be a good thing to do----” + +“Tomorro’ I aim to buy a cake of that pink soap to the drug store. It’s +real pretty----” + +Henry nodded his head at her. He was busy with the fiddle again. + + + VI + +The river was rising. Already the banks were lost by the engulfing +water. The fish trap had been hauled high up the slope of the yard +out of harm’s way. Myrtle and sassafras drowned, while the topmost +branches of the willows, heavy with raindrops, dipped in the ever +rising flood. It was a sign of spring.... The river roared through its +channel and every day a broader expanse of water covered the swamp +bottoms and flowed sullenly outward over the young corn planted in the +bottom lands. Wild things sought higher land. The surface of the water +bore strange fruit. Here an old log, turning over and over, on its way +downstream, and there a young tree, uprooted and swept along, its faint +green leaves half submerged in the red flood. A chicken coop rode its +strangely dignified way downstream. + +Water cut off the Sherrod farm from the highroad. Will had taken +the horse and buggy and escaped to town. He gave as his excuse that +somebody had to tell Doctor White to come out at the end of the week. + +Rain set in again the night Annie’s son was born. It started at supper +time. Cold fingers tapped on all the windowpanes. Aunt Julia, the +negro midwife, climbed the attic stairs and stuffed rags in all the +broken windowpanes. In the intervals when she could draw her breath a +little more easily, Annie lay and listened to it. She was afraid. She +was horribly afraid the doctor wouldn’t get there in time. She asked +continually if they had not heard him drive into the yard. “Jes’ de +win’, honey!” the old negro woman would reply, placing her wrinkled +brown hand on Annie’s tossed hair. “Yo’ res’ easy, he’ll sho’ be here +bimeby.” + +Henry sat outside the door and heard her cries. He wrung his soft, +helpless hands. Tears ran down and splashed on his clean coat front, +the coat Annie had washed for him just a few days before. + +The old woman moved about the room, placing basins and folding cloths, +she trimmed the lamp and put it close beside the bed where it would +be most needed. She tested the water in the big kettle on the hearth, +brought in pine logs to feed the ravenous fire, and then eased her +rheumatic old body into the low rocker beside Annie. + +“Mammy,” Annie reached out and clutched her with straining fingers, +“don’t you reckon the doctor will be gittin’ here purtty soon now--Will +must er told him how bad I needed him----” + +“Yes, honey, he’ll come. Jes’ you res’ easy now. Hole yore breaf when +you feels the pains--hole yore breaf and bear down----” + +“He ain’t comin’--I know he ain’t!” Annie wailed. “Will ain’t never +told him!” + +This went on for hours, Annie wailing and begging for the doctor and +the old woman comforting her as best she could. Henry alternately dozed +and wrung his hands in the cold outside the door. Toward morning Annie +suddenly lifted up her voice and called him: + +“Yes, Annie. He’s coming--Will sure told him----” + +“Henry, you listen to me--I don’t care no more. _I don’t care if he +gits here or not_, but I want you to promise me that if ’n’ I dies Will +don’t lay hand on this child--you promise?” + +“You ain’t goin’ die, Annie----” + +“Promise!” + +“I--I promise.” + +Annie lay down quietly. “I’m goin’ to be all right now--I ain’t goin’ +to holler no more----” But even as she spoke the final agony came. +“Help!” she cried in a voice that brought Henry to his feet and the old +woman scuffling across the room.... + + + VII + +The river began to go down the third day after Annie’s son was born. It +was a good sign, the old colored woman said, and she said, too, that +Annie’s baby was the finest baby in the world. Annie lay and listened +to her with a smile. She uncovered the plump little body and saw for +herself that it was perfect. She lay smiling as she nursed it at her +breast. + +This child would live.... She had given it to Henry--God couldn’t let +it die like the others.... + +Will was still in town, and the doctor had not come; there was no need +now, Annie and the baby were both doing well. Henry tapped up and down +with his stick, a smile always hovering about his soft lips. + +“If I just could see him.” He sat with the child in his lap. “If the +Lord would just give in once and let me see him, I wouldn’t never ask +for nothin’ else.” + +Annie raised herself in the bed on one elbow and lay looking at them. + +“He’s like you, Henry, mor’n he is like Will.” + +“He’s goin’ to be a big man,” Henry said. The child’s curling fingers +clung tightly to his thumb. It was night. Aunt Julia nodded in the +slat-bottomed rocker before the fireplace.... + +“I’m goin’ give him pot-licker an’ black-eyed peas--make him grow----” +Annie crooned, her fingers poking the baby under the arm. It gurgled +and they both laughed. “He called yore name, Henry.” Annie prepared to +lie down again in bed. + +“I’ll betcher he’s smilin’, ain’t he, Annie?” + +“You know he ain’t, he’s too little yit--yessir, his mammy’s goin’ to +give this baby pot-licker an’ peas----” + +“Hold the lamp here, Aunt Julia,” Henry called. “We got to see what +this baby’s doin’.” + +The old woman came to herself with a start and rubbed her eyes, “Sho’ +is smilin’--it’s de bes’ young un----” She pattered over for the lamp, +lifted off the shield of cardboard and brought it close to the bed. + +“Look, Annie, ain’t I right?” + +Annie raised herself once more. “Hold it closer, Mammy.” + +“Gwine burn my chile,” the old woman grumbled as she obeyed. + +“No, we ain’t, the idea of such a thing,” Annie half laughed, and then +she drew herself quickly higher up in the bed and leaned closer to the +baby. “Look, Mammy, what makes him do like that?” + +“Do lak whut?” + +Annie passed her hand rapidly across the child’s face. “He don’t close +his eyes like he ought when I do like that!” There was the beginning of +panic in Annie’s voice. + +“Bless God Almighty!” The woman put down the lamp and lifted the child +from Henry’s lap. It wailed feebly at being so suddenly disturbed. + +“What’s the matter with its eyes?” Annie’s voice was shrill with fear. +“Tell me! Make her tell--” she appealed to Henry. + +Henry struggled to his feet, his knees grown suddenly weak and +unresponsive. He clutched at the woman’s shoulder. “What is it? What’s +wrong with that baby’s eyes?” he demanded in a choked whisper. + +The old colored woman held the child against her breast. She made no +effort to avoid Henry’s hand. + +“What is it?” Annie cried again. + +The woman shook off Henry’s hand and drew herself upright. “Dis chile,” +she said with strange dignity, “is bline.” + +“Blind!” Annie screamed. “Tain’t so--you’re lying! ’Tain’t so, +Henry----” + +“No, I ain’t tellin’ no lie. Dis chile is bline----” + +As she spoke the child’s thin wails filled the room. She clutched it +again to her flat breast, hushing its cries against her. + +“No! No! I won’t have it blind----” + +“Hush, honey, don’t you carry on so. Yo’ got to git yo’ stren’th +back.” She attempted to push Annie down upon the bed. + +“I don’t care! I don’t care!” Annie evaded her. She struggled to +her knees and sat swaying back and forth, her hands clutching in +desperation at the mass of tangled hair that fell about her face. + +Henry had fallen back into his chair and now he sat, his fat hands +twisting and untwisting about the arms of it, his loose mouth uttering +words that died away before they passed his lips. The old woman carried +the child across the room. She wrapped it in a piece of blanket and +seated herself in the slat-bottomed rocker as before. Slowly she rocked +back and forth, patting the little round back with her skinny brown +hand. “Hush, chile, go to sleep,” she crooned to it. + +Slower and slower went the rocker. Annie’s cries had ceased. Henry’s +head had dropped upon his breast ... his hands were still. A log fell +apart on the hearth. The old woman did not get up to replace it. The +tick of the clock on the mantelpiece was the only sound in the room. +They slept.... They slept the peace of exhaustion ... the peace of +acceptance. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [1] Copyright, 1925, by The Reviewer. + Copyright, 1926, by Sandra Alexander. + + + + + THE RETURN[2] + + By SHERWOOD ANDERSON + + (From _The Century Magazine_) + + +Eighteen years. Well, he was driving a good car, an expensive roadster, +he was well clad, a rather solid fine-looking man, not too heavy. When +he had left the Middle-Western town to go live in New York City he was +twenty-two, and now, on his way back there, he was forty. He drove +toward the town from the east, stopping for lunch at another town ten +miles away. + +When he went away from Caxton, after his mother died, he used to write +letters to friends at home, but after several months the replies began +to come with less and less frequency. On the day when he sat eating his +lunch at a small hotel in the town ten miles east of Caxton he suddenly +thought of the reason, and was ashamed. “Am I going back there on this +visit for the same reason I wrote the letters?” he asked himself. For a +moment he thought he might not go on. There was still time to turn back. + +Outside, in the principal business street of the town, people were +walking about. The sun shone warmly. Although he had lived for so many +years in New York, he had always kept, buried away in him somewhere, a +hankering for his own country. All the day before he had been driving +through the eastern Ohio country, crossing many small streams, running +down through small valleys, seeing the white farmhouses set back from +the road, and the big red barns. + +The elders were still in bloom along the fences, boys were swimming in +a creek, the wheat had been cut, and now the corn was shoulder-high. +Everywhere the drone of bees; in patches of woodland along the road a +heavy, mysterious silence. + +Now, however, he began thinking of something else. Shame crept over +him. “When I first left Caxton, I wrote letters back to my boyhood +friends there, but I wrote always of myself. When I had written a +letter telling what I was doing in the city, what friends I was making, +what my prospects were, I put, at the very end of the letter, perhaps, +a little inquiry. ‘I hope you are well. How are things going with you?’ +Something of that sort.” + +The returning native--his name was John Holden--had grown very uneasy. +After eighteen years it seemed to him he could see, lying before him, +one of the letters written eighteen years before when he had first +come into the strange Eastern city. His mother’s brother, a successful +architect in the city, had given him such and such an opportunity: he +had been at the theater to see Mansfield as _Brutus_, he had taken +the night boat upriver to Albany with his aunt; there were two very +handsome girls on the boat. + +Everything then must have been in the same tone. His uncle had given +him a rare opportunity, and he had taken advantage of it. In time +he had also become a successful architect. In New York City there +were certain great buildings, two or three skyscrapers, several huge +industrial plants, any number of handsome and expensive residences, +that were the products of his brain. + +When it came down to the scratch, John Holden had to admit that his +uncle had not been excessively fond of him. It had just happened that +his aunt and uncle had no children of their own. He did his work in +the office well and carefully, had developed a certain rather striking +knack for design. The aunt had liked him better. She had always tried +to think of him as her own son, had treated him as a son. Sometimes she +called him son. Once or twice, after his uncle died, he had a notion. +His aunt was a good woman, but sometimes he thought she would rather +have enjoyed having him, John Holden, go in a bit more for wickedness, +go a little on the loose, now and then. He never did anything she had +to forgive him for. Perhaps she hungered for the opportunity to forgive. + +Odd thoughts, eh? Well, what was a fellow to do? One had but the one +life to live. One had to think of oneself. + +Botheration! John Holden had rather counted on the trip back to Caxton, +had really counted on it more than he realized. It was a bright summer +day. He had been driving for days over the mountains of Pennsylvania, +through New York State, through eastern Ohio. Gertrude, his wife, had +died during the summer before, and his one son, a lad of twelve, had +gone away for the summer to a boys’ camp in Vermont. + +The idea had just come to him. “I’ll drive the car along slowly through +the country, drinking it in. I need a rest, time to think. What I +really need is to renew old acquaintances. I’ll go back to Caxton and +stay several days. I’ll see Herman and Frank and Joe. Then I’ll go +call on Lillian and Kate. What a lot of fun, really!” It might just +be that when he got to Caxton, the Caxton ball team would be playing +a game, say with a team from Yerington. Lillian might go to the game +with him. It was in his mind faintly that Lillian had never married. +How did he know that? He had heard nothing from Caxton for many years. +The ball game would be in Heffler’s field, and he and Lillian would go +out there, walking under the maple trees along Turner Street, past the +old stave factory, then in the dust of the road, past where the sawmill +used to stand, and on into the field itself. He would be carrying a +sunshade over Lillian’s head, and Bob French would be standing at the +gate where you went into the field and charging the people twenty-five +cents to see the game. + +Well, it would not be Bob; his son perhaps. There would be something +very nice in the notion of Lillian’s going off to a ball game that way +with an old sweetheart. A crowd of boys, women and men, going through a +cattle gate into Heffler’s field, tramping through the dust, young men +with their sweethearts, a few gray-haired women, mothers of boys who +belonged to the team, Lillian and he sitting in the rickety grandstand +in the hot sun. + +Once it had been--how they had felt, he and Lillian, sitting there +together! It had been rather hard to keep the attention centered on +the players in the field. One couldn’t ask a neighbor, “Who’s ahead +now, Caxton or Yerington?” Lillian’s hands lay in her lap. What white, +delicate, expressive hands they were! Once--that was just before he +went away to live in the city with his uncle and but a month after +his mother died--he and Lillian went to the ball field together at +night. His father had died when he was a young lad, and he had no +relatives left in the town. Going off to the ball field at night was +maybe a risky thing for Lillian to do--risky for her reputation if +any one found it out--but she had seemed willing enough. You know how +small-town girls of that age are? + +Her father owned a retail shoe store in Caxton and was a good, +respectable man; but the Holdens--John’s father had been a lawyer. + +After they got back from the ball field that night--it must have +been after midnight--they went to sit on the front porch before her +father’s house. He must have known. A daughter cavorting about half +the night with a young man that way! They had clung to each other +with a sort of queer, desperate feeling neither understood. She did +not go into the house until after three o’clock, and went then only +because he insisted. He hadn’t wanted to ruin her reputation. Why, he +might have---- She was like a little frightened child at the thought of +his going away. He was twenty-two then, and she must have been about +eighteen. + +Eighteen and twenty-two are forty. John Holden was forty on the day +when he sat at lunch at the hotel in the town ten miles from Caxton. + +Now, he thought, he might be able to walk through the streets of Caxton +to the ball park with Lillian with a certain effect. You know how it +is. One has to accept the fact that youth is gone. If there should turn +out to be such a ball game and Lillian would go with him, he would +leave the car in the garage and ask her to walk. One saw pictures of +that sort of thing in the movies--a man coming back to his native +village after twenty years; a new beauty taking the place of the beauty +of youth--something like that. In the spring the leaves on maple trees +are lovely, but they are even more lovely in the fall--a flame of +color; manhood and womanhood. + +After he had finished his lunch John did not feel very comfortable. +The road to Caxton--it used to take nearly three hours to travel the +distance with a horse and buggy, but now, and without any effort, the +distance could be made in twenty minutes. + +He lit a cigar and went for a walk not in the streets of Caxton, but +in the streets of the town ten miles away. If he got to Caxton in the +evening, just at dusk, say, now---- + +With an inward pang John realized that he wanted darkness, the +kindliness of soft evening lights. Lillian, Joe, Herman, and the rest. +It had been eighteen years for the others as well as for himself. Now +he had succeeded, a little, in twisting his fear of Caxton into fear +for the others, and it made him feel somewhat better; but at once he +realized what he was doing and again felt uncomfortable. One had to +look out for changes, new people, new buildings, middle-aged people +grown old, youth grown middle-aged. At any rate, he was thinking of +the other now; he wasn’t, as when he wrote letters home eighteen years +before, thinking only of himself. “Am I?” It was a question. + +An absurd situation, really. He had sailed along so gaily through upper +New York State, through western Pennsylvania, through eastern Ohio. Men +were at work in the fields and in the towns, farmers drove into towns +in their cars, clouds of dust arose on some distant road, seen across a +valley. Once he had stopped his car near a bridge and gone for a walk +along the banks of a creek where it wound through a wood. + +He was liking people. Well, he had never before given much time to +people, to thinking of them and their affairs. “I hadn’t time,” he +told himself. He had always realized that, while he was a good enough +architect, things move fast in America. New men were coming on. He +couldn’t take chances of going on forever on his uncle’s reputation. A +man had to be always on the alert. Fortunately, his marriage had been a +help. It had made valuable connections for him. + +Twice he had picked up people on the road. There was a lad of sixteen +from some town of eastern Pennsylvania, working his way westward toward +the Pacific coast by picking up rides in cars--a summer’s adventure. +John had carried him all of one day and had listened to his talk with +keen pleasure. And so this was the younger generation. The boy had nice +eyes and an eager, friendly manner. He smoked cigarettes, and once, +when they had a puncture, he was very quick and eager about changing +the tire. “Now, don’t you soil your hands, Mister; I can do it like a +flash,” he said, and he did. The boy said he intended working his way +overland to the Pacific coast, where he would try to get a job of some +kind on an ocean freighter, and that, if he did, he would go on around +the world. “But do you speak any foreign languages?” The boy did not. +Across John Holden’s mind flashed pictures of hot Eastern deserts, +crowded Asiatic towns, wild half-savage mountain countries. As a young +architect, and before his uncle died, he had spent two years in foreign +travel, studying building in many countries; but he said nothing of +this thought to the boy. Vast plans entered into with eager boyish +abandon, a world tour undertaken as he, when a young man, might have +undertaken to find his way from his uncle’s house in East Eighty-first +Street downtown to the Battery. “How do I know--perhaps he will do it,” +John thought. The day in company with the boy had been very pleasant, +and he had been on the alert to pick him up again the next morning; but +the boy had gone on his way, had caught a ride with some earlier riser. +Why hadn’t John invited him to his hotel for the night? The notion +hadn’t come to him until too late. + +Youth, rather wild and undisciplined, running wild, eh? I wonder why I +never did it, never wanted to do it. + +If he had been a bit wilder, more reckless--that night, that time when +he and Lillian--“It’s all right being reckless with yourself, but when +some one else is involved, a young girl in a small town, you yourself +lighting out”--He remembered sharply that on the night, long before, as +he sat with Lillian on the porch before her father’s house his hand--It +had seemed as though Lillian, on that evening, might not have objected +to anything he wanted to do. He had thought--well, he had thought of +the consequences. Women must be protected by men, all that sort of +thing. Lillian had seemed rather stunned when he walked away, even +though it was three o’clock in the morning. She had been rather like a +person waiting at a railroad station for the coming of a train. There +is a blackboard, and a strange man comes out and writes on it, “Train +Number 287 has been discontinued”--something like that. + +Well, it had been all right, everything had been all right. + +Later, four years later, he had married a New York woman of good +family. Even in a city like New York, where there are so many people, +her family had been well known. They had connections. + +After marriage, sometimes, it is true, he had wondered. Gertrude used +to look at him sometimes with an odd light in her eyes. That boy he +picked up in the road--once during the day when he said something to +the boy, the same queer look came into his eyes. It would be rather +upsetting if one knew that the boy had purposely avoided him next +morning. There had been Gertrude’s cousin. Once, after his marriage, +John heard a rumor that Gertrude had wanted to marry that cousin, but +of course he had said nothing to her. Why should he have? She was his +wife. There had been, he had heard, a good deal of family objection to +the cousin. He was reputed to be wild, a gambler and drinker. + +Once the cousin came to the Holden apartment at two in the morning, +drunk and demanding that he be allowed to see Gertrude, and she slipped +on a dressing-gown and went down to him. That was in the hallway of the +apartment, downstairs, where almost any one might have come in and seen +her. As a matter of fact, the elevator boy and the janitor did see her. +She had stood in the hallway below talking for nearly an hour. What +about? He had never asked Gertrude directly, and she had never told him +anything. When she came upstairs again and had got into her bed, he lay +in his own bed trembling, but remained silent. He had been afraid that +if he spoke he might say something rude; better keep still. The cousin +had disappeared. John had a suspicion that Gertrude later supplied him +with money. He went out West somewhere. + +Now Gertrude was dead. She had always seemed very well, but suddenly +she was attacked by a baffling kind of slow fever that lasted nearly a +year. Sometimes she seemed about to get better, and then suddenly the +fever grew worse. It might be that she did not want to live. What a +notion! John had been at the bedside with the doctor when she died. It +was at night, and as the boy was asleep, he was not called. There was +something of the same feeling he had had that night of his youth when +he went with Lillian to the ball field, an odd sense of futility, of +inadequacy. There was no doubt that in some subtle way both women had +accused him. + +Of what? There had always been, in some vague, indefinable way, a kind +of accusation in the attitude toward him of his uncle, the architect, +and of his aunt. They had left him their money, but---- It was as though +the uncle had said, as though Lillian during that night long ago had +said---- + +Had they all said the same thing, and was Gertrude his wife saying it +as she lay dying? A smile. “You have always taken such good care of +yourself, haven’t you, John dear? You have observed the rules. You have +taken no chances for yourself or the others.” She had actually said +something of that sort to him once in a moment of anger. + + + II + +In the small town ten miles from Caxton there wasn’t any park to +which a man could go to sit. If one stayed about the hotel, some one +from Caxton might come in. “Hello, what are you doing here?” It would +be inconvenient to explain: “I didn’t want to go to Caxton in the +daylight. I want the kindliness of evening light for myself and the +people I may see there.” + +John Holden’s boy--he was but twelve--one might say his character had +not begun to form yet. One felt in him sometimes a sort of unconscious +and casual selfishness, an unawareness of others, a rather unhealthy +sharpness about getting the best of others. It was a thing that should +be corrected in him and at once. John Holden had got himself into a +small panic. “I must write him a letter at once. Such a habit gets +fixed in a boy and then in the man, and it cannot later be shaken +off. There are such a lot of people living in the world! Every +man and woman has his own point of view. To be civilized, really, +is to be aware of the others, their hopes, their gladnesses, their +disillusionments in life.” + +John Holden was now walking along a residence street of a small Ohio +town composing in fancy a letter to his son in the boys’ camp up in +Vermont. He was a man who wrote to his son every day. “I think a man +should,” he told himself. “One should remember that now the boy has no +mother.” + +He had come to an outlying railroad station. It was neat, with grass +and flowers growing in a round bed in the very center of a lawn. Some +man, the station agent and telegraph operator perhaps, passed him and +went inside the station. John followed him in. On the wall of the +waiting room there was a framed copy of the timetable, and he stood +studying it. A train went to Caxton at five. Another train came from +Caxton and passed through the town he was now in at seven-forty-three, +the seven-nineteen out of Caxton. The man in the small business section +of the station opened a sliding panel and looked at him. The two men +just stared at each other without speaking, and then the panel was slid +shut again. + +John looked at his watch. Two-twenty-eight. At about six he could drive +over to Caxton and dine at the hotel there. After he had dined, it +would be evening, and people would be coming into the main street. + +The seven-nineteen would come in. When John was a lad, sometimes, he, +Joe, Herman, and often several other lads climbed on the front of the +baggage- or mail-car and stole a ride to the very town he was now in. +What a thrill, crouched down in the gathering darkness on the platform +as the train ran the ten miles, the car rocking from side to side! When +it got a little dark, in the fall or spring, the fields beside the +track were lighted up when the fireman opened his fire-box to throw in +coal. Once John saw a rabbit running along in the glare of light beside +the track. He could have reached down and caught it with his hand. In +the neighboring town the boys went into saloons and played pool and +drank beer. They could depend upon catching a ride back home on the +local freight that got to Caxton at about ten-thirty. On one of the +adventures John and Herman got drunk, and Joe had to help them into an +empty coal car and later get them out at Caxton. Herman got sick, and +when they were getting off the freight at Caxton, he stumbled and came +very near falling under the wheels of the moving train. John wasn’t as +drunk as Herman. When the others weren’t looking, he had poured several +of the glasses of beer into a spittoon. In Caxton he and Joe had to +walk about with Herman for several hours, and when John finally got +home, his mother was still awake and was worried. He had to lie to her. +“I drove out into the country with Herman, and a wheel broke. We had to +walk home.” The reason Joe could carry his beer so well was because he +was German. His father owned the town meat market, and the family had +beer on the table at home. No wonder it did not knock him out as it did +Herman and John. + +There was a bench at the side of the railroad station, in the shade, +and John sat there for a long time--two hours, three hours. Why hadn’t +he brought a book? In fancy he composed a letter to his son and in +it he spoke of the fields lying beside the road outside the town of +Caxton, of his greeting old friends there, of things that had happened +when he was a boy. He even spoke of his former sweetheart, of Lillian. +If he now thought out just what he was going to say in the letter, +he could write it in his room at the hotel over in Caxton in a few +minutes without having to stop and think what he was going to say. You +can’t always be too fussy about what you say to a young boy. Really, +sometimes, you should take him into your confidence, into your life, +make him a part of your life. + +It was six-twenty when John drove into Caxton and went to the hotel, +where he registered, and was shown to a room. On the street as he +drove into town he saw Billy Baker, who, when he was a young man, had +a paralyzed leg that dragged along the sidewalk when he walked. Now +he was getting old; his face seemed wrinkled and faded, like a dried +lemon, and his clothes had spots down the front. People, even sick +people, live a long time in small Ohio towns. It is surprising how +they hang on. + +John had put his car, of a rather expensive make, into a garage beside +the hotel. Formerly, in his day, the building had been used as a +livery-barn. There used to be pictures of famous trotting and pacing +horses on the walls of the little office at the front. Old Dave Grey, +who owned racehorses of his own, ran the livery-barn then, and John +occasionally hired a rig there. He hired a rig and took Lillian for a +ride into the country, along moonlit roads. By a lonely farmhouse a dog +barked. Sometimes they drove along a little dirt road lined with elders +and stopped the horse. How still everything was! What a queer feeling +they had! They couldn’t talk. Sometimes they sat in silence thus, very +near each other, for a long, long time. Once they got out of the buggy, +having tied the horse to the fence, and walked in a newly cut hayfield. +The cut hay lay all about in little cocks. John wanted to lie on one of +the hay-cocks with Lillian, but did not dare suggest it. + +At the hotel John ate his dinner in silence. There wasn’t even a +traveling salesman in the dining room, and presently the proprietor’s +wife came and stood by his table to talk with him. They had a good many +tourists, but this just happened to be a quiet day. Dull days came that +way in the hotel business. The woman’s husband was a traveling man and +had bought the hotel to give his wife something to keep her interested +while he was on the road. He was away from home so much! They had come +to Caxton from Pittsburgh. + +After he had dined, John went up to his room, and presently the woman +followed. The door leading into the hall had been left open, and she +came and stood in the doorway. Really, she was rather handsome. She +only wanted to be sure that everything was all right, that he had +towels and soap and everything he needed. + +For a time she lingered by the door talking of the town. + +“It’s a good little town. General Hurst is buried here. You should +drive out to the cemetery and see the statue.” He wondered who General +Hurst was. In what war had he fought? Odd that he hadn’t remembered +about him. The town had a piano factory, and there was a watch company +from Cincinnati talking of putting up a plant. “They figure there is +less chance of labor trouble in a small town like this.” + +The woman went, going reluctantly. As she was going along the hallway +she stopped once and looked back. There was something a little queer. +They were both self-conscious. “I hope you’ll be comfortable,” she +said. At forty a man did not come home to his own home town to +start---- A traveling man’s wife, eh? Well! well! + +At seven-forty-five John went out for a walk on Main Street and almost +at once he met Tom Ballard, who at once recognized him, a fact that +pleased Tom. He bragged about it. “Once I see a face, I never forget. +Well! Well!” When John was twenty-two Tom must have been about fifteen. +His father was the leading doctor of the town. He took John in tow, +walked back with him toward the hotel. He kept exclaiming: “I knew you +at once. You haven’t changed much, really.” + +Tom was in his turn a doctor, and there was about him something---- +Right away John guessed what it was. They went up into John’s room, +and John, having in his bag a bottle of whiskey, poured Tom a drink, +which he took somewhat too eagerly, John thought. There was talk. After +Tom had taken the drink he sat on the edge of the bed still holding +the bottle John had passed to him. Herman was running a dray now. +He had married Kit Small and had five kids. Joe was working for the +International Harvester Company. “I don’t know whether he’s in town now +or not. He’s a trouble-shooter, a swell mechanic, a good fellow,” Tom +said. They drank again. + +As for Lillian, mentioned with an air of being casual by John, he, +John, knew of course that she had been married and divorced. There +was some sort of trouble about another man. Her husband married +again later, and now she lived with her mother, her father, the +shoe merchant, having died. Tom spoke somewhat guardedly, as though +protecting a friend. + +“I guess she’s all right now, going straight and all. Good thing she +never had any kids. She’s a little nervous and queer; has lost her +looks a good deal.” + +The two men went downstairs and, walking along Main Street, got into a +car belonging to the doctor. + +“I’ll take you for a little ride,” Tom said; but as he was about to +pull away from the curb where the car had been parked, he turned and +smiled at his passenger. “We ought to celebrate a little, account of +your coming back here,” he said. “What do you say to a quart?” + +John handed him a ten-dollar bill, and he disappeared into a near-by +drug store. When he came back he laughed. + +“I used your name all right. They didn’t recognize it. In the +prescription I wrote out I said you had a general breakdown, that you +needed to be built up. I recommended that you take a teaspoonful three +times a day. Lord! my prescription book is getting almost empty.” The +drug store belonged to a man named Will Bennett. “You remember him, +maybe. He’s Ed Bennett’s son; married Carrie Wyatt.” The names were but +dim things in John’s mind. “This man is going to get drunk. He is going +to try to get me drunk, too,” he thought. + +When they had turned out of Main Street and into Walnut Street they +stopped midway between two street lights and had another drink, John +holding the bottle to his lips, but putting his tongue over the +opening. He remembered the evenings with Joe and Herman when he had +secretly poured his beer into a spittoon. He felt cold and lonely. +Walnut Street was one along which he used to walk, coming home late at +night from Lillian’s house. He remembered people who then lived along +the street, and a list of names began running through his head. Often +the names remained, but did not call up images of people. They were +just names. He hoped the doctor would not turn the car into the street +in which the Holdens had lived. Lillian had lived over in another part +of town, in what was called “the Red House District.” Just why it had +been called that John did not know. + + + III + +They drove silently along, up a small hill, and came to the edge of +town, going south. Stopping before a house that had evidently been +built since John’s time, Tom sounded his horn. + +“Didn’t the fair-ground use to stand about here?” John asked. The +doctor turned and nodded his head. + +“Yes, just here,” he said. He kept on sounding his horn, and a man and +woman came out of the house and stood in the road beside the car. + +“Let’s get Maud and Alf and all go over to Lylse’s Point,” Tom said. +He had indeed taken John into tow. For a time John wondered if he was +to be introduced. “We got some hooch. Meet John Holden; used to live +here years ago.” At the fair-ground, when John was a lad, Dave Grey, +the livery-man, used to work out his racehorses in the early morning. +Herman, who was a horse enthusiast, who then dreamed of some day +becoming a horseman, came often to John’s house in the early morning, +and the two boys went off to the fair-ground without breakfast. Herman +had got some sandwiches made of slices of bread and cold meat out of +his mother’s pantry. They went ’cross-lots, climbing fences and eating +the sandwiches. In a meadow they had to cross there was heavy dew on +the grass, and the meadow larks flew up before them. Herman had at +least come somewhere near expressing in his life his youthful passion: +he still lived about horses; he owned a dray. With a little inward +qualm John wondered. Perhaps Herman ran a motor truck. + +The man and woman got into the car, the woman on the back seat with +John, the husband in front with Tom, and they drove away to another +house. John could not keep track of the streets they passed through. +Occasionally he asked the woman, “What street are we in now?” They were +joined by Maud and Alf, who also crowded into the back seat. Maud was +a slender woman of twenty-eight or thirty, with yellow hair and blue +eyes, and at once she seemed determined to make up to John. “I don’t +take more than an inch of room,” she said, laughing and squeezing +herself in between John and the first woman, whose name he could not +later remember. + +He rather liked Maud. When the car had been driven some eighteen +miles along a gravel road, they came to Lylse’s farmhouse, which had +been converted into a roadhouse, and got out. Maud had been silent +most of the way, but she sat very close to John, and as he felt cold +and lonely, he was grateful for the warmth of her slender body. +Occasionally she spoke to him in a half-whisper. “Ain’t the night +swell! Gee! I like it out in the dark this way.” + +Lylse’s Point was at a bend of the Samson River, a small stream to +which John as a lad had occasionally gone on fishing excursions with +his father. Later he went out there several times with crowds of young +fellows and their girls. They drove out then in Grey’s old bus, and the +trip out and back took several hours. On the way home at night they +had great fun singing at the top of their voices and waking sleeping +farmers along the road. Occasionally some of the party got out and +walked for a ways. It was a chance for a fellow to kiss his girl when +the others could not see. By hurrying a little, they could later easily +enough catch up with the bus. + +A rather heavy-faced Italian named Francisco owned Lylse’s, and it +had a dance hall and dining room. Drinks could be had if you knew +the ropes, and it was evident the doctor and his friends were old +acquaintances. At once they declared John should not buy anything, the +declaration, in fact, being made before he had offered. “You’re our +guest now; don’t you forget that. When we come sometime to your town, +then it will be all right,” Tom said. He laughed. “And that makes me +think. I forgot your change,” he said, handing John a five-dollar bill. +The whiskey got at the drug store had been consumed on the way out, all +except John and Maud drinking heartily. “I don’t like the stuff. Do +you, Mr. Holden?” Maud said and giggled. Twice during the trip out her +fingers had crept over and touched lightly his fingers, and each time +she had apologized. “Oh, do excuse me!” she said. John felt a little as +he had felt earlier in the evening when the woman of the hotel had come +to stand at the door of his room and had seemed reluctant about going +away. + +After they got out of the car at Lylse’s, he felt uncomfortably old +and queer. “What am I doing here with these people?” he kept asking +himself. When they had got into the light, he stole a look at his +watch. It was not yet nine o’clock. Several other cars, most of them, +the doctor explained, from Yerington, stood before the door, and when +they had taken several drinks of rather mild Italian red wine, all of +the party except Maud and John went into the dance hall to dance. The +doctor took John aside and whispered to him. “Lay off Maud,” he said. +He explained hurriedly that Alf and Maud had been having a row and that +for several days they had not spoken to each other, although they lived +in the same house, ate at the same table, and slept in the same bed. +“He thinks she gets too gay with men,” Tom explained. “You better look +out a little.” + +The woman and man sat on a bench under a tree on the lawn before the +house, and when the others had danced, they came out, bringing more +drinks. Tom had got some more whiskey. “It’s moon, but pretty good +stuff,” he declared. In the clear sky overhead stars were shining, and +when the others were dancing, John turned his head and saw across the +road and between the trees that lined its banks the stars reflected in +the water of the Samson. A light from the house fell on Maud’s face, +a rather strikingly lovely face in that light, but when looked at +closely, rather petulant. “A good deal of the spoiled child in her,” +John thought. + +She began asking him about life in the city of New York. + +“I was there once, but for only three days. It was when I went to +school in the East. A girl I knew lived there. She married a lawyer +named Trigan, or something like that. You didn’t know him, I guess.” + +And now there was a hungry, dissatisfied look on her face. + +“God! I’d like to live in a place like that, not in this hole! There +hadn’t no man better tempt me.” When she said that she giggled again. +Once during the evening they walked across the dusty road and stood for +a time by the river’s edge, but got back to the bench before the others +had finished their dance. Maud persistently refused to dance. + +At ten-thirty, all of the others having got a little drunk, they drove +back to town, Maud again sitting beside John. On the drive Alf went to +sleep. Maud pressed her slender body against John’s, and after two or +three futile moves to which he made no special response, she boldly put +her hand into his. The second woman and her husband talked with Tom +of people they had seen at Lylse’s. “Do you think there’s anything up +between Fanny and Joe? No; I think she’s on the square.” + +They got to John’s hotel at eleven-thirty, and bidding them all good +night, he went upstairs. Alf had awakened. When they were parting, he +leaned out of the car and looked closely at John. “What did you say +your name was?” he asked. + +John went up a dark stairway and sat on the bed in his room. Lillian +had lost her looks. She had married, and her husband had divorced her. +Joe was a trouble-shooter. He worked for the International Harvester +Company, a swell mechanic. Herman was a drayman. He had five kids. + +Three men in a room next John’s were playing poker. They laughed and +talked, and their voices came clearly to John. “You think so, do +you? Well, I’ll prove you’re wrong.” A mild quarrel began. As it was +summer, the windows of John’s room were open, and he went to one to +stand, looking out. A moon had come up, and he could see down into +an alleyway. Two men came out of a street and stood in the alleyway, +whispering. After they left, two cats crept along a roof and began a +love-making scene. The game in the next room broke up. John could hear +voices in the hallway. + +“Now, forget it. I tell you, you’re both wrong.” John thought of his +son at the camp up in Vermont. “I haven’t written him a letter today.” +He felt guilty. + +Opening his bag, he took out paper and sat down to write; but after two +or three attempts gave it up and put the paper away again. How fine the +night had been as he sat on the bench beside the woman at Lylse’s! Now +the woman was in bed with her husband. They were not speaking to each +other. + +“Could I do it?” John asked himself, and then, for the first time that +evening, a smile came to his lips. + +“Why not?” he asked himself. + +With his bag in his hand he went down the dark hallway and into the +hotel office and began pounding on a desk. A fat old man with thin red +hair and sleep-heavy eyes appeared from somewhere. John explained. + +“I can’t sleep. I think I’ll drive on. I want to get to Pittsburgh and +as I can’t sleep, I might as well be driving.” He paid his bill. + +Then he asked the clerk to go and arouse the man in the garage, and +gave him an extra dollar. “If I need gas, is there any place open?” +he asked, but evidently the man did not hear. Perhaps he thought the +question absurd. + +He stood in the moonlight on the sidewalk before the door of the hotel +and heard the clerk pounding on a door. Presently voices were heard, +and the headlights of his car shone. The car appeared, driven by a boy. +He seemed very alive and alert. + +“I saw you out to Lylse’s,” he said, and, without being asked, went to +look at the tank. “You’re all right; you got ’most eight gallons,” he +assured John as he climbed into the driver’s seat. + +How friendly the car, how friendly the night! John was not one who +enjoyed fast driving, but he went out of the town at very high speed. +“You go down two blocks, turn to your right, and go three. There you +hit the cement. Go right straight to the east. You can’t miss it.” + +John was taking the turns at racing speed. At the edge of town some one +shouted to him from the darkness, but he did not stop. He hungered to +get into the road going east. + +“I’ll let her out,” he thought. “Lord! It will be fun! I’ll let her +out.” + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [2] Copyright, 1925, by The Century Co. + Copyright, 1926, by Sherwood Anderson. + + + + + GERTRUDE DONOVAN[3] + + By NATHAN ASCH + + (From _The Transatlantic Review_) + + +A sound of cutting reached her ears. She halted and listened. So they +were ripping the ticker out, as Charlie said they would. Then it was +all over. She didn’t believe it yet. Failed. Bankrupt. She didn’t +understand it. What did it mean? Then she remembered what Charlie +had further said: a new job. And she saw a picture of herself going +downtown to the employment office early in the morning; filling out a +blank; being told that she would be notified if an opening could be +found. Then waiting; every morning waiting for the postman, and finding +that there was nothing for her. Then the call at the office. The +manager would first look at her legs, then at her neck. + +He would measure her with his eyes. The old look. She tried to picture +the new boss. Fat? Thin? Good looking? Will he try to get fresh? She’d +put him in his place. + +She became angry. They had no business hiring her, if they were going +to fail. She wasn’t working for love. It’s no fun to be looking for a +new job every day. Just as you get started, and the clerks stop looking +at you as if you were lying naked on the bed waiting for them, you’ve +got to give it all up and start all over again. + +Her hands began automatically to hit the keys. And the Hudson Seal: +she’d have to forget that, for this year. Mother would never let her +off on the board. She’d start crying about the high prices, and the +raise in rent, and a million and one other things. Then she’d look at +her as if she were murdering her. No coat and no permanent wave next +month. + +Her hand momentarily stopped typing, and touched her hair; then opening +a drawer in her desk, she took out a patent leather bag, from which she +extracted a small mirror and examined her hair. It was getting loose. +They charged you twenty dollars and it didn’t last more than a month. + +She took out a powder puff, and powdered herself, twisting her lower +lip over the upper and blowing at her nose. + +A pink light shone out of the call box, and taking a pad and a pencil, +she walked out of her cubicle. + +With Mr. Glymmer in the room were Mr. Reed and Harry Widener. They did +not notice her entrance but kept on talking with gravity. She sat down +in the soft chair that she always took, crossed her legs, and did not +adjust her skirt as she always did when the junior partner was not +there, and waited. Her hand went once again to her hair, lifting it +near the temples. + +He was nice. Much nicer than Jim Denby. He always looked at you nice, +and his dark eyes looked into yours something personal. He was a man. +And he didn’t look as if he played servant girl to any woman, like Jim +did. It was nice; it was equal, it was. + +She caught a few words. Protective Committee and Supreme Court. Reed +was as usual very cool, he sat on the edge of the desk, and his fingers +played with a cigarette holder. Glymmer seemed more nervous. She didn’t +like him. Too anxious to please always. Not to her or to the other +clerks, but to the customers, or to his partners. She didn’t like his +smile. She never had liked it. She wouldn’t trust any man with a smile +like that. + +She looked again at Harry Widener. He seemed amused at the whole +affair. He hardly said a word, just looked at them, the corners of his +mouth curled up. Then he looked at her, and she stiffened up. But his +gaze immediately dissolved. + +Then Mr. Glymmer began to dictate. She copied his words, with +concentration as always, forgetting everything else, even ignoring the +meaning of what she wrote. When he had finished, she rose and prepared +to leave. But she stopped and asked. + +“Mr. Glymmer, will the office be open tomorrow?” + +“Mr. Zuckor, when he returns, will have an announcement to make.” + +She became angry again, considered whether she should bang the door, +became frightened, and then resolved that since she was losing her +position she might as well bang it. So she did, and walked into the +general office. + +“Well, Cutie,” said Charlie when he saw her, “it’s up.” + +“Do we work, tomorrow?” she asked. + +“Not a chance. Better take a typewriter home with you. It’ll be your +pay.” The other clerks laughed. + +“If I don’t get my pay,” she said, “I’ll have Mr. Glymmer arrested.” + +“Harry Widener, too?” asked Charlie. + +She stiffened up and said: + +“Mind your business.” And walked back to her desk. + +She began to copy the letter Mr. Glymmer had dictated to her. In typing +it was different than in shorthand taking: she could think as much as +she wanted to; the eyes communicated to the fingers unconsciously. + +Harry Widener arrested! Harry Widener arrested! Arrested! Arrested! + +“I know one thing,” she said nearly loud. “If Harry Widener asked me, I +wouldn’t care if he were married a million times; I’d go with him.” She +became frightened, and looked around to see if anybody were listening. +Then she said in a high voice: + +“I would!” + +The telephone bell rang. Still repeating, “I would,” she answered it. A +familiar heavy voice came from the other end: + +“That you, Gertie?” + +Jim. Oh, bother. What did he want? + +“Just heard the news,” he said. “What are you going to do?” + +She kept silent. In her mind she was comparing Harry Widener with Jim +Denby. “He’s got better eyes and a better figure; and he’s nicer. Yes, +he’s lots nicer.” + +“Gertie,” she heard. + +“What?” + +“I’m coming around tonight. I’ve got something to tell you.” + +She wished he wouldn’t. She didn’t want him around that night. And his +hair was nicer. Straight and nice, not all curled up. And she’d bet he +didn’t look so foolish when he kissed somebody. + +“I’m tired, Jim,” she said. + +And she thought, “I’d bet if he were asking me to see him tonight, he +wouldn’t ask like that: he’d say something.” + +“It’s all right, Gert. I won’t stay long.” + +She hung up. What did he want from her? He would come around tonight, +pestering. Would she marry him? He had two thousand saved up. Live in +the Bronx. Two rooms and a kitchen. Toilet on the floor. Bath in the +wash bowl. Not she. + +Then Miss James, the telephone girl, came in. They began talking. Miss +James told Gertie where she might look for a job. + +“He told me yesterday,” she said. “Theatrical office. Twenty-two a +week, and you don’t get killed like here on the Street.” + +Theatrical office. Maybe she’d get a chance to go on the stage. She’d +been quite good at it in school. And then Jim had taken her a few times +to the theater. It was easy. All you needed was pull. + +And then, maybe Harry Widener. If she’d be an actress, it would be all +right. Actresses can do those things. Why, you read about them in the +papers. + +“I don’t know,” she said to Miss James. “A girl is taking an awful +chance going to one of those theatrical offices. Why, the manager would +want you to do all kinds of things for the job.” + +“What’s the difference,” said Miss James. “Twenty-two a week. Me for +money. If I could take shorthand....” + +The afternoon slowly wore on. At four Zuckor came into her office and +dictated to her an announcement, that owing to the liquidation of +the firm’s assets the office would be closed. Gertrude copied what +he said without hearing it. The office had stopped interesting her. +She was leaving, and it already represented a forgotten past. And she +would have completely ignored this fact of bankruptcy if not that it +represented a parting from Harry Widener. In the few months that she +had been with Glymmer, Reed the junior partner had become a part of +her. True she knew that, while in the office, there was a gulf that +divided them, a gulf that was insurmountable: the difference between +employer and employee. Each one had his or her rights, which were +not to be disregarded. And although at times she almost wished that +the junior partner would tear that difference away, something within +herself said, that if he did, he would not be Harry Widener, and she +would cease being Gerty Donovan. She knew that although physically +they would come nearer, there would be a complete divorce of their +spirits. And she knew that now their spirits were near, that he noticed +her, that when she passed he looked at her with eyes puzzled, and that +whenever their eyes met, for however a fleeting moment, a union had +been accomplished. And she had been satisfied, even gratified by this +fleeting communion. + +He had been her criterion. She had used him as a standard by which she +measured all her acquaintances. She had never been dissatisfied with +Jim Denby. She had known him for a long time, for so long that the +beginning of their acquaintance was completely forgotten. She had taken +for granted that some day she would marry him, she had been encouraged +in this thought by her mother, by all who knew her. She had to get her +man. + +But when she had seen Harry Widener, she became doubtful. Intuitively +she knew that he was a higher type of man than her accepted future +husband. And although she could not define his finesse, nor possibly +even locate it, she knew it existed. And she noticed that in all +comparisons Jim failed and Widener triumphed. + +And possibly she would have been satisfied with Jim if she could +continue to see the other. Even to be near him. She somehow felt +cleaner, more refined, in a higher world with the junior partner. She +saw him rarely. He did not come into the office often, but stayed at +his club, from where he sent in any new business he had secured. But +sometimes he did come, and she knew he would, and it was enough. He +was a rare drug, that she needed but seldom, but without which she felt +she could not live. + +And now it was over. Harry Widener was no more. She was to go home and +stay with Jim Denby. She was made for such as he. For men with warm, +moist palms, and warm, moist faces, and warm, moist looks. For men +who do not take but beg. For sixty dollars a week, and a bookkeeper’s +household, and a bookkeeper’s children, and a bookkeeper’s life. Oh! +Hell! + +Absentmindedly she cleaned her typewriter, and was ready to place the +cover, and then she remembered that it didn’t matter, and left it where +it always lay during the day, under her desk. Then she turned to the +wall where her cloak and hat were hung. No, she should go into the +general office and say goodbye. She didn’t want to. But she might yet +see Harry Widener. So she went in. + +She was surprised to see the office as it had always been. It was not +at all changed. You might come in tomorrow and begin to work again. +Possibly it was all a lie. Or a joke. There was no failure. It would +go on as before. And she would continue to see Harry Widener. Harry +Widener. Harry Widener. Harry Widener, something shouted into her ear. + +She saw him halfway across the general office. He was sitting on a +desk, reading an evening paper, and smoking. The blue smoke twined +itself about his manicured finger nails. Run over to him now, and ... +and what? Why, kiss him, of course, and tell him you want him, that he +can do anything he wants to with you. He can walk over you, and spit on +you. But quick, or it’ll be too late. Hurry. Hurry. He’s looking up. +He’s looking. + +“I guess it’s all over, Miss Donovan,” he said with a smile. + +“Yes, Mr. Widener,” she answered. + +“Too bad,” he said, and returned to his paper. + +Her knees weak, she passed him. It was too late. It was too late. Too +late. What shall she do? + +There was a little group near Mr. Zuckor’s desk. He was paying off. He +seemed very pale and very tired. He called her. + +“Miss Donovan, here’s your pay.” + +She came over. Took it. Signed the receipt. Too late. + +She rode home with her mind a blank. She did not even read the paper +which she had automatically bought with her ticket. Somebody gave her +his seat, and she did not thank him, but absentmindedly sat down, drew +on her gloves, and sat. People jostled over her, pressed her knees, +stepped on her pumps, but she ignored this. There was nothing she could +do. Everything was over. And she was not given to brooding. + +Then she came out of the train, walked to the street, and turned the +corner grocery toward her home. This was her neighborhood, where +she had been born, brought up. Here was the motion-picture house, +“The Lakewood,” where, when a little girl, she used to wait outside, +for some one to take her in, children not being admitted without +companions. Later, when she had entered high school, she used to come +here every night, and in a corner, far away from even the dull light, +she would sit with a neighborhood boy and mush: kiss, and soul kiss, +and hold, and he would try to touch her not yet full grown breasts, +and she would refuse and then unwillingly consent. There had been many +couples in the corner, and they would all sit there, ignoring the +picture; just sit in the dark and press one against the other. + +And here was the ice cream parlor, “Gunn’s,” with its inviting display +of sweets, and the little room in the back, with tables. After the +movies she used to come here with her friends, and they would gorge +themselves with the ice cream, ordering the most fancy concoctions, +until their mouths would become like acid, from too many sweets. + +Then she passed the “dark corner” of Harrigans’s, the hardware man’s. +Here was the least light in the neighborhood. And into here, after +the movies and the ice cream, her companion would pull her, and here +they would stand in the shadow of the two glass cases, holding one +another in their arms, and they would seek something which they did not +understand, and did not know where to find it, until she, frightened at +the lateness of the hour, would tear herself away and run home. + +And finally just before her home, she passed the _Borough News_ +printing works, above which was housed the Lakewood Business College, +which she had entered after her two years in high school. Here +was where she had learned stenography, and typing, and the little +bookkeeping she knew. Nearly all her friends had entered this school +which was their stepping-stone into the business world. + +Mother was in the kitchen, and as she took off her coat Gerty wondered +when would be the best time to break the news to her. Before dinner or +after dinner? It would be better to get it over with before, but then +again, dinner would be spoiled; there might even be no dinner at all. +Gerty had no appetite, but she reflected that anything, even eating, +was better than listening to her mother’s lamenting. So she decided to +wait. + +She walked into the dining room, took the doily off the table, went to +the sideboard, and took out the napkins. Automatically she began to set +the table. + +Mother appeared, fat, satisfied, white aproned. + +“That you, Gertie? Jim was here awhile ago. Said he’s coming after +dinner.” + +Gerty said nothing. She placed on the table the salt cellar, the knives +and forks, the only really good things they had in the house. Came from +the family. Solid silver. + +“Would you believe it,” continued her mother, “butter’s sixty cents +a pound. And eggs a dollar a dozen. I gave Strinelli a piece of my +mind. Mrs. Brown told me he’s got no end of eggs in his cellar, and +he’s keeping them for higher prices. I said to him: ‘It would be a +good thing if they threw you foreigners out. Trying to live on us poor +people. A dollar a dozen for eggs. The idea.’” + +Gerty kept on setting. Even after she had finished placing on the table +everything that apparently was necessary, she continued. She adjusted +the position of the cutlery. Brought water, something very rare. Dusted +off the top of the sideboard. Anything better than talking. An idea +was being born in her mind, and her mother was preventing her from +developing it. + +Harry Widener would be with another firm, of that she was sure. Why +not try to get a job there? She would ask him to recommend her. He +couldn’t refuse her. She had been a good stenographer. Never late. No +nonsense in the office. No peek-a-boo waists or transparent skirts. She +didn’t chew gum or anything. Why shouldn’t she be able to get a job +there? And then she would be with him. + +Her mother fixed her nearsighted eyes on Gerty, followed her movements, +and went on talking. + +“Mrs. Denby’s awfully low. They expect her to go any day. The doctor +said it was cancer of the stomach. Incurable, he said. Lying in St. +Mark’s. Private room. A day nurse. A night nurse. It must be awful for +Jim to pay all that. He’s nice to come down to see us, and his mother +almost dead.” + +Gerty understood her mother’s weak tactics. At other times it amused +her to hear the older woman talking, praising Jim. But now it only +served to irritate her. It was none of Mother’s business whom she was +going to marry. She was free. Earning her own living. She could do as +she pleased. She could even go to live by herself if she wanted to. +She’d save money anyway. And time. With the subway, she was wasting two +hours every day travelling. And if she went out in the evening it was +two more hours lost. If this kept up, she’d do it. She wasn’t going to +listen to anybody’s talking. She was a free and equal human being, she +was. + +“I’m hungry,” she announced. + +Dinner proceeded more or less quietly. The few attempts of the mother +at conversation were promptly squelched by her daughter’s silence. Only +toward the end did Mrs. Donovan begin her attacks again. + +“Jim told me, while he was here, he’s getting a raise at the end of +the month. Three hundred a month, and assistant teller. He might even +get to be assistant cashier some day. One hundred dollars a week and a +private room. He’s a good boy, Jim is.” + +“If you’re going to keep on like this,” said Gerty silently to her +mother, “I won’t tell you about the failure.” + +“And he’s got a flat at One Hundred and Fortieth Street. Two rooms and +a kitchen. The landlord will paper the walls any way you’ll want him +to. Yes, and a bath tub, too. In the kitchen.” + +A few moments before, Harry Widener had been far away, almost +imperceptible. Now he came quite near, and looked at Gerty with his +nice black eyes, and said: “You’re going to be an actress on One +Hundred and Fortieth Street with two rooms and a kitchen. Bath tub in +the kitchen. And you’re going to take dictation on the walls he’ll +decorate for you because you don’t chew gum.” + +She was going crazy. If she wasn’t, her mother was making her. And she +looked at her mother and with her eyes said: “I want Harry Widener, and +I don’t care who knows it. You or Jim Denby or anybody else. I don’t +give a good God damn who knows it.” Like that. + +And aloud she said. + +“I am going to my room.” + +“Better get ready for Jim,” her mother said. “Put on the mauve waist.” + +As she shut the door of her room Gerty reflected that she had not told +her mother of the loss of her position. She didn’t care. Let her mother +worry later. With those dirty tricks. Trying to talk her into marrying +Jim. She wouldn’t have him if he were the last man on earth. Not if he +had all of the world’s gold. And all the diamonds. Not with a face like +that. He’d have to have it made over again. + +She sat down on her bed, adjusted her hair, and said: + +“If he’ll begin pestering me, I’ll send him to hell, I will.” + +Charity. Trying to give her something. Protecting her from the terrible +world. She didn’t want protecting. She wanted to be left alone. People +shouldn’t interfere into what she did. It was all their fault anyway. +If they wouldn’t have interfered, she.... + +“Shut up,” she said to herself, and began unbuttoning her waist. + +“Mauve waist,” she said. “I’ll give him mauve waist. If he’d be a man, +he wouldn’t come around me. He’d stop bothering me. Can’t he see I +don’t want him and his protecting.” + +She walked toward the closet, opened the door, and took off the hook +the mauve waist. Absentmindedly she placed her arms through the +sleeves and buttoned it. Then she sat on the chair before the mirror +and began to powder herself. + +She remembered that once, about two months before, a woman friend of +Harry Widener had come into the office toward the end of an afternoon, +and had waited for him. A woman of his kind. With hair that received +the attention of a frisier, face that was massaged, and hands that +were manicured every day. She had worn a dark tailor-made suit and a +mauve waist with a lace collar cut so low that the upper parts of her +white breasts could be seen in the opening. She was stunning, Gerty had +admitted that to herself. This was class. And when Harry Widener had +come in, she had held out her hand to him, a black kid gloved hand, in +a manner that Gerty knew she could never have imitated. The hand had +gone right out, accompanied by a smile, in which the teeth were shown, +even teeth, and dazzlingly white. And one Saturday afternoon, walking +up Fifth Avenue, Gerty had seen a waist like that: mauve, with a white +lace collar, cut very low. She had bought it, although the price had +been exorbitant and a large part of her salary had been spent in the +purchase. She never dared to wear it in the office, it was cut so low, +and she had been afraid that Widener would notice the resemblance. And +even in the house she wore it only on rare moments. When she wanted to +feel equal to him, to do something that she should want him to see her +do, she dressed in the mauve waist. + +Noticing that the ribbon of her chemise showed in the cut, she untied +it and tucked it into her bosom. Her neck now looked similar to the +neck of the woman in the office. A white triangle deep into her bosom, +with the curve of a breast showing on each side. Her breasts were just +as round as the other’s, and just as white. It would be better to show +a little more. She tucked aside the collar, and the curve became more +pronounced. She sat at the mirror examining her face, fixing her hair. +If he were to see her now, he would not be able to resist her. He would +look at her with his black eyes, his brows would contract a little, +and his nostrils puff out. And his arms would stretch out toward her, +would envelop her, and she would lie in them quiet, unafraid. + +She closed her eyes, and through the shimmering darkness of her lids +she saw Harry Widener. He was looking at her. And she was looking at +him. He was saying to her “You are with me now, and you are quiet.” +And she answered to him, “Yes, I am quiet.” And they sat there in the +darkness, she feeling his odour, and lulled to sleep by it. + +She felt a draught of wind, heard the noise of a door opening, and saw +Harry Widener tumble into the light. She opened her eyes. Her mother +was standing in the doorway. + +Mrs. Donovan was talking, but Gerty did not hear what she said. She +could not orientate herself. She did not recognize her surroundings, +nor the fat woman before her. This was strange to her. She had no place +in the room where she was. She belonged somewhere else. In dazzling, +flickering sunlight with Harry Widener. And peace. + +“You’re a nice one,” her mother was saying. “It’s got to be a stranger +that gives me the news about my own child. Why didn’t you tell me you +were out of a job?” + +Gerty did not answer. She heard somebody talking, felt she was being +reproved, but it did not move her. She had been with him a moment +before, and she still felt his presence. + +Then she heard her mother say: + +“Jim’s in the front room. Better go out to him. And you’d better be +nice to him. You won’t find a better man.” + +Her mother was talking, but Gerty did not understand her words. But she +felt that she was commanded to go, so she stood up and walked toward +the front room. Her mother not understanding, placed herself out of her +way, and let her pass. + +She came into the front room, and looked at the figure sitting on the +sofa, a figure that rose when she entered, and came toward her. She +answered his hello, sat down on the sofa in the spot he had sat in. +Felt him sitting down beside her, noticed her mother had not come in +with her, and sat. + +She tried to gather her thoughts together. Who was it who was sitting +beside her on the sofa? It was Jim Denby. + +No, it was Harry Widener. It was Harry Widener with eyes that were +not so nice, and with a face that tried to be as expressionless as it +could. But no, it could not have been Harry Widener. Harry Widener +looked at you personal like, and decent. And Jim Denby didn’t. He +looked at you as if he wanted to eat you up. He was in love with you. +And Harry wasn’t. Why? + +Further her mind refused to travel. A black cloud came into her brain +and forbade all thought. And she surrendered to the cloud and sat +motionless and thoughtless. + +Then she heard Jim or Harry talking. He was asking her what she would +do. And she did not know how to answer. Because she knew she had to +give two different answers. If this were Jim, she’d have to tell him +she would look for another job, and if this were Harry she’d have to +say.... She could not decide which it was. So she kept quiet. + +Then she heard: + +“Gerty, I’ve got something to tell you.” + +He was speaking. At last he was speaking. This was the moment she had +been waiting for. Now he would look at her with his black eyes, and +fold her around. And peace. + +“Gerty, what’s the use of you looking for a job. You can’t work all +your life. You’re not made for work. You’ve got to stay home and be +taken care of.” + +He stopped, and she waited. Why was he talking? Why didn’t he do it? +She felt he was looking at her, but she did not dare to turn her eyes. +He was gazing at her. His eyes travelled over the waist, went into +the lace collar, and followed its contour to the breasts. Her heart +stopped. Would he recognize it? Would he be angry because she imitated +his lady friend? + +He began speaking again: + +“Gerty, let me take care of you. I can do it. I’ll treat you like a +queen. There won’t be nothing too good for you. I’ll love you, and I’ll +honor you. I’ll be dirt under your feet. You ain’t made for an office. +I’ll be good to you. Swear to God, I will.” + +What was he waiting for? What did he want? Why didn’t he take her? She +was his. She had always been his. Hadn’t she waited for him all this +time. Did she have to teach him how to make love? + +He was evidently waiting for an answer, and while waiting, his gaze +travelled on her breasts. He was looking at them. And involuntarily she +wanted to screen them with her hands, but then remembered who he was, +and felt ashamed. He could do with her what he wanted. He could take +all she had. + +She felt his breath on her face, and closed her unseeing eyes. The +moment had come, and she was not surprised when she felt his arms +around her, enveloping, and his lips on hers. + +And she said: “Yes, I’ll marry you.” + +And he kissed her again and again, and she was satisfied. + +Then she heard steps, and her mother came in. And she heard him say to +her mother that he was going to marry her, and then her mother answered: + +“Jim, I’m glad to hear it.” + +And she looked with her eyes. And she saw it wasn’t Harry. It was Jim! +Jim! Jim! Not Harry! + +In one bound she jumped up, and rushed to her room. When she had banged +the door shut, she threw herself on the bed, and moaned. + +“What did I do? What did I do?” + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [3] Copyright, 1925, by Harcourt, Brace, and Co. + Reprinted by permission of the publishers. + + + + + GUARD OF HONOR[4] + + By BARRY BENEFIELD + + (From _The Pictorial Review_) + + +Once in Asphodel they had called him Willie when he was a little +boy, and then they called him Bill. There came a time when, upon his +occasional trips back to his Arkansas home, his old friends ventured +a little nervously to call him Will, and the Asphodel _Argus_ printed +him as “Mr. William P. Ott, sales-manager and treasurer of the Apollo +Clothing Co., of Chicago.” + +Somewhere somehow in the flat fields of northern France he lost his +richest worldly treasure--that part of his marvelous memory that +covered the period between his sixteenth and thirty-second years, that +segment of his memory which had known not only all his war experiences +up to that moment, but also every garment manufactured by his company +down to the last button, every trade route sold by the Apollo +travelers, every customer’s rating and idiosyncrasies, every weak and +strong point of the goods and the salesmen of his company’s chief +competitors. + +And so, having come home by way of three or four Government hospitals, +he was, after a brief period of lionizing that puzzled the pink-faced, +snub-nosed, chubby little man, once again to his friends of Asphodel, +and as always to his widowed mother, just Willie. + +On that hot June morning Willie left his mother’s house and went down +the red hill leading from the higher residential section to the six +business streets, completing his habitual morning round by ten o’clock: +to the post-office, where he received and read and shook his head over +an eagerly solicitous letter from the president of the Apollo Clothing +Co.; to Hampton’s Furniture Store and Mortuary Parlor, where he sat +awhile in a cane-bottomed chair on the sidewalk, apparently listening +to other men of leisure talk, though their words merely buzzed in +his ears; to Embree’s Confectionery Store, where he bought a tinfoil +package of cigarettes; and finally to his real goal for the morning, +Zebedee Smith’s Barber Shop, where he silently submitted to shaving +and shoe-shining, and then sat in front of the big plate-glass window, +staring, round-eyed, out across the street, through an old brick +building that had lost everything in a fire except its side walls, out +across the depression in the earth, at the bottom of which Little Sandy +River slipped southward on its unquestioning way toward the great gulf +that would presently swallow it up. + +As he stared and consciously saw nothing in detail, while his mind +continued its eternal reaching down for something precious that it +could almost but not quite touch, two figures in the street moved +across his vision, and he sat up suddenly and studied them. As well as +he knew any one he knew Goldie, once the owner of Asphodel’s only candy +store and soda-water fountain, and Honey Boy, Asphodel’s best-known +individual, the small town’s huge, red-headed, freckle-faced, obscenely +dirty, half-witted son. + +Goldie’s infinitesimal figure, frail and stooping, was covered with an +old and spotted and worn Confederate uniform, the gray coat hanging +in a confusion of folds and wrinkles from his narrow shoulders, the +trousers turned up at least two inches at the bottom. His black slouch +hat made his very thin, old face seem even thinner than it was. + +Honey Boy had once owned a donkey, and it was one of the few memories +that lived in his cloudy mind. He always carried a stout switch with +which he belabored his imaginary mount, while he frequently jumped up +and down as if he were being bounced by the donkey that was no more. +Now as he pranced along behind Goldie, Honey Boy, between attacks upon +his invisible donkey, mimicked as nearly as he could every movement +of the little old man who marched along in front of him. Laughter +was thrilling to Honey Boy; he was accustomed to that reward for his +antics, and he kept opening his wide mouth, filled with yellow stumps +of teeth, in a leering grin as he looked from right to left at chance +passers-by for applause. + +Goldie stopped in front of the red, square, brick county court-house, +diagonally across the street from Smith’s Barber Shop. He removed his +hat and stood at attention, listening. Southern Arkansas architecture +sometimes shows the influence of New Orleans, especially in narrow +balconies jutting out under second-story windows. Goldie remained +looking up at the empty balcony of the court-house, from which speeches +were often delivered. Now and then he clapped his hands, nodding his +head approvingly over eloquence that came back across the years only to +him. + +Everybody called Levi Goldbaum Goldie, almost entirely in affection. +For a long time he had kept his candy store open, with occasional +closures due to bankruptcies without a taint of fraud. Even in the full +flush of his middle-aged manhood he had been a frail, haggard, stooped, +feeble-looking, little man, the husband of an abnormally healthy and +handsome wife, the father of a brood of unusually vigorous boys and +girls, who grew up, married, and moved away from Asphodel, leaving him +and his wife alone in their old age. + +When Goldie had attended Confederate reunions--and he attended every +one he could--or had marched with the diminishing group of old soldiers +on great occasions in Asphodel, many people, especially boys and girls +wondered if he really could have been a soldier. But there was no doubt +in the minds of the comrades who had been with him at Shiloh. + +Goldie’s store having closed its doors five years before as the result +of two new competitors and inevitably final bankruptcy proceedings, he +had sadly retired. He was now over seventy, was considered a trifle +queer, and spent most of his time pottering around at home. He owned +his house, and his grown children sent him what little money he needed +to pay the last penalties of existence. + +After standing listening in front of the court-house for some thirty +minutes Goldie, drawing himself as straight as he could, proceeded down +Walnut Street, turned into Broadway, and marched up that main street, +Honey Boy cavorting behind him. And there was that in Goldie’s bearing +and in his stride that drew Willie after him, and presently the little +soldier with the wounded memory got out in the street and walked along +by the side of the little soldier with the wounded mind, keeping step, +the dry dust dimming his newly shined shoes and rising in small, lazy +clouds around his white-duck trousers. + +Goldie’s mind had gone back to other days when Asphodel’s citizens +had made much of June 3, Jefferson Davis’s birthday and Confederate +Memorial Day, and now he was celebrating it in his town alone, for +Asphodel, like many another Southern town, had neglected the day for +many years. + +To most of those who saw the unmartial figure of Goldie and Willie and +Honey Boy marching slowly along the dusty street it did not occur that +this was the South’s Memorial Day. Goldie’s wearing of his old uniform +was not uncommon enough to be striking; many a time-beaten soldier, +reduced in circumstances, at last falls back on his most-treasured suit +for every-day wear. + +But if those who saw Goldie had looked carefully they might have +noticed that, however slowly he moved, he proceeded in a straight line, +with regularly spaced steps, and they might have suspected that Goldie +was at the corner of a company invisible to all except his fading, +sunken, black eyes, marching to music unheard except by him. Most +people, indeed, gave their attention to Honey Boy, trailing directly +behind and mocking the little gray man who labored with difficulty +through the deep white sand. + +It was eleven o’clock when Goldie and Willie and Honey Boy passed +Pinder’s Marble Yard and its group of waiting white angels with +downcast eyes. Pinder’s is just beyond the business section of +Asphodel, and after that the ground rises to the north and east. The +street leading to Highland Cemetery begins there, a long, tedious +hill. The sun was unclouded, the wind was still, and Goldie, his coat +carefully buttoned to the throat, was panting hard and reeling as he +made Pinder’s Marble Yard. + +Wilted by the terrific heat and his violent exertions, and no longer +encouraged by laughing spectators, Honey Boy now merely followed on +behind the staggering figure marching toward Highland Cemetery, a +mile away. And Willie stalked along by his side, seeing nothing, as +if he were in a dream deeper even than Goldie’s. Now the Memorial Day +Parade was coming to the edge of Asphodel, to the section of straggling +houses. Belle Foscue, a negro washerwoman, ran to her paling fence and +asked the three chance comrades to come in and rest awhile under the +shade of her oak tree. + +Goldie halted, bringing his feet together bravely. He was moving his +lips, but no words that could be heard a foot away issued from them. +Belle came out of the gate to the soldier who could not leave his +company. She bent her head close to his lips, listened, and then ran to +bring him water. + +“Thank you,” he said in a whisper. “You’re a good girl.” He waited +patiently until she could bring Honey Boy another dipper filled from +the well. But when she offered the freshly filled dipper to Willie he +seemed not to see, so she turned it upside down, rolled her eyes at +him, and went back into her yard. + +After a while Goldie braced himself and marched on up the red hill. At +this point the red clay beneath the cemetery road shows through the +white sand, and rains keep washed out deep and ever-deepening gullies +on both sides of it. About half-way up the hill Goldie, stubbornly +holding his position at the corner of the invisible company in spite +of the fact that the road had narrowed considerably, found himself on +the edge of a gully; and presently he lost his balance, and staggered +over into it, and rolled down to the bottom of it. Honey Boy crowed and +chortled and gurgled, and began frantically beating his unseen donkey +with the switch. Willie stood still, staring ahead, waiting. + +The fallen soldier, having made two or three desperate attempts to +rise, sank back into a crumpled sitting posture, his head bent in +shame. After a while Honey Boy got down on his hands and knees in the +bed of the gully. “Ride Honey Boy,” he stuttered. “Ride up-hill. Honey +Boy strong.” + +And Goldie, trying to sit astride the big boy’s broad back, fell +forward and clasped his arms around his steed’s red, sweaty neck. +Honey Boy crawled out of the gully and slowly climbed the hill with his +burden, occasionally bucking like a horse and throwing the little man +off on the road. But then he would stand patiently until the fallen +soldier could crawl up on his back again. + +At the top of the hill Goldie got to his feet once more, and as the +roadbed was now level as well as firm he walked awhile and then rode +awhile on Honey Boy, and so, riding and walking, he finally marched, +with Willie at his side, through the arched gateway of Highland +Cemetery as the whistles were blowing for twelve o’clock. Old man +Miller, the sexton in charge there, and his two helpers were in a far +corner of the graveyard, so that none saw Asphodel’s Memorial Day +parade enter to honor the men Lee had loved and led. + +The parade proceeded across the graveyard to a clump of oak trees +clustering about and almost hiding the grass-grown plot that is called +in Asphodel “The Confederate Cemetery.” The town had been headquarters +for a rather large body of Confederate troops during the Civil War, and +there are in the palinged enclosure nearly two hundred graves of the +men in gray who had come to their end far from their homes. + +Opening the rotting gate of the paling fence, Goldie stepped inside, +Honey Boy and Willie close behind him. Here again Goldie stood in rapt +attention, his brown face shining, his head bared, and his eyes lifted, +listening to the famous orators his imagination had brought there +for this day from out of the endearing past. Honey Boy sprawled on a +rickety old iron bench. Willie stood stiffly by Goldie’s side, looking +straight ahead. + +Honey Boy moved. “S-sh!” hissed Goldie in a whisper. “Senator Collamore +is speaking. Oh, he is good! I have heard him speak twenty times +before. He says this custom of setting aside a day especially to do +honor to the soldier dead originated, in this country, in the South, +though now every little town as well as every big city in the North +celebrates its Memorial Day; and he says that as long as memory lives +we of the South shall continue to pay this sincere tribute to our men +encamped beneath the green grass awaiting the bugles of a better day.” +Goldie nodded his head vigorously, softly patting his thin, little +hands together in respectful applause--softly so that he should not +disturb the speaker. “Yes, that’s good and true,” he whispered, “very +true indeed.” + +“Did you hear that?” he whispered again enthusiastically after a while, +turning first toward Willie and then to Honey Boy. “That is Governor +Marcus speaking now. ‘The South is loyal,’ he says, ‘and it never +forgets.’ Ah, yes, that is so true, too.” + +And so Goldie, as if some part of him sensed the fact that his two +comrades were not getting all that he was getting, from time to +time picked out and tossed to the tired and hungry boy and to his +brother-in-arms whose mind was thousands of miles away some of the +crumbs from the feast of oratory that only he could enjoy--gilded words +and fancy phrases that the little soldier had hoarded lovingly in his +memory for years. + +Well, after a while the speeches were all made, but Goldie stayed +on. In other times it had been a custom in Asphodel to guard the +Confederate Cemetery the night of Memorial Day, and Goldie was certain +that he had been ordered to do guard duty that night. + +Weak and hungry though he was, Goldie had been heartened by what he had +heard, and as he sat on the rusty-red old iron bench enthusiastically +talking at Honey Boy and Willie his voice was almost loud. + +“Look yonder!” he cried. “Every grave is a bank of flowers. And did you +notice how many people were here? Every store and office in town must +have closed up. It’s a grand day. I’m a proud man this Memorial Day, I +can tell you. If President Davis could only see all this--and Lee! But, +there, I must not speak that last name again. If I do I’m bound to cry, +and I’m too old for that. Two words can always make me cry--‘mother’ +and ‘Lee.’” + +The mounds above most of the graves had been leveled by time, and over +all of them was a rank growth of weeds and grass. Honey Boy stared hard +at Goldie, then he began giggling. Suddenly his small gray eyes filled +with tears; he twisted and wrung his hands, and began whimpering, +“Honey Boy hungry. Honey Boy must go home right now.” + +“Hungry?” said Goldie, in high scorn. “Why, you poor little fool, you +don’t know what hunger is. A soldier often goes two or three days on +a single meal. But wait; our ladies will presently bring a banquet +for the guard of honor--chicken and cake, strawberries and cream, and +coffee--oh, I don’t know what all, but it will be splendid. When the +South does a thing it does it splendidly.” + +But the hot, damp, still afternoon wore away and no feast appeared. The +notion that he was to do guard duty that night finally drove Goldie to +consider the wisdom of fortifying himself in advance with sleep. + +“You know,” he explained to the unheeding ears of Willie and Honey Boy, +“it is a serious offense to go to sleep on picket duty. In war-time it +means courtmartial. There is no punishment here and now except a man’s +conscience, but a conscience can be terrible sometimes. And do you boys +know, ever since the war whenever I’ve been assigned to any duty at +reunions or on Memorial Days I’ve had a feeling that if I didn’t do it +right _he_ would know--General Lee.” + +Creeping off to a secluded, shady spot some distance from the +Confederate Cemetery, Goldie took off his coat, rolled it into a +sort of pillow, and lay down in the deep grass, now wilted by the +shimmering, moist heat. “This is how a soldier often has to sleep,” he +said proudly, looking from one to the other of his comrades. + +Honey Boy, now completely subdued by hunger and thirst and fatigue, +but held by fear and perhaps also by some boyish emotion of loyalty +from deserting the little brown man in gray, sat staring at him a few +moments, and then he too sank back on the grass and closed his eyes. +Willie, his immaculate white suit of the morning wrinkled and soiled, +dropped his straw hat to the ground at his feet and sat leaning against +a stump, studying Goldie’s face intently. Except for picketing the +graves that night, Asphodel’s Memorial Day exercises in honor of its +soldier dead were over. + +In the great sweet-gum tree above the three odd companions a pair +of bluejays brought frequent instalments of food to their young and +feasted them with much excitement and noisy importance. Out in the +well-kept sections of the graveyard six or seven women appeared at +various times during the afternoon, pulled a weed or a blade of grass +from a grave, put down fresh flowers, pottered lovingly about it for a +while, and then went home. But no one came to the Confederate Cemetery, +and Goldie was as still as his comrades who slept beneath the tangles +of grass and that weed called bitter. Honey Boy, waking up from time to +time, looked around hopelessly, then weepingly lay back down. Willie +continued staring at Goldie’s face, as calm as death and as sweet as +life. + +Late in the afternoon slim, dazzlingly white whips of lightning slashed +about in the gray clouds that had been assembling above, thunder +tumbled and mumbled and boomed, a quick shower of rain came sliding +down the wind. It slipped under the waving branches of the tree above +the sleepers and drenched them to the skin before they were fully +awake. Willie now sat with his head leaning back against the stump, +staring at the sky. He paid no attention to the rain or to his comrades. + +Honey Boy began crying, his teeth chattering with cold, and he raised +up and wrung his hands. “Oh, what is a little shower?” asked Goldie +roughly, getting to his feet. “I have marched and slept a week in wet +clothes.” Moving closer to the trunk of the sweet-gum tree, where it +was almost dry, he laid his body down again and drifted away to sleep +as sweetly as a child. Honey Boy beat his hands together and sobbed +bitterly, but finally he crept close to Goldie, rolled himself into a +ball, and was once more quiet. + +And while two of them slept and one of them prowled desperately in the +darkness of his mind for a lost thread a search-party that had been +started by Mrs. Goldbaum came to the Confederate Cemetery, looked in, +called loudly Goldie’s name, and went away. + +When night, and it was a heavy, clouded night, came on, Goldie rose, +put on his hat and coat, selected a fallen dead limb of a pine tree to +serve as a gun, and proceeded to his post. Honey Boy stumbled along +close behind him, now and then breaking out in a huge bellow of +desperation. “Shut up!” hissed Goldie. “Have you no respect for the +dead?” + +But the frail, little, old soldier himself, reeling with weakness, +often caught hold of the fence to steady his trembling legs. He was +so tired that at the corners he sometimes stopped and rested his head +against the flat-topped posts. But he had not been relieved of duty, so +he kept on marching around the enclosure, often stumbling and falling +in the dark, but always getting up and forcing himself along. Honey Boy +flung himself into the deep grass near the paling fence and lay there +moaning. Willie stood, a dozen yards away, against a tree intently +studying Goldie. + +Meanwhile searching parties were excitedly combing Asphodel and its +environs for the missing men and Honey Boy; and some time after +midnight a party made a second trip to the Confederate Cemetery. As the +searchers approached, their lanterns and blazing pine-knots burning +ragged yellow holes in the night, Goldie tried to shout and almost did +shout, “Halt!” + +“Is that you, Goldie?” some one called. + +“This is Private Levi Goldbaum.” + +“What are you doing out here, man? Your wife is crazy; she thinks +you’re dead. Where have you been all day? You’re wet to the skin now, +I’ll bet. You look like it, anyhow. What in the world are you doing +here?” + +“I took part in our Memorial Day exercises, of course. Now I am on +picket duty, guarding the graves of my comrades. I should have been +relieved at midnight, but I reckon something went wrong. Anyway, I +couldn’t go until I was relieved, could I? Answer me that, Mr. Smarty. +Don’t come any nearer. You can’t get through unless you’ve got the +password. It’s a point of honor. I don’t care a rap who you are. Halt, +there, you!” + +Goldie stood up straight now, his bayonet pointing at the imprudent +person who had come too near. The lights flickered over his frail +figure, touching with yellow, beneath his slouch hat, the lower half +of his cleanly shaven face, revealing the pale, thin, old lips drawn +tightly across his false teeth. + +The invaders gathered to talk among themselves, and as they whispered +Goldie’s gun drooped slightly in his hands, dropped lower, and then the +little old man moaned and crumpled stiffly to his knees. + +He tried to rise and did, and fell again. He whispered, “Halt! You +can’t pass here. It’s a point of honor, you see. If General Lee found +out he would be--would be sorry for me.” + +But the guard of honor had been relieved. + +In his tracks stood another little soldier, this one clothed in white +and shining with strength and fire and authority. + +“Take him home, boys, but don’t step across the line he set. Don’t, +don’t, I tell you! This is no joke. Lift him up gently now. He dropped +just like my buddy over there--the picture, with the lights and +everything, was just exactly the same. He has reminded me in a thousand +ways all day of my buddy. But he’s only cold and hungry; my buddy was +warm and dead. Take him home now, and when he comes to tell him not to +worry; another soldier who remembers is covering his post. And General +Lee will never know.” + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [4] Copyright, 1925, by The Pictorial Review Company. + Copyright, 1926, by Barry Benefield. + + + + + THE BEGGAR OF ALCAZAR[5] + + By KONRAD BERCOVICI + + (From _The Century Magazine_) + + +Every Spaniard will tell you that Spain has the most beautiful women +in the world. Every man from Andalusia, richly colored, sun-tinted, +green-mountained Andalusia, will tell you that Andalusian women are +the most beautiful of Spain; for have they not the smoothness and the +hue of olive fruit and hair like black silk? And the men of Seville, +the capital of Andalusia, old Seville with its crooked streets upon +which abut blind walls, whitewashed and high-windowed--Seville, towered +and domed by a thousand old churches and cathedrals and palaces built +of huge stone mellowed and softened by biting time, Seville with its +leisurely coursing river, the Guadalquivir, the great river, named so +by the Moors in olden times, but which can be waded across at some +times of the year; every Sevillan, prouder of the women of his town +than of all the other marvels it contains, will tell you that the women +of Seville are the most beautiful of the Province of Andalusia. + +And Maria del Alcazar was the most beautiful woman of Seville. + +She was the daughter of Don Hermanos, the head keeper of the Alcazar, +the old palace of the Moors, planned and executed at the time when the +Saracens had glided above the peak of virility and had become softened +and fattened from tribute paid by vanquished nations, and effeminate +from a long period of peace and the affluence come from plunder. + +Maria’s father, Don Hermanos, had obtained the post of keeper in lieu +of compensation for injuries he had sustained while fighting the wild +tribes of the Spanish possessions in Africa. She was only ten years +old when the family moved into one of the little whitewashed huts +within the inclosure of the palace destined for the keeper. Black-eyed, +with lustrous black hair, fine and silky like ebony filaments falling +over her ivory-white neck, full-lipped, with a delicate chin, she was +the pride of the family. Her mother, who came from Granada, instilled +into her daughter that love for beautiful things and soft colors which +had come to her with the blood of Moors that flowed in her veins. And +with that she had also given to Maria that sinuous, graceful gait +which holds both of the tiger and the angel--an imperceptible glide +with slightly bent knees, while the arms sway softly like movements of +invisible wings. + +The Hermanos family had come to live at the Alcazar from one of the +houses in the Triana, the crowded, squalid section across the river, +where the poor of Seville live. The hut in which they had lived +there was one in an immense yard in which fifty more little houses, +leaning one on another, formed an open square; a _Casa Vesinante_ of +the neighborhood. There was not much difference between the hut they +were occupying in the Alcazar and it, and the mother and the father +were frequently complaining about the uncomfortable and dilapidated +condition of their new home. But not so Maria. She was not complaining, +for she had the Alcazar all to herself. Daily, before the arrival +of visitors from all over the world who came to see the old Moorish +palace, and in the evenings after they had left, the big palace, with +its jewel-studded, mosaic-wrought wings, with its stalactite ceilings, +like frozen skies of crystal tears, and the ceramic walls, with the +lemon alleys in the gardens and the intoxicating flowers and shrubs, +with roses bigger than the full moon and redder than the reddest blood, +with cypresses in pools of water and rose-veined marble colonnades +and alleys, the whole palace belonged to her. It was hers to roam +wherever she pleased, sit wherever she wanted, and dream her dreams. +The very greatest treasure of the world was hers. For nowhere, nowhere +she knew, was any other palace the like of that to be found in the +universe. Roaming daily, she discovered for herself new treasures +which were unknown to others. The beautiful marble columns that stuck +out underneath the overlaid brick near the bathing-pool of the sultana, +the paintings on the walls, which had stupidly been smeared over by +careless repairers after the Moors had been driven out of Spain, +the carved oak beams inlaid with mother-of-pearl mosaic in what was +formerly the dressing room of the harem, and which had lain covered +with cement. And panels of wood sawed so finely they were transparent +when the light shone through them, and others cut so finely they +were like spiderwebs, and which had lain there perhaps for centuries +unobserved by any one, were hers to look at, hers alone, undefiled by +other eyes, hers to bathe in their lacy softness of color and line. + +True, she had to come into the hut late in the night and lie down on +the bed within the squalid hut. But long before sunrise she would take +her blanket and run out into the palace to sleep on the marble couch of +the sultana, which faced the fountain of the Room of the Ambassadors; +where once the sultan of the Saracens received the representatives of +other nations, dressed in glittering silken garments, while black, +nude, oiled slaves piled soft cushions under the guests and offered +them refreshments in golden trays and from long silver vases. + +The family had not been there long before all the keepers and the +people in the neighborhood loved Maria. Shortly after their instalment, +their daughter became known as “Maria del Alcazar.” Not because people +felt that she belonged to the Alcazar, but that the Alcazar belonged to +her. She could tell such beautiful stories of the things she saw. She +kept them all entranced when she spoke of the palace and its beauties. +No one referred to her as the daughter of Hermanos the keeper. She was +Maria del Alcazar to the neighbors, Maria del Alcazar to the priest, as +well as to the working-men continually busy restoring and fixing what +should better be left as it was. + +And after a few years the reputation of Maria’s beauty spread far +and wide, as spreads a river after it has gone out from its bed. And +many were the young men who, dressed in their best velvet, pale blue +and dark brown, costumes, with wide-brimmed _flamenco_ hats in their +hands, now came to visit the Alcazar after their afternoon siesta, +paying their good _pesetas_ for the hope of catching a glimpse of +Maria. They loitered and looked interested in the walls and gardens +and trees and pools and fountains, but their long-lashed eyes were +continually watching for an apparition. And many of them carried their +guitars under their coats to begin their courting then and there +should occasion present itself. The whole young malehood of Triana, +remembering her as a child, would come to bid _buenos dias_ to her +father, with the hope of catching a glimpse of his daughter. + +But during the day Maria was busy helping her mother. She had no +interest in the Alcazar during that time. It belonged to strangers who +came from all the corners of the world, to tread with unsympathetic +feet the ground she considered holy and defile with their eyes and +harsh voices, whispering, and pointing to one another the walls and the +gardens she loved so much. It was only after they had gone that the +Alcazar belonged to Maria, and after they had gone, all had to go. And +so, reluctantly, the young men of Triana turned their backs and slowly +shuffled out of the palace after the keeper had called out the evening +hour. They would then remain outside the gate, waiting yet, pining +for a glimpse before sighing deeply and departing slowly to their +homes. And the young women of Triana bitterly clamored that because of +Maria they were themselves unsung and unwooed by the young men of the +neighborhood. + +All this was happening unknown to Maria, for she lived not in this +world. And after the late autumn had shaken the leaves of the crooked, +brown-trunked olive trees in the garden and made the ceramic walls +colder than they had ever been, she was the undisputed owner, the only +one to enjoy the marvels of the Alcazar all to herself. While the +winter rains were beating down upon the town of Seville, thus keeping +away the visitors, Maria was happy. She grew and developed very fast, +looking more and more like one of the Moorish sultanas who had for +centuries queened over the palace. She imagined herself to be one +of them, never thinking of sultans; as if the place had never been +peopled by any others but women. For there seemed to be no trace of +any male residence there. The delicate tracery of the rooms and the +alcoves, every nook and corner, seemed to her to have been erected by +delicate and whimsical hands of angels who had first dreamed about all +this on some huge canvas which they had embroidered upon. + +And yet work was going on continually, repairing here and there, and +reconstructing. It seemed to her outrageous that the hands of men +should have any right to touch such divinely delicate dreams in wood +and stone. More than once she spoke angrily to the architect who was +directing the work, telling him again and again the old Moorish legend +current to this day all through Andalusia, that the Alcazar was never +built, but appeared one day, called thither by the magic wand of some +great magician in the employ of the sultan. + + + II + +One afternoon early in the spring, when the buds in the lemon trees +had begun to burst and had spread their little sweet-sour blossoms +all over the place, Jose, the bullfighter, a lad who had already won +his first spurs in the bull-ring of Seville--Jose who had been one of +her neighbors while they were living in Triana, stopped on his way +to the ring to see Don Hermanos. He had been attracted by tales of +the beauty of Maria del Alcazar, and had for a long time tried to see +her without succeeding. But dressed in the costume of the matador, +with a gold-laced black cap on his head, and a colored, spangled coat +over the narrow, red-velvet breeches, tightened at the knees over the +white stockings with green tassels, Don Jose felt he could dare make +the attempt to see her. He braved bulls; why should he step back from +meeting a woman? + +While the hundred and one urchins cried, “There goes Don Jose!” he +crossed into the vaulted entrance of the Alcazar and was received at +the gate by Don Hermanos, who had been attracted by the outside noise. + +“What great honor!” bowed Maria’s father, shaking the decoration +dangling on his breast. + +“The honor indeed is mine,” answered Don Jose, bowing profoundly. “For, +if you recall, we have been neighbors in Triana. And my mother has +repeatedly spoken of Doña Hermanos, your wife, and of Señorita Maria.” + +“May I lead you through the Alcazar, if you want to see it?” Don +Hermanos asked, while the other keepers had gathered about him and were +looking at the handsome young matador with great admiration. + +“I shall follow you with pleasure,” Jose answered. + +And throwing a handful of copper and silver to the urchins following +him, he walked rhythmically behind Don Hermanos, while the other +keepers were complimenting upon his recent exploits. + +Jose was just a little over twenty, with the brown young eyes matured +from facing danger and death, although only a thin down covered his +long upper lip. He was not very tall, but so well proportioned that he +looked taller than he really was. He was even then only a short hour +from one of the battles in the great bull-ring. + +“It is curious,” he said wistfully to Don Hermanos, catching up with +him and putting an arm familiarly on his shoulder, much to the envy of +the other keepers who followed behind, “but I have never been in the +Alcazar, and had thought of coming only after an Englishman with whom +I had become acquainted had spoken to me so enthusiastically about its +beauties. To live near such beauty and never see it!” + +Don Hermanos was now showing him the oak-beamed and mosaic ceiling of +the reception hall. + +“Beautiful!” exclaimed the bull-fighter, with ecstasy. + +From the other end of the hall Maria was coming from the garden. She +had been dreaming by herself when she heard the approaching noise +of the heavily shod feet of the keepers coming in her direction, +and wondered what it could be, since it was not yet the season for +tourists. Shy, like a curious young doe, she glided noiselessly into +the presence of the group. She was wrapped in an old green shawl, and +her bare feet were in white, soft-soled slippers. Her hair, which she +had just washed in the sultana’s fountain, was hanging loosely over her +ivory-white neck and shoulders. She made as if to retrace her steps +when she saw Don Jose, but Jose was much too quick, the very instant of +her appearance he had called out: + +“There goes Señorita Maria. How beautiful she has grown! There goes +Señorita Maria! How wonderful she has grown! Of course she does not +remember me any more,” he added petulantly and uncovered his head, +bowing elegantly. + +“Come over, Maria,” her father called. “It is Jose. You certainly do +remember him, although you have never seen him in this garb.” + +Maria slowly approached the group and curtsied ceremoniously before the +young man. + +“What beauty!” exclaimed the bull-fighter, brutally and frankly looking +the girl in the face, as only a Spaniard would. + +It made Maria tremble from head to foot to be looked at in that way. +But she answered promptly: + +“Of course I do remember Doña Gloria’s son. And I recollect having been +told that he was occasionally fighting bulls in the small _pueblos_.” + +“He is fighting in the rings of Seville and Madrid now,” Don Hermanos +corrected her. “See his matador costume.” + +Maria looked at the young man, and then with a loud laugh she suddenly +rushed past him and disappeared, faun-like, before he had had time to +turn, for he was looking at Don Hermanos while he was spoken of. + +Don Hermanos showed the bull-fighter the other great halls of the +Alcazar, but Jose was not half as interested as before. He was +continually looking elsewhere through the open portals and gates, +through the openings of the narrow alleys and subterranean halls. + +“This used to be the great dancing hall of the sultan. This is the dais +upon which the _bayaderes_ danced. And, further, on the other side, +upon this black-veined marble block, many a beautiful slave has lost +her head if she had been unfaithful to the sultan, or if such was his +pleasure.” + +But the bull-fighter was not much interested. He suddenly pulled out +his heavy gold watch from his pocket, and announced that he had to be +on his way to the ring, but that he would return frequently and see at +his leisure the wonders and the beauties of the Alcazar, adding, “Of +which your daughter Maria is the most beautiful.” + +Don Hermanos bowed profoundly. True, he had known Jose when he was the +ragged scamp of the Triana, but a bull-fighter is a high personage, and +what such a man said about his daughter was not to be disdained. + +On the way out, Don Jose asked whether he could not get a drink of +water, of which he was in need. Don Hermanos knew that it was a pretext +to stop at the house for a few moments. Don Hermanos’s wife received +the young bull-fighter, bowing profoundly, patting him, admiring him, +wishing him good luck, asking him how his mother was and how his +sisters were. But the beautiful Maria was not around. + +Jose listened carefully, while the old woman spoke to him and while the +men stood about him in admiration, to hear some one breathing behind +the curtain that separated the room in two. He listened for a sound +behind the door at the top of the stairs that led to the upper rooms +from the middle of the lower one. And then his eyes saddened, and he +was ready to go, when the Doña Hermanos told him: + +“But the water you have asked for, Don Jose? The glass of water is on +the table. Have you forgotten you were thirsty?” + +He laughed loudly as he stood up and drank the glass. + +“Indeed, I have forgotten,” he said. + +And then the keepers looked at one another and smiled as they preceded +Jose outside, each one patting him familiarly on the shoulder. + +“Are they good bulls, the ones you are fighting today, big and fierce?” + +“Wonderful animals,” Don Jose answered, “Miuras.” + +“Miuras!” they all repeated aloud, with eyes wide open, saying to one +another: “Do you hear? Miuras today in the bull-ring of Seville!” + +And in the glances they exchanged with one another was all the lore +of the bull-ring; for the bulls bred by Count Miura were reputed to +be the fiercest of all, having killed many a great matador who had +appeared with them in the ring. And it seemed to Don Jose that at that +moment he heard from behind the latticed window overhead a deep gasp. +His chest broadened, and his heart rose higher as he walked out of the +gate, marching with the same rhythm he used coming out from the big +door that led into the arena, while music played the matador tune. + + + III + +An hour later Maria was sitting on the marble bench in the garden of +the sultana, and had a vision of an immense arena divided in half by +a strong shadow, with tiers of stone seats and balconies covered with +shawls of a hundred gay colors, and the queen herself sitting in the +king’s balcony. A black bull was in the middle of the arena, with head +bent low, snorting and bellowing, pawing the sand under him. Don Jose +with a red _capa_ hiding the red-hilted spade underneath, was facing +the brute. + +A moment later her father and the other keepers were attracted to her +by a terrific shriek. She was hiding her face in her hands and yelling: +“The bull! The bull!” when they neared her. + +“That child of yours does not seem to be well,” said a keeper to Don +Hermanos after Maria had been led weeping to her home. + +But Don Hermanos smiled. He knew what the trouble was. A great matador +as a son-in-law was a pleasant prospect for his daughter. + +Maria drank a glass of water which was given her by her mother, and +seemed to have regained her composure immediately. She went to the +mirror to fix her hair, and having looked at herself carefully, she +proceeded to dress to go out. She asked her mother to accompany her. No +self-respecting Sevillana would ever go out alone. Maria had till then, +considering herself a child, always gone about alone. Her mother smiled +as she answered: + +“Give me time to get ready!” + +It took the mother a full hour to get herself ready. On going out into +the populated street, cool now because the sun was no longer shedding +its straight rays, the two women heard the cry of the barefoot boys in +rags selling papers. Don Jose had been wounded severely by the first +bull he had fought. + +“Quick, Mother!” Maria begged, and dragging the old woman by the hand +she began to run in the direction of her old home in the Triana, where +she was certain Don Jose would be brought to his mother. + +But on arriving there they were told that the Gitanas had moved out +from the “Casa” to a more comfortable home, now that Jose was earning +so much money. And when the former neighbors heard about the accident +that had happened, they left their cooking-pots, and the children left +their play in the mud, and howling and running they followed the two +women to the home of the matador. + +Jose’s face was white from the loss of blood. He was lying stretched +out on a white bed. A number of friends and the priest and a doctor +crowded the room. + +“Will he die?” Maria screamed, looking up at the physician. + +The man shook his head and put a finger to his mouth. + +“No noise, please.” + +And then Jose opened his eyes and saw Maria; and his faint lips +murmured her name. + +Jose did get better; he had not been wounded in any vital part of his +body. He was only weak because of the blood he had lost before they had +succeeded in driving away the bull that had gored him. Daily, Maria and +her mother would come to sit at his bedside and care for him. When the +wounds in his upper thighs had healed, it was upon Maria’s shoulder +that he first left the bed to sun himself on the balcony. And with that +marvelous recuperating power of youth he was able before the summer to +appear again in the ring. + +Maria sat in a box with her mother watching the first appearance. And +the cheering of the crowd as he bowed before the balcony of the queen +was deafening. Maria, paler than usual, was not interested in the +bull-fight as such. To her it was merely the man she loved who was now +facing a formidable brute. It was her man that was in danger--in danger +of that black bull, snorting and running wildly about the arena. She +could not appreciate the cheers that came, round after round, as Don +Jose with graceful fleetness avoided the charging animal by fooling him +with the red _capa_ that he held in his hand. She could not understand +why he did not use the spade and kill the brute. To her mind every bull +was the same that had wounded the man she loved. + +The crowd cheered and yelled in appreciation of their idol’s dangerous +play. Suddenly there was a great silence. The _banderilleros_ had done +their work and distanced themselves from the animal. The matador alone +faced him now. He played and enraged the bull for a few minutes, then +he poised himself with his spade for the final thrust. But when the +bull made a movement, courage failed him, and he stepped aside. And the +same crowd that had been cheering so wildly now began to hoot him. The +other matadors sprang to his help and began to throw their red _capas_ +over the bull. Don Jose shook his head sorrowfully without looking up, +and waving his quadrilla aside, he again posed himself before the bull, +trying to get him to lower his head. There was silence again. Maria’s +heart stood still. And while the crowd was hooting again the matador, +who had side-stepped for a second time, her own heart was glad, for he +was there yet and alive. Her mother and the mother of the matador were +pale with anger and shame. What had happened to Jose? The bugle gave a +warning to the matador that he must be quick about his business. His +time was up. And this time the matador did not side-step. His thrust +was sure and deep, and the crowd cheered wildly, although when the +ring had been cleared, the _afficianadoes_ were looking at one another +and shaking their heads, as if saying, “The best days of the Gitana +are over.” Never before in his short, but glorious, career had he been +known to side-step a charging bull. + +He did not do much better with the second animal. And it was only +because they remembered how severely he had been wounded before that +the crowd did not do the usual things on such occasions, throwing the +hard cushions underneath them into the arena, and even empty bottles +and stones. Even Jose’s mother looked coldly at her son when he +returned home with her in the waiting carriage, for the papers were +sure to report his lack of courage. Only Maria was happy. He had come +out of the fight alive and he had killed the bulls. + +The next few weeks took the matador out of the city to fight in other +_pueblos_. It was understood that he was going to marry Maria as soon +as he returned from the season’s activities. Left alone, Maria, now +the acknowledged fiancée of Don Jose, again took possession of the +Alcazar. But everything within it was now filled with Joses. Joses in +silken garb. Joses in the center of bull-rings. Joses wounded, Joses +side-stepping, and crowds upon tiers and tiers in a large circle. She +tried to conjure again the old visions of sultanas and _bayaderes_ +dancing in the great halls and in the gardens. And when they did +appear, Don Jose was somewhere about them. And she would harshly +order her vision figures to disappear, for they all looked at him so +longingly. And they were all so much more beautiful than she was. + +She would wait trembling with fear the afternoons she knew he had +appeared in the distant bull-rings for a telegram that he sent her at +the end of every _corrida_. He gave no details, only telling her that +all was well and that he loved her. But in reality things were not as +well with him as they had been before. There was great doubt whether +he would ever be engaged again to fight in the bull-ring after that +season. There was great dissatisfaction with his work. He still gave +them great thrills in playing with the bull, but courage generally +failed him when he faced the animal with spade in hand. He could not +forget that he had been wounded. And he played longer with the animals +than he should have done to avoid as long as possible the last moment. +And again and again the warning bugle had sounded, the papers reported. +Don Hermanos was far from being satisfied with his future son-in-law. +Yet all Maria cared was that Jose was alive and untouched by the brutal +beasts. + +She rejoiced to the fullest of her soul when he returned. Only Don +Hermanos was not satisfied to see him walk about in street clothes +instead of the matador uniform, like the others of his profession. +Every day after sundown Jose would come to the Alcazar, and Maria would +show him the great halls and the gardens and tell him the legends of +the place. She had found again the Alcazar now that he was near her. +Speaking to him, all the old charm of the palace had returned. She was +not even jealous of the sultanas she now conjured from the ceramic +walls and from behind the balconies overhead. + +As the day of her wedding approached, Don Jose spoke to her. + +“How will you ever be able to live within the poor walls of your home +after having lived here amid such great beauties?” + +Maria laughed and laughed. Don Jose intended to leave Seville and +go elsewhere. He had saved quite a goodly amount of money. He had +premonitions about his being killed in the ring if he should continue +to fight next season. An old sorceress had told him so also. He had +different plans. He thought sheep-raising upon the Saragoza Hills +pleased him best. He owned there quite a good stretch of land. And +there was an old adobe house on top of the hill. He thought it was +better to live in seclusion for the next year or so than being hooted +and reviled in the bull-ring. Maria was willing to follow him anywhere. + +And he told her: “When my feelings change, I will return to the ring.” + +“Which I hope you will never do!” Maria exclaimed. + +She had no desire to see her husband glorified by the multitude after +he had been gored to death in the ring. + + + IV + +It was a great affair, the wedding of Don Jose with Maria del Alcazar. +All the retired and active matadors of Seville came to the wedding in +their bespangled clothes, for they understood what the populace refused +to understand. They knew what premonitions were and how they acted on a +matador in the ring. It was easy to cheer and easier to hoot, but bulls +carried death on the tips of their horns. + +A week later the two newly married were in the Saragoza adobe. It +was not much better than the home in which their people had lived in +the Triana. Still, Maria thought it was very beautiful. The bare mud +walls she decorated with her eyes, which reflected all the beauties +they had absorbed. And through them she projected her dreams, the +delicate traceries and colorings, and the mosaic and the stalactite of +the ceilings. And she was happy. For there were no working-men tearing +down and repairing and touching with brutal hands what was about her. +And from the top of the hill the olive groves and vineyards and the +tall cypress trees that stretched below her were even more beautiful +than the gardens in which she had roamed. And the serpentining, snaking +river below, shimmering with the blue of the sky in the sunlight, +was like the limpid water pools and bathing places of the Alcazar. +Indeed, it was more the Alcazar than anything else. And it was hers. No +working-men, no visitors, disturbed her. + +Jose was busy building sheds for the sheep. And evenings his powerful +arms were delicately wrapped about her. He appreciated her love and was +flattered that she could be so happy in such poor surroundings. And he +wondered what there was in him that she, the most beautiful woman in +the world, should be able to stay with him in so desolate a place, away +from all the things she had been accustomed to. In his eyes she was not +a poor girl, the daughter of a keeper, that he had married. She was +Maria del Alcazar, the one raised in surroundings so beautiful there +was none the like of them in the world. Evenings, when the work was +done, the two lovers would face each other, sitting outside their hut. + +And one evening Don Jose said: + +“There never happened a better thing to me than to have been gored by a +bull.” + +To which Maria quietly answered, seizing the hands of the man near her: + +“And yet I hate bulls.” + +But the courage did not return to Don Jose. Month succeeded month. +And after the long winter was over, the first winter they had passed +together, he was approached to appear again in the ring. Refusing, he +wondered whether the courage would ever return to him again. He hung +his head when the man tried to convince him by saying: + +“You, who have received the applause of thousands and thousands while +so young, should now live in the company of sheep and mules on the top +of a hill! You who have received thousands of _pesetas_ for one hour of +work, and been glorified by the whole of Spain, should now work so hard +with the hope of getting a pittance at the end of the year! And your +wife, Don Jose. Don’t forget your wife.” + +But Don Jose shook his head and answered: + +“Not this year.” + +And when the men who had come to engage him left his house, they +said to each other: “Many a good matador has become better and more +courageous to win the woman he loved, only to become a coward for fear +of losing her.” + +Maria was happy that he refused. She did not understand why every time +these men returned Jose should be so sullen and dark. Oh, were they +not happy there on top of the mountain? And were they not living in +the most beautiful palace that man had ever built? If it was true the +Alcazar had never been built, but had been conjured up by the wand of +some great magician, an even greater magician had conjured the greater +Alcazar she was living in now. She had always, she realized now, missed +something when she had been living in the Alcazar of Seville. Now she +knew what she had missed. There were only walls and ceilings. Even the +phantoms she conjured were cold despite all the warm colors about them. +But there on the Saragoza Hills she had realized and filled out her +dream. Draperies, heavy silks came down, called by the magic of her +love, and covered everything, and uncovered greater beauties on softer +backgrounds. + +But Jose walked about sullenly, muttering to himself: + +“It was a bad day for me when that bull gored me. It was a bad day for +me when that bull gored me.” He missed the applause, the cheering, the +excitement. And yet he did not have the courage. + +And one day, when he had returned from the village at the foot of the +hill, instead of recalling as he had frequently done the beautiful days +during which Maria had sat at his bedside, he spoke angrily to her, +and she could recognize the smell of _aguardiente_, burning water, on +his breath. + +“It was because of you that I was gored by the bull! I was thinking of +you instead of the beast before me! You are the cause of my misfortune!” + +And suddenly, when she reëntered the hut, the walls appeared as they +really were, dirty mud walls. The ceilings which she had enlarged and +domed with her eyes, and beamed and wrought with mosaics, appeared to +her as they really were, cracked, low, and ugly. The rickety bed which +stood in the corner, which had been to her like the richest couch of +the most beautiful sultana, was nothing but a squalid heap of rusty +iron, rags, and mattresses. The low-burning lamp had lost its mystic +quality. It was but an ill-smelling kerosene lamp. All the riches +of the adobe were gone. It had been conjured by the magic wand of a +sorcerer, and been dispelled by a few ugly words. And so she lay down +and wept. + +When she awoke in the morning, the squalor of her surroundings was even +more appalling. The sheep, which had been so beautiful, were now ugly. +And the mountain and the river and the olive groves and the vineyards +were nothing but ugly, brown, crooked cripples scorching in the hot +sun. It was worse than the Triana mud huts in which she had lived. And +Jose himself, Jose himself, what a different man he was! An unwashed, +unkempt, rag-clothed stranger, with a hard voice and an evil odor. + +A few months later, another group of men came to induce Don Jose to +appear again in the bull-ring. He assured them he would do so the +following spring. + +“But where is Doña Maria, his wife, of whose beauty we have heard so +much? The woman we have seen could not have been she, for she looked so +much older and anything but beautiful.” The men looked at one another +outside. + +Indeed, where was she? + +For none of them realized that a single year could have changed a woman +so much. She wandered about mute, listless. Her eyes were lusterless +and her gaze vacant. + +And he did get back his courage the following spring. And he again +became the favorite of the people. There were pictures of him hanging +in every store and every home from one end of Spain to the other. He +was piling up great wealth and had furnished a beautiful apartment, +more beautiful than he had ever expected to live in, with a profusion +of silks and carpets and silver vases and copper urns. He thought Maria +had been made unhappy by the poverty of her surroundings, the fool. + +It was all in vain. He could not make it as beautiful as the Alcazar. +It was squalid, poor, ugly, decrepit tinsel compared with the gold of +the palace, and more so when compared with the gold of her dreams, +which he had destroyed once forever. + +When he had withdrawn from the ring rich and honored, she returned to +her father’s home. And before she was thirty, when her father died, +unable to leave the Alcazar, she sat outside its gates. Her face +withered. The skin of her hands dried up like parchment. She still sits +there, wrapped in rags, begging from the tourists. + +But after sundown the Alcazar is hers. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [5] Copyright, 1925, by The Century Company. + Copyright, 1926, by Konrad Bercovici. + + + + + THE LAUGH[6] + + By BELLA COHEN + + (From _The Calendar of Modern Letters_) + + +Meyer lay on the bed, the covers drawn up over his mouth. His thin, +long nose projected over the quilt seemed very long and wax-like; and +his eyes were closed. His feet stuck out beyond the edge of the bed, +for Meyer was a tall man, and illness seemed to have stretched him out. + +Hannah, his wife, stood near the bed, looking down upon him +sorrowfully, her fingers patching her mouth. + +“A man who has never been sick in his life to fall so sick. And he only +fifty years old--the best years,” she thought. + +She turned from the bed and silently began to clean the rooms she and +Meyer had lived in for the last eight years. Every now and then she +stopped to look at the man in the bed. + +“It seems so strange for him to be in the house with me and yet not say +a word to me.” Hannah spoke to herself. “I don’t like that white sheet +over the quilt.” + +Hannah carefully placed the broom in the corner near the stove and +pattered over to the wooden trunk where she kept her red shawl. A +close, layer-like smell of moth balls and unaired clothing lifted +itself sluggishly and receded. The red shawl was near the top. It had +white stripes and was made of sheep’s fleece. Hannah had knitted and +dyed the shawl when she was still young and wore a black plait down her +back. + +She placed the red shawl over the sick man’s feet, but they persisted +in sticking out--their long, misshapen toes digging into each other +with soles as hard as leather. They stood up stiffly perpendicular. + +Hannah looked at them and a strange terror gripped her. Her Meyer was +sick. Her Meyer was very sick! Desperately, she thought of the House. +Perhaps she had better call Mrs. Brandt. Some one.... + +A knock sounded. + +Hannah hurried to the door and opening it softly, looked up into the +ruddy, round face of her sister Brahne. + +“You!” she cried delightedly. For a moment, the sadness left her eyes. +She was no longer alone--all alone--for now, if only for a few moments, +she had her sister with her. Some one of her own blood. + +“Yes, here I am!” And Brahne stepped into the room. Everything in it +became dwarfed, for Brahne was large, large of feet, hands, head, +mouth, teeth, and voice. By lifting her hand she could have flattened +its palm on the ceiling as easily as she carried her twins on each hip. + +The two looked at each other, for they had not seen each other for a +year. Brahne had moved her bakery, her husband and children into a +suburb, and Hannah, who could not ride in cars because it made her +dizzy, did not visit her. + +“Meyer is sick, very sick,” Hannah finally said. Her hand went up to +her mouth again. + +Brahne turned to the bed and looked at the man. + +“He doesn’t seem so bad,” she decided. “What is it, a cold?” + +“No, it’s something more. The doctor wouldn’t tell me. I think it’s his +heart.” + +“Heart! That’s how much you know about men.” + +Brahne seated herself and discoursed in bellows. + +“Men are children. They don’t know how to bear even a scratch on the +finger. They get a little cold and right away they want to go to +Coloraydo and get consumption. They want to be petted and fondled like +a month-old baby. The more attention you give them the more they want. +Many times I think to myself, why do they send men to fight in the wars +when they are such weaklings!” + +Hannah listened meekly, her hand on her mouth. + +“Maybe that’s true what you say, Brahne,” she offered timidly, “but +Meyer is now laying like this the third week. And, you know, he’s never +been sick since we’ve been married.” + +The tears formed in her eyes and dropped down her cheeks. + +Brahne’s large, limpid eyes wandered from the sick man’s face to his +feet. The red shawl threw a new light into her eyes. + +Hannah wiped the tears away as she mumbled: + +“God should spare him for me. If he should die----” + +“Die!” scoffed Brahne, with difficulty shifting her eyes from the shawl +to the man’s face. “People don’t die so fast.” + +The sick man stirred and the cover moved down from his mouth. He was +smiling. + +Brahne rose from her chair and walked heavily to the bed. She beckoned +her sister. + +“See!” she said. “He’s not sick. He’s smiling. A man who sees Death +doesn’t smile, hah Meyer?” + +The sick man did not open his eyes nor move at all at the sound of his +name. But the smile was still there. + +“I could make him laugh!” Brahne wagered. + +“Laugh!” her sister repeated, sadly. “What wouldn’t I give to hear him +laugh again!” + +Brahne looked at the red shawl, lips drawn in, one eye half shut. + +“Well,” she said finally, “would you give me the red shawl if I made +him laugh?” + +Again the hand went up to the mouth, and Hannah considered. Brahne had +always wanted that red shawl she knew. + +She nodded. + +“Yes,” she finally assented. “But you must make him laugh.” + +Brahne leaned over the bed and tickled the soles of those stiff feet. A +broad smile already stretched across her face. + +“Hah, Meyer,” she called out, “don’t think you can fool me!” + +Again she trailed her large, square fingers over the calloused feet. +A slight trembling took hold of the man. His toes began to wriggle +stiffly--creakingly. + +“Well, Meyer, how about a little laugh?” Brahne called cheerfully. +Hannah stood over her husband, her hand almost hiding her mouth. Now +and then she looked at her sister. + +Brahne bent to her task with determined lips. She no longer smiled. She +wanted that red shawl. This time she played on the soles as if she were +playing the piano. Then she changed to a quick tattoo. A weak, little +gurgle issued from the parted lips of the man, but his eyes did not +open. + +“Well, Meyer,” shouted Brahne. “You can do better than that!” + +She tickled those stiff feet with the full vigour of her strong +fingers. And, suddenly, the covers flew back and the red shawl dropped +to the floor. A ringing laugh cut the silence of the room. The sick +man laughed again and again like a hysterical girl, but his eyes never +opened. + +Brahne, her hands on her hips, joined in lustily, and even Hannah +smiled tenderly and without sadness. + +Suddenly the laugh broke into two and the man stiffened from head to +toes. The lips drew themselves together slowly and painfully, and then +they were still. The soul of Meyer had fled on the back of a laugh. + +“Brahne!” Hannah screamed. “Brahne!” + +“What’s the matter?” + +But Hannah had already fallen on her knees beside the bed, moaning: + +“He is dead! My husband is dead! My husband is dead!” + +Brahne, big and powerful, looked down upon the dead man and the weeping +woman with a puzzled look in her stupid eyes. + +“But anyway I made him laugh,” she said. “The red shawl is mine.” + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [6] Copyright, 1926, by Bella Cohen. + + + + + THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY[7] + + By CHARLES CALDWELL DOBIE + + (From _Harper’s Magazine_) + +Within a hundred yards of the hill’s crest Walton Pringle’s pocket +flash winked spasmodically and died. He paused a moment to catch his +breath; the pull up from the creek bed had winded him and the sting of +cold rain in his face added a further discomfort. If he hadn’t dawdled +at Preston’s Flat, hoping for the rain to cease or abate, he would have +made his objective before nightfall. But since he had elected to wait +so long it would have been much better to continue there until next +morning. As it was, he felt sure that he had strayed from the trail--a +particularly unhappy thought to a man who could claim only a speaking +acquaintance with the wilderness. And this too under the pall of a +stormy night without the slightest ray of light to guide him. Well, the +best he could do was to stumble on: it was far better to keep moving in +circles than to resign himself to inactivity and chills. + +He was glad now that he had been persuaded to take a pistol when he +came away from Walden’s Glen. If he were lost, at least he could +provide himself with game, and in the mountains one could never tell +how long one might wander aimlessly along false paths once the proper +trail was abandoned. At first this pistol business had seemed absurd: +California was no longer a bandit country, and even if it were he had +nothing worth stealing. A jack-knife, a pocket-flash, two bars of +chocolate, and a sheaf of notes on “Itinerant and Rural Labor and Its +Relation to Crime” were poor pickings for a hold-up man. His notes +especially were valueless to any one save himself, and even their loss +would not have been irreparable. He was still near enough to his +investigations to have the material for his book clearly fixed in his +mind and, once back at his desk in San Francisco, he would be able to +recall every detail of the last two weeks spent among the economic +nomads of the mountains. But in spite of all these obvious guarantees +against violence, it appeared that there _were_ reasons for being +forearmed.... It was Lem Thatcher, one of the oldtimers, who had put +him straight on this point. + +“Bandits be damned!” Thatcher had exclaimed. “But how about a stray +bobcat? Or a crazy man? Or a lost trail?... A man who goes into the +open with nuthin’ but a jack-knife and a couple o’ bars o’ chocolate +is a fool.... Give a man a gun and you give him the next thing to a +pardner.” + +Under the depression of the moment he felt that his original stupidity +lay not so much in failing to realize the needs of such a trip as in +essaying the venture at all. Why hadn’t he been sensible and taken +the stage as far as Rock Point and swung on from there to Marchel +Duplin’s cabin? He had no time to waste, and had there been no other +reason this alternative would have given him several additional hours +with a man who, everybody conceded, knew more about sheep herding than +any other within a hundred miles. He had talked to a Basque shepherd +near Compton’s and to a Mexican herder just the other side of Willow +Creek, attempting to get sidelights on their profession, but they had +been taciturn and he without the proper moisture for limbering their +tongues. Duplin, everybody conceded, was exceptionally garrulous for +a sheep herder even when he had not the help of thin wine. It seemed +expedient, then, to go to Duplin if he wished properly to complete +the picture of rural economy whose drawing he contemplated. But for +an untrained mountaineer--a tenderfoot, in fact--it was nothing save +a whimsical extravagance to plunge along a fifteen-mile trail through +forest and shifting granite when an easier course was open. Being +valley bred he hadn’t expected rain in August, but if he had stopped to +think he might have known that anything was climatically possible in +the mountains. + +Stumbling, crawling, cursing, somehow in spite of the blackness +he felt himself making progress uphill. Presently his feet touched +level ground. This in itself was reassuring. He raised his eyes in a +desperate effort to pierce the gloom, took a few steps forward--and +suddenly, miraculously, found himself in a clearing from which beckoned +the friendly light of a cabin. With a smothered exclamation of joy he +quickened his gait, almost running forward, and the next instant he had +gained the window, instinctively stopping to peer within. + +The unreality of the scene which met his eye gave Walton Pringle a +feeling that he was either dreaming or gazing down on a stage set for a +play; only sleep or the theater seemed capable of a picture so filled +with melodrama. But in the theater one was never at once spectator +and participant, and in sleep one did not have the tangible physical +discomfort which he felt. He drew his rain-soaked body closer against +the cabin, raising himself on his toes so that he might get a better +view of the interior. A man stood hovering over a table lighted by +an anæmic candle, and through his fingers dripped a slow trickle of +silver. In a corner, uncannily outlined by a steady gleam of light, +was a crucifix nailed to the wall and below it lay a couch piled with +disordered bed clothing. On the floor, midway between table and couch, +was sprawled the figure of a man--arms flung wide, his black-bearded +face upturned--a startling inanimate thing that made Walton Pringle +turn away with a shudder. The man at the table undoubtedly was a thief. +Was he also a murderer? + +For the second time that night Pringle was glad that he was provided +with a pistol, and yet in spite of his preparedness he had a momentary +misgiving, an indecision: to be secured against an unavoidable +contingency was one thing; to push deliberately into trouble was quite +another. Pringle was no coward, but he knew his limitations; he was not +trained in any superlative skill with firearms. Was it discreet, then, +to thrust oneself across the path of a desperate man? + +He continued to gaze through the window with morbid fascination and +uncertainty: the picture was too revealing--violence had been done, +that was obvious; plunder was in process of accomplishment. A sudden +disgust at his weak-kneed prudence stiffened his decision. At that +moment the wind, flinging itself through the pine trees, sent a shower +of twigs upon the cabin roof. The face at the table was lifted with a +tragic sense of insecurity and fear; Pringle saw that it was the face +of a young man, almost a boy. For a brief moment their eyes met; then +without further ado Pringle crept swiftly to the door, hurling his +body against it in anticipation of barred progress. The force of the +impact carried him well into the room. The youth was on his feet and an +exclamation halted on his thin, pallid lips. Pringle whipped out his +gun. + +Walton Pringle did not utter a word; he merely gazed questioningly at +the youth, who began to whine. + +“I didn’t do nuthin’, honest I didn’t.... I hope to die if----” + +Pringle cut him short with an imperious gesture. The lad’s manner as +well as his physique was filled with a shambling, retarded maturity. +His face was curiously pale for one from a rural environment, and his +hair that should have been vivid and red had been sunburnt to a vague +straw color. + +“Hand over your gun!” Pringle demanded. + +The youth straightened himself with a flicker of confidence. “I ain’t +got none!” he threw back. + +Pringle searched him: he had told the truth. “Come then, give me a hand +here!” he commanded, laying his own weapon on the table. + +Together they lifted the inert body from the floor and placed it on the +couch. + +“He’s dead!” the youth ventured. + +Pringle put his hand to the man’s heart. “So it seems,” he returned +dryly. + +The dead man was swarthy and beetle browed, with wiry blue-black hair +and beard. He was undressed save for a suit of thick woolen underwear +and his feet were encased in heavy knitted gray socks. An ugly gash +clotted his brow and the ooze of blood trickling thickly from the wound +was staining the bedclothes. A flash of intuition lighted up Pringle’s +mental gropings. + +“Is this Marchel Duplin’s cabin?” + +The youth stared, then nodded. + +“And is this Marchel Duplin?” + +“Yes.” + +Almost with the same movement Pringle and the youth turned away, the +lad dropping into a chair before the table. + +Pringle drew a bench from the wall and straddled it. “What’s your +name?” he demanded. + +“Sam--Sam Allen.” + +“Where do you come from?” + +“Down--down by Walden’s Glen.” + +“Ah!... And what are you doing here?” + +“Gettin’ out o’ the wet, mostly.” + +Pringle pointed to the heap of coins on the table. “And making a +little clean-up on the side, eh?... Well, what have you got to say for +yourself?” + +Sam Allen dropped his ineffectual blue eyes. “Nuthin’ much ... I come +here to get outa the rain, like I said before. He was layin’ on the +bed there, mutterin’ to hisself, and burning up with fever. I went up +to him and I says, ‘Marchel, don’t yer know me?’ With that he grabs me +by the throat. I never _did_ see anybody get such a stranglehold on a +man.... I jest couldn’t pry him loose. He went down like a chunk o’ +lead. And when his head struck the ground”--Sam Allen shuddered--“It +was jest like a rotten watermelon went squash.... I didn’t dare look +fer a minute, and when I did he was dead!” + +“And then you proceeded to rob him, eh? Without even waiting to lift +his dead body from the floor ... or seeing what you could do to help +him?” + +Sam Allen shook his head. “I know when a man’s dead ... and I don’t +like to touch ’em, somehow--that is--not all by myself. It was +different when you come. Besides, I’ve heerd tell that the law likes +things left in a case like this--that it’s better not to touch nuthin’.” + +Pringle could not forego a sneer; really, the youth was too +ineffectual! “Nothing except money, I suppose!” + +Sam Allen ignored the sarcasm; it is doubtful if it really made +an impression. “It musta got kicked out from under his pillow in +the scuffle.... Anyway, I seen it layin’ there on the floor, jest +where his head struck, almost. Of course I was curious.” He turned a +childishly eager face toward Pringle. “Do you know, he had nigh onto +fifty dollars in that there bag.” + +“Indeed!” + +But again Pringle’s sarcasm rebounded and fell flat. Apparently Sam +Allen was not quick witted. He mistook irony for interest. Without +further urging the youth began to tell about himself. His father had a +hog ranch just this side of Walden’s Glen--a drab, filthy spot. This +father kept drunk most of the time on a potent brand of moonshine +which he himself distilled. The whole drudgery of the place had fallen +on the boy. “Cows, I wouldn’t have minded so much--they ain’t dirty +like pigs--leastways what they eat ain’t!” He breathed hard when he +spoke and his clipped words took on descriptive vehemence. The whole +atmosphere of the Allen ranch rose in a fetid mist before Walton +Pringle: hog wallow, sour swill, obscene grunts and squealings, the +beastly drunkenness of Allen senior. Since no mention was made of +a woman’s presence, Pringle divined that there was none. Sam Allen +had grown sick to death of it all and had run away: without money, +provisions, or proper clothing--even lacking decent footgear--without +plans. It was a pitiful story and yet it damned him superlatively; +gave point to the situation in which he had been found. Listening to +him Pringle lost the conviction that he was a premeditated murderer, +but there seemed no reasonable doubt that he was an accidental one. It +seemed he knew well the Duplin cabin; used to steal up there on rare +occasions, when Marchel was out shepherding, to share the Frenchman’s +dribbles of thin wine. He liked wine. One mouthful and your heart felt +freer, more gay. Why, one could sing then--almost. At least Marchel +Duplin could. Moonshine never gave a man a singing mood--only a nasty +one. At this point Pringle could not forego a question: Did he know +that Duplin had money?... Allen hesitated and Pringle had an impulse +to warn him against answering; it didn’t seem fair to let the boy +unwittingly incriminate himself. But before Pringle could caution him +the youth blurted out the truth: he had heard something of it. Pringle +felt his heart contract in a rush of pity: the whole situation was so +obvious--a desperate, weak, perhaps degenerate boy rushing blindly +toward freedom and disaster. Had Duplin’s wine jug been part of the +youth’s hapless plan? Had he attempted to get the shepherd drunk before +he despoiled him? + +At all events he hadn’t managed skillfully and the Frenchman had put +up a fight. The results spoke for themselves. Well, it all came back +to heredity and environment. He’d have an interesting lot of notes to +make on this case. No theorizing this time, but something at first +hand, alive and palpitating. Quite suddenly he found his pity receding, +submerged by his scientific desire for truth. The youth before him was +like a moth pinned to the wall, before which the investigator lost +all sentimental interest in his eagerness to measure the duration +of the death agony. Now was the time to get data, before fear or +caution stepped in to dam up Sam Allen’s naïve garrulity. Pringle was +interested in the youth’s mother. But Sam Allen couldn’t remember much: +Lizzie Evans, that had been her name--a girl who “worked out.” Yet the +very economy of this picture was illuminating. Lizzie Evans, a girl who +“worked out.” It was perfect! A girl who doubtless had been ruined, +to use the phrase of unemancipated women. She probably had had just +such a pinched, yellow, wistful face as the son she had borne to feed +the hangman’s noose. Pringle had a fad for reconstructing the faces of +mothers from the bolder outlines of their male offspring. He usually +found the test successful even with the most rugged material; he had a +feeling that in this case his imagination did not need to overleap any +confines whatsoever to achieve its goal. Lizzie Allen, born Evans, had +died: a futile, weak anæmic slip of a girl, stifled by the nauseous +vapors of the hog pens. Not that Sam Allen put it so, but Pringle could +read a shorthand of life almost as skillfully as a complete script. He +swung the conversation back to Allen senior. The son embellished the +portrait with a wealth of sinister details, finishing with a malicious +little chuckle. + +“An’ he’s deputy sheriff for the district, too, moonshinin’ an’ all.... +Oh, I’ve seen him track fellars down an’ shoot ’em when they had the +goods on him. Didn’t matter whether they was guilty or not.... I’ve +seen him beat ’em, too--over the head--with the butt of a pistol--or +anything else that came handy!” + +Pringle turned his eyes to the inanimate figure on the bed. How +completely everything was dovetailing! “_I’ve seen him beat ’em, too, +over the head._” Precisely. For all the youth’s inadequacy he had +absorbed some of the inhumanities from his sire. + + * * * * * + +A strange exalted cruelty began to stir in Walton Pringle, the cruelty +of an animal on the scene of some furtive thing pitifully intent on +escape. His mood must have communicated itself, for suddenly Sam Allen +fell into a silence that no amount of prodding could shatter. Well, +there could be little more that bore upon the particular issue. Pringle +began to think of the most expedient move. He found himself shivering. +Naturally, since he had been wet to the skin.... A rusty stove huddled +itself just below one of the windows, sending its pipe crazily through +a shattered pane. Pringle suggested a fire; dumbly the youth assented. +Together they began to collect débris from the cabin floor: crumpled +newspapers, empty cartons, a handful of pine cones. Soon a cheerful +blaze crackled and roared. Even Sam Allen found its warmth agreeable, +but its cheer did not serve to melt his sudden reticence. + +Presently for lack of fuel the fire began to spend itself and its snap +and roar sank to a faint hiss. The night too seemed to have grown +miraculously silent. Pringle rose and threw open the cabin door. The +rain had stopped, even the wind had fallen, and through a rent in the +storm clouds far to the east a faint glow gave promise of a rising moon. + +Pringle closed the door and went back to his place before the stove. +The situation in which he found himself made him suddenly restive. It +seemed as if he could not possibly wait until morning to settle the +issue that must ultimately be settled. + +Walden’s Glen lay a good fifteen miles to the east, but at least it +was for the most part down grade. His exhaustion of the previous hour +had been swallowed up in the absorbing shock of drama. He felt like +making a decisive move and yet a certain pity for Sam Allen, shrinking +visibly before his questioning gaze, made him resolve to give the youth +a meager choice in the matter. He sauntered casually to the table. The +candle was guttering to a feeble decline, and it threw out a flickering +light that touched with spasmodic fire the coins lying in a disorderly +heap where Sam Allen had abandoned them. Pringle ran his hand nervously +through the silver pile. + +“What do you think,” he asked abruptly, “shall we strike out for +Walden’s Glen now, or wait till morning?” + +Sam Allen gave a gasp. Then recovering himself, he returned with slow +drawling defiance, “If you’re headed that way, suit yourself.... But I +set out to leave Walden’s Glen and I don’t see no reason why I should +go back.” + +Pringle felt himself grow ominously cool. “I dare say you don’t. +But, unfortunately for you, there _are_ reasons.... In a way I’m +sorry I walked into this mess. But I did walk in and I can’t shirk my +responsibility. There’s the law to reckon with, you know!” + +Sam Allen’s lips began to tremble. “I tell you it was an accident. +Don’t you believe me?” + +“No.” + +“And you mean to give me up--to--to--my father?” + +_Deputy sheriff for the district!_ For a moment even Pringle trembled: +the picture which the youth had drawn of his sire had been too vivid. +And besides, the bare situation was pregnant with disaster. + +“I’m afraid there’s no help for it,” Pringle returned, trying to check +any show of emotion. Sam Allen crept nearer to the table like a whipped +dog. Pringle was stirred to a profound pity. “Besides,” he went on more +softly, “your father can’t really touch you. You’ll have all the law on +your side.” + +Even in his terror the youth could not check a sneer. “Much you know +about it!” he cried passionately. + +“But I’ll go with you--don’t you understand--every step of the way ... +I mean, I’ll stand by you till everything’s put straight.” Pringle +broke off suddenly. Sam Allen’s white face seemed to draw closer to the +table and his two eyes were fixed craftily upon the gun which Pringle +had neglected to restore to his hip pocket. + +An intense nervous silence followed; Pringle made a swift movement +toward the pistol, and the next moment the candle was violently +extinguished. + + * * * * * + +Pringle stood momentarily inactive under the shock of surprise. The +slam of the door roused him. He went stumbling through the gloom, +knocking down impediments in his path until he gained the open. The +moon was still hidden by the thick clouds in the east, but directly +overhead a few stars showed dimly through thin vapors rising from the +drenched hills. + +Almost at once he realized the futility of pursuit. He knew nothing +about the country, and besides, the greatest service he could render +was to report the situation promptly. An aroused community would deal +effectively with the murderer--he wouldn’t get very far with his lack +of resources and wit. + +Pringle went back into the cabin and lighted the candle, forcing the +stub out of the candlestick to prolong its life. The pile of silver had +been scattered about by the impact of stumbling fingers but it appeared +otherwise intact; the pistol, however, had disappeared. Pringle laughed +to himself, shrugging his shoulders. It was plain that he had much to +learn about the custody of prisoners. Urged by the expediency of taking +stock of all emphatic details connected with the situation, he raised +the candle and swept the interior with its faint radiance. This was the +first comprehensive view he had taken of the room. But there was really +little of fresh significance: the cot on which lay the body of Marchel +Duplin, the rusting stove, the table, the one chair, the bench; and +over in a corner--back of the door when it swung open--a burlap curtain +screening a shallow triangle. This last item was the only detail which +had previously escaped him, partly because of its neutral color and +partly because it hung in the shadow. A faint suspicion crossed him as +he caught the movement of the curtain. He put the light down on the +table. Could it be that the slammed door following on Allen’s apparent +exit had been a clever ruse? He took a quick gliding step forward +and thrust the curtain dramatically aside, almost expecting to find +Sam Allen cowering behind it. But the space revealed nothing except +a muddle of clothes and discarded boots, and a sharp current of air +drifting through a wide crevice in the floor. + +The reaction from the tenseness of expectation left him shivering. An +impatience for the whole situation swept over him. He felt relieved +that young Allen had fled, eluded him. It lifted an unpleasant duty +from his shoulders and at the same time confirmed the youth’s guilt. He +would have hated, now that he considered it, to be the instrument for +turning an uncertain situation into an inevitable one. His testimony +might have damned an innocent man--that he was now willing to concede. +But Allen’s escape immeasurably cleared the issue: innocent people were +never fearful. How many, _many_ times, in divers forms, had this truism +been brought home to him! + +Yet in spite of the emphatic case against young Allen, Pringle felt +the necessity of having his own movements clear in his mind. He’d be +questioned, naturally; that went without saying. Quite rapidly he +recapitulated the events of the day: the start from Walden’s Glen at +sunrise, the untoward rain at noon, his dawdling in the shelter of a +redwood hollow against a sudden clearing; his resolve to push on when +he saw no prospect of the storm’s abatement.... It all sounded so clear +and simple. Once he explained his mission, any testimony he might +give must gather added weight. And his credentials would render his +testimony doubly valuable. His book on _Radical Movements in Relation +to Post-war Problems_ would carry him past any reasonable skepticism, +and then a B.A. from Yale and the prospects of a Ph.D. from Columbia +ought to impress even a rural magistrate. + +He decided to count the money and take it with him to Walden’s Glen. +It wasn’t safe to leave it in the cabin, and besides, it had a +significant bearing on the case. In a half hour, he figured, the moon +would be fully risen and if the sky continued to clear he would have a +brilliantly lighted path to travel back. + +He drew the single chair up to the table and fell to his task. The +money was in all denominations of silver, but mostly quarters and +halves. He began to group them into systematic piles. A faint scraping +sound made him pause.... A twig, probably, brushing against the +house.... He continued counting the money. Again the sound came. This +time a tremor ran through him as he stopped his task. He kept his +eye straight ahead as if fearing to turn to the right or left. Then +slowly, fearfully, with the inevitability of one who feels other eyes +fixed ironically upon him, he turned and looked up at the window, very +much as Sam Allen had done less than an hour before.... A man’s face +answered his startled gaze and the next instant the door flew open. + +Walton Pringle rose in his seat, again repeating the gesture of Sam +Allen in a like situation. A faint, almost imperceptible sense of this +analogy crept over him; he felt his heart suddenly contract. + + * * * * * + +The man in the doorway had an impressive bulk, a swaggering, insolent +grossness that must once have been robustly virile. His coarse underlip +had sufficient force to crowd upward a ragged mustache, and as he +stepped heavily into the circle of light, Walton Pringle felt a glint +of sardonic and unpropitiable humor leap at him from two piglike eyes. + +“Where’s Duplin?” the stranger demanded. + +Pringle pointed to the cot. The visitor strode up to it and drew down +the quilt. “Dead, eh!” He bent over closer. “Ah, a tolerable blow on +the head.... Neat job, I’d say.” He flung back the quilt over the face +of the corpse with a gesture that showed an absolute indifference, a +contempt even for the presence of death. “Well, stranger, suppose you +tell me who you are?” There was an authority in his drawling suaveness +which brought a quick answer. “Pringle, eh?... And just what are you +doing here?” + +Pringle stiffened with a rallied dignity. “I might ask you the same +question. And I might ask your name, too, if I felt at all curious. As +a matter of fact, I’m not, but I must decline to be cross-examined by a +man I don’t know.” + +A grim humor played about the protruding under-lip. “Correct, stranger, +correct as hell! My name happens to be Allen--Hank Allen. That don’t +mean nuthin’ to yer, does it? Well, I’ll go further. I’m deputy sheriff +for this county and I’ve got a right to question any man I take a +notion to question. It ain’t exactly a right I work overtime, but when +I come into a man’s cabin and find that man dead and a stranger pawin’ +over his money, I guess I just naturally calc’late that I’d better get +on the job.” He threw a pair of handcuffs on the table. “Why I happen +to be here don’t matter much, I guess. A man sometimes goes hunting for +jack rabbit and brings home venison. You get me, don’t yer?” + +Walton Pringle stood motionless, trying to still the beating of his +heart. He understood something now of Sam Allen’s terror, Sam Allen’s +fear of being turned over to his father. But he knew also that a +betrayal of fear would be one of the worst moves he could make. + +“You don’t have to tell me why you’re here,” he said quietly, “now that +I know your name. There’s a runaway lad mixed up in it somewhere, if +I’m not mistaken.” + +The barest possible flash of surprise lighted up the features of Hank +Allen, destroying for a moment their brutal immobility. “I ain’t saying +‘yes’ or ‘no’ to that,” he half laughed, recovering his careless +manner. “But I don’t figger how that answers the question at hand.” + +Pringle smiled a superior smile. “Perhaps you’re not the only one +to look through the window at a stranger sitting before this table +_pawin’_ over a dead man’s money. Perhaps I wasn’t the first in the +field. Perhaps there is more than you fancy to connect up a runaway lad +with the question at hand. Who knows?” + +Hank Allen’s shoulders drooped forward with almost impalpable menace +and his brows drew down tightly. “Look here, Pringle, I ain’t +accustomed to movin’ in circles. When I shoot, I shoot straight. What’s +more, I usually set the pace. In other words, let’s have no more +riddles. Good plain language suits me. What’s on your mind?” + +Pringle shrugged his shoulders with a hint of triumph and proceeded to +tell his adversary just what was on his mind in good plain language +that he felt would suit Hank Allen down to the ground. But as he +progressed he found an uneasiness halting the glibness with which he +had opened fire: Hank Allen’s impassivity became as inscrutable and +sinister as a tragic mask whose inflexible outlines concealed a surface +animate with fly-blown depravity. He finished upon a note of pity for +the youth and rested his case with a tremulousness of spirit which +disclosed that he was pleading his cause rather than Sam Allen’s; and +pleading, as Sam Allen himself had done, to a tribunal that had already +reached its verdict. + +“I’m not saying the boy meant to do it, mind you,” he repeated, stung +to a reiteration by Allen’s ominous silence. “And I’m right here to do +all I can to pull him out of a hole. _My_ testimony ought to have some +weight.” + +Allen ignored Pringle’s egotistic flourish. “Let’s see,” he mused +coldly, “what time did you strike out from Walden’s Glen?” + +“At seven this morning.” + +“And it took you until nearly nine at night to make this cabin?... +You’re a mighty slow walker, if you ask me.” + +“The rain came on shortly after one o’clock. I thought it might let up, +so I dodged into the shelter of a redwood stump near Preston’s Flat. +But it only grew worse. At five I decided to push on.” + +Suddenly Pringle stopped, chilled by the fact that Hank Allen’s air of +sneering incredulity was rendering devoid of substance the simplest and +most truthful statements. Even in his own ears they rang out falsely. +He desperately recovered himself and again took up his defense. It was +terrifying how hollow even his credentials sounded, let alone the story +of the day’s events: a Yale B.A., a Ph.D. from Columbia, the author of +_Radical Movements in Relation to Post-war Problems_--every statement +he made grew more incredible, more fictitious, more hopeless. It was as +if the monumental skepticism of Hank Allen were capable of destroying +all reality. When he had finished, Hank Allen cleared his throat +significantly. + +“You’ll have a mighty interesting story to tell the judge,” he +half-sneered, half-chuckled. + +The brevity of Hank Allen’s comment was packed with presage, and yet +for a fleeting moment Walton Pringle took courage. A judge--precisely! +A judge would be quite a different matter. Really, the situation +was little short of absurd! In answer Hank Allen merely turned his +gaze toward the disheveled cot, and he continued to tap the table +significantly with the empty handcuffs. + + * * * * * + +In the portentous silence which followed Walton Pringle’s thoughts +leaped to Sam Allen. Had his own skepticism of the previous hour +also flattened the youth’s defense? If he had listened with an open +mind would the boy’s far-fetched statements have held germs of +reasonability? After all, what was there so extravagant in Sam Allen’s +tale? It could have happened just as he had said. But there was the +youth’s absurd escape. What point did any man have in damning himself +with any move so suspicious--so futile? + +As for Allen senior, what did he really think? It was almost incredible +to imagine that he fancied Walton Pringle guilty. Then why the pose? +Did some smoldering clan spirit in him rouse instinctively to his own +flesh and blood in its extremity? Or would his son’s disgrace expose +his own delinquencies? The story that Pringle had listened to must +merely have scratched the surface of his father’s infamies. No, it was +patent that Allen senior was in no position to invite the law to review +his private record.... Yet he must know that he could but postpone the +inevitable. What would happen tomorrow when the proper magistrate heard +the real truth? The thought, spinning through Walton Pringle’s brain, +gave him a sudden feeling of boldness. After all, what had _he_ to +fear? He rose in his seat, all his confidence recaptured. + +“Mr. Allen,” he said clearly, “you are quite right. I _have_ an +interesting story to tell the judge. Therefore, I think the sooner I +tell it the better. Shall we start back to Walden’s Glen at once?” + +A sardonic smile fastened itself on Pringle. He picked up the +handcuffs. “If you will oblige me--” he nodded toward Pringle’s folded +arms. + +The faint suggestion of a chill crept over Pringle. “Do I understand, +Mr. Allen, that you intend to put me to the indignity of handcuffs?” +Allen shrugged. “No, I won’t have it! I’ll be damned if I will!” + +“You won’t have it? Come now, that ain’t pretty talk. And it ain’t +reasonable talk, neither.” He narrowed his eyes. “Resisting an officer +of the law is sometimes a messy job, stranger.” + +Pringle’s resistance died before the covert snarl in Allen’s voice. +He put out his wrists and in the next instant he felt a cold clasp of +steel encircling them and heard the click of the lock. At the moment he +remembered the words of Sam Allen: “_I’ve seen him beat ’em, too, over +the head, with the butt end of a pistol--or anything else that came +handy._” + +And in a swift, terrible moment of revelation he knew that that was +just what Hank Allen intended to do. + + * * * * * + +He fell back on the bench utterly helpless and without defense. Every +story of the law’s brutality that had ever reached his ears seemed +to beat mockingly about him. He remembered now that not one of these +tales had ever concerned an unshackled victim. No, what petty tyrants +liked best was something prostrate which they could kick and trample +with impunity. That was always the normal complement of bullying, +but in this case corruption gave the hand of authority an added +incentive. Hank Allen would murder him not only for the pleasure of the +performance but to save his own hide. A man struck down for resisting +an officer would tell no tales. And how neatly the situation would +be cleared up: a suspected murderer paying the penalty of his crime +without process or expense of law. A bit of sound judicial economy, to +tell the truth, in a community not given to rating life too dearly. And +he thought that he had managed it all so cleverly! + +At this point he noticed that Hank Allen was intent on investigating +a menacing six-shooter and his mind moved alertly past all the futile +movements he could make toward defense. Where was Hank Allen planning +his latest atrocity--here in Marchel Duplin’s cabin or somewhere on +the trail to Walden’s Glen? Here in the cabin--or he missed his +guess--with a litter of broken furniture to add confirmation to a tale +of resistance. + +His gaze swept the room with a sudden hunger for even a drab background +to life, as if his soul longed to carry a homely memory with it +into the impending darkness. He saw the tumbled cot, the rusting +stove, the table before him with a sudden passionate sense of their +rude symbolism. Even the guttering candle, almost spent, took on +significance. It was the candle, blown into untimely darkness, that +had paved the way for his predicament. If only his pocket flash had +worked! Upon such trivialities did life itself depend! A flickering +candle ... a flickering candle ... a flickering-- The rhythmic beat of +this reiteration snapped. Unconsciously he had looked past the gleam of +light to the closed door and the burlap curtain, screening its shallow +triangle, swaying gently in the half darkness. Abruptly candlelight, +doorway, and curtain became fused into a unit--startling and lucid. +Would it be possible? The prospect left him as breathless as a dash of +cold water; he could hear himself gasp. Hank Allen fixed him with a +suspicious glance. + +“What’s the matter?” he demanded brutally. + +Pringle’s mind cleared to a point of supreme intuition. + +“I’m--I’m ill!” he gasped. “Would--would you mind opening the +door--it’s suffocating in here.” + +Hank Allen hesitated, then a diabolic humor seemed to move him to +compliance. He threw back the door with a chuckle and resumed his seat. +It was as if he had said, “Try it, my friend, if it amuses you!” + +For a brief moment Walton Pringle closed his eyes; then quite suddenly +opened them, took in a deep breath, and with a quick upward leap he +blew out the candle. + + * * * * * + +Drawing himself flatly against the wall, Pringle felt the impact +of the door swinging back before Allen’s stumbling pursuit. It was +inconceivable that a man on such good terms with subterfuge could have +been tricked by anything so obvious as a slammed door. But how long +would he remain tricked? He wouldn’t search the hills all night, nor +would he be likely to strike out for Walden’s Glen without returning +to the cabin. Pringle’s first elation at the extraordinary success of +his ruse fell before the realization of his plight. What chance had a +handcuffed man in any case? And his attempt to escape--how beautifully +that colored his guilt! _Innocent people were never fearful._ The +memory of this mental deduction bit at him sharply. Yet with all +the odds against him he felt that he must plan something and that +quickly. Cautiously moving back the open door he peered over its rim. +At first his vision could not pierce the gloom, but suddenly a flood +of moonlight released from the imprisonment of dispersing clouds made +a path of silver into the cabin. Pringle listened: everything was +extraordinarily still. + +All at once the silence was cracked by a keen report. A snapping +fusillade answered Pringle’s mental interrogation.... He heard a +shrill cry, clipped and terrible. Then the silence fell again.... +Presently the soft beat of cautious footfalls drifted toward the cabin. +Pringle withdrew to the curtain’s shelter. Something fluttered on the +threshold. Then slowly, warily, the door was closed. + +Pringle leaned sidewise, the tail of one eye thrust past the curtain’s +edge. Moonlight was flooding now even through the grimy windowpane. A +shadowy form crept stealthily toward the table, halted as if sensing a +living presence, turned sharply and revealed the unmistakable outlines +of Sam Allen’s ineffectual face. + +Walton Pringle gave a cry of mingled relief and surprise and stepped +from his hiding place. + +The youth shrank back. “I--I wondered where you were,” he gasped. He +gave a little hysterical flourish with his right hand and Pringle saw +that he held the stolen pistol. “Well, I’m a murderer _now_!” he spit +out with quivering venom. + +In a flash Pringle knew everything, and yet he could only stammer out +in stupid conventional protest: + +“You don’t mean ... _not your father_!” + +The youth’s face grew ashen. “Who else did you think?” He gave a +scraping laugh. “Would _you_ stand up and let him get you, if you had a +chance to shoot first? I guess not.... Well, what are you going to do +about it?” + +Pringle brought his shackled wrists into the moonlight. “Damned little, +I fancy.” + +Young Allen put an incredulous finger on the handcuffs. “What’s the +idea?” + +Pringle smiled ironically. “Just a little joke of your father’s. +He pretended he thought I was the murderer. He was for taking me +back to Walden’s Glen.” He stopped, overcome with a passion for +self-accusation, self-abasement: “Just as I wanted to take you back.... +Yes, on the surface he was as self-righteous and smug as I was. But he +didn’t fool me. I knew that he intended to murder me in cold blood--to +save your hide and incidentally his.... Well, I blew out the candle as +you did--to--to save myself.” + +A curious look came over Sam Allen’s face. Walton Pringle had a feeling +that for the second time that night he had delivered himself into the +hands of the enemy. + +“You were a fool to tell me that,” Sam Allen drawled, with a hint of +his father’s biting irony in his voice. “I wouldn’t have thought of +such an easy way out--all by myself.... Yer know what I mean, don’t +yer?” + +Pringle felt himself grow unnaturally calm. “You mean you could shoot +me down and settle everything for yourself?... Yes, you could. Dead +men tell no tales, and in this case three dead men would be even more +silent than two.... I can’t say that I blame you. I didn’t give any +quarter in your pinch; why should you spare me?” + +Sam Allen gave an impatient cough and his words vibrated with sudden +and strange maturity as he said coldly: + +“I’m trying to figure it out.... It _would_ be simpler to kill you.” +He held up the pistol, gazing at it with the tragic fascination of a +stripling who has tasted his first victory--drawn his first blood. +His whole body seemed animated with some strange new power that still +struggled for foothold. Was the spirit of Hank Allen so soon fighting +for a place in which to lodge its sinister corruption?... Suddenly +he began to shiver violently. “No, it wouldn’t be simpler,” he half +whispered--“not in the long run.... What do you say? Shall we go back +to Walden’s Glen--together?” + +A faint blur dimmed Pringle’s gaze. “I don’t deserve it!” he cried with +a vehement passion. “Upon my word, I don’t!” + +Sam Allen laid the pistol on the table. “Shucks!” he said simply, +“everybody makes mistakes.” + +And at that moment Walton Pringle fancied that the pinched, yellow, +wistful face before him re-created with a curiously poignant glory the +face of Lizzie Allen, born Evans--the girl who had “worked out”! + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [7] Copyright, 1925, by Harper & Brothers. + Copyright, 1926, by Charles Caldwell Dobie. + + + + + THE CITY OF REFUGE[8] + + By RUDOLPH FISHER + + (From _The Atlantic Monthly_) + + I + +Confronted suddenly by daylight, King Solomon Gillis stood dazed and +blinking. The railroad station, the long, white-walled corridor, the +impassible slot-machine, the terrifying subway train--he felt as if he +had been caught up in the jaws of a steam-shovel, jammed together with +other helpless lumps of dirt, swept blindly along for a time, and at +last abruptly dumped. + +There had been strange and terrible sounds: ‘New York! Penn +Terminal--all change!’ ‘Pohter, hyer, pohter, suh?’ Shuffle of a +thousand soles, clatter of a thousand heels, innumerable echoes. +Cracking rifle-shots--no, snapping turnstiles. ‘Put a nickel in!’ +‘Harlem? Sure. This side--next train.’ Distant thunder, nearing. +The screeching onslaught of the fiery hosts of hell, headlong, +breath-taking. Car doors rattling, sliding, banging open. ‘Say, +wha’ d’ye think this is, a baggage car?’ Heat, oppression, +suffocation--eternity--‘Hundred ’n turdy-fif’ next!’ More turnstiles. +Jonah emerging from the whale. + +Clean air, blue sky, bright sunlight. + +Gillis set down his tan-cardboard extension case and wiped his black, +shining brow. Then slowly, spreadingly, he grinned at what he saw: +Negroes at every turn; up and down Lenox Avenue, up and down One +Hundred and Thirty-Fifth Street; big, lanky Negroes, short, squat +Negroes; black ones, brown ones, yellow ones; men standing idle on the +curb, women, bundle-laden, trudging reluctantly homeward, children +rattle-trapping about the sidewalks; here and there a white face +drifting along, but Negroes predominantly, overwhelmingly everywhere. +There was assuredly no doubt of his whereabouts. This was Negro Harlem. + +Back in North Carolina Gillis had shot a white man and, with the aid +of prayer and an automobile, probably escaped a lynching. Carefully +avoiding the railroads, he had reached Washington in safety. For +his car a Southwest bootlegger had given him a hundred dollars and +directions to Harlem; and so he had come to Harlem. + +Ever since a traveling preacher had first told him of the place, King +Solomon Gillis had longed to come to Harlem. The Uggams were always +talking about it; one of their boys had gone to France in the draft +and, returning, had never got any nearer home than Harlem. And there +were occasional ‘colored’ newspapers from New York: newspapers that +mentioned Negroes without comment, but always spoke of a white person +as ‘So-and-so, white.’ That was the point. In Harlem, black was white. +You had rights that could not be denied you; you had privileges, +protected by law. And you had money. Everybody in Harlem had money. It +was a land of plenty. Why, had not Mouse Uggam sent back as much as +fifty dollars at a time to his people in Waxhaw? + +The shooting, therefore, simply catalyzed whatever sluggish mental +reaction had been already directing King Solomon’s fortunes toward +Harlem. The land of plenty was more than that now: it was also the city +of refuge. + +Casting about for direction, the tall newcomer’s glance caught +inevitably on the most conspicuous thing in sight, a magnificent figure +in blue that stood in the middle of the crossing and blew a whistle and +waved great white-gloved hands. The Southern Negro’s eyes opened wide; +his mouth opened wider. If the inside of New York had mystified him, +the outside was amazing him. For there stood a handsome, brass-buttoned +giant directing the heaviest traffic Gillis had ever seen; halting +unnumbered tons of automobiles and trucks and wagons and pushcarts and +street-cars; holding them at bay with one hand while he swept similar +tons peremptorily on with the other; ruling the wide crossing with +supreme self-assurance; and he, too, was a Negro! + +Yet most of the vehicles that leaped or crouched at his bidding +carried white passengers. One of these overdrove bounds a few feet and +Gillis heard the officer’s shrill whistle and gruff reproof, saw the +driver’s face turn red and his car draw back like a threatened pup. It +was beyond belief--impossible. Black might be white, but it couldn’t be +that white! + +‘Done died an’ woke up in Heaven,’ thought King Solomon, watching, +fascinated; and after a while, as if the wonder of it were too great +to believe simply by seeing, ‘Cullud policemans!’ he said, half aloud; +then repeated over and over, with greater and greater conviction, ‘Even +got cullud policemans--even got cullud----’ + +‘Where y’ want to go, big boy?’ + +Gillis turned. A little, sharp-faced yellow man was addressing him. + +‘Saw you was a stranger. Thought maybe I could help y’ out.’ + +King Solomon located and gratefully extended a slip of paper. ‘Wha’ dis +hyeh at, please, suh?’ + +The other studied it a moment, pushing back his hat and scratching his +head. The hat was a tall-crowned, unindented brown felt; the head was +brown patent-leather, its glistening brush-back flawless save for a +suspicious crimpiness near the clean-grazed edges. + +‘See that second corner? Turn to the left when you get there. Number +forty-five’s about half-way the block.’ + +‘Thank y’, suh.’ + +‘You from--Massachusetts?’ + +‘No, suh, Nawth Ca’lina.’ + +‘Is ’at so? You look like a Northerner. Be with us long?’ + +‘Till I die,’ grinned the flattered King Solomon. + +‘Stoppin’ there?’ + +‘Reckon I is. Man in Washin’ton ’lowed I’d find lodgin’ at dis +ad-dress.’ + +‘Good enough. If y’ don’t, maybe I can fix y’ up. Harlem’s pretty +crowded. This is me.’ He proffered a card. + +‘Thank y’, suh,’ said Gillis, and put the card in his pocket. + +The little yellow man watched him plod flat-footedly on down the +street, long awkward legs never quite straightened, shouldered +extension-case bending him sidewise, wonder upon wonder halting or +turning him about. Presently, as he proceeded, a pair of bright green +stockings caught and held his attention. Tony, the storekeeper, was +crossing the sidewalk with a bushel basket of apples. There was a +collision; the apples rolled; Tony exploded; King Solomon apologized. +The little yellow man laughed shortly, took out a notebook, and put +down the address he had seen on King Solomon’s slip of paper. + +‘Guess you’re the shine I been waitin’ for,’ he surmised. + +As Gillis, approaching his destination, stopped to rest, a haunting +notion grew into an insistent idea. ‘Dat li’l yaller nigger was a sho’ +’nuff gen’man to show me de road. Seem lak I knowed him befo’--’ He +pondered. That receding brow, that sharp-ridged, spreading nose, that +tight upper lip over the two big front teeth, that chinless jaw-- He +fumbled hurriedly for the card he had not looked at and eagerly made +out the name. + +‘Mouse Uggam, sho’ ’nuff! Well, dog-gone!’ + + + II + +Uggam sought out Tom Edwards, once a Pullman porter, now prosperous +proprietor of a cabaret, and told him:-- + +‘Chief, I got him: a baby jess in from the land o’ cotton and so dumb +he thinks ante bellum’s an old woman.’ + +‘Where’d you find him?’ + +‘Where you find all the jay birds when they first hit Harlem--at the +subway entrance. This one come up the stairs, batted his eyes once or +twice, an’ froze to the spot--with his mouth open. Sure sign he’s from +’way down behind the sun an’ ripe f’ the pluckin’.’ + +Edwards grinned a gold-studded, fat-jowled grin. ‘Gave him the usual +line, I suppose?’ + +‘Didn’t miss. An’ he fell like a ton o’ bricks. ’Course I’ve got him +spotted, but damn ’f I know jess how to switch ’em on to him.’ + +‘Get him a job around a store somewhere. Make out you’re befriendin’ +him. Get his confidence.’ + +‘Sounds good. Ought to be easy. He’s from my State. Maybe I know him or +some of his people.’ + +‘Make out you do, anyhow. Then tell him some fairy tale that’ll switch +your trade to him. The cops’ll follow the trade. We could even let +Froggy flop into some dumb white cop’s hands and “confess” where he got +it. See?’ + +‘Chief, you got a head, no lie.’ + +‘Don’t lose no time. And remember, hereafter, it’s better to sacrifice +a little than to get squealed on. Never refuse a customer. Give him a +little credit. Humor him along till you can get rid of him safe. You +don’t know what that guy that died may have said; you don’t know who’s +on to you now. And if they get you--I don’t know you.’ + +‘They won’t get _me_,’ said Uggam. + + * * * * * + +King Solomon Gillis sat meditating in a room half the size of his +hencoop back home, with a single window opening into an airshaft. + +An airshaft: cabbage and chitterlings cooking; liver and onions +sizzling, sputtering; three player-pianos out-plunking each other; +a man and a woman calling each other vile things; a sick, neglected +baby wailing; a phonograph broadcasting blues; dishes clacking; a girl +crying heartbrokenly; waste noises, waste odors of a score of families, +seeking issue through a common channel; pollution from bottom to top--a +sewer of sounds and smells. + +Contemplating this, King Solomon grinned and breathed, ‘Dog-gone!’ A +little later, still gazing into the sewer, he grinned again. ‘Green +stockin’s,’ he said; ’loud green!’ The sewer gradually grew darker. +A window lighted up opposite, revealing a woman in camisole and +petticoat, arranging her hair. King Solomon, staring vacantly, shook +his head and grinned yet again. ‘Even got cullud policemans!’ he +mumbled softly. + + + III + +Uggam leaned out of the room’s one window and spat maliciously into the +dinginess of the airshaft. ‘Damn glad you got him,’ he commented, as +Gillis finished his story. ‘They’s a thousand shines in Harlem would +change places with you in a minute jess f’ the honor of killin’ a +cracker.’ + +‘But I didn’t go to do it. ’Twas a accident.’ + +‘That’s the only part to keep secret.’ + +‘Know whut dey done? Dey killed five o’ Mose Joplin’s hawses ’fo he +lef’. Put groun’ glass in de feed-trough. Sam Cheevers come up on three +of ’em one night pizenin’ his well. Bleesom beat Crinshaw out o’ sixty +acres o’ lan’ an’ a year’s crops. Dass jess how ’tis. Soon’s a nigger +make a li’l sump’n he better git to leavin’. An’ ’fo long ev’ybody’s +goin’ be lef’!’ + +‘Hope to hell they don’t all come here.’ + +The doorbell of the apartment rang. A crescendo of footfalls in the +hallway culminated in a sharp rap on Gillis’s door. Gillis jumped. +Nobody but a policeman would rap like that. Maybe the landlady had been +listening and had called in the law. It came again, loud, quick, angry. +King Solomon prayed that the policeman would be a Negro. + +Uggam stepped over and opened the door. King Solomon’s apprehensive +eyes saw framed therein, instead of a gigantic officer, calling +for him, a little blot of a creature, quite black against even the +darkness of the hallway, except for a dirty, wide-striped silk shirt, +collarless, with the sleeves rolled up. + +‘Ah hahve bill fo’ Mr. Gillis.’ A high, strongly accented Jamaican +voice, with its characteristic singsong intonation, interrupted King +Solomon’s sigh of relief. + +‘Bill? Bill fo’ me? What kin’ o’ bill?’ + +‘Wan bushel appels. T’ree seventy-fife.’ + +‘Apples? I ain’ bought no apples.’ He took the paper and read aloud, +laboriously, ‘Antonio Gabrielli to K. S. Gillis, Doctor----’ + +‘Mr. Gabrielli say, you not pays him, he send policemon.’ + +‘What I had to do wid ’is apples?’ + +‘You bumps into him yesterday, no? Scatter appels everywhere--on the +sidewalk, in de gutter. Kids pick up an’ run away. Others all spoil. So +you pays.’ + +Gillis appealed to Uggam. ‘How ’bout it, Mouse?’ + +‘He’s a damn liar. Tony picked up most of ’em; I seen him. Lemme look +at that bill--Tony never wrote this thing. This baby’s jess playin’ you +for a sucker.’ + +‘Ain’ had no apples, ain’ payin’ fo’ none,’ announced King Solomon, +thus prompted. ‘Didn’t have to come to Harlem to git cheated. Plenty o’ +dat right wha’ I come fum.’ + +But the West Indian warmly insisted. ‘You cahn’t do daht, mon. Whaht +you t’ink, ’ey? Dis mon loose ’is appels an’ ’is money too?’ + +‘What diff’ence it make to you, nigger?’ + +‘Who you call nigger, mon? Ah hahve you understahn’--’ + +‘Oh, well, white folks, den. What all you got t’ do wid dis hyeh, +anyhow?’ + +‘Mr. Gabrielli send me to collect bill!’ + +‘How I know dat?’ + +‘Do Ah not bring bill? You t’ink Ah steal t’ree dollar, ’ey?’ + +‘Three dollars an’ sebenty-fi’ cent,’ corrected Gillis. ’Nuther thing: +wha’ you ever see me befo’? How you know dis is me?’ + +‘Ah see you, sure. Ah help Mr. Gabrielli in de store. When you knocks +down de baskette appels, Ah see. Ah follow you. Ah know you comes in +dis house.’ + +‘Oh, you does? An’ how come you know my name an’ flat an’ room so good? +How come dat?’ + +‘Ah fin’ out. Sometime Ah brings up here vegetables from de store.’ + +‘Humph! Mus’ be workin’ on shares.’ + +‘You pays, ’ey? You pays me or de policemon?’ + +‘Wait a minute,’ broke in Uggam, who had been thoughtfully +contemplating the bill. ‘Now listen, big shorty. You haul hips on back +to Tony. We got your menu all right’--he waved the bill--‘but we don’t +eat your kind o’ cookin’, see?’ + +The West Indian flared. ‘Whaht it is to you, ’ey? You can not mind your +own business? Ah hahve not spik to you!’ + +‘No, brother. But this is my friend, an’ I’ll be john-browned if +there’s a monkey-chaser in Harlem can gyp him if I know it, see? Bes’ +thing f’ you to do is to catch air, toot sweet.’ + +Sensing frustration, the little islander demanded the bill back. Uggam +figured he could use the bill himself, maybe. The West Indian hotly +persisted; he even menaced. Uggam pocketed the paper and invited him to +take it. Wisely enough, the caller preferred to catch air. + +When he had gone, King Solomon sought words of thanks. + +‘Bottle it,’ said Uggam. ‘The point is this: I figger you got a job.’ + +‘Job? No I ain’t! Wha’ at?’ + +‘When you show Tony this bill, he’ll hit the roof and fire that monk.’ + +‘What ef he do?’ + +‘Then you up ’n ask f’ the job. He’ll be too grateful to refuse. I know +Tony some, an’ I’ll be there to put in a good word. See?’ + +King Solomon considered this. ‘Sho’ needs a job, but ain’ after +stealin’ none.’ + +‘Stealin’? ’Twouldn’t be stealin’. Stealin’ ’s what that damn +monkey-chaser tried to do from you. This would be doin’ Tony a favor +an’ gettin’ y’self out o’ the barrel. What’s the hold-back?’ + +‘What make you keep callin’ him monkey-chaser?’ + +‘West Indian. That’s another thing. Any time y’ can knife a monk, do +it. They’s too damn many of ’em here. They’re an achin’ pain.’ + +‘Jess de way white folks feels ’bout niggers.’ + +‘Damn that. How ’bout it? Y’ want the job?’ + +‘Hm--well--I’d ruther be a policeman.’ + +‘Policeman?’ Uggam gasped. + +‘M-hm. Dass all I wants to be, a policeman, so I kin police all the +white folks right plumb in jail!’ + +Uggam said seriously, ‘Well, y’ might work up to that. But it takes +time. An’ y’ve got to eat while y’re waitin’.’ He paused to let this +penetrate. ‘Now, how ’bout this job at Tony’s in the meantime? I +should think y’d jump at it.’ + +King Solomon was persuaded. + +‘Hm--well--reckon I does,’ he said slowly. + +‘Now y’re tootin’!’ Uggam’s two big front teeth popped out in a grin of +genuine pleasure. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’ + + + IV + +Spitting blood and crying with rage, the West Indian scrambled to +his feet. For a moment he stood in front of the store gesticulating +furiously and jabbering shrill threats and unintelligible curses. Then +abruptly he stopped and took himself off. + +King Solomon Gillis, mildly puzzled, watched him from Tony’s doorway. +‘I jess give him a li’l shove,’ he said to himself, ’an’ he roll’ clean +’cross de sidewalk.’ And a little later, disgustedly, ‘Monkey-chaser!’ +he grunted, and went back to his sweeping. + +‘Well, big boy, how y’ comin’ on?’ + +Gillis dropped his broom. ‘Hay-o, Mouse. Wha’ you been las’ two-three +days?’ + +‘Oh, around. Gettin’ on all right here? Had any trouble?’ + +‘Deed I ain’t--’ceptin’ jess now I had to throw ’at li’l jigger out.’ + +‘Who? The monk?’ + +‘M-hm. He sho’ Lawd doan like me in his job. Look like he think I stole +it from him, stiddy him tryin’ to steal from me. Had to push him down +sho’ ’nuff ’fo I could git rid of ’im. Den he run off talkin’ Wes’ +Indi’man an’ shakin’ his fis’ at me.’ + +‘Ferget it.’ Uggam glanced about. ‘Where’s Tony?’ + +‘Boss man? He be back direckly.’ + +‘Listen--like to make two or three bucks a day extra?’ + +‘Huh?’ + +‘Two or three dollars a day more’n what you’re gettin’ already?’ + +‘Ain’ I near ’nuff in jail now?’ + +‘Listen.’ King Solomon listened. Uggam hadn’t been in France for +nothing. Fact was, in France he’d learned about some valuable French +medicine. He’d brought some back with him,--little white pills,--and +while in Harlem had found a certain druggist who knew what they were +and could supply all he could use. Now there were any number of people +who would buy and pay well for as much of this French medicine as Uggam +could get. It was good for what ailed them, and they didn’t know how to +get it except through him. But he had no store in which to set up an +agency and hence no single place where his customers could go to get +what they wanted. If he had, he could sell three or four times as much +as he did. + +King Solomon was in a position to help him now, same as he had helped +King Solomon. He would leave a dozen packages of the medicine--just +small envelopes that could all be carried in a coat pocket--with King +Solomon every day. Then he could simply send his customers to King +Solomon at Tony’s store. They’d make some trifling purchase, slip him a +certain coupon which Uggam had given them, and King Solomon would wrap +the little envelope of medicine with their purchase. Mustn’t let Tony +catch on, because he might object, and then the whole scheme would go +gaflooey. Of course it wouldn’t really be hurting Tony any. Wouldn’t it +increase the number of his customers? + +Finally, at the end of each day, Uggam would meet King Solomon some +place and give him a quarter for each coupon he held. There’d be at +least ten or twelve a day--two and a half or three dollars plumb extra! +Eighteen or twenty dollars a week ‘Dog-gone!’ breathed Gillis. + +‘Does Tony ever leave you here alone?’ + +‘M-hm. Jess started dis mawnin’. Doan nobody much come round ’tween ten +an’ twelve, so he done took to doin’ his buyin’ right ’long ’bout dat +time. Nobody hyeh but me fo’ ’n hour or so.’ + +‘Good. I’ll try to get my folks to come ’round here mostly while Tony’s +out, see?’ + +‘I doan miss.’ + +‘Sure y’ get the idea, now?’ Uggam carefully explained it all again. By +the time he had finished, King Solomon was wallowing in gratitude. + +‘Mouse, you sho’ is been a friend to me. Why, ’f ’t hadn’ been fo’ +you--’ + +‘Bottle it,’ said Uggam. ‘I’ll be round to your room tonight with +enough stuff for tomorrer, see? Be sure’n be there.’ + +‘Won’t be nowha’ else.’ + +‘An’ remember, this is all jess between you ’n me.’ + +‘Nobody else but,’ vowed King Solomon. + +Uggam grinned to himself as he went on his way. ‘Dumb Oscar! Wonder how +much can we make before the cops nab him? French medicine--Humph!’ + + + V + +Tony Gabrielli, an oblate Neapolitan of enormous equator, wabbled +heavily out of his store and settled himself over a soap box. + +Usually Tony enjoyed sitting out front thus in the evening, when his +helper had gone home and his trade was slackest. He liked to watch the +little Gabriellis playing over the sidewalk with the little Levys and +Johnsons; the trios and quartettes of brightly dressed, dark-skinned +girls merrily out for a stroll; the slovenly gaited, darker men, who +eyed them up and down and commented to each other with an unsuppressed +‘Hot damn!’ or ‘Oh no, now!’ + +But tonight Tony was troubled. Something was wrong in the store; +something was different since the arrival of King Solomon Gillis. The +new man had seemed to prove himself honest and trustworthy, it was +true. Tony had tested him, as he always tested a new man, by apparently +leaving him alone in charge for two or three mornings. As a matter +of fact, the new man was never under more vigilant observation than +during these two or three mornings. Tony’s store was a modification of +the front rooms of his flat and was in direct communication with it by +way of a glass-windowed door in the rear. Tony always managed to get +back into his flat via the side street entrance and watch the new man +through this unobtrusive glass-windowed door. If anything excited his +suspicion, like unwarranted interest in the cash register, he walked +unexpectedly out of this door to surprise the offender in the act. +Thereafter he would have no more such trouble. But he had not succeeded +in seeing King Solomon steal even an apple. + +What he had observed, however, was that the number of customers that +came into the store during the morning’s slack hour had pronouncedly +increased in the last few days. Before, there had been three or four. +Now there were twelve or fifteen. The mysterious thing about it was +that their purchases totaled little more than those of the original +three or four. + +Yesterday and today Tony had elected to be in the store at the time +when, on the other days, he had been out. But Gillis had not been +overcharging or short-changing; for when Tony waited on the customers +himself--strange faces all--he found that they bought something like a +yeast cake or a five-cent loaf of bread. It was puzzling. Why should +strangers leave their own neighborhoods and repeatedly come to him +for a yeast cake or a loaf of bread? They were not new neighbors. +New neighbors would have bought more variously and extensively and +at different times of day. Living near by, they would have come in, +the men often in shirtsleeves and slippers, the women in kimonos, +with boudoir caps covering their lumpy heads. They would have sent in +strange children for things like yeast cakes and loaves of bread. And +why did not some of them come in at night when the new helper was off +duty? + +As for accosting Gillis on suspicion, Tony was too wise for that. +Patronage had a queer way of shifting itself in Harlem. You lost your +temper and let slip a single ‘_nègre_.’ A week later you sold your +business. + +Spread over his soap box, with his pudgy hands clasped on his +preposterous paunch, Tony sat and wondered. Two men came up, +conspicuous for no other reason than that they were white. They +displayed extreme nervousness, looking about as if afraid of being +seen; and when one of them spoke to Tony it was in a husky, toneless, +blowing voice, like the sound of a dirty phonograph record. + +‘Are you Antonio Gabrielli?’ + +‘Yes, sure.’ Strange behavior for such lusty-looking fellows. He +who had spoken unsmilingly winked first one eye then the other, and +indicated by a gesture of his head that they should enter the store. +His companion looked cautiously up and down the Avenue, while Tony, +wondering what ailed them, rolled to his feet and puffingly led the way. + +Inside, the spokesman snuffled, gave his shoulders a queer little +hunch, and asked, ‘Can you fix us up, buddy?’ The other glanced +restlessly about the place as if he were constantly hearing +unaccountable noises. + +Tony thought he understood clearly now. ‘Booze, ’ey?’ he smiled. +‘Sorry--I no got.’ + +‘Booze? Hell, no!’ The voice dwindled to a throaty whisper. ‘Dope. +Coke, milk, dice--anything. Name your price. Got to have it.’ + +‘Dope?’ Tony was entirely at a loss. ‘What’s a dis, dope?’ + +‘Aw, lay off, brother. We’re in on this. Here.’ He handed Tony a piece +of paper. ‘Froggy gave us a coupon. Come on. You can’t go wrong.’ + +‘I no got,’ insisted the perplexed Tony; nor could he be budged on that +point. + +Quite suddenly the manner of both men changed. ‘All right,’ said the +first angrily, in a voice as robust as his body. ‘All right, you’re +clever, You no got. Well, you will get. You’ll get twenty years!’ + +‘Twenty year? Whadda you talk?’ + +‘Wait a minute, Mac,’ said the second caller. ‘Maybe the wop’s on the +level. Look here, Tony, we’re officers, see? Policemen.’ He produced a +badge. ‘A couple of weeks ago a guy was brought in dying for the want +of a shot, see? Dope--he needed some dope--like this--in his arm. See? +Well, we tried to make him tell us where he’d been getting it, but he +was too weak. He croaked next day. Evidently he hadn’t had money enough +to buy any more. + +‘Well, this morning a little nigger that goes by the name of Froggy was +brought into the precinct pretty well doped up. When he finally came +to, he swore he got the stuff here at your store. Of course, we’ve just +been trying to trick you into giving yourself away, but you don’t bite. +Now what’s your game? Know anything about this?’ + +Tony understood. I dunno,’ he said slowly; and then his own problem +whose contemplation his callers had interrupted, occurred to him. +‘Sure!’ he exclaimed. ‘Wait. Maybeso I know somet’ing.’ + +‘All right. Spill it.’ + +‘I got a new man, work-a for me.’ And he told them what he had noted +since King Solomon Gillis came. + +‘Sounds interesting. Where is this guy?’ + +‘Here in da store--all day.’ + +‘Be here tomorrow?’ + +‘Sure. All day.’ + +‘All right. We’ll drop in tomorrow and give him the eye. Maybe he’s our +man.’ + +‘Sure. Come ten o’clock. I show you,’ promised Tony. + + + VI + +Even the oldest and rattiest cabarets in Harlem have sense of shame +enough to hide themselves under the ground--for instance, Edwards’s. +To get into Edwards’s you casually enter a dimly lighted corner +saloon, apparently--only apparently--a subdued memory of brighter +days. What was once the family entrance is now a side entrance for +ladies. Supporting yourself against close walls, you crouchingly +descend a narrow, twisted staircase until, with a final turn, you find +yourself in a glaring, long, low basement. In a moment your eyes become +accustomed to the haze of tobacco smoke. You see men and women seated +at wire-legged, white-topped tables, which are covered with half-empty +bottles and glasses; you trace the slow-jazz accompaniment you heard +as you came down the stairs to a pianist, a cornetist, and a drummer +on a little platform at the far end of the room. There is a cleared +space from the foot of the stairs, where you are standing, to the +platform where this orchestra is mounted, and in it a tall brown girl +is swaying from side to side and rhythmically proclaiming that she has +the world in a jug and the stopper in her hand. Behind a counter at +your left sits a fat, bald, tea-colored Negro, and you wonder if this +is Edwards--Edwards, who stands in with the police, with the political +bosses, with the importers of wines and worse. A white-vested waiter +hustles you to a seat and takes your order. The song’s tempo changes to +a quicker; the drum and the cornet rip out a fanfare, almost drowning +the piano; the girl catches up her dress and begins to dance.... + +Gillis’s wondering eyes had been roaming about. They stopped. + +‘Look, Mouse!’ he whispered. ‘Look a-yonder!’ + +‘Look at what?’ + +‘Dog-gone if it ain’ de self-same gal!’ + +‘Wha’ d’ ye mean, self-same girl?’ + +‘Over yonder, wi’ de green stockin’s. Dass de gal made me knock over +dem apples fust day I come to town. ’Member? Been wishin’ I could see +her ev’y sence.’ + +‘What for?’ Uggam wondered. + +King Solomon grew confidential. ‘Ain’ but two things in dis world, +Mouse, I really wants. One is to be a policeman. Been wantin’ dat ev’y +sence I seen dat cullud traffic-cop dat day. Other is to git myse’f a +gal lak dat one over yonder!’ + +‘You’ll do it,’ laughed Uggam, ‘if you live long enough.’ + +‘Who dat wid her?’ + +‘How ’n hell do I know?’ + +‘He cullud?’ + +‘Don’t look like it. Why? What of it?’ + +‘Hm--nuthin’--’ + +‘How many coupons y’ got tonight?’ + +‘Ten.’ King Solomon handed them over. + +‘Y’ ought to’ve slipt ’em to me under the table, but it’s all right +now, long as we got this table to ourselves. Here’s y’ medicine for +tomorrer.’ + +‘Wha’?’ + +‘Reach under the table.’ + +Gillis secured and pocketed the medicine. + +‘An’ here’s two-fifty for a good day’s work.’ Uggam passed the money +over. Perhaps he grew careless; certainly the passing this time was +above the table, in plain sight. + +‘Thanks, Mouse.’ + +Two white men had been watching Gillis and Uggam from a table near by. +In the tumult of merriment that rewarded the entertainer’s most recent +and daring effort, one of these men, with a word to the other, came +over and took the vacant chair beside Gillis. + +‘Is your name Gillis?’ + +‘’Tain’ nuthin’ else.’ + +Uggam’s eyes narrowed. + +The white man showed King Solomon a police officer’s badge. + +‘You’re wanted for dope-peddling. Will you come along without trouble?’ + +‘Fo’ what?’ + +‘Violation of the narcotic law--dope-selling.’ + +‘Who--me?’ + +‘Come on, now, lay off that stuff. I saw what happened just now +myself.’ He addressed Uggam. ‘Do you know this fellow?’ + +‘Nope. Never saw him before tonight.’ + +‘Didn’t I just see him sell you something?’ + +‘Guess you did. We happened to be sittin’ here at the same table and +got to talkin’. After a while I says I can’t seem to sleep nights, so +he offers me sump’n he says’ll make me sleep, all right. I don’t know +what it is, but he says he uses it himself an’ I offers to pay him what +it cost him. That’s how I come to take it. Guess he’s got more in his +pocket there now.’ + +The detective reached deftly into the coat pocket of the dumfounded +King Solomon and withdrew a packet of envelopes. He tore off a corner +of one, emptied a half-dozen tiny white tablets into his palm, and +sneered triumphantly. ‘You’ll make a good witness,’ he told Uggam. + +The entertainer was issuing an ultimatum to all sweet mammas who +dared to monkey round her loving man. Her audience was absorbed and +delighted, with the exception of one couple--the girl with the green +stockings and her escort. They sat directly in the line of vision of +King Solomon’s wide eyes, which, in the calamity that had descended +upon him, for the moment saw nothing. + +‘Are you coming without trouble?’ + +Mouse Uggam, his friend. Harlem. Land of plenty. City of refuge--city +of refuge. If you live long enough---- + +Consciousness of what was happening between the pair across the room +suddenly broke through Gillis’s daze like flame through smoke. The man +was trying to kiss the girl and she was resisting. Gillis jumped up. +The detective, taking the act for an attempt at escape, jumped with him +and was quick enough to intercept him. The second officer came at once +to his fellow’s aid, blowing his whistle several times as he came. + +People overturned chairs getting out of the way, but nobody ran for +the door. It was an old crowd. A fight was a treat; and the tall Negro +could fight. + +‘Judas Priest!’ + +‘Did you see that?’ + +‘Damn!’ + +White--both white. Five of Mose Joplin’s horses. Poisoning a well. A +year’s crops. Green stockings--white--white-- + +‘That’s the time, papa!’ + +‘Do it, big boy!’ + +‘Good night!’ + +Uggam watched tensely, with one eye on the door. The second cop had +blown for help---- + +Downing one of the detectives a third time and turning to grapple again +with the other, Gillis found himself face to face with a uniformed +black policeman. + +He stopped as if stunned. For a moment he simply stared. Into his mind +swept his own words like a forgotten song, suddenly recalled: + +‘Cullud policemans!’ + +The officer stood ready, awaiting his rush. + +‘Even--got--cullud--policemans----’ + +Very slowly King Solomon’s arms relaxed; very slowly he stood erect; +and the grin that came over his features had something exultant about +it. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [8] Copyright, 1925, by The Atlantic Monthly Company. + Copyright, 1926, by Rudolph Fisher. + + + + + AN ARMY WITH BANNERS[9] + + By KATHARINE FULLERTON GEROULD + + (From _Harper’s Magazine_) + + +Lewis Hunting, like thousands of other young Americans, was a bond +salesman. He had a kind of wayward handsomeness that endeared him to +women, together with a deep voice and a gravely pleasant manner--both +purely physical attributes--which prevented his good looks getting +on the nerves of the men he dealt with. He was moderately successful +in business, was always well dressed and provided with the comforts +of life. A good many of those comforts, naturally, went into his +expense account; but when he was not traveling, he lived with his +widowed mother, whom he partly supported, in a commonplace but not +uncomfortable suburban house. His mother, who adored him, accepted +everything he would give her as the reward of her adoration. His father +had hoped to send Lewis to a good technical school, but he died at an +unlucky moment for Lewis--at the precise time, that is, when Lewis had +finished his high school course and could be considered old enough to +earn his living. College would have meant sacrifices on his mother’s +part which she would have thought unnatural when she had a son who +was six feet tall. Lewis also would have thought them unnatural--for +_his_ mother; though he saw the mothers of other young men moving into +apartments and doing their own work without thereby disfiguring the +noble countenance of Nature. + +Lewis Hunting was no moralist. He had to work, and he did work. He +was much away from home, and he fell into a few casual adventures +that would have shocked his mother hopelessly. These adventures were +very few, however; not because Lewis minded doing things that would +have shocked his mother, had she known about them, but because even +near-dissipation costs money; and he never forget that his financial +margin was hers, not his own. The adventures were fairly sordid, as the +limited contacts offered to a young man in strange cities are apt to +make them, and his cynicism was deepened by them. In his later twenties +Lewis was living about as lonely an existence as a young bond salesman +can. When he was at the home office, he spent most of his evenings +with his mother (she complained a great deal of loneliness)--reading, +talking or listening to her phonograph. When he was abroad in the +land--which was most of the year--he mitigated the solitude of hotel +rooms with visits to movie theaters or pool rooms. Mild flirtations he +could find anywhere, owing to his good looks and engaging smile; but +he was very wary of anything more intimate or dramatic. He knew very +little about women, though he considered that he had plumbed female +psychology with an unerring lead line. Most women, he decided, were on +the make and no good. Girls he had known at school, who had married his +more prosperous comrades, seemed--unless they were sunk invisibly into +nurseries--as shameless as the others. One or two of them, indeed, made +love to him; and that shocked Lewis almost as much as it would have +shocked Mrs. Hunting. + +You see him, then--young, bewildered, faintly unhappy and vaguely +aspiring beneath the cynicism that kept its visible smoothness in the +face of the smuttiest story or the most shameless of feminine advances. +The fact was that Lewis would have expanded most naturally in the +society of the nicest people, and he never met them. Mrs. Hunting made +it a virtue to be too delicate and too sorrowful for social contacts, +and he had no relations that would have knit him up, in this or that +city, with the local aristocracy. He was diffident with men who had +been through college--probably no one ever knew how he had grieved over +the frustration of his and his father’s hopes--and his diffidence took +the form of refusing, with such, to mix business and pleasure. So even +old customers, once rebuffed, did not ask him to their homes. Being, +on the whole, irreligious, he eschewed all sociabilities that had a +sectarian tinge. + +Not a very strong person to stand up against circumstances or events +or other people’s desires. That cynicism of his, after all, was only +skin-deep, and the boy beneath was soft. When Netta Jacobs decided to +marry him, he was virtually helpless, for Netta was not only supple and +alluring--she was clever. When I say clever, I do not mean to praise +her understanding or her wit. She was clever like a very clever animal: +she had the instinct of self-preservation so strongly developed that +she selected without difficulty the tone, the gesture, the look that +would serve her purpose. She was a finished egotist, if you like, +though “egotist” seems too big a word for her. It implies cerebration, +and Netta had no cerebration. She had the protective coloring of the +white ermine, the adaptability of the giraffe that can lengthen its +neck to crop the topmost leaves, of the creature that has developed +a lung fit to breathe both air and water. Only, unluckily, she was +neither giraffe nor fish; she was human and capable of passion--of that +complicated emotion which does not afflict the lower mammals. The lion +stalking his prey is far less terrible than the person who wants to +possess another human being, not only physically and financially but +socially, mentally, and morally. Netta never put it to herself in that +way, but it was so. She fell in love with Lewis Hunting, and her whole +organism set itself automatically to the task of acquiring him. It is +not often that one person desires another with the totality of his +being. Thus Netta desired Lewis. She had no moral sense; but if she had +had one, that too would have clung to him. Lewis, of course, had not +the faintest chance against her; and between the hour when he first saw +her in Jere Wheaton’s office, and the hour of the wedding among dusty +palms and withering blossoms in the living room of her married sister’s +apartment, only four months elapsed. + +They lived with Lewis’s mother in the not uncomfortable suburban +house. Netta intended to change all that; but the best equipped +organism recognizes impossibilities--temporary ones. In order to get +his mother to consent to the marriage at all, Lewis had had to make +absurd and vast concessions. She made it clear to him that if he +chucked her and married without her consent, he would literally end +her life. Besides, there was the question of money. Either Netta would +have to live with Mrs. Hunting, or Mrs. Hunting would have to go to +a cheap boarding-house. Netta, who would not have cared in the least +if Mrs. Hunting had had to live in a Salvation Army Home or the State +penitentiary, realized that she would have to give in. For the time +being, Lewis was not yet completely her creature, and you might as +well ask him to break a blood vessel as to turn his mother by force +out of her house. Nothing would be easier for her than to make--after +marriage--the situation impossible. + +That, of course, she proceeded to do, though it took a fairly long +time on account of Lewis’s protracted absences from home. Given Mrs. +Hunting, it was quite easy. Lewis’s mother, deprived of her dominance, +was acutely uncomfortable. She hated Netta, she thought Lewis deluded +and doomed, and she kept herself within bounds only because she knew +she was playing a losing game. If Netta had been a gentle soul, Mrs. +Hunting would probably have made her supremely unhappy. Netta was not +a gentle soul, and she made Mrs. Hunting unhappy instead. When Lewis +was at home, both women made him feel them pathetic--suffering untold +things for love of him. Netta managed that, too, better than her +mother-in-law. + +A year, two years wore away, and Lewis began to know despair. Netta +was all his, and her kisses made it clear. But she hated his mother, +she hated their mode of existence; she was moving slowly but surely +to the total elimination of Mrs. Hunting from their lives. So much, +for a time, was he Netta’s that if she had asked anything less, she +might have had it. But what she asked of him, he felt, was to kill his +mother. Even for Netta he could not slay. And there came, inevitably, a +time when he criticized her for asking him to. + +They had it out at last, one evening in their own room, when he was +just back from a month’s trip in the South. Lewis, who had been +listening to mocking-birds and smelling cape-jessamine--his sojourns +were seldom in such romantic lands--came back with reawakened +yearnings, the old hope of beauty revivified in his foolish heart, to +find his home uglier than ever. His mother was querulous and plain, +and his wife--though as she caught him to her breast in greeting +and let her bright eyes and hair shimmer above him, he was ravished +again--seemed hard, for all the cheaply perfumed softness of her +body. He felt that there was no kindness in her and wondered, for the +first time, if Netta would ever develop that tenderness which is the +loveliest by-product of passion. + +Lewis bent over his suitcase, unpacking things and flinging them +about; while Netta, standing between the twin beds, removed and folded +counterpanes and pillow covers and wound the clock on the bed-table. +Little, intimate, beloved gestures ... but somehow tonight he did not +love them. If he closed his tired eyes, he could smell the jessamine. +Netta’s rustlings forbade him to hear the mockingbird. + +He straightened himself finally and snapped the suitcase shut. Netta +came towards him in all the luxury of orchid négligée and cap. + +“Tired, honey?” She stretched her arms and yawned a little. + +The answer to that was “No.” If he said “Yes,” she would be close to +him, enfolding him, comforting him, making him forget everything but +the physical fact of her. That, he did not wish. “I’ve got a beastly +headache,” he said quietly. + +The barrier was now built between them, and she walked away to her +dressing-table. “Want some aspirin?” she asked over her shoulder. + +“No, thanks.” Lewis often made these little mistakes. By his refusal of +aspirin he revealed to her that he had no headache. + +“Oh--just cross.” + +“Isn’t it enough to make anybody cross--the kind of thing I come back +to?” + +“I’m very sorry you have to come back to it, Lewis. But you would have +it that way, you know.” + +“You certainly don’t try to make it any better.” + +“You’d better drop that right now,” she warned him. “It doesn’t seem +to occur to you that, at least, when you come back to it, I’m here. I +live with it, weeks on end, when you aren’t here.” + +“If you mean, Net, that it’s all mother’s fault, you’re wrong. She +wasn’t like this until you came and made her so. What makes the house +so deadly is that you quarrel with her all the time. I’m always having +to apologize to one of you for the other. I’m about fed up with it.” + +“Oh, you are, are you? And what about me? I’ve been pretty patient, I +think, but if you’re going to crab things, I think I’ll have my say. +I tell you I live with it all the time. It’s a good deal worse when +you’re not there, because she’s afraid of you. And I don’t intend to +live with it much longer.” + +He didn’t want to quarrel, he reflected wearily. Why did he have to? +But his exacerbated nerves spoke for him. “I honestly believe it’s more +your fault than hers, because you’re young and strong and she’s old and +weak. She’s a sick woman, half the time--has been for years. It won’t +be for long, Netta.” + +“You can bet it won’t be for long,” she murmured intensely. She, too, +was irritated; irritated because, as always, his figure there before +her set her heart to beating. She did not want to quarrel, either; +she wanted him to make love to her. He wouldn’t; and therefore they +quarrelled. But Lewis surprised her. Standing there with folded arms, +looking gravely across at her, he went on, “If you’d have a kid, Netta, +I believe everything would come straight. Mother would forget all about +both of us if she had a grandchild to fuss over. And you’d be too busy +and happy to mind little things.” + +She did not recover at once from her astonishment. “You honestly mean +that, Lewis? You’d like me to have a baby?” + +“I’d like us to have a baby, of course,” he answered quietly. “What did +you suppose?” + +“Well, if you want a child, Lewis”--she too spoke very quietly--“you’ll +have to marry somebody else. I’ll never have one if I can help it--and +I guess I _can_ help it.” + +“I don’t doubt it.” He turned away. + +Netta, however, was not through. She had waited long enough for this +issue to define itself. As well now as any other time. He had given her +the cue with his reproaches. + +“And I’ve got something else to say,” she proceeded. “I love you, +Lewis, and you know it. I’ve tried out this idea of yours about living +with your mother. You can’t say I haven’t given it a chance--for more +than two years. Now, either it gets broken up and you and I take an +apartment by ourselves, or I take a job and have a room of my own in +town, and you stick with her if you want to. But you can’t have us both +any longer. And I wouldn’t live in this house even if she went away. I +don’t want a house, anyway, unless I’m a millionaire. It’s up to you.” + +His face crimsoned. “You know as well as anything that I can’t run an +apartment and this house both.” + +“I’m willing to take a job, anyhow,” Netta returned triumphantly. + +“It would take all you made in any job to dress you. The kind of thing +you put on your back costs money.” + +“How about your own clothes?” + +“I have to be decent to do business. But I don’t buy myself fur coats +and mesh bags--or the sort of thing you’ve got on at the present +minute. I’m not blaming you for wanting clothes, Net--I guess every +woman does--but unless we live right here I can’t swing it. Even if you +earned money yourself, I couldn’t afford to keep mother in this house, +with a maid, while we were somewhere else. I’ll be making more money +next year. We’ll see. It would be pretty hard on mother to leave her; +but maybe if I can afford to keep her here, the way she is....” + +“All right,” Netta’s voice trembled. “I’ll look for that job--_and_ +that room. It isn’t of any importance to me that your mother should +live in this house--or any house or whether she has anybody to work for +her or not. I’ve lived with her for two years, and you can take it from +me, she’s the limit. You can live with her if you want to. I won’t--not +another week! This family stuff doesn’t go down with me--any of it.” +She laughed unpleasantly. “If you come to your senses any time and want +to treat your wife properly, you’ll know where to find me. I’ve never +looked at another man and don’t expect to. There’s nothing gay about +me.” + +Curiously enough, it was just at the moment when Netta declared herself +innocent of intent to wrong him that the idea of divorce first entered, +explicitly, Lewis Hunting’s mind. In that tired nervous hour he did not +care whether she flirted--or more--with a dozen men. He had come to +her that evening after a journey that had reawakened old desires--for +peace, for sweetness, for calm domesticity, for affections normally +diffused, for passion expressed in ways that were not wholly of the +flesh. Netta knew as well as he what he could do and what he could not. +She asked of him to forsake all duties and take her to some perfumed +lair where they could lie as beasts at ease. He no longer cared much +for his mother--Netta had finished off that job very neatly--but her +hold on him was immemorial. He had no desire to live with her, but +he would never fling her out of doors to die. If Netta would only +wait another year--but she wouldn’t wait, she said; and after all (he +asked himself) what would they be waiting for? Netta would not have a +child, she would not have a home, she would not have anything--except +love-making, which must some day cease. In that hour he knew that he +could not endure forever the life Netta offered him, and from that +moment, really, began his wary plotting for freedom. Standing there +delicately clad, flushed and tempting, she was desirable in his eyes +... but, inevitably, after two years she had ceased to be a miracle. +She, so prodigal of lures, had neglected every lure she might have +spread for his incorporeal imagination. Even passion must be bolstered +up, quickened, preserved by something besides itself. Netta, he thought +coldly, had counted too much on passion. Oh, yes, he could kiss her +and draw her bright head to his shoulder--and like it; but her perfume +would destroy the memory of jessamine, her voice the echo of the +mocking-bird. Tired, tired he was.... + +“All right, Netta. Take your job and hire your room. Perhaps you’ll +come to feel differently about it.” And already he was hoping that she +wouldn’t. + +She breathed hard. “You mean it? You’d rather have your mother than me?” + +“No, I wouldn’t. I don’t like the way we live. But I’m not willing to +kill her to please you. So if you can’t stand it any longer, you’ll +have to do as you like. As I say, you may change your mind.” + +She wept softly. “I love you so, Lewis. It isn’t fair.” + +His lips tightened. “And I love you, Netta. But it doesn’t seem to be +enough, does it?” He kept the width of the room between them. He did +not wish to be drawn into the quick charm of her proximity. “I shall +have to be away a good deal the next months. They’re thinking about a +Western branch, and I may have to talk it up out there, more or less. +It would be worse than ever for you here, I suppose.” + +“And when you come back, Lewis, are you coming to your mother or to me?” + +He hadn’t thought of that. But of course he couldn’t plan anything yet. +“We could both come here, at those times, couldn’t we?” he temporized. + +Her anger flared up. “No! When I’m once out of this house, I’ll never +set foot in it again--except for a funeral.” + +That was the end, he thought. Funny that she shouldn’t know it was the +end--which was not reasonable of Lewis, for cruel things had been said +before and ignored if not truly forgotten. + +“We’ll talk tomorrow. I’m awfully tired now. Good-night.” He slipped +into his bed, leaving her to put out the lamp and raise the windows. +His tone was utterly spent, and beyond “Good-night” she did not speak +to him again. + +That was the most explicit talk they had. Earlier there had +been bickerings, but all the quarrels were intended to be--and +were--smoothed out and composed. These particular statements and +retorts were never cancelled. + +Netta, who really wanted Lewis more than anything else, had made the +mistake of permitting herself, temporarily, to want something else +more: freedom, frank expression of her hatred and weariness, the +luxury of a defiant gesture. Lewis, at the same moment, came to the +belief that what he wanted was peace--and love only if it brought +peace in its train. Alas! he wanted even more than peace: seemliness +in the ordering of his life, beauty in its texture--intimations of +immortality, perhaps. But peace was what he called it. “A man has a +right to some peace”--thus he cloaked, or approximated, his yearning. + +Destiny then made, in his direction, a few positively affectionate +gestures. He wanted to get away, and it became his professional duty to +get away. His firm decided to establish a connection on the Coast and +kept Lewis for some months traveling between Far Western cities. Twice, +in the interval, he came East for hasty visits to the home office. He +worked hard on this job; put his very best into it; for he intended to +demand, when arrangements were completed, a Western post. Out there, it +seemed to him, he could create life anew. Time enough to make domestic +plans when he got his business completed. + +Netta had found her job--she made not at all a bad secretary--and +had duly given Lewis the address of her office. On his first arrival +in the East he telephoned to her. Over the telephone she spoke +eagerly--caressed him, as it were; and Lewis, exhilarated by Western +air, soothed by long absence of domestic fret, found tenderness +creeping back into his own voice--almost, indeed, into his heart. He +could see her vivid figure across the channeled space between them. He +told her he must go to his mother’s for the night, asked her to join +him. It was good tactics, though at the moment he was not thinking of +tactics; he merely wanted every one to be happy. Perhaps, once out +there in another atmosphere, all three of them.... But Netta’s voice +slid sharply into reproach, and he felt again all the menace that lay +in her vividness. + +“Indeed I will not, Lewis. You can go and see her, of course, but I’m +not going to. I should think you’d want to see me first, but if you +don’t, you can go and have dinner with her and then come back and meet +me. I can’t spring you on my landlady very well, since she’s never seen +you, but we can live at a hotel while you’re here.” + +His voice changed too. “We can talk about that later. There’s no reason +why you shouldn’t be decent and go out with me, just for tonight.” + +She did not know that it was an ultimatum; she misread his annoyance, +taking it for impatience, and laughed harshly. “Not much, Lewis! When +you want me, you’ll come to me. I’m a good wife, but I’m a darned poor +daughter-in-law.... Where do I meet you tonight?” + +“You don’t meet me anywhere--tonight.” + +He hung up the receiver, and she heard its sharp click. Even then she +did not suspect. She was still gloating over the first warmth of his +voice and could not know that the warmth had meant very little--that +her chance had been very small and that she had thrown that chance +away. Lewis did not so much blame Netta for her attitude to his mother +as accuse her, in his heart, of being a person who would make no +sacrifices to any situation that might arise. Mrs. Hunting was not so +much a special case as the sort of thing that, in a hundred forms, +might happen to any one. Netta was hard and always would be. Even +suppose his mother were dead: there would always be this or that thing +to strike Netta as intolerable. It was the principle of the thing. No; +they would never find that peace which, more than ever in an unfamiliar +and beautiful landscape, had seemed every man’s right. Netta waited in +vain for a sign from him. She got none. + +Netta, unaware that Hunting was expecting to be definitely settled in +the West, thought a waiting game the wisest. If he once came back to +living in his mother’s house, he wouldn’t be able to bear her absence. +He’d come running, she believed. But he never did live there without +her, and the place never had a chance to stir old memories. He was +continuously away and, except in connection with divorce, Netta did not +enter his mind. Her clutch was finally off him. He seemed to himself +to know her wholly, to be completely aware of her character and to +spurn it with reason. He did not know Netta wholly, as he was later to +discover; but at this time he felt supremely capable of judging her. + +Lewis, whom marriage and discontent had greatly matured, did good work +for his firm. When he demanded his promotion and his transfer, he +got them both. He had worked overtime for many months, giving to his +business not only all his mind but all his secret stores of energy. +He was not working for a woman this time, but to get rid of one. The +spur was equally effective. When the “flu” hit him in San Francisco, it +found him ready prey. Later, facing a limp and helpless convalescence, +he asked for a long leave of absence, and it was granted. The length of +the holiday he asked was the period needed for a divorce under Nevada +laws. + +In spite of increases and promotions, in spite of the absence of +Netta’s bills, Lewis had not a large store of money with which to buy +his freedom. He would have, he realized, to send less money to his +mother, and he wrote her frankly to that effect. He rather dreaded her +answer, though he was grim enough about his own intentions. He need +not have been afraid. Mrs. Hunting, who could not have lived in an +apartment and fended for herself in order to give his youth more scope +or his career more chance, could find both strength and money when it +came to getting rid of the daughter-in-law she detested. She could +even find the old adoration for Lewis, which had been much obscured by +jealous resentment. She saw herself once more--with Netta out of the +way--playing a winning game with her son; and her heart overflowed with +kindness to him. When these troubles were over, she and her darling boy +were going to be happy once more as they used to be. There is no doubt +that she meant what she said. She really believed that they had been +happy before his marriage; she thought of him as her darling boy. When +she dismissed her expensive maid, got an ancient cousin in to keep her +dismal company, bade Lewis send her no money until he was free and, in +addition, sent him a handsome check, she felt these actions right and +natural, a duty and a pleasure. Mrs. Hunting had despaired, and now she +had hope. Lewis would now be bound forever to his self-sacrificing, +generous, devoted mother. + +Most people’s emotions are even more muddled than their minds; and +there can be no question that Mrs. Hunting, playing her unanswerable +trumps, loved Lewis more than she had ever loved him. His emotional +rejection of Netta she took for an emotional acceptance of herself. She +saw herself preferred: and it warmed her confused heart. Lewis was +misread by his mother as he had been by his wife. He knew perfectly +that they had not been happy before Netta came, and he thought his +mother’s sacrifices belated. Though he was grateful for her assistance, +the past could not be undone, and no new relation could be built up. He +was grateful that she helped instead of hindering, as he was grateful +for fine weather in place of storm. His loyalty was perhaps increased +by gratitude, but the quantity of his affection for her had long since +been fixed. He wrote to her regularly and with the utmost kindness; but +it was too late for her to push any further into his heart. + +Perhaps he was the happier that no intimate relation needed +readjusting. For the first three months of Lewis Hunting’s sojourn +in the little Nevada town were by all odds the happiest of his life. +He saw his future clear, and for once he saw it bright. He had been +afraid--though reassured by his lawyer--that Netta would put up a +fight; but the fact was that Netta could not. She had no money with +which to fight the case; and she discovered very soon that, though New +York would have held her a virtuous wife, from the point of view of the +more sensitive state of Nevada she had sinned. She had refused to live +under what was legally her husband’s roof; she had explicitly refused +to give him children or a home, even to speak to his aged mother; she +had indulged, indeed, in an absolute orgy of mental cruelty. These +things were easily proved. It would have taken money to deprive Lewis +of his decree, and money she had not. Nor did Lewis have enough to +tempt any lawyer to take her case “on spec.” Netta knew that she was +beaten. Yet--had she but known it--she had allies dimly mustering on +her side. Netta was all instinct, and fate looks on instinct with a +kindly eye. + +Until strength flowed back into him Lewis was content to lie on +the tiny porch of his tiny apartment, staring at the Sierras; and +the exertion of going out to his meals and seeing his lawyer, when +necessary, was sufficient to his weakened body. After some weeks, +however, he tired of watching, in solitude and silence, the dwindling +snow patches. Energy returned, subtly heightened by the hope that +was his. As the months counted themselves off, he felt Netta a lesser +and lesser burden--slipping, slipping from his back. His shoulders +ached less with the weight of her. Cheerfulness returned, and he +began to welcome the ordinary human contacts. He was not looking for +excitement, of which he well knew there was plenty. Neither poker, +roulette, bad whiskey, nor rash divorcées appealed to him. Though not +over-fastidious, he did not care to seize the day. He hoped, instead +to seize the whole of life. Certainly he intended sometime to marry +again--some girl opposed at every point to Netta; intended to have a +home, and kids, and a car, and a radio set, and (so far had he become +infected with the West) a view. He didn’t know just what she would be +like, but he would not find her here. + +The doctor whom he felt obliged to consult suggested a car and long +drives in the open. He finally bought a small one out of his mother’s +check, knowing that he could sell it again. But to face the inhuman +beauty of that landscape one needs a human companion; some one who is +equally dwarfed and conquered by the uncaring peaks and the hostile +desert. Rather diffidently--you must remember that Lewis was not +vain; he undervalued his charm, indeed, since it had brought him only +Netta--he asked Mona Jeffers to drive with him; once, and then again +and again. + +The girl--a poor relation--was companioning a cousin who soon found +that she need not depend on Mona for excitement. Indeed, Mona was a +mere hindrance to Mrs. Tilton on most occasions. She needed the girl +there on general principles and would not send her home; but she wanted +her out of the flat a large part of the time. Mona’s insipidity, to +Mrs. Tilton’s mind, was complete. She used her as she needed her, but +she used her less and less--especially after she discovered roulette +and acquired a rather shady lover. So the colorless Mona was free to +sit beside Lewis while they drove afar. Her quietness, her decency, +her very lack of good looks soothed him who was tired alike of Venus +and the Furies. Love never entered his head. He expected that shadowy +future bride to be handsomer than Mona--for men demand everything and +are not satisfied until sex blinds them into thinking they have got +it. They were blithe days for Lewis: health recovered, hope enlarging +itself on his horizon, the weeks passing swiftly by, the little car for +magic carpet, and Mona to exorcise the demons of the hills. Every one +was civil to him, and he rejected far more advances than he accepted. +All pointed to his being, through a long life, a happy and useful +citizen. Lewis, who was an unimaginative creature, found sanctions all +about him for his content. He called them omens or “hunches.” + +Without being superstitious or sentimental one may suspect that Nature +lays traps for mortals, and that the trap is no less a trap for being +seldom sprung. No doubt, for that matter, a man often comes through +unscathed. There is a spot--a sharp turn of the precipitous road, where +a man is uplifted for an instant, defenseless and naked to his stalkers +above him on all sides--which goes (not without reason) by the name +of Dead Man’s Point. The term inherits from the days when those who +fetched gold from Virginia City were apt to lose it--and necessarily +their lives--at this place. For a few moments as he toiled past a man +became, in the nature of things, a target; his best friend would have +taken imaginary sight and aim. When you had finished him--in the old +days--the disposal of the body offered no difficulties. You rolled him +over the precipice into the trackless gorge, and sheriffs were thereby +confounded. Booty on that road is now as rare as bandits. Nature, +however, pays little attention to the infinitesimal changes of human +history: her traps remain traps. Some spots are forever sinister, +and this is one of them. The gold may have gone, but, for a softer +generation, the view remains; and a foolish youth with bad liquor +inside him, driving a car too fast, is as perilous as two guns and a +total lack of morals ever were. + +There was nothing in Lewis Hunting’s heart to cope with that view, +which is desolate and terrifying--and beautiful--beyond most. He +was not in its class; nor was Mona. But the mere size and scale and +arrangement of it impose themselves. You _must_ turn back to look, +at Dead Man’s Point, before you forsake that range for others. Lewis +and Mona turned to look--and Johnny Stevens, innocent of everything +but that foolish drink, crashed into them at a curious tangent. Mona +was flung free, falling, with infinite bruising of her tender flesh, +upon rock; but the tilt of the car was such that Lewis was half caught +beneath it. It rocked horridly like a hanging stone--one of those +natural wonders that attract tourists--and then, rolling over, slid +down the path of the corpses. Lewis, whose hands had stretched out +instinctively and caught themselves with desperation in a stiff clump +of sage, was left--though precariously--behind buttressed for the +moment by a few stones of which the car in its final plunge had made +nothing. They could not deter the machine, but they sufficed to deter +him until Johnny Stevens, sobered by the shock, had dragged him to +what is known as safety. Mona came later--half fainting, half crying, +but not badly injured. By the time a fresh car came over the pass and +picked them up, Lewis was luckily unconscious. They wound slowly home, +and Nature--a beast, first, last, and all the time except when she is +broke to the service of God--resumed her wise, incomparable smile. A +little thing like loose wreckage cannot mar a view like that. + +Science, which loves the part more than the whole, took hold of Lewis +Hunting and made him one of her choicest fragments. No one could have +blamed those able surgeons for being proud of themselves; but, true +to type, they were not that: they were proud of Lewis. Half a healthy +man is better than a whole man with a trace of sepsis; and Lewis--both +legs neatly shorn off between knee and hip--was Exhibit A, a victory, +an exultation. His blood was pure, his heart strong, his constitution +magnificent, his recovery just what the recovery of the normal man +should be. He had not hampered either Nature or Science in any way. +The doctors felt affection for him because of his strong heart and +untainted blood, and assured him earnestly that there was no reason why +he should not live for fifty years. Lewis heard the words but did not +measure their full significance until later. + +Numbers of people came to see him in the hospital; flowers and fruits +stood about until his eyes wearied of them. He was setting his teeth +harder than he had ever done in his life, and he could not unclasp his +jaws to breathe the sweetness of roses or taste the pulp of figs. His +lawyer had, at his request, written--not telegraphed--to his mother; +and in the letter lay a plain request that the news should be kept, by +hook or crook, from Netta. The lawyer humored him, writing precisely +what Lewis wished; but as that miraculous convalescence progressed, +he wondered. No one, of course, would be such a brute as to suggest +to Lewis that he change his plans to match his prospects. But--well, +_but_.... They moved him to the hotel when he left the hospital, and +guests and employees vied with each other for the task of pushing his +wheelchair in and out of the elevator and dining room. A visiting nurse +did the necessary things for a time, but the wounds healed as by a +miracle. Six weeks after the accident Lewis was tensely calm: adjusting +himself; writing to his firm; trying to apprehend, little by little, +what a man with no legs would be able to do for fifty years. His mental +mood had not yet relaxed to despair, and his body inflicted no fevers, +no relapses upon him. But as he had not reckoned with Nature, so he had +not reckoned with Netta, who was Nature’s protégée. + +Mrs. Hunting--distraught, half maddened--had for a time kept Lewis’s +command not to let Netta know. But though Netta never read newspapers +and had few intimate friends, the news eventually came to her. Some +one had noticed the identity of names. The moment Netta heard of it, +she asked permission to absent herself, and rushed to Mrs. Hunting’s +suburban home. She made no mistakes this time: her instincts served +her well. Lewis’s mother had become, by this stroke, her chief ally, +and from the first moment Netta treated her as such. Within an hour +she had got from Mrs. Hunting precisely what she wanted. Nor is Mrs. +Hunting to be too much blamed for playing into Netta’s hands. She had +cried over the maiming of her boy, her heart had indeed been well-nigh +broken. Yet, confusedly, she saw him as wreckage--beloved wreckage, no +doubt; but there was no triumph in possessing him. She had wanted him +all to herself, and now, inevitably, she had him thus; and her weak +old shoulders trembled under the burden. Being everything to him, +as he had hitherto defined it, was being the chief recipient of his +favors. The poor woman was discouraged to the marrow; she had no gift +for meeting new and shattering situations. Her grievance against Netta +had always been on her own behalf--not really on her son’s. She was, +of course, leagues away from understanding Lewis, who had indeed never +done her the honor of explaining himself to her. + +Netta cooed over her, Netta wrapped her in pity and compliments, Netta +expressed remorse as inclusive as it was vague. Only the last of their +talk need be recorded; and much had been decided between them earlier. + +“But, Netta, how can I let you go when he told me not to let you know?” + +“You can’t keep me from him. My boss will lend me the money to go, if I +ask him.” + +“No, no. I’ll give you the money. But do you realize what it means, +Netta?” + +“Do I realize? What do you take me for? I realize that Lewis is down +and out, forever.” + +The feeble tears stood in Mrs. Hunting’s eyes. “Yes, that’s true. He +is. What are you going to do when you get there?” + +“Take care of him, of course. He’s still my husband.” + +“You forgive him for wanting to divorce you?” + +Netta’s mouth twisted. Forgiveness was something she had never in the +least understood. “It has all been a horrible mistake. And now Lewis +will realize it. He’ll find that his wife is going to stand by him, no +matter what has happened. Bygones are bygones.” + +“Netta”--the older woman’s voice shook--“I didn’t know you had it in +you. I guess I never understood you before.” She had never been further +from understanding Netta than she was at that moment, but she spoke +in the utmost honesty. To stick to a broken man who could give her +nothing, who had cast her off with insult ... why, Netta was wonderful. + +“You’re going to take him back,” she marveled humbly. + +“Sure I am.” + +“He ought to worship you, Netta.” + +Even Netta was a little at loss to answer that. “Lewis doesn’t worship +people, I guess. But we’ll be all right.” + +“I never did believe in divorce,” sighed Mrs. Hunting. It was quite +true, and she felt reminiscently ashamed of having so welcomed her +son’s. + +The two women kissed, and Netta, with Mrs. Hunting’s check in her bag, +departed to pack and make reservations. Lewis’s mother watched her go, +and pure admiration filled her heart. She wouldn’t have expected it +of Netta who could so easily, after the divorce, have married again. +If only the dear Lord would help her to carry it through! A little +toneless prayer went up that night from Mrs. Hunting’s lips that Netta +might find her strength and her reward. Netta, meanwhile, alert and +flushed, was moving about her room, packing her trunk and humming. +Never had she felt less need of pity. _She_ was again for Cydnus, to +meet Mark Antony. + +Her train, she found, would arrive at a hideously inconvenient hour; +so she stopped short of her goal, had a night’s rest in another town, +and motored over in the happy morning light. Her heart was beating hard +as she faced the hotel clerk and registered. His quick, excited glance +of sympathy and admiration encouraged her. She realized afresh the +tremendous handicap in her favor. She was, after all, still a wife. + +“I’ll telephone up,” stammered the clerk. + +Netta bent across the counter and smiled at him gently. The result was +to make him feel that some men had all the luck. For a hopeless cripple +to get any woman back after trying to get rid of her--and such a good +looking one.... + +“No,” she said. “I’ve got to see him. And I think it will be easier +for both of us if I just walk in. I came as soon as I heard. Does he +suffer?” She dropped her voice sympathetically. + +“Not now. He’s made a wonderful recovery, they say.” + +She nodded. “I’ll just go up and knock at his door. What is the number?” + +He told her. “Shall I give you a room?” + +Netta flushed a little. “Suppose you wait until I come down. Here is my +trunk check.” + +The elevator girl stared at Netta when she revealed her name and her +errand. As soon as Netta was well down the corridor, the girl shot the +car to the basement where her favorite bell boy would be haunting the +pool-room entrance. She crooked a finger at him. “Say, Ted, who’d you +s’pose I just took up to Mr. Hunting’s room? His wife! Gosh, she’s a +wonder--and some looker. Goin’ to take him back, I guess. Don’t you +ever talk to me about women again. There’s some of ’em that’s worth all +the men in creation.” The elevator rose, preventing retort. + +Netta already had laid her finger on the pulse of Nevada. She had been +a little afraid of this special atmosphere which, she thought, might +be like nothing else in our great country. But apparently, even in the +stronghold of divorce, fidelity was valued. The mere glances of the +clerk and the elevator girl had made that clear. Nevada itself would +back her, she now suspected, just as Mrs. Hunting had done. She knocked +at Lewis’s door and entered. + +Lewis sat by the window, a rug spread over him from the waist down. He +turned, expecting a bell boy. He saw Netta instead, and so profound +was the shock that it seemed instantly inevitable. The fact was too +monstrous for doubt. There was hopelessness beneath his hot flush, +though his voice was cold and stern. + +“Netta! Why are you here?” + +Netta took off her gloves, went into the bathroom and washed her hands. +She came back, drew up a chair near (but not too near) him and sat +down. Only then did she speak. + +“I’m here to talk to you, first of all, Lewis. And then to see what I +can do for you.” + +“How did you hear about this?” He pointed at the rug. + +“It must have been in the papers. Some one spoke to me about it, +finally. So I went to see Mother Hunting, and she told me everything.” + +“Did she know you were coming out here?” + +“Why, of course she knew, Lewis. She helped me to come and gave me her +blessing.” + +More virtue went out of him as he heard these words. + +“My mother doesn’t understand anything about my position,” he said +harshly. “There’s nothing you can do for me. Sorry you had the trip. +And now you had better get out as soon as possible. How did they happen +to let you up here?” + +Netta made no show of temper--which was ominous, Lewis thought. A row, +he considered, would be the very best thing that could happen. + +“Well, you see, Lewis dear, I am still your wife. And I think,” she +spoke gently to veil the brutality of what was to come--“most people +would feel that a man in your position couldn’t refuse to see his wife, +if she were willing to see him. It isn’t as if you ever had any real +grounds against me, you know. I suppose you thought you’d marry again. +Well, I don’t see how you ever can, do you?” + +“Of course I shall never marry again,” he said shortly. She had got +beneath his skin--Netta always did--and he felt weak tears starting. + +“Somebody’s got to take care of you, Lewis, you know. And if your +mother and I are willing to do it, between us, I guess you can only be +thankful to us. I shall keep on working, of course.” + +“I’d rather starve,” Lewis answered simply. + +“That’s foolish,” his wife replied mildly “--dead silly. Where would +you starve? And how? You can be very sure of one thing, Lewis. Your +friends aren’t going to look after you while your own family stand +ready to do it.” + +“Why do you come and badger me like this?” It was weak, and he knew it; +but he could not tell her in plain words that he hated her. The loss of +his physical integrity somehow made it impossible to utter so complete +and violent a truth. + +Netta rose. “I suppose if I told you I loved you, Lewis, you wouldn’t +understand. But I’ve always loved you. You knew when you left me, when +you tried to divorce me, that I loved you. Do you suppose a woman +who didn’t love you would come back to you, after the way I’ve been +treated, and after what has happened to you? You can put it up to +your precious lawyer if you want to. I guess you’ll find that even in +the state of Nevada people will consider that a wife who’s ready to +forgive what I’m ready to forgive, and to take care of you the rest of +your life, is worth paying some attention to.” + +“It’s no use talking, Netta. I don’t love you--not a damn bit. What do +you want me for?” + +She bent over him, not touching him. “Darned if I know, Lewis. But I +do want you--and I intend to have you. I don’t see how you’re going +to stop it. No, you needn’t worry--I’m not going to kiss you. Some +day”--she looked at him strangely, scrutinizingly--“you’ll be asking +for it. I’ll wait for that, thanks.” + +A bell boy knocked and entered just then to take Lewis down to the +dining room. If he was half an hour earlier than usual, he can +hardly be blamed. The hotel was buzzing from lobby to kitchen. Word +had already gone forth upon the streets of the town concerning the +beautiful forgiving wife who had appeared like an angel in the desert. +It must be remembered that in Nevada the presumption against the +forsaken spouse is not very strong. + +“You had better go down alone today, Lewis,” Netta said. “I’ll go out +and do an errand or two, and lunch later.” + +She left them in the lobby. There were two people she wanted to see +before she talked with Lewis again. Thanks to Mrs. Hunting, she knew +the names of both, and a telephone book did the rest. + +The interview with Lewis’s lawyer came first. Netta did not attempt +to commit him to anything. She merely announced her presence and her +intentions; and she did not fail to refer obliquely to the fact that, +however the situation broke, there could be no money in it for any one. + +“Of course I know you’ll have to talk with my husband,” she said +finally, as she rose. “But the fact is that he’s down and out, and +I’m willing to forget everything and work for the rest of my life to +support him. I’m afraid I am his only chance.” She shook her tawny head +a little pathetically and departed. + +Netta permitted herself a sandwich and a cup of coffee before the +second encounter. It was possible, she realized, that Lewis had fallen +in love; and in spite of Netta’s brave sarcasms she knew it also to +be possible that another woman had fallen in love with him. If she, +Netta, could keep on loving him, another woman might. And if the other +woman were rich, she might even allow herself the luxury of a crippled +husband. Her hand trembled a little as she rang the bell of Mrs. +Tilton’s apartment. + +She could have shouted for joy, once face to face with Mona Jeffers. +If she couldn’t cut out that pale creature, she wasn’t much good, she +opined. She prepared to do battle, rather contemptuously. But Mona +surprised her at once. + +“We heard that you had come on, Mrs. Hunting. My cousin just came in +from shopping. Things get round pretty quickly in this place.” The girl +was panting slightly, and Netta watched her, catlike, to see what would +come. “Oh, I do hope it’s true, Mrs. Hunting, that you’re ready to make +it up and take him back!” + +So, even if Lewis wanted this chit, she didn’t want him. She had only +Lewis to fight, after all. + +“I certainly am, Miss Jeffers. I only want to stand by him and take +care of him, if he’ll let me.” + +“Oh, how glad I am, Mrs. Hunting. Why”--the girl spoke softly--“it is +almost worth while it should have happened if it brings you together +again.” + +Precisely what Netta had thought; but she had not expected any one else +to say it. Suspicion attacked her again. + +“I wouldn’t say that, Miss Jeffers. It’s a pretty awful thing that’s +happened. But he’s my husband, and I feel we belong to each other. The +real reason I came to see you”--she went on very gravely--“was that I +knew you were together at the time of the accident. I didn’t know but +you and he had fallen in love with each other--meant to get married +when he got his decree.” + +The pale girl flushed. “Oh, no, Mrs. Hunting. There wasn’t a +thing--ever!” She gave a little involuntary shiver. + +Netta noted the shiver and could have laughed aloud. Whatever Lewis +might have wanted, this girl didn’t want him. Poor old Lewis! His day +of charm was over--excepting always for her. Funny: somehow he had +“got” her for all time, but it looked as if he would never “get” any +one else. + +She smiled as she rose to go. “You must remember, Miss Jeffers, that +Mr. Hunting has been trying to divorce me. I don’t know yet what he +will do.” + +“Do?” the girl exclaimed. “Why, of course he’ll worship you. Not many +women would do what you are doing.” + +Wouldn’t they? Netta wondered silently as she went out upon the street. +Well, perhaps other people didn’t know what they wanted. She had never +been troubled that way. But it was clear to her that no one was going +to interfere with her taking on the whole burden of Lewis Hunting. +Relief was in all their voices. Netta took a room at the hotel, but +she did not try to see Lewis again. She dined outside the hotel and +filled in the evening at a movie. In the theater she was aware of being +covertly pointed out. Before retiring she sent a note to Lewis, saying +that she should not see him until he sent for her. + +Lewis, however, did not take long to capitulate. After talking +with a few people he saw that, in the eyes of public opinion, he +had no case. It was cold fact that Netta was behaving with great +magnanimity. He was helpless, done for, and she was willing to take +him on. The fact that he didn’t want to live with her seemed very +small in comparison--everybody blew it away, and indeed the mere hint +of it seemed to shock. Half a man has no right to the prejudices and +preferences of the whole man. How could he fight against the heroine of +the hour? He sent for his wife on the second day, and she came at once. + +“Well, Lewis?” + +“Well, Netta.” + +That seemed to be all. Then he said haltingly, “I am very grateful to +you, Netta.” + +“You’ve got reason to be,” she answered briskly. “I’ll move next door +tomorrow, and you won’t have to hire other people to wait on you. +Perhaps I had better begin by taking you down to dinner tonight.” She +moved about the room, tidying it. Her presence seemed to flow into the +farthest crannies of the chamber, and his nerves began the old gestures +of revolt. There was never to be peace. + +“Let’s go down early,” he said roughly. + +“All right.” She wheeled him into the elevator and wheeled him out and +into the dining room. As they moved through the palm room, she heard +an unattractive citizen remark aside, “I’ve got pretty cynical, living +in this place; but by heck, a woman like that almost gives me back +my faith in human nature.” Evidently Lewis had heard it too, for he +flushed. + +At the table he ordered, but ate little. Instead, he stared ahead of +him--still flushed and curiously, stonily handsome. They talked very +little. Netta too was flushed and shaken--with victory. She had got +Lewis back forever, and food was unimportant. Money was the thing that +was going to trouble her next. + +Lewis was dealing with the future, as well as she. He was beginning to +realize--the overheard words had thrust it on him--that not only must +he live with Netta, endure her unmodulated hardness, perhaps even her +strong caresses, but must always be humble with gratitude. He would +have died rather than kneel to her, three months ago, when he had knees +to kneel with; but, symbolically, he must do just that--forever. + +“Let’s stick round the lobby awhile,” he proposed. + +“All right, if you want to.” + +But suddenly he clutched the chair-arm. “No--upstairs!” He had wanted +to put off being alone with her, but he had been wrong. It was more +terrible to sit there with her, hero and heroine, under those cynical +eyes made soft again by the spectacle of them. + +“All right,” said Netta again. “Just wait until I go to the newsstand +and get some magazines.” She left him, and he closed his eyes. + +A voice in his ear made him open them. “It’s terrible for you--her +coming like this. But be brave. Nothing lasts forever. Be brave.” The +speaker passed on--a woman he had never known but whom, like all the +other hotel guests, he had noted for her distinction of bearing and +garb. She was not in the least of Lewis’s--or of the others’--world, +and she would never have employed a young woman so aggressive and sharp +as Netta. + +“Who is your friend?” he heard his wife ask. Strolling back with her +magazines, she had noted the clothes, the air, the aspect of the older +woman who had paused--though barely--by her husband’s chair. + +“I never spoke to her before, and I haven’t any idea,” he replied. +“There are all sorts of people round this place.” + +He spoke very quietly. It was suddenly easier to be patient. Somehow +that woman, with her mere passing murmur of sympathy, had picked his +dignity out of the dust and handed it back to him. They had to wait for +the elevator, and a cold draft assailed them, blowing directly through +the little lobby from the street. Netta took off her scarf and folded +it round his shoulders with a solicitous, possessive smile. The world +looked on, with moist eyes.... Lewis set his teeth, squared his fine +shoulders, and looked straight ahead of him with pride. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [9] Copyright, 1925, by Harper & Brothers. + Copyright, 1926, by Katharine Fullerton Gerould. + + + + + COWARD’S CASTLE[10] + + By WALTER GILKYSON + + (From _The Atlantic Monthly_) + +Judge Avery held his pencil poised above the typewritten page of +testimony, then marked the margin with a long firm line. He had not +remembered the plaintiff’s evidence was so clear; that young man +had brought it out very nicely with the neat indirectness of his +questions. On page forty-eight--he turned back the rustling sheets. +Yes, the witness had said about the same thing. With a faint smile of +satisfaction he leaned over and began writing on the pad that lay upon +the book-rest of his easy-chair. + +For a moment he paused to read what he had written, the pencil +trembling slightly in his thin blue-veined hand; there was a look of +critical appraisal in his worn face, something vivid, keenly alive, +beneath the bloodless texture of his skin. He struck out a word, +replaced it with another; the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepened and +he smoothed the white hair above his forehead absently, then laid down +the pad. That was the last finding of fact. He would dictate the whole +and his conclusions of law before Court tomorrow. + +It must be nearly five, he thought. The sunlight had shrunk to a dusty +orange bar across the red carpet at his feet; through the open window +he could hear the cooing of the pigeons, the soft rustle of their wings +as they moved upon the stone sill. Against the opposite wall the yellow +bindings of the books ran in converging rows to a well of still gray +light that seemed to gather at the end of the room; the surface of the +table in the center shone like a ruddy disk above its dark carven legs; +through the curtains that hung above the doorway to his right he could +hear the voices of the tipstaves talking in the empty courtroom outside. + +Rodenbaugh was late. Evidently he was going to finish the Minturn case +this afternoon. A driving young man, Rodenbaugh--he swept uncommon +clean for a new broom. The judge smiled a little grimly, glanced down +at his knees, unpleasantly sharp and narrow beneath the neat fold +of his trousers. Old age did queer tricks to the body, things that +he didn’t like. No doubt it did the same things to the mind. He was +seventy-three. That was a warning in itself. He rose and walked to the +window, sniffed the dusty May air. He was sorry he didn’t get on better +with Rodenbaugh. It was hard, at first, to like any one who had taken +Langdon’s place on the bench. + +There was a difference now, a very great difference. He shook his +head, turned and walked stiffly to his chair. The fact that he felt +the difference so keenly was a sign of his age. In his youth the old +lawyers had always complained about the decay of the bar. And he had +laughed at them just as Rodenbaugh would laugh at him now if he heard +him. Only Rodenbaugh didn’t laugh, that was the trouble. He only +smiled--a slow spreading of unparted lips, a narrowing of his eyes, +which--the judge sighed--was intensely distasteful. But--maybe it was +just as well. If Rodenbaugh once began to laugh he might laugh at +himself all day. + +A step sounded on the marble outside, and the curtain was pushed +tentatively back. Old Walrath appeared, his watery blue eyes searching +the chamber with vague apology. ‘Judge Rodenbaugh been here, Judge?’ +he asked. He moved forward, then hobbled down the steps. ‘I looked in +his room and he wasn’t there. He said he wanted to see Mr. Mercer at +half-past three. Mr. Mercer’s in the courtroom now.’ + +‘He’s still trying the Minturn case, Enoch. He’s coming here, though, +before he goes home. I don’t know what he wants with Mercer. If he’s +been waiting long I think you’d better let him go. You can call him +when the judge gets back.’ + +‘All right, sir.’ The old man paused, and a look of doubt crept into +his mildly truculent face. ‘You think he won’t mind? I shouldn’t like +to get him mad just after he’s come off the bench. You know, Judge, +he’s got a way, when he’s mad, of smiling just like a Chessy cat, and +passing that tongue of his over you fit to take off your skin!’ He +pulled at his long white walrus moustache and gazed at the judge. ‘I’ve +been thinking he acts pretty fiery for a young man that ain’t seen +too much of court before he become a judge. I reckon’--his eyes moved +solemnly to and fro--‘I reckon that’s why.’ + +Judge Avery looked at his knees; it was difficult to conceal his smile. +Of course, he oughtn’t to let Walrath talk to him that way. He ought +to reprove him sharply, and the fact that he couldn’t was clearly just +another sign of his age. He straightened his face, looked up. Walrath +was smiling at him in a curious way. Yes, by George, he was actually +smiling at him paternally underneath that white walrus moustache. The +old beggar! Really, he’d have to say something! ‘Enoch!’ He stroked his +chin, gazed through his spectacles at the bent figure standing in the +doorway. ‘You’re becoming too philosophical, I’m afraid, in your later +years. I have a suspicion you’ve taken to psycho-analysis.’ + +‘No, sir!’ Walrath grunted. ‘I never yet heard of it. Them experts +talks of electrolysis in the accident cases, but I never yet heard of +the sister you speak of. No, Judge--it ain’t science--you know that.’ +He shook his head and began climbing the steps. ‘It’s just putting a +long time in the courtroom, the same as you and me’s both done--that, +and a little looking round, as Judge Langdon used to say.’ He paused, +the curtain clasped in his big bony hand. ‘I’m going out now and tell +Mr. Mercer he can leave, and then I’ll come back and get what papers +you want for your bag.’ + +Judge Avery watched the curtain settle behind him, heard the slow +stump of his footsteps across the marble. Old Walrath had stumped up +and down those steps and across that marble for nearly fifty years; he +had been a tipstaff when the judge first came to the bar. A gay ribald +young fellow, then, with a rough tongue and a surprising knowledge +of human nature, but good company, sitting on a table in the clerk’s +office, swinging his legs and imitating Melchior Van Zandt blowing his +nose at a jury. There was time to linger in the clerk’s office, in +those days; time to do many things that were forgotten now. Law was a +profession then, not a business; the lawyer reached out toward art and +letters rather than toward certified public accounting. Then Bricknell +translated Demosthenes and Judge Haynes wrote Horatian Echoes. Very +faint but quite scholarly. And every one, strangely enough, spoke and +wrote English. It seemed to be the mother tongue. He sighed. Even the +law had changed; it had lost its pattern, its design; the fine threads +of continuity were gone. Nowadays you matched facts as you matched +silk, and extracted legal principles like a dentist pulling teeth. He +rose, straightened his coat across his slender shoulders. He was old, +quite out of date. In the hurry and press of modern life there is no +time, and so forth---- Any young man could finish the sentence. + +He gathered the papers from the chair, slipped an elastic about them, +and thrust them into a green-baize bag. There was no use in waiting +any longer for Rodenbaugh; he might as well take his walk and go home. +The evening dreariness was coming over him; it made him peevish and +irritable; he was likely to bite, to say something he didn’t mean, if +Rodenbaugh provoked him. He glanced at the table to see whether he had +left any papers, then at the desk. For an instant he paused, a bent +delicate figure, very clear against the square of ruddy light. The +evening dreariness was, after all, a little more than age. He gazed +at the pictures standing in leather frames within a shadowy recess +of the desk. The bright knife-like sorrow of the past was gone, but +in its place was a numb loneliness, a darkening vision, a dim sense +of drifting with blurred, loosened feeling toward some unfathomable +end. It would have been different if they had lived. He would have +understood these youngsters better then. Old age had always to look +through others’ eyes; the vistas of its own past were overwhelming. + +A sharp footstep sounded outside and the curtain rings jangled angrily. +Judge Rodenbaugh’s body filled the doorway, descended with an abrupt +heaviness into the room. ‘I hope you haven’t waited, Judge,’ he said. +His small eyes moved obscurely beneath his thin eyebrows, his tall +clumsy presence seemed to permeate the place, to pervade it like a +harsh dominating breath. ‘I wanted counsel to finish their speeches +this afternoon, so I could charge the jury the first thing in the +morning.’ He seated himself in the chair by the table, his thick +shoulders thrown forward, his legs stretched out. ‘That little Kardos +is a pitiful apology,’ he said. + +‘Was he trying for the plaintiff?’ + +‘Yes. He tries a case as if he were selling shoestrings on State +Street. He’s all tongue and no head. I’ve had to listen to him now for +two days, fumbling and backing and filling, encumbering the record with +all sorts of useless questions. Moran is against him--you know what a +good one he is! I think he was saying things to Kardos under his breath +all through the trial. I wasn’t sure. Every now and then Kardos would +stop and get sort of gray and ask his questions again. Each time he +repeated he got worse, and then Moran would get up with that suave easy +manner of his, and suggest that his friend first make known to himself +what he wanted to ask, and, after a moment’s silent communion, make it +known to the witness, who, in spite of his lawyer, seemed like quite an +intelligent man. He’s a quick one, Moran.’ The judge shook his head. ‘I +like him. He gives a case something--color, I guess you’d call it.’ + +‘That, or atmosphere,’ answered Judge Avery. ‘It’s sometimes fatal to +litigants, although we lawyers survive it. Well--what did Kardos do?’ + +‘Oh, he’d just smile that sickly smile of his, and move his hands to +and fro and wipe his face, and begin again. He’d have been funny if he +hadn’t taken up so much time. You know--that fellow Moran is a great +trial-lawyer! I never realized it so completely until today. I’d never +tried against him--I didn’t try cases, the way you did, before I came +on the bench. It doesn’t bother me, though.’ He smiled and his dark +heavy face seemed to widen slowly. ‘It’s easy to handle things from +back here, isn’t it, Judge?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Judge Avery. His thin mouth closed, he leaned forward a +little, his elbow upon the table, and surveyed his companion with still +luminous eyes. + +‘Well!’ Rodenbaugh stretched back his shoulders, ran his hand through +the unparted hair that lay like a wig above his forehead. ‘I put an +oar in myself now and then. Yesterday, after Kardos had floundered +about for a while, I told him he ought to get a lawyer to try his case. +Up jumped Moran with that friendly manner of his and said he’d be +delighted to furnish his learned friend with a list in case he were not +acquainted with the bar. The jury laughed and Kardos stood there wiping +his face and moving his lips like a fish and then sat down. I told him +to go ahead and he pulled up his chair and began shooting questions at +the witness as if he were crying a sale. It was awful!’ He leaned back, +took some cigars from his pocket and pushed one across the table. ‘I +don’t know what we’re going to do with these fellows, Judge.’ + +‘Neither do I.’ Judge Avery ignored the cigar. ‘Was there something you +wanted to discuss with me? If not, I think I’ll go home.’ + +‘Yes, there was. I wanted to see Mercer too.’ He rose, thrust his head +through the curtains. ‘Walrath!’ he called. + +‘Yes, sir!’ + +‘Did you get Mr. Mercer?’ + +‘Yes, sir. He was here. He waited till half-past four.’ Judge Avery +heard the clump of Walrath’s feet on the marble. ‘Then I let him go, +Judge. I told him I’d call him tomorrow morning.’ + +‘You did! What did you do that for?’ + +‘Judge----’ + +‘Well, get him now if you’re able to handle the phone! And remember, +when I send for a man I want him to wait! Exercise the authority of +your age and position, Walrath, but don’t exercise discretion. When +the vessels of the law become old crockery, they shouldn’t go to the +well too often. Move along now--don’t stand there, looking at me like a +fool.’ He turned and descended the steps. ‘Doddering old ass, Walrath,’ +he said. + +‘I told him to let Mercer go,’ said Judge Avery. ‘I thought you +wouldn’t want him to wait.’ + +‘Oh!’ The judge paused, a sulky look on his face. ‘I see. I don’t +believe Mercer’s so busy that an hour’s wait would injure his +practice.’ He sat down heavily in the chair. ‘What I wanted to talk to +you about was this--’ + +‘Do you mind’--Judge Avery’s voice had a curious lingering drawl--‘if +we wait a minute? There’s something I want to tell you, first.’ + +‘No,’ said Rodenbaugh shortly, ‘go on.’ He drummed on the table +impatiently. ‘Old Walrath’s an ass,’ he muttered under his breath. + +Judge Avery smiled, a still frosty look in his clear blue eyes. +Yes. Rodenbaugh deserved something. With the exercise of a little +imagination he could give it to him completely in a way that he would +thoroughly understand. He paused, his mind penetrating--invading the +man before him. Then he leaned back, put his finger tips together, and +the little smile on his lips grew sharp. There was a certain pleasure +in the exercise of the imagination. Quite justifiable in this case. He +would tell Rodenbaugh exactly what he was. + +‘It’s about myself,’ he said slowly. ‘Old men are given to telling +stories about themselves. I suppose that’s the reason they’re bores. +But I think this will interest you as a younger man. Do you mind?’ + +Judge Rodenbaugh turned and stared at him. ‘Not at all,’ he said. + +‘That’s very kind!’ The words dropped like acid from the sardonic +lips. ‘I’ve been in a reminiscent mood all afternoon. As you’re my +defenseless colleague--brother, as the Reports call us--I’m afraid I’ll +have to impose on you.’ + + + II + +‘It’s curious,’ he continued, ‘how the memories of childhood come to +the surface in old age. It’s rather the way an ebbing stream discloses +the soft formless ooze that lies beneath it. I can remember now just +how I felt as a youngster, remember all my desires and fears with a +surprising vividness. And I had plenty of fears.’ He paused, nodding +his head. ‘I think I must have been afraid of everything, when I was +young. In that way’--he lifted his eyebrows--‘I’m sure I was different +from you. Of course, I never let any one know I was afraid. I buried +it all deep down, created an image over it--an image of myself as a +valiant, aggressive, reckless youngster. But I knew it was there all +the time, and the very thought of it seemed to give me a savage desire +to show my strength. And yet I couldn’t when it came to the test. I was +afraid to fight. The other boys knew I was and so I never made friends +with boys of my own age. I always went about with the younger boys; +they couldn’t destroy this image I had created; on the contrary, it +seemed to grow larger the more I was with them. I used to bully them +like a regular little cad. + +‘You know’--he shook his head--‘what boys are, Judge. Queer little +animals; just as eager to maintain their prestige as any full-grown +man, and just as clever about it, too.’ He leaned back, crossed his +sharp narrow knees. ‘Did that thought ever occur to you?’ + +‘I can’t say it has,’ Judge Rodenbaugh answered. His eyes searched his +companion’s face with a veiled wavering glance, then fell away. Judge +Avery lifted his hand to his mouth, smoothed his upper lip. + +‘I suppose old men, like dead men, should tell no tales.’ His smile +seemed to vanish into a lurking shadow. ‘I must tell you a little +story and then we’ll take up the matters you want to discuss. At +boarding-school--I presume you went to Saint Thomas?’ + +The judge moved his head. + +‘It might have been better if I’d gone there, too. They sent me to +Milford. Well, I wasn’t a great success. I was quick enough in class, +but that didn’t count; for some reason the boys didn’t like me. I +wasn’t good at athletics, I couldn’t play football, and the cold +punishment of the track simply filled me with dread. There was nothing +of that sort that I could do and, naturally, I didn’t become a leader, +and I didn’t want friendship on any other terms. So I put up my image +and looked around for some younger boy to keep it in place. + +‘It was little Immanuel Pleasants the last term. I seem to remember him +better than any of the others. He was the son of Agamemnon Pleasants, +the teacher of Latin--a thin, frightened, large-eared man with a +white face and eyes like a Sealyham terrier. Immanuel’s mother was +named Lucilla, and, of course, we always called her Clytemnestra. They +lived in a little house near the main building and were constantly +asking unwilling boys in to tea. Even as youngsters we recognized their +“inferiority complex,” as I believe the psychologists nowadays call +it. Old Aggie--I suppose he was thirty-five--used to call us “young +barbarians” in a timid jocular voice, and give us little half-hearted +pats on the shoulder and look at us with his doubtful evasive eyes. We +thought he wasn’t much of a man, and I daresay he wasn’t; and as for +Clytemnestra we liked her still less; there was something depressing +about her red swollen eyelids and the soft pink of her nose--as if she +were always having a cold. I think even Immanuel, at times, doubted the +worldly value of his parents, and I know some of us used to encourage +him in his attitude of unbelief. It was always easy to encourage +Immanuel on any subject. He was susceptible to every influence about +him; a pathetic, eager little fellow, filled with an unreasoning +desire to please; one of those boys that hang about the older boys +and do things for them and talk about them a little breathlessly. I +thought him quite absurd, with his weasel face and his silly hat and +his big translucent ears. I’ve often wondered’--the judge stared at +the bookcase as if he had forgotten his companion--‘what became of +Immanuel. He was manifestly unfitted for this world. I suppose’--he +looked at Judge Rodenbaugh--‘you knew boys like that at school?’ + +‘Yes,’ said the judge. He frowned and pulled heavily at his cigar; +behind the dissolving smoke his face seemed to darken with a slow +menacing flush. ‘But I can’t see,’--he paused, then straightened up, +looked at his companion. ‘I can’t see----’ + +‘There’s no need to,’ interrupted Judge Avery. He lifted his long thin +hand from the table. ‘Don’t try. I’ll be through now, in just a minute. +You must let me finish about Immanuel. I rather like Immanuel! I almost +feel as if I’d invented him for you!’ His smile was hard and bright +with a little curl at the corners. ‘Now what was I going to say? Oh, +yes--I wanted to tell you about our play. + +‘Somewhere I’d picked up the story of King Agamemnon and the wily +Ægisthus who killed him and married the faithless Queen Clytemnestra +and, one dull afternoon when Immanuel and Kinsey and little Pollock +were loafing in my room, I conceived the idea of putting the story into +a play. I thought it would be amusing to see Immanuel act the part +of his father, and I explained to him carefully just what sort of a +silly ass Agamemnon was and how Clytemnestra fooled him. I remember I +took particular pleasure in rolling out the word “Agamemnon”; little +Kinsey and Pollock were tremendously pleased and Immanuel stood +there with that foolish, half-frightened, expectant look he always +had when we made fun of his father. But, when it came to acting the +part, he rebelled and, of course, that made me angry and all the more +persistent. I told him he’d have to do it or he couldn’t go about with +me any longer, but even that threat didn’t seem to make any difference; +he only stood there shaking his head, his queer little weasel face very +sharp and pinched, his eyes flickering with a dumb-animal refusal. I +remember it made me quite angry. I felt in some way as if Immanuel were +threatening my prestige, depriving me of a satisfaction to which I was +entitled. And so, to punish him, I began to imitate his father myself. +Little Pollock and Kinsey went into screams on the bed and I rather +expected Immanuel to laugh before I was through: laughing had always +been his final mode of defense. But he didn’t: he only stood there +looking down, his stubby fingers twisting at the absurd pearl buttons +his mother had sewed on his coat. So I went on, getting more and more +savage as I went, it seemed as if his very speechlessness, the fumbling +inarticulate motion of his hands, filled me with rage. I must have gone +on for five minutes or so, when suddenly he hunched up his shoulders +and lifted his arm to his face, and then ran to the door with a queer +little squeak like a bat that’s been hit with a towel. I heard some one +calling after him in the hall and the next minute Danforth came to the +door. + +‘“What’s the matter with Pleasants?” he said. + +‘I felt startled and rather uncomfortable at Danforth’s sudden +appearance: he was captain of the baseball team, and one of the leaders +of the school. He’d never paid much attention to me. Well, I put my +hands in my pockets and walked over toward him. “Nothing, Danforth,” I +said. “We were horsing Pleasants a little, that’s all. He can’t take a +joke.” I shook my head in a superior manner. “He needs hardening up, I +should say.” + +‘“You think so!” Danforth looked at me with perfectly frank disgust. +“I should say you needed it a bit yourself! Lying around all afternoon +with a lot of kids when you ought to be out in the field! Why don’t you +take some one your size?” He waited a minute and then walked away. “You +let Pleasants alone,” he said when he reached the door. “It’s filthy +the way you devil the younger boys. When I get through practice this +afternoon I’ll put on the gloves with you, if you still feel you have +to harden some one up!” He gave me an ugly smile and then disappeared +down the hall. + +‘Well, I felt pretty sick. I remember that very clearly, but, +unfortunately, what I don’t remember is that it did me any permanent +good. It was not until long after I was grown that I learned my lesson; +and then, strangely enough, it took old Melchior Van Zandt and a little +lawyer like Kardos to teach me. I don’t suppose you remember Melchior +Van Zandt. He was the leader of the bar in my time; and the kind of man +we’re not likely to see again.’ The judge shook his head. ‘The day of +outstanding personalities has gone, I’m afraid. A high level reduces +the lofty peaks--I believe that’s the explanation given. You can take +it or not, as you like. To me, at times, the plateau doesn’t seem so +high. Of course, that may be only age: the old are apt to see the great +men of their youth through the eyes of their youth--and they loom very +large. However,’--he shrugged his shoulders--‘I must tell you about +Melchior Van Zandt and the lawyer like Kardos.’ He leaned forward a +little, a cold stealthy watchfulness in his eyes. ‘I think I’d been on +the bench just about as long as you have when it happened.’ + +Judge Rodenbaugh lowered his head, stared at the carpet with an angry +frown. Then he rose, thrust his hands into his pockets, his face turned +away, his chin sunk in a heavy fold between the square points of his +collar. ‘I don’t propose, Judge,’ he began. His grating voice had an +ugly snarl that sounded like the snapping of empty jaws. ‘I don’t +propose to listen to this kind of thing any longer!’ He shut his mouth +and the muscles above his jaws trembled slightly. ‘It’s insulting and +I’m not going to stand it! You have no business’--he stared at the +judge with eyes that seemed curiously futile and stricken--‘you have no +business----’ + +‘Oh, yes, I have!’ said Judge Avery. ‘Sit down, please.’ He paused. +‘Sit down, I said!’ His voice leaped like a sharp blue flame through +the room. ‘When the vessels of the law become old crockery, there’s +a certain courtesy due them, and that I intend to have from you.’ He +stretched out his hand. ‘Take your seat, please, and listen until I’ve +finished.’ + +For an instant Judge Rodenbaugh’s stare met his; then it wavered, +seemed to turn sullenly inward. ‘You presume on your age,’ he said, in +a husky voice. He sat down awkwardly. ‘Also, I think you’re presuming +on my intelligence. If you have any more to say, will you kindly be +brief? I don’t care to spend the afternoon listening to stories of +childhood.’ + +‘_My_ childhood,’ corrected the judge. ‘I wouldn’t presume to intrude +on yours.’ He looked pleasantly across the table. ‘I only presume on +my age, as you said--that, and a certain feeling for what I believe +is called the art of narration. Quite a remarkable art; I admit I +practise it very badly. But that doesn’t matter so long as I hold your +attention. And what old Melchior Van Zandt said to me is worthy of your +attention. + +‘I’d been on the bench just about a month when it happened. I was older +than you are, and I’d tried quite a number of cases. But, nevertheless, +I was developing that splendid sense of power you spoke of so feelingly +just a moment ago. There was a little lawyer who came into my court +in those days--he’s dead now--who was rather like Kardos, and he +irritated me the way Kardos irritates you. I remember one morning when +I had a full list, he came bustling into the courtroom with a great +cloud of witnesses behind him and that air of his, of terrible absurd +importance, which, in view of his hopeless incompetence, always annoyed +me intensely. Well, his case was reached that afternoon and when I +called it, he came fussing up to the bar with his greasy frock-coat +buttoned about him and began to splutter at me, the way he always +did. He had a high squeaky voice, and his words seemed to come out +in bunches, as if he blew them out from the back of his mouth. “Mr. +Stover,” I said,--the very sight of him made me angry,--“as far as I +can gather from what you say, you want to butcher another case for us +this afternoon.” Then I looked around and waited for the laugh. + +‘Of course it came. It always does when the judge makes a joke. I +grinned down at Stover and he wrinkled his forehead, then gave me a +sallow little smile. “As long as your Honor’s made a shambles out of +the court, I suppose I might as well begin,” he said.’ The judge shook +his head. ‘Pretty good, wasn’t it?’ he laughed. ‘He didn’t leave me +much to say! After Court old Melchior came stumping into my chambers +swinging his big green bag at his side like a Hercules-club. “Avery!” +he grunted. “You deserved what you got this afternoon.” He put his +bag down on the table. “I didn’t think little Stover had it in him. +Remember!” He shook his head at me--he had hair like the mane of an old +gray lion. “The bench is the coward’s castle, my boy. You’re safe, and +the other man isn’t.” Then he picked up his bag and stumped out.’ + +The judge sighed, smoothed his hair thoughtfully, passed his hand over +his cheek. ‘It all seems so very long ago,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid in +recalling the facts I may have been just a little vague. I only hope +that I haven’t bored you.’ He paused, then settled back in his chair, +touched the tips of his fingers together. ‘And, now, what did you want +to discuss with me?’ + +‘Nothing,’ Judge Rodenbaugh answered. He rose with a hesitant +awkwardness, his face turned away. ‘I’ve heard that story about the +shambles before. Unfortunately for the truth of your autobiography +it’s never been connected with you.’ + +‘Indeed?’ said Judge Avery brightly. ‘I must have made it my own then. +It’s not a bad story, though, is it?’ + +‘No,’ said the judge. He walked to the doorway. ‘Walrath!’ he called. +‘Ask Mr. Kardos to step over, will you?’ He turned sharply about. ‘I’ve +listened to you; now I’ll ask you to wait until Kardos comes and then +listen to me!’ + +‘Certainly,’ said Judge Avery. + + + III + +‘Mr. Mercer’s here,’ said Walrath. ‘Mr. Kardos is on his way over. Do +you want Mr. Mercer to come in?’ + +‘No, I’ll talk to him in the courtroom.’ The judge rose from his chair +and plunged through the doorway, the curtains dropping with a swift +flap behind him. His voice reached the chamber the next moment, subdued +to a low murmur from beyond the bench. + +Judge Avery put down the Report, smiled quietly, and smoothed his upper +lip. On the whole, he had done a good job. Rodenbaugh had wriggled, +to be sure, but he had held the knife firm, cut to the proper depth. +Surprising how his imagination had gone on; he never remembered letting +it wander so far before unaccompanied by facts. Reading the _Electra_ +last night must have been responsible for Agamemnon and Clytemnestra. +He laughed, tapped the end of his tortoise-shell spectacles on the +table, then drew a deep breath, his fingers slowly turning his +thin gold watchchain. After all, had his story done Rodenbaugh any +good? Human nature was a strangely resilient substance, inevitably +coming back to the same shape, no matter how hard you squeezed it. +And what business had he--or any one else--to squeeze it? That was +what these damned reformers were always doing; blowing their moral +ideas under every one’s skin like so many flies! He walked to the +window, gazed down at the automobiles moving through the dust-gold +street like platoons of black glittering beetles. Maybe he had been +a little magisterial in his attitude toward Rodenbaugh, exercised +the prerogative of age in a high-handed manner. Still--he shook his +head--the boy deserved it! + +The murmuring in the courtroom ceased and Rodenbaugh’s step sounded on +the marble. As the curtains swung to behind him, Walrath appeared. ‘Mr. +Kardos is here, Judge,’ he said. + +‘Send him in.’ Rodenbaugh turned away, thrust his hands in his pockets, +and sat down facing the table. He did not look up; in the silence that +followed, the situation seemed to Judge Avery just a little absurd. +Then some one paused at the doorway, moved the curtains timidly to one +side. ‘Come in!’ said Judge Rodenbaugh, a note of exasperation in his +voice. + +Kardos seemed to stumble into the room. As he bowed, it occurred to +the judge in a sudden whimsical flash that his round staring eyes were +exactly like the black buttons on his yellow shoes. He suppressed +a smile, and inclined his head. ‘Sit down,’ said Judge Rodenbaugh, +nodding at the chair in front of the table. + +Kardos seated himself, then reached over, placed his green hat on the +table. It looked curiously jaunty on the dark polished surface, arching +above the reflection at its side with an air of draggled impudence: +the judge wondered whether Rodenbaugh appreciated it, and what in the +devil he was going to do with Kardos anyway, now he had him. He leaned +back, gazed at the pair with vague amusement. Where in God’s name did +the young men get those coats! There was something skirted and dashing +about Mr. Kardos’s apparel--for such a little man! + +‘Kardos!’ Judge Rodenbaugh looked in his direction with a slow downward +glance. ‘I want to apologize to you.’ He lifted his eyes, stared at +him with smoldering hostility. ‘I had no business to say what I did in +court this afternoon.’ + +‘Yes, sir!’ Kardos nodded his head with a violent eagerness. ‘I’m sure +I accept your Honor’s apology. I’m sure your Honor’s very generous to +make me any apology at all!’ He spread out his hands and smiled at the +judge, a watchful look on his dark flat face. + +‘No?’ Rodenbaugh frowned. ‘I owe it to you. I’ll admit’--his lip +quivered with contempt--‘you gave me provocation. But’--he thrust his +chin down on his collar--‘I owe it to you?’ + +‘That’s very kind,’ said Kardos glibly. He leaned forward with an air +of confidence. ‘You see, Judge, I was asking the questions all right. +Yes I was.’ His low forehead wrinkled in a thick triangular crease just +above his nose. ‘I think maybe your Honor don’t understand the way I +work.’ He placed a stubby forefinger on his palm. ‘You see, Judge, +I sort of feel around and ease off the witness’s mind until he can +tell me what I want, you know, just letting him loose and giving him +a chance to think, and then new things come up and you get something +maybe you overlooked when you came to court. So I just suggest’--he +lifted a hand--‘an idea, maybe, here and there--something that comes to +me, maybe, on the spot. Of course I know your Honor thinks it takes up +time, but’--he cocked his head to one side--‘I get splendid results!’ + +‘You do, eh! I wish I saw some of them in my court!’ Judge Rodenbaugh’s +little eyes gleamed balefully. + +‘Your Honor hasn’t heard me try many cases,’ Kardos said. His smile was +almost benevolent in its assurance. ‘Where I live I get most of the +business now of that kind.’ + +‘You do, eh?’ The judge grunted. ‘That doesn’t speak well for your +neighborhood! From the way you talk you sound to me very much like a +fool! Why don’t you prepare your cases instead of trying them by mental +telepathy?’ + +Kardos laughed. To Judge Avery, watching his face, he didn’t seem at +all disconcerted. ‘Your Honor has a forceful way of putting things,’ he +said. ‘If your Honor will permit me to say so, I don’t think your Honor +quite understands what I mean.’ + +‘No, and you don’t yourself. How could you when you think round and +round like a mule tied up in a field!’ The judge grinned, shot a glance +at Judge Avery. ‘What you need, Kardos, is direction, straightness of +mental line. I’m afraid your mind’s built on a circular pattern.’ + +‘Wheels?’ said Kardos. + +‘Within wheels,’ Rodenbaugh answered. ‘In my opinion you’re not fit to +appear before any sensible jury. You ought to practise trying cases on +a phonograph in the privacy of your home. You could encumber the record +then all you liked.’ He looked at Judge Avery again. + +Kardos caught the glance and a little grin touched the corners of his +lips. He gazed at Judge Rodenbaugh with sharp, motionless eyes. ‘Your +Honor says very smart things,’ he observed, in a tone of impersonal +appreciation. ‘I suppose that’s the reason we all like to try in your +Honor’s court.’ + +‘What?’ + +‘I suppose that’s the reason we all like to bring our cases before your +Honor.’ + +‘You do, eh! Well, I don’t know about that!’ The viciousness faded from +the judge’s voice, and he stretched out his legs and looked tolerantly +at Kardos. ‘My tongue may be just a little bit quick, but you fellows +need it sometimes.’ + +‘That’s true, Judge!’ Kardos nodded his head. ‘Your Honor always gives +us what we deserve. And besides, Judge,’--the motionless lustre of his +eyes seemed to break into tiny points,--‘we like a little amusement in +the courtroom.’ + +‘Yes?’ The judge thrust out his lower lip. ‘Well, you furnish it all +right.’ + +‘And so does your Honor.’ + +‘I do, eh?’ + +‘Yes, sir.’ Kardos seemed cautiously to expand, to relax in a posture +of intimate friendliness. He glanced over his shoulder at Judge +Avery, then surveyed Rodenbaugh with an unruffled face. ‘I hear that +everywhere, Judge.’ + +‘Indeed!’ The judge’s mouth widened, and he smoothed his chin. ‘Well, +I do the best I can for you, Kardos. In your case it’s never hard.’ He +crossed his knees, sank farther back in his chair. ‘You fellows fumble +so with your facts,’ he observed contentedly. ‘And I think you must get +your law from the _Evening Telegram_.’ + +‘Your Honor feels that way because of your Honor’s superior mind. +That’s another reason we all like to try in your Honor’s court. Your +Honor gets things done.’ Kardos sighed wistfully. ‘Your Honor’s court +is not like the other courts.’ + +‘No?’ + +‘No, sir!’ Kardos repeated with emphasis. ‘I remember I said, when your +Honor was appointed, there’s a young man, if your Honor will forgive +the word, that’s going to stir things up on the bench. It’s the kind of +thing we need, and I said so, Judge, right down in my ward in public, +and in private conversations. He’s a young man that knows the law, and +knows how to handle a courtroom, I said. He’s got a heavy hand and a +sharp tongue, and that’s what a judge needs more than anything else.’ + +‘You think so, do you?’ Rodenbaugh lifted his chin, arched his eyebrows +amiably, and his lower lip relaxed. + +For an instant Judge Avery surveyed him, then he turned away, gazed out +at the pigeons, softly rustling their wings in the square of orange +light. He was very tired; if they didn’t stop in a minute he was going +to get up and go home. + +‘Yes, I do, Judge Rodenbaugh! That’s what I think.’ Kardos’s chair +creaked and Judge Avery could hear the scratch of his sleeve on the +table. ‘And I says to them, Judge,’--he heard Kardos’s voice rise with +a lingering sinuous accent,--‘I says to them, Judge, there’s a man that +ought to go higher!’ + +‘Indeed!’ The word echoed through the chamber, hopeful, faintly ironic, +foolish. + +‘Yes, I did, Judge Rodenbaugh! That’s exactly what I said. There’s a +man that ought to go higher. He’s only just begun his career, Judge +Rodenbaugh has. And I’m telling you, Judge,’--Kardos hitched his chair +closer,--‘what I says goes, in my ward, with a lot of my own people!’ + +‘Hm!’ A look of doubt crossed Judge Rodenbaugh’s face, and his fingers +moved restlessly on the table. + +‘And I’m telling you, Judge,’--Kardos paused, then rose with an air of +authority,--‘I don’t think you’ve realized what I could do for you. +No, you haven’t.’ He shook his head with an impudent cunning. ‘I speak +for my own people in my ward. I can do a lot, I can. And Judge,’--his +voice seemed to creep through the silence,--‘I could use an appointment +now and then, when they come your way.’ + +For an instant no one spoke. Judge Avery could feel the silence about +him expand, grow tense with unuttered meaning. He waited, a little +smile on his lips. Then Rodenbaugh sprang from his chair, his fist +beating against the table. ‘Get out!’ he fairly bellowed. He stretched +out his arm. ‘Get out, I say!’ + +Kardos turned, seemed to leap through the doorway. + +‘My God!’ The judge stumbled against a chair, picked it up with both of +his hands. ‘Avery! Did you ever hear anything like that in your life?’ +‘Never before today,’ said Judge Avery. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [10] Copyright, 1924, by The Atlantic Monthly Company. + Copyright, 1926, by Walter Gilkyson. + + + + + HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE + FREE?[11] + + By MANUEL KOMROFF + + (From _The Atlantic Monthly_) + +After the usual breakfast he was taken downstairs, given a bath, a +fresh suit of civil clothes, and brought to the office. Here he was +presented with several documents and a five-dollar bill. + +The warden got up from his desk, ‘I see by your papers, Joe, that you +have been here twelve years. Well, you have been a good prisoner; +good-bye and good luck to you.’ They shook hands. + +He was led through the yard to the gate. The moment had come. He +stepped through. Again they shook hands before the gate was closed +behind him and locked--locking him free. + +He carried his hat in his hand as he started along the road and down +the hill. He was confronted by a fresh, bracing breeze and a most +bewildering sense of vastness--a vastness bathed in light. His eyes +blinked, and his steps were short and hesitating. + +On top of the high gray wall a guard, rifle in hand, walked in the same +direction. ‘Good-bye, Joe,’ he shouted. ‘How does it feel to be free?’ + + * * * * * + +How does it feel to be free? To be confined, bottled-up, held in check, +restricted, controlled--and suddenly turned loose upon a dizzy world! + +A gray mist has surrounded it all. Imagine yourself completely +enveloped as though your life had been becalmed by a fog. A fog through +which it is difficult to see. Only overhead can you see a tiny +circular opening through which the bright sky shines like a sparkling +jewel. Soon you discover that the mist has hardened about you. The fog +has encased you completely, except for that far-away opening overhead. +You examine the walls and find that they are composed of long narrow +ribbons of gray celluloid hung from what appears to be a small hoop in +the sky. No--you have more space than that. Your walls are round, but +you have ten feet from side to side. And every side is alike. From the +sky to the ground your life is encased in a celluloid tube made of cold +gray ribbons, and you are unable to see what is outside of yourself. + +But when you examine the walls closer you find that the strips are made +entirely of little squares, and each square has a queer design. You had +not noticed them at first, but everywhere you look and as far up as you +can see you find the little squares. Then on examining them closer you +discover that each square is a separate little picture in which you +yourself appear! Each square a frozen moment of your life. Each picture +a tiny recollection dimmed and made gray by that rapid piling-up--that +multiplication called the Past. + +Frozen memories in miniature. As though the ribbons were discarded +cinematographic records--records of your discarded past--complete and +shameless. + +There are different scenes of long ago; some are comforting and some +are horrid. At some you tarry, but others you are happy not to see at +all. Those high up are hard to see, though some seem clear and fairly +distinct. You make vague guesses at what they are, and some you are +sure you recognize. It is like a game. The forgotten past hangs over +you as high as you can see, and a circle of light comes through from +the sky. + +The whole thing is quite natural, and at first you see nothing very +strange about the affair; a little odd, perhaps, or maybe like a +dream; but it does not seem very startling until suddenly you discover +that the sequence is wrong. Why should it be wrong? Why do the scenes +not follow one another as they happened? Why is this thing all +helter-skelter? + +You try to select and arrange, but the task is enormous. Here and there +and everywhere are pictures that you have not included and some that +you would like to--if you could only cut them away with a penknife. +Yes, cut little toy-windows so you could see clearly outside--the +outside world--the real world that at present you can see only by +looking through your own experiences, and see dimmed by the shadows of +past images. But you have no knife that could sever. And it would not +help. + +Oh, how tired you are of it all! How dreary, how oppressing, how +monotonous! Days are gray and nights are gray. You are tired of +yourself--the constant repetition of yourself. If you could only run +away. But the cylinder is light, airy, and nimble. It rotates as you +run. You are imprisoned in this strange thing called life--life dreary +and gray--surrounded by cameos and smudges of black. + +The sequence is wrong. You try to escape. The walls are pliable, and +with pressure could yield. You wedge a hand through, and another; you +work a foot through, making still another opening, but at no time can +you manage to get your body through. Then, too, where would you go? You +give it up; and in time you are resigned and engage in that restful +play of thinking back and of looking out at the real world through the +lightly tinted squares. + +You see the world--the real world that is made of kisses and snow. Of +fire, milk, dreams, straw, water, tobacco, and children. You watch the +real world that is built solidly of things that do not last--built +firmly of vital sparks that cannot endure. + +Every now and then you discover a new square or two added to your +walls. Something that happened only yesterday; but what was in its +place before you are unable to tell, try hard as you may. + +In a year many different pictures have presented themselves. In three +years a fair number are new; in six, three-quarters are added pictures; +but in twelve hardly any of the old remain and these seem greatly +dimmed. A comforting dimness. Time makes all things restful. + +In the outside world you can see children playing. They are playing +with matches, lighting old brooms and paper, and running across the +fields with trailing flames and shooting sparks. They had never done +this before. + +You watch closely. They are putting fire to the whole business! +Suddenly a flash, a puff of smoke, a blaze of light, and there you +stand on a hill confronted by real colors and a free, bracing breeze. +In the distance the frightened children are running and you hear one +whimper, ‘I did not know it could burn.’ + +Everything is sky and land. You are surrounded by a vastness bathed in +light. + +You blink at the glamour of it all, as with hesitating steps you wander +down the road to--The station is a mile away. Here a train comes from +somewhere and can take you to--exactly where you do not know, but it +can take you there. You must go! + +That is how it feels to be free. + + * * * * * + +At the station Joe changed his five-dollar bill to buy a ticket and a +plug of chewing-tobacco. The train carried him home--to the city of his +former life. + +Here the streets are paved with stone. Square next to square, with +hardly a crack between. Cruelly mortised by man for the benefit and +convenience of his fellow men. Long lines cemented together so that mud +and dirt are not tracked about--tracked into the little pigeonholes +called homes. + +Joe reached home all right. His wife had been dead a number of years +and his children had all grown up and married. Old memories were quite +dim. He hardly knew them, and they certainly did not recognize him; but +it was all very pleasant. + +In the evening they all had supper together--that is, after the babies +had been put to bed in one room. The table was dressed as in a movie, +the room was bright with lights, and everything was merry. + +A steaming chicken was brought on and the oldest son stood up, removed +his coat, and rolled up his cuffs before carving. ‘Now, dad, I’m going +to cut for you this-here leg, first and second joint,’ and, pointing +the knife at him, ‘also a good big chunk of the white meat. Mollie, +dish the gravy.’ + +They spoke about the comic strips in the illustrated newspapers, about +recent screen-dramas, about dance records for the phonograph, about +everything that amused them. The checkered past was carefully avoided. +They were all quite intelligent and they said they understood. + +Joe had a nice home. He could stay about the house and just ‘rest up.’ +The children had seen all kinds of reunions in the movies, and would do +their best to make him happy. They gave him a room to himself, a warm +pair of carpet slippers, a pipe with a yellow stem and fancy gold band, +a pair of cotton-flannel pajamas, razor blades, and everything that a +male mortal needs for comfort. + +But Joe spent a most uncomfortable night. The large meal did not agree +with him and kept him awake. The rushing light of morn came blaring +into the room. He looked about. Small photographs hung on the walls. +There were scenes of Niagara Falls, Yellowstone Park, and of big trees +in California. Little gray squares dotted the walls--views that Joe had +never experienced. + +It was all very natural that Joe should be a bit uncomfortable at +first. The children said that they understood, and that it would take a +little while for him to feel really at home. + +Joe proceeded to make himself comfortable. He tried the carpet +slippers, but found them loose, soft, and uncomfortable. The pipe was a +nice thing, too, though he did not really enjoy smoking. The pictures +he removed from the walls, and then he drove nails on which to hang his +coat and pajamas. He greatly distrusted the closet, where it was dark +and where mice perhaps were free to wander. + +He amused himself by collecting old bits of wire that he found on old +picture-frames and in the basement of the apartment house. It gave him +great pleasure to send the wire down the neck of a bottle and watch the +odd twists and coils it would make in the bottle--as though it were +life itself going through its many painful convulsions. He kept the +bottle on the open fire-escape in front of his window. + +Just as soon as Joe found that the friendliness of his children was +quite genuine he proceeded to make himself really comfortable. He +brought up some thin boards to slip under the mattress of the cot. +This made it much firmer. He nailed up the closet door and painted the +rods of the fire-escape black, under the pretext that its former color +showed the dirt too much. At night he had several times been bothered +by a notion that there might be rats about and that his cot was too +low. This he soon fixed by bringing up some old wood from the basement +and raising the cot so that it resembled an upper berth in a cabin. He +was careful to eat very little meat and kept closely to a diet of soup +and hot cereal. Day by day he was feeling more comfortable. Now only +one thing more needed his attention. The room was too large! Too large +for one person. This he remedied by rigging a pole across the room +and hanging down a heavy curtain dividing the space in half. It also +divided the window. Now all seemed cozy. + +By this time the bottle on the window was packed tight with bits of +wire. He carried it down to the basement and broke it over an ash can. +The heavy wad of iron wire was freed from its container. It was nothing +but a rusty solid mass, the same shape as the bottle that now was +scattered in fragments. + +He turned it in his hand and examined it closely. Was it an experiment +that had failed? Did he imagine that the tough springy wires would jump +back to their former state once freed? No. It was a rusty solid mass, +brown as a cough mixture and shaped like a bottle. If he had a label he +could paste it on and mark it--‘Free!’ + +He brought it back to his room and carefully put it in its place on the +window. Then he climbed up on his cot. + +Outside it rains, and outside it snows, and then the sun sings forth +and dries up the long lines of pavements made of stone cunningly +mortised. From his cot he can see a tiny bit of sky--a small bright +opening far away. Now and then a figure walks across a neighboring +roof and reminds him of the man on the high wall who held a rifle in +his hand and shouted, ‘How does it feel to be free?’ From his cot he +can see glimpses of the outside world--the real world that is made +of kisses and snow. But between him and the great outside is the +window-ledge upon which stands that rusty, packed-together wad of wire, +shaped like a bottle. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [11] Copyright, 1925, by The Atlantic Monthly Company. + Copyright, 1925, by Boni and Liveright, Inc. + From “The Grace of Lambs,” published by Boni and Liveright, + Inc. + + + + + HAIRCUT[12] + + By RING LARDNER + + (From _Liberty_) + + +I got another barber that comes over from Carterville and helps me out +Saturdays, but the rest of the time I can get along all right alone. +You can see for yourself that this ain’t no New York City and besides +that, the most of the boys works all day and don’t have no leisure to +drop in here and get themselves prettied up. + +You’re a newcomer, ain’t you? I thought I hadn’t seen you round before. +I hope you like it good enough to stay. As I say, we ain’t no New York +City or Chicago, but we have pretty good times. Not as good, though, +since Jim Kendall got killed. When he was alive, him and Hod Meyers +used to keep this town in an uproar. I bet they was more laughin’ done +here than any town its size in America. + +Jim was comical, and Hod was pretty near a match for him. Since Jim’s +gone, Hod tries to hold his end up just the same as ever, but it’s +tough goin’ when you ain’t got nobody to kind of work with. + +They used to be plenty fun in here Saturdays. This place is jam-packed +Saturdays, from four o’clock on. Jim and Hod would show up right after +their supper round six o’clock. Jim would set himself down in that big +chair, nearest the blue spittoon. Whoever had been settin’ in that +chair, why they’d get up when Jim come in and give it to him. + +You’d of thought it was a reserved seat like they have sometimes in a +theayter. Hod would generally always stand or walk up and down or some +Saturdays, of course, he’d be settin’ in this chair part of the time, +gettin’ a haircut. + +Well, Jim would set there a w’ile without openin’ his mouth only to +spit, and then finally he’d say to me, “Whitey,”--my right name, that +is, my right first name, is Dick, but everybody round here calls me +Whitey--Jim would say, “Whitey, your nose looks like a rosebud tonight. +You must of been drinkin’ some of your aw de cologne.” + +So I’d say, “No, Jim, but you look like you’d been drinkin’ somethin’ +of that kind or somethin’ worse.” + +Jim would have to laugh at that, but then he’d speak up and say, “No, +I ain’t had nothin’ to drink, but that ain’t sayin’ I wouldn’t like +somethin’. I wouldn’t even mind if it was wood alcohol.” + +Then Hod Meyers would say, “Neither would your wife.” That would set +everybody to laughin’ because Jim and his wife wasn’t on very good +terms. She’d of divorced him only they wasn’t no chance to get alimony +and she didn’t have no way to take care of herself and the kids. She +couldn’t never understand Jim. He _was_ kind of rough, but a good fella +at heart. + +Him and Hod had all kinds of sport with Milt Sheppard. I don’t suppose +you’ve seen Milt. Well, he got an Adam’s apple that looks more like a +mushmelon. So I’d be shavin’ Milt and when I’d start to shave down here +on his neck, Hod would holler, “Hey, Whitey, wait a minute! Before you +cut into it, let’s make up a pool and see who can guess closest to the +number of seeds.” + +And Jim would say, “If Milt hadn’t of been so hoggish, he’d of ordered +a half a cantaloupe instead of a whole one and it might not of stuck in +his throat.” + +All the boys would roar at this and Milt himself would force a smile, +though the joke was on him. Jim certainly was a card! + +There’s his shavin’ mug, settin’ on the shelf, right next to Charley +Vail’s. “Charles M. Vail.” That’s the druggist. He comes in regular for +his shave, three times a week. And Jim’s is the cup next to Charley’s. +“James H. Kendall.” Jim won’t need no shavin’ mug no more, but I’ll +leave it there just the same for old time’s sake. Jim certainly was a +character! + +Years ago, Jim used to travel for a canned goods concern over in +Carterville. They sold canned goods. Jim had the whole northern half of +the State and was on the road five days out of every week. He’d drop in +here Saturdays and tell his experiences for that week. It was rich. + +I guess he paid more attention to playin’ jokes than makin’ sales. +Finally the concern let him out and he come right home here and told +everybody he’d been fired instead of sayin’ he’d resigned like most +fellas would of. + +It was a Saturday and the shop was full and Jim got up out of that +chair and says, “Gentlemen, I got an important announcement to make. I +been fired from my job.” + +Well, they asked him if he was in earnest and he said he was and nobody +could think of nothin’ to say till Jim finally broke the ice himself. +He says, “I been sellin’ canned goods and now I’m canned goods myself.” + +You see, the concern he’d been workin’ for was a factory that made +canned goods. Over in Carterville. And now Jim said he was canned +himself. He was certainly a card! + +Jim had a great trick that he used to play w’ile he was travelin’. For +instance, he’d be ridin’ on a train and they’d come to some little town +like, well, like, well, like, we’ll say, like Benton. Jim would look +out the train window and read the signs on the stores. + +For instance, they’d be a sign, “Henry Smith, Dry Goods.” Well, Jim +would write down the name and the name of the town and when he got to +wherever he was goin’ he’d mail back a postal card to Henry Smith at +Benton and not sign no name to it, but he’d write on the card, well, +somethin’ like “Ask your wife about that book agent that spent the +afternoon last week,” or “Ask your Missus who kept her from gettin’ +lonesome the last time you was in Carterville.” And he’d sign the card, +“A Friend.” + +Of course, he never knew what really come of none of these jokes, but +he could picture what _probably_ happened and that was enough. + +Jim didn’t work very steady after he lost his position with the +Carterville people. What he did earn, doin’ odd jobs round town, why he +spent pretty near all of it on gin, and his family might of starved if +the stores hadn’t of carried them along. Jim’s wife tried her hand at +dressmakin’, but they ain’t nobody goin’ to get rich makin’ dresses in +this town. + +As I say, she’d of divorced Jim, only she seen that she couldn’t +support herself and the kids and she was always hopin’ that some day +Jim would cut out his habits and give her more than two or three +dollars a week. + +They was a time when she would go to whoever he was workin’ for and ask +them to give her his wages, but after she done this once or twice, he +beat her to it by borrowin’ most of his pay in advance. He told it all +round town, how he had outfoxed his Missus. He certainly was a caution! + +But he wasn’t satisfied with just outwittin’ her. He was sore the way +she had acted, tryin’ to grab off his pay. And he made up his mind he’d +get even. Well, he waited till Evans’s Circus was advertised to come to +town. Then he told his wife and two kiddies that he was goin’ to take +them to the circus. The day of the circus, he told them he would get +the tickets and meet them outside the entrance to the tent. + +Well, he didn’t have no intentions of bein’ there or buyin’ tickets or +nothin’. He got full of gin and laid round Wright’s poolroom all day. +His wife and the kids waited and waited and of course he didn’t show +up. His wife didn’t have a dime with her, or nowhere else, I guess. So +she finally had to tell the kids it was all off and they cried like +they wasn’t never goin’ to stop. + +Well, it seems, w’ile they was cryin’, Doc Stair come along and he +asked what was the matter, but Mrs. Kendall was stubborn and wouldn’t +tell him, but the kids told him and he insisted on takin’ them and +their mother in the show. Jim found this out afterwards and it was one +reason why he had it in for Doc Stair. + +Doc Stair come here about a year and a half ago. He’s a mighty handsome +young fella and his clothes always look like he has them made to order. +He goes to Detroit two or three times a year and w’ile he’s there he +must have a tailor take his measure and then make him a suit to order. +They cost pretty near twice as much, but they fit a whole lot better +than if you just bought them in a store. + +For a w’ile everybody was wonderin’ why a young doctor like Doc Stair +should come to a town like this where we already got old Doc Gamble and +Doc Foote that’s both been here for years and all the practice in town +was always divided between the two of them. + +Then they was a story got round that Doc Stair’s gal had throwed him +over, a gal up in the Northern Peninsula somewhere, and the reason he +come here was to hide himself away and forget it. He said himself that +he thought they wasn’t nothin’ like general practice in a place like +ours to fit a man to be a good all round doctor. And that’s why he’d +came. + +Anyways, it wasn’t long before he was makin’ enough to live on, though +they tell me that he never dunned nobody for what they owed him, and +the folks here certainly has got the owin’ habit, even in my business. +If I had all that was comin’ to me for just shaves alone, I could go +to Carterville and put up at the Mercer for a week and see a different +picture every night. For instance, they’s old George Purdy--but I guess +I shouldn’t ought to be gossipin’. + +Well, last year, our coroner died, died of the flu. Ken Beatty, that +was his name. He was the coroner. So they had to choose another man to +be coroner in his place and they picked Doc Stair. He laughed at first +and said he didn’t want it, but they made him take it. It ain’t no job +that anybody would fight for and what a man makes out of it in a year +would just about buy seeds for their garden. Doc’s the kind, though, +that can’t say no to nothin’ if you keep at him long enough. + +But I was goin’ to tell you about a poor boy we got here in town--Paul +Dickson. He fell out of a tree when he was about ten years old. Lit on +his head and it done somethin’ to him and he ain’t never been right. +No harm in him, but just silly. Jim Kendall used to call him cuckoo; +that’s a name Jim had for anybody that was off their head, only he +called people’s head their bean. That was another of his gags, callin’ +head bean and callin’ crazy people cuckoo. Only poor Paul ain’t crazy, +but just silly. + +You can imagine that Jim used to have all kinds of fun with Paul. He’d +send him to the White Front Garage for a left-handed monkey wrench. Of +course they ain’t no such thing as a left-handed monkey wrench. + +And once we had a kind of a fair here and they was a baseball game +between the fats and the leans and before the game started Jim called +Paul over and sent him way down to Schrader’s hardware store to get a +key for the pitcher’s box. + +They wasn’t nothin’ in the way of gags that Jim couldn’t think up, when +he put his mind to it. + +Poor Paul was always kind of suspicious of people, maybe on account +of how Jim had kept foolin’ him. Paul wouldn’t have much to do with +anybody only his own mother and Doc Stair and a girl here in town named +Julie Gregg. That is, she ain’t a girl no more, but pretty near thirty +or over. + +When Doc first come to town, Paul seemed to feel like here was a real +friend and he hung round Doc’s office most of the w’ile; the only time +he wasn’t there was when he’d go home to eat or sleep or when he seen +Julie Gregg doin’ her shoppin’. + +When he looked out Doc’s window and seen her, he’d run downstairs and +join her and tag along with her to the different stores. The poor boy +was crazy about Julie and she always treated him mighty nice and made +him feel like he was welcome, though of course it wasn’t nothin’ but +pity on her side. + +Doc done all he could to improve Paul’s mind and he told me once that +he really thought the boy was getting better, that they was times when +he was as bright and sensible as anybody else. + +But I was goin’ to tell you about Julie Gregg. Old man Gregg was in the +lumber business, but got to drinkin’ and lose the most of his money and +when he died, he didn’t leave nothin’ but the house and just enough +insurance for the girl to skimp along on. + +Her mother was a kind of a half invalid and didn’t hardly ever leave +the house. Julie wanted to sell the place and move somewheres else +after the old man died, but the mother said she was born here and +would die here. It was tough on Julie as the young people round this +town--well, she’s too good for them. + +She’s been away to school and Chicago and New York and different places +and they ain’t no subject she can’t talk on, where you take the rest of +the young folks here and you mention anything to them outside of Gloria +Swanson or Tommy Meighan and they think you’re delirious. Did you see +Gloria in Wages of Virtue? You missed somethin’! + +Well, Doc Stair hadn’t been here more than a week when he come in one +day to get shaved and I recognized who he was, as he had been pointed +out to me, so I told him about my old lady. She’s been ailin’ for a +couple years and either Doc Gamble or Doc Foote, neither one, seemed to +be helpin’ her. So he said he would come out and see her, but if she +was able to get out herself, it would be better to bring her to his +office where he could make a completer examination. + +So I took her to his office and w’ile I was waitin’ for her in the +reception room, in come Julie Gregg. When somebody comes in Doc Stair’s +office, they’s a bell that rings in his inside office so as he can tell +they’s somebody to see him. + +So he left my old lady inside and come out to the front office and +that’s the first time him and Julie met and I guess it was what they +call love at first sight. But it wasn’t fifty-fifty. This young fella +was the slickest lookin’ fella she’d ever seen in this town and she +went wild over him. To him she was just a young lady that wanted to see +the doctor. + +She’d came on about the same business I had. Her mother had been +doctorin’ for years with Doc Gamble and Doc Foote and without no +results. So she’d heard they was a new doc in town and decided to give +him a try. He promised to call and see her mother that same day. + +I said a minute ago that it was love at first sight on her part. I’m +not only judgin’ by how she acted afterwards but how she looked at him +that first day in his office. I ain’t no mind reader, but it was wrote +all over her face that she was gone. + +Now Jim Kendall, besides bein’ a jokesmith and a pretty good drinker, +well, Jim was quite a lady-killer. I guess he run pretty wild durin’ +the time he was on the road for them Carterville people, and besides +that, he’d had a couple little affairs of the heart right here in town. +As I say, his wife could have divorced him, only she couldn’t. + +But Jim was like the majority of men, and women, too, I guess. He +wanted what he couldn’t get. He wanted Julie Gregg and worked his head +off tryin’ to land her. Only he’d of said bean instead of head. + +Well, Jim’s habits and his jokes didn’t appeal to Julie and of course +he was a married man, so he didn’t have no more chance than, well, than +a rabbit. That’s an expression of Jim’s himself. When somebody didn’t +have no chance to get elected or somethin’, Jim would always say they +didn’t have no more chance than a rabbit. + +He didn’t make no bones about how he felt. Right in here, more than +once, in front of the whole crowd, he said he was stuck on Julie and +anybody that could get her for him was welcome to his house and his +wife and kids included. But she wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with him; +wouldn’t even speak to him on the street. He finally seen he wasn’t +gettin’ nowheres with his usual line so he decided to try the rough +stuff. He went right up to her house one evenin’ and when she opened +the door he forced his way in and grabbed her. But she broke loose and +before he could stop her, she run in the next room and locked the door +and phoned to Joe Barnes. Joe’s the marshal. Jim could hear who she was +phonin’ to and he beat it before Joe got there. + +Joe was an old friend of Julie’s pa. Joe went to Jim the next day and +told him what would happen if he ever done it again. + +I don’t know how the news of this little affair leaked out. Chances is +that Joe Barnes told his wife and she told somebody else’s wife and +they told their husband. Anyways, it did leak out and Hod Meyers had +the nerve to kid Jim about it, right here in this shop. Jim didn’t deny +nothin’ and kind of laughed it off and said for us all to wait; that +lots of people had tried to make a monkey out of him, but he always +got even. + +Meanw’ile everybody in town was wise to Julie’s bein’ wild mad over the +Doc. I don’t suppose she had any idear how her face changed when him +and her was together; of course she couldn’t of, or she’d of kept away +from him. And she didn’t know that we was all noticin’ how many times +she made excuses to go up to his office or pass it on the other side +of the street and look up in his window to see if he was there. I felt +sorry for her and so did most other people. + +Hod Meyers kept rubbin’ it into Jim about how the Doc had cut him out. +Jim didn’t pay no attention to the kiddin’ and you could see he was +plannin’ one of his jokes. + +One trick Jim had was the knack of changin’ his voice. He could make +you think he was a girl talkin’ and he could mimic any man’s voice. To +show you how good he was along this line, I’ll tell you the joke he +played on me once. + +You know, in most towns of any size, when a man is dead and needs a +shave, why the barber that shaves him soaks him five dollars for the +job; that is, he don’t soak _him_, but whoever ordered the shave. I +just charge three dollars because personally I don’t mind much shavin’ +a dead person. They lay a whole lot stiller than live customers. The +only thing is that you don’t feel like talkin’ to them and you get kind +of lonesome. + +Well, about the coldest day we ever had here, two years ago last +winter, the phone rung at the house w’ile I was home to dinner and I +answered the phone and it was a woman’s voice and she said she was Mrs. +John Scott and her husband was dead and would I come out and shave him. + +Old John had always been a good customer of mine. But they live seven +miles out in the country, on the Streeter road. Still I didn’t see how +I could say no. + +So I said I would be there, but would have to come in a jitney and it +might cost three or four dollars besides the price of the shave. So +she, or the voice, it said that was all right, so I got Frank Abbott to +drive me out to the place and when I got there, who should open the +door but old John himself! He wasn’t no more dead than, well than a +rabbit. + +It didn’t take no private detective to figure out who had played me +this little joke. Nobody could of thought it up but Jim Kendall. He +certainly was a card! + +I tell you this incident just to show you how he could disguise his +voice and make you believe it was somebody else talkin’. I’d of swore +it was Mrs. Scott had called me. Anyways, some woman. + +Well, Jim waited till he had Doc Stair’s voice down pat; then he went +after revenge. + +He called Julie up on a night when he knew Doc was over in Carterville. +She never questioned but what it was Doc’s voice. Jim said he must +see her that night; he couldn’t wait no longer to tell her somethin’. +She was all excited and told him to come to the house. But he said he +was expectin’ an important long distance call and wouldn’t she please +forget her manners for once and come to his office. He said they +couldn’t nothin’ hurt her and nobody would see her and he just _must_ +talk to her a little w’ile. Well, poor Julie fell for it. + +Doc always keeps a night light in his office, so it looked to Julie +like they was somebody there. + +Meanw’ile Jim Kendall had went to Wright’s poolroom, where they was a +whole gang amusin’ themselves. The most of them had drank plenty of +gin, and they was a rough bunch even when sober. They was always strong +for Jim’s jokes and when he told them to come with him and see some fun +they give up their card games and pool games and followed along. + +Doc’s office is on the second floor. Right outside his door they’s a +flight of stairs leadin’ to the floor above. Jim and his gang hid in +the dark behind these stairs. + +Well, Julie come up to Doc’s door and rung the bell and they was +nothin’ doin’. She rung it again and she rung it seven or eight times. +Then she tried the door and found it locked. Then Jim made some kind of +a noise and she heard it and waited a minute, and then she says, “Is +that you, Ralph?” Ralph is Doc’s first name. + +They was no answer and it must of came to her all of a sudden that +she’d been bunked. She pretty near fell downstairs and the whole gang +after her. They chased her all the way home, hollerin’, “Is that you +Ralph?” and “Oh, Ralphie, dear, is that you?” Jim says he couldn’t +holler it himself, as he was laughin’ too hard. + +Poor Julie! She didn’t show up here on Main Street for a long, long +time afterward. + +And of course Jim and his gang told everybody in town, everybody but +Doc Stair. They was scared to tell him, and he might of never knowed +only for Paul Dickson. The poor cuckoo, as Jim called him, he was here +in the shop one night when Jim was still gloatin’ yet over what he’d +done to Julie. And Paul took in as much of it as he could understand +and he run to Doc with the story. + +It’s a cinch Doc went up in the air and swore he’d make Jim suffer. But +it was a kind of a delicate thing, because if it got out that he had +beat Jim up, Julie was bound to hear of it and then she’d know that Doc +knew and of course knowin’ that he knew would make it worse for her +than ever. He was goin’ to do somethin’, but it took a lot of figurin’. + +Well, it was a couple days later when Jim was here in the shop again, +and so was the cuckoo. Jim was goin’ duck-shootin’ the next day and +had came in lookin’ for Hod Meyers to go with him. I happened to know +that Hod had went over to Carterville and wouldn’t be home till the end +of the week. So Jim said he hated to go alone and he guessed he would +call it off. Then poor Paul spoke up and said if Jim would take him he +would go along. Jim thought a w’ile and then he said, well, he guessed +a half-wit was better than nothin’. + +I suppose he was plottin’ to get Paul out in the boat and play some +joke on him, like pushin’ him in the water. Anyways, he said Paul could +go. He asked him had he ever shot a duck and Paul said no, he’d never +even had a gun in his hands. So Jim said he could set in the boat and +watch him and if he behaved himself, he might lend him his gun for a +couple of shots. They made a date to meet in the mornin’ and that’s the +last I seen of Jim alive. + +Next mornin’, I hadn’t been open more than ten minutes when Doc Stair +come in. He looked kind of nervous. He asked me had I seen Paul +Dickson. I said no, but I knew where he was, out duck-shootin’ with +Jim Kendall. So Doc says that’s what he had heard, and he couldn’t +understand it because Paul had told him he wouldn’t never have no more +to do with Jim as long as he lived. + +He said Paul had told him about the joke Jim had played on Julie. He +said Paul had asked him what he thought of the joke and the Doc had +told him that anybody that would do a thing like that ought not to be +let live. + +I said it had been a kind of a raw thing, but Jim just couldn’t resist +no kind of a joke, no matter how raw. I said I thought he was all right +at heart, but just bubblin’ over with mischief. Doc turned and walked +out. + +At noon he got a phone call from old John Scott. The lake where Jim and +Paul had went shootin’ is on John’s place. Paul had came runnin’ up to +the house a few minutes before and said they’d been an accident. Jim +had shot a few ducks and then give the gun to Paul and told him to try +his luck. Paul hadn’t never handled a gun and he was nervous. He was +shakin’ so hard that he couldn’t control the gun. He let fire and Jim +sunk back in the boat, dead. + +Doc Stair, bein’ the coroner, jumped in Frank Abbott’s flivver and +rushed out to Scott’s farm. Paul and old John was down on the shore of +the lake. Paul had rowed the boat to shore, but they’d left the body in +it, waiting for Doc to come. + +Doc examined the body and said they might as well fetch it back to +town. They was no use leavin’ it there or callin’ a jury, as it was a +plain case of accidental shootin’. + +Personally I wouldn’t never leave a person shoot a gun in the same boat +I was in unless I was sure they knew somethin’ about guns. Jim was a +sucker to leave a new beginner have his gun, let alone a halfwit. It +probably served Jim right, what he got. But still we miss him round +here. He certainly was a card! + +Comb it wet or dry? + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [12] Copyright, 1925, by Liberty Weekly, Incorporated. + Copyright, 1926, by Ring W. Lardner. + + + + + THE ILL WIND[13] + + By ROBERT ROBINSON + + (From _Collier’s Weekly_) + + +As best I can recollect, this is the way it happened: + +I got up about the usual time that morning and went out to get some +kindling to make a fire with. Well, I noticed that it was kinda still +and sultry like, and I told Martha when I got back in that I believed +it was going to come a storm. She said she hoped it rained, as the +tomatoes needed it bad. You see, we’d set out a five-acre patch of them +about a week before. I didn’t tell her that I was afraid that it was +going to turn into a sandstorm. I knew she’d have a fit. She always +does. + +Martha’d worked too hard. You see, we moved on this place more’n +fifteen years ago. We were young then, and we figured we’d make no end +of money. We came here from Missouri ’cause we wanted to get a start +so’s we could give the boy an education. We just had one kid then, +Johnnie. We got five now. But that ain’t got nothing to do with the +story. As I was saying, Martha’d worked too hard. We had to pay out the +place, and it seemed like luck would never break our way. The first +year the sod didn’t make enough to pay expenses; then several years we +were blown out by sand; the drought got us a couple of times; and then +we had a good many other things to happen that kinda took the wind out +of our sails. + +And then there was another thing that I hate to mention that seemed to +worry her no end. You see, Martha was awful religious. She comes from +that kind of stock. For some reason or other I ain’t never took to +religion much. It always seemed like foolishness to me. That kinda hurt +her. And when everything begin to go wrong she laid it to me being so +ungodly. I used to laugh and joke her about it, but she took it serious +as ever’thing. She’d say: + +“All right, you can joke about it all you want to, but some day you’ll +see. The Lord’ll exact His toll; He’ll make you pay.” + +Well, she got up, and as usual she cried a little. I didn’t blame her. +Poor old Martha! She’d had such dreams, and they’d all been blown away, +as you might say. Then too she was a sick woman a lot of the time. She +had the neuralgia and the catarrh, and between them, with all the work +she did, they kept her feeling mighty poorly. + +But, as I was saying, Martha got up, and after she’d had her little +cry she was all right. She got Minnie up--that’s our oldest girl--and +they started getting breakfast. It weren’t daylight yet, but the east +was beginning to get sorta rosy like and you could kinda smell the sun +a-coming. I rousted out Henry and Johnnie--they’re our oldest boys--and +we started to the barn to feed the stock. + +Well, I saw that sure enough we were in for something. The red in the +east had spread until it covered quite a bit of the sky, and it didn’t +look like it usually does. It was as if somebody had hung a thin yellow +veil over it. And I noticed that there was a bank of dark-looking +clouds hanging low against the northwest sky line. And so I yelled +for Martha to leave breakfast alone and come milk before it started +raining, or something. I was purty sure by that time that it weren’t +going to be no ordinary rain, but I didn’t want Martha to know it till +she had to. + +I’ve seen a lot of west Texas storms, and I’ve seen them break records +coming up, but I ain’t never seen one that could keep in smelling +distance of that one that morning. Why, do you know, by the time Martha +and Minnie could get to the cow pen and get one cow apiece milked that +bank of clouds was halfway up the sky and going so fast you could see +it a-moving. The sun was just peeping over the horizon and looking so +red and awful, and the air was so still, and you could hear for miles. +I made out ever’ word Old Man Holland said to one of his little boys, +who it ’peared had done something he shouldn’t, and it was more’n two +miles over to their place. The air had a sort of pressing-down effect. +You kinda had to put out an effort to get enough breath to keep you +from gasping. And sweat! It just poured down my face. + +Well, I went on back in the barn and began shucking some corn to shell +so as I could take it to town the next day, Saturday, and get it +ground into meal. Directly I heard Martha let out a squeal and I knew +something was up. I hurried out and saw her standing in the middle of +the cow lot looking about her in a wild sort of way. She kinda looks +wild, anyway, when she first gets up, with her hair a-stringing down +and her dress askew. + +“It’s going to come a cyclone!” she yells to me. And then she tells +Minnie to come on, and away they goes to the house lickity split. She +hollers and tells me to come on and let’s go down the cellar. + +I looked about and, by heck, I felt like making a run for the hole +myself. The cloud had spread away over the barn, and on both the east +and west there was a rolling, working mass of sand a-tearing along the +prairie at a terrific rate. Above I could hear the wind rumbling and +growling, and about a mile and a half away I saw bearing down on me a +black, awful-looking mass. And there weren’t a breath of air a-stirring +where I was. And hot! Gosh, but the sweat was just naturally pouring +off me! + +Well, you can tell the world that I made fast time getting to the +house. By the time I was there Martha had all the kids out in the yard. +We went down the cellar, and I managed to pull the door too just as the +first whiff of wind hit. + +Well, we stayed down there for I guess as long as thirty minutes. By +that time the hardest part of the wind, it seemed, had passed. Now, +that doesn’t mean that it weren’t blowing yet. Gosh, no! It was still +moaning and whistling, making the craziest sound in the cellar flue. +I stayed down there till I judged that it was safe to come out, and I +started to open up. Martha she kicked some, but I told her I wanted to +see what the wind had done to everything. I raised the door a little, +and the wind got a whip at it. Danged if it didn’t tear it right out +of my hands and bust it into a dozen pieces against the ground. Then +there weren’t nothing else to do but come out. + +Martha she grabbed the kids and said she weren’t coming out, but when +she saw me standing up she judged it was safe, so she took a chance and +came about halfway up the steps. There came a moment’s lull about that +time. Now, I don’t mean that the wind quit blowing. Land, no! I just +mean that it didn’t blow so hard for a minute or so. Martha saw that I +knew what I was talking about, so she hustled the kids out, and they +got ready to make a run for the house. + +Well, about that time along came a hard gust and caught Molly--that’s +our second girl--right in the middle and blew her sky-winding. It +didn’t hurt her none, and I saw it, so I laughed. Now, maybe that +didn’t make Martha mad. Gosh! She started after Molly, who couldn’t +seem to get her feet, and danged if Martha didn’t get turned over. Then +I seen that it was time for me to take a hand, so I did. I got ’em both +on their feet, but Martha, she couldn’t seem to stand. She said it’d +hurt her back; that she guessed that I was satisfied now that I had +probably killed her; that that’s what I’d been trying to do for a long +time. + +Now Martha she knew better than that, but when she gets all wrought up +she jest has to say something like that. Of course her back weren’t +broke. It was just her imagination. She’s got anything beat for +imagining things that I ever seen. But you can tell the world that she +gave me Hail Columbia just the same. + +Well, I finally got ’em all safely in the house, and then I begin to +try to see what damage had been done to the other buildings. I expected +to see every one of ’em laying slap on the ground. I couldn’t see very +well from the window, but I could tell that at least a part of the +barn was standing. Then I looked for the chicken house, but it weren’t +nowhere to be seen. Right then and there I said to myself that I had to +go out and see about it. + +Martha she didn’t want me to. + +“That’s it. Go out and get yourself killed and then what’ll become of +us?” she says with the tears a-running down her cheeks. + +Just for fun I put in, kinda innocent like: + +“Why, Martha, I didn’t think I amounted to much around here anyway, to +hear you tell it.” + +Well, sir, I hadn’t no more’n got that out of my mouth than I was +sorry as heck that I’d said it. She begin to cry and take on something +terrible. Said that I was just making that up; that it was me that +didn’t care anything for her; that I’d go out and get my neck broke and +leave the poor little children to be orphans. To quiet her I told her +I wouldn’t go. And then I begin peering out of the windows of every +room that gave me a view of the lots and chicken house; and I begin to +wonder out loud what had become of them chickens. D’rectly Martha she +says: + +“Looks like you’d go out and see about them instead of setting around +in here and letting ’em blow away.” + +Now, that’s just like Martha. It hadn’t been five minutes before that +she was crying because I was thinking of going out. Anyway, I went. + +Them chickens was a sight to behold. When the wind took their house and +sent it flying from over their heads they was sent rolling and tumbling +every which way. Least, I guess they were from the way they were +scattered. Some of ’em had caught against the garden fence--it was made +out of hog wire--but most of ’em had been blown out across the field +where they’d been able to get protection behind some new listed furrows +that I had plowed only a few days before. + +The cow shed was gone and the fence was down. The cows had drifted up +against the wire fence that separated the pasture from the fields. +There they stood, their heads down, all hunched up like they used to +do on cold winter days. But now, instead of snow caked on their backs, +it was sand. Every once and a while an extra hard puff would send ’em +forward like it was going to make ’em get in the fence. That kinda +skeered me, so I went back to the house and got Johnnie to come and +help me put ’em in the horse lot. Martha objected to him going out, but +he didn’t listen, just came a-tearing. He was tickled to death to get +out. It was a kind of picnic for him. Least, he ’peared to take it +that way. All the kids seemed to be having a rip-roaring good time out +of the storm. But you can tell the world that I weren’t. + +Well, we tried to drive them cows in the lot. Every time we’d turn them +against the wind they’d blink their eyes, shake their heads, go a few +paces, and then turn around and start tearing back to the fence. About +the third time we tried it one of ’em went too far and got in the wire +just as I was afraid she would. We tried to get her out, and she pulled +and sawed about, which made it all the worse. She got all tangled up +and tore down the wire. + +We tried to get old Boss out of the fence, but she was helpless. Poor +old thing! I seen that she was a goner, so to put her out of her misery +I sent Johnnie in the house to get the gun. I told him not to let his +ma see him, but it was wasted breath. She spied him on the road out and +follered him just a-boiling. Of course she didn’t know what he’d come +after the gun for, and it skeered her. Then she saw what’d happened. Of +course she laid it on to me. Land, how she did carry on! + +We shot Boss. Then I went down and found out that the horses were +faring purty well, considering ever’thing. They were all covered in +sand, but that weren’t nothing. I fed ’em and killed as much time as I +could, ’cause I wanted to stay away from the house as long as possible. +I knew good and well that Martha’d pour it onto me hot and heavy when I +came in. + +But, do you know, when I got in she didn’t say a word for a long time. +She was a-setting in the sitting room rocking back and forth in a chair +that we’d got from Chicago a couple of years before. She just set there +and rocked and looked at me so funny I felt downright creepy. I’d a +whole lot druther she’d ’a’ give it to me hot and heavy. Fact is, I +tried to start her. I says, kinda funny like: + +“Well, it looks like the good Lord don’t like us none a-tall. Don’t +look like He’d ’a’ treated you this way, Martha.” + +I thought sure that’d make her boil over, but it didn’t. She just kept +rocking back and forth and looking at me in that strange sort of way. +I noticed a couple of tears that were running down her cheeks. They +made little clear streaks through the dust. Maybe you think I wasn’t +getting skeered. + +“What’s the matter, Martha?” I asks in an anxious voice. + +She didn’t answer a-tall. + +“Do you feel bad?” + +Still no answer. She just kept right on a-rocking and a-rocking, and +she kept right on looking at me in that crazy sort of way. Then she +says in a awful voice: + +“The Lord’s judgment has fell upon us.” + +Gosh, but I felt creepy! It was so gloomy there in the room in spite +of it being broad open daylight. You see, the sun was hid behind dust +clouds and the windows didn’t let in much light, they were so dirty. +The sand was a-drizzling down from the ceiling and a-coming in through +the cracks around the windows and doors; the wind was howling about the +roof of the house; and there she set and just rocked and rocked, and +every now and then she’d say: + +“The Lord’s judgment has fell upon us.” + +I tried to get her to go to bed, but she wouldn’t make a move; I got +up and traipsed around trying to stir up some noise so’s I could drive +away that creepy feeling that she gave me with her rocking and saying +in such a awful voice that the Lord’s judgment was upon us. But somehow +it didn’t do no good. I began to be afraid that she was going crazy, +and the more I watched her the more I believed it. I had often thought +that she’d do it some time when she’d get on one of her tears. + +Every now and then she’d raise her hands up toward the ceiling and make +the craziest motions and mutter something under her breath. And all the +time she just kept a-rocking and a-rocking. + +I tried several things to arouse her. The kids were beginning to +notice it and to get scared and to cry. Leastwise, the youngest ones +was. Finally I happened to think of a bright idea. If I’d pretend I’d +suddenly got religion, thinks I to myself, maybe she’d get cheered up +and get over her spell. I kinda hated to do it because I hated to be a +hypocrite, but, thinks I, circumstances alter cases, so I decided to +take a shot. + +I went around where she could see me and got down on my knees and begin +to pray. I asked her to help me; said I felt the spirit of the Lord +descending upon me. Then I knew at once that I’d hit the nail right on +the head. She let out a shout and fell on her knees by my side, and +such praying I never heard before. It actually skeered me, she was so +wild about it. She’d throw up her arms and cry out at the top of her +voice for the Lord to send down His blessed healing power and wipe out +all my sins. The little kids, they got skeered and begin to squall with +all their might, and Johnnie, Minnie and Mollie were struck dumb at +first; then they fell on their knees and begin to pray. That only added +fuel to Martha’s praying. + +“Lord,” she screamed above the roar of the storm, “Thou seest this +man’s children on their knees to you pleading that you wash away +their papa’s sins; you see his wife that has lived with him in all +his wickedness all these years, kneeling and asking you to send your +healing grace.” + +About that time she got all choked up, and I decided it was time for +me to give up, so I suddenly got up and told her that I saw the light; +that I was saved. + +Well, I’ve seen some wild ones in my time, but never one as crazy as +she was for the next ten minutes or so. She begin to shout and jump +around; then she threw her arms around my neck and praised the Lord so +loud in my ear she nearly busted my eardrum; she sang and she shouted +hurrah, hosannah, bless His precious name, and other such things, until +the house fairly rung with her voice above the shriek of the storm. And +Minnie, who is kinda like her ma in being religious and excitable like, +begin to shout and sing too. Maybe you think that between them and the +storm and the kids a-squalling there weren’t some racket being made. I +felt kinda foolish. + +The rest of the day Martha was so cheerful it made me ashamed of myself. + +Thinks I: why, if I’d ’a’ known that it’d make so much difference to +her I’d ’a’ confessed a long time ago. I’d ’a’ been a hypocrite to give +Martha that much pleasure because she ain’t had any too much joy in +this life, anyway. + +Well, I joined the church, and I ain’t never had the nerve to tell +Martha what a hypocrite I’ve been. She’s been much happier. Of course +she gets on a spell now and then, but not near as often as she used +to. She’s feeling much better too. I guess, all and all, it’s a good +thing, a mighty good thing. Anyway, that’s how I come to be such a +church-goer. They elected me deacon not long ago, said I was the +regularest attending member they had. I don’t feel near so bad about +being a hypocrite, any more. The fact is, I don’t know for sure that I +am one. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [13] Copyright, 1925, by P. F. Collier & Son Company. + Copyright, 1926, by Robert Robinson. + + + + + THE OLD LADY[14] + + By EVELYN SCOTT + + (From _The Dial_) + + +The old lady was often to be seen walking on the beaches overlooked +by the hotels. She had been tall, but was now stooped, and always +advanced slowly, and with the help of a cane. In spite of the expensive +soberness of her dress, of fine stuffs not quite in the fashion, +yet much discussed by the maids in her hotel who expected generous +remuneration for their services to her, the old lady had not that aloof +confidence in herself and her position which is the usual endowment of +wealth. She smiled too frequently into the faces of those who looked at +her, and her excessive benevolence was like a subtle self-apology. + +Her thoughts could not be read, and that was fortunate. When she +awakened in the morning in a stately bed, from which, against an +opposite wall of her large room, she saw an _armoire_ flanked with +mirrors give back her image, she always, when possible, avoided +the contemplation of this reflection; or, compelled to confront a +revelation which caused her pain, remarked inwardly, “Can it be I?” and +tried vainly to recall another almost-obliterated impression of her +own features. Queer that, remembering so distinctly the most minute +incidents of a past that had been filled with dramatic interest, able +to visualize with exactitude the appearances of each of her friends, +today dead or separated from her by years and oceans, she had so much +difficulty in piecing together from fragments retained from the lost +years, even the vaguest representation of her own countenance as it had +been caught in looking-glasses long ago. People who had been dear to +her, and even the people she had once disliked, had not aged, nor had +they died, in that they existed continually in her thoughts in every +moment of the time. Only her own personality, in its once-youthful +aspect, had disappeared in the nothingness of a feeble present. She +sighed, and said to herself, “Well, I never was pretty.” Yet without +being pretty she had commanded affection and even very strong feeling. + +It frightened her a little that she had become some one whom she did +not know, some one whom she could not look at with clear eyes. + +For all the sadness which pervaded her meditations, she did not, +with truth, call herself unhappy. She slept badly, dreaming often of +her married daughter whom she had not seen for many months, and of a +dead son; but always, after noting the thinning of the darkness by a +dawn yet scarcely visible and feeling, upon her dry cheeks and in her +scanty hair, the still wind which rushed in a tide of freshness from +the suddenly audible sea, she would turn upon her side, and, as if +some sentinel duty of the night had been accomplished, find that she +could rest easily. Then, from this hour into the morning, she would +sleep like a child and awaken when the sun was shining rosily upon +the gilt-flowered bedroom walls, while the lace curtains between the +window hangings of brown-and-cream brocade seemed to expand as with an +ecstatic delicacy, and, in the gilded foliage of the dark plane tree +beyond them, birds sang. + +Her maid, entering the chamber, and bringing the morning coffee in an +immaculate service, received a cheery “_Bon jour_,” but, offering to +assist the old lady at her toilet, was invariably sent away with a +refusal couched in the same terms. “Not yet, Françoise. The time for +that has not yet come.” And the old lady dressed herself. She waited +for something miraculous to occur. Every morning approached her with +an adventure which, finally, in the heat of noontime, had not revealed +itself. + +She felt that Françoise was a “good girl,” who should be treated +generously, and the maid, stout, handsome, and slyly officious, with +the characteristics of a peasant initiate in the ways of the rich, +adopted in her manner toward her prosperous mistress, the attitude +of a mother. The old lady was not deceived as to the motives which +prompted this consideration, yet, in the passiveness of temperament +engendered by old age, did not condemn. “Well, poor girl. I must try +and do something for her. I’ll leave her something in my will.” And the +old lady felt drawn to the girl by the very exposure of self-interest +which, it seemed, should have been repelling. To know that some one +depended on you, if only for money, made you feel that your presence in +the world was yet of importance. Generous pity relieved the heart of +the old lady from the oppression of exhausted but persistent emotions +which had no outlet. There was no one to whom the old lady could +express herself. + +Yes, she was lonely, though had she been asked if, in this loneliness, +she wished to depart to an oblivion in which loneliness is not felt, +she would have said, “No,” sincerely and emphatically. Trifles which +had once been of no account to her, objects and incidents which, in her +youth, had failed to interest her, now compelled her whole attention +and were infinitely precious. She loved her careful walks through the +French town. She loved the hardy appearance of the cabbages planted +in small gardens behind low fences covered with creepers. A neglected +bush of marigolds, jutting ruddy-coloured blossoms beyond a wall, +excited in her a tenderness for growing things. She watched the dark +swallows in their bat-flights above a puddle in the road, and their +shrill bleats, coming vaguely to her deaf ears, made her think of +them innocently as lambs. Strong sunlight, stagnant upon the plaster +façade of a dwelling, enchanted her. When, with a final exertion of +her ever-waning strength, she climbed slowly, among heaps of refuse, +to the summit of a crooked street which terminated on a hillside, and +could gaze below her, between ancient roofs which interceded in the +view, at the countryside--the still avalanches of the mountains, the +small villages crushed under the red roofs that surmounted the houses, +the acres of vines, tremblingly outspread in the soaring light of +morning and resembling still lakes of green silk--the immense silence +which lay beyond the town in which she was visiting seemed to her to +enwrap her benevolently, and the whole world, dissension and struggle +obliterated, was a friendly place. + +It was only at noontime, in the heat of the day, when, after taking +her luncheon in the table d’hôte downstairs and, with nodding head, +listening for half an hour to some Spanish singers who, on a terrace +ornamented with palms and young trees in pots and covered over by a +pergola on which roses twined, were entertaining the guests of the +hotel, she rested in her bedroom, that she felt depressed. The sunshine +filled the street below her window, but the stillness it made, as +the heat arrested the play of children and hushed their voices, and +footsteps became so occasional that they echoed on the cobbles as +footsteps echo in the night--this stillness was terrible and oppressive. + +She lowered the Venetian blinds upon her balconies, and, in a +semi-glow, in which the unchanging aspect of objects in her room became +pronounced, she lay on her bed again, her eyes closed, and tried to +sleep. Sleep was impossible. Her cheeks, pale and withered and covered +by a scarcely-perceptible down of white, were hot and parched. With +no relief from the violence of the light, that, even through drawn +curtains could be discerned in the stolid brilliance of a stucco +building opposite the hotel, she moistened her lips, several times +adjusted the pillow beneath her head, and, without being conscious of +the sounds she uttered, moaned slightly. + +Her health was bad. At any moment she might have a recurrence of +the heart trouble from which she suffered, a malady from which she +would, at last, most certainly die. But it was not of death that she +thought. Indeed she refused to think of death. It pleased her better +to imagine that she would live a long time--a long, long, long time. +And when, in her promenades, her steps turned inadvertently toward +the cemetery, with its crumbling mausoleums making little intimate +avenues for the dead below the black-green lines of conical cypress +trees, she experienced, in her first glimpse of the tombs, decorated as +for a perpetual holiday with wreaths of colored beads, black, violet, +pale-blue, and white, and with bouquets of artificial flowers, a sudden +shock of fright, of amazement--of some emotion which she did not +attempt to describe--and turned back. + +Why was she traveling like this, going all over Europe, from one hotel +to another, rarely encountering an acquaintance and certainly not +amusing herself in the ways habitual with tourists? In her young days +she had been too much occupied with personal affairs to give much of +her energy to travel. There was a great deal of the world that she had +never seen. Now that her daughter was married, absorbed by interests in +which the old lady had but slight part, and her son was dead, she, the +old lady, had uninterrupted opportunity to see odd corners of the globe +that had always intrigued her--even the names of the towns she visited +were those that had, years ago, seemed to her remarkable. Besides she +had a terror, continual if not dwelt upon, of being unwanted, and so, +rather than remain as a tolerated outsider in her daughter’s home, she +had preferred the company of strangers who were not obliged to show her +any attentions that were not quite spontaneous. + +On the terrace of the hotel, under the pergola covered with roses +and with foliage which had turned blue and artificial in the glow of +the electric lamps, the old lady sat in the evenings, watching those +who came and went from the dancing in the saloon, while she tried to +make herself unobtrusive. If a young couple, approaching her, ignored +her, and it could be seen that they were covertly making love to one +another, the old lady moved further away into the shadows and out of +hearing. There she was able, when lifting her gaze, to discern the +stars which, at one instant, appeared to her quite brilliant, while +the next minute she saw only darkness, and could hear, distant under +the rotating melody of a waltz played by an orchestra, a rushing sound +in her ears which might be the sea and might only be the beating of +her own heart. She always preferred to think the sound was the sea, +and then she would rise and walk about, still clinging to the shadows +and, because she was forgotten, feeling her own person as the person of +another whom she also desired to forget. + +No, the day was happier than the night. She loved children. In her +black dress and bonnet, she often walked, with her stick, along the +beaches. There she encountered children. She recalled the delights of +her own childhood and longed to be able, in some manner, to indicate to +the children, in some way which would convince them, that she had been +a child, and that childhood was not foreign to her, as they supposed. +And she was humiliated by something grotesque in this longing, as if +she had convicted herself of a jealousy of youth. + +The children paid no heed to her, and, screaming as they ran, they +brushed past her blowing skirts, brushed past her and ran down to the +sea. Feeling a pain which was so ignoble that she refused to recognize +it, she thought, “They are so young. They don’t understand.” And she +prayed to be able always to love children as she did now, and to wish +for them, with her whole being, saturate with gratitude for a happy +past, a continuance of their light-heartedness. + +After such an experience, returning to the hotel, she wrote letters, +to keep herself from growing “stale,” as she smilingly called it, +letters to her daughter, letters to old acquaintances--some of them had +almost ceased to take account of her existence--and the reward for this +insistent attention to those who were far away, perhaps forever, was +an interest in the coming of the postman, so keen that it embarrassed +her. Often the mails brought her nothing at all, or there came a +letter from some old friend who, burdened with age, expressed herself +entirely in the utterance of complaints. “Poor Jane, poor Sally, poor +Louisa,” the old lady would say, and try to evade the fact that she had +anticipated a letter of a different kind, a letter containing something +stimulating, something of especial interest, or something complimentary +to herself. It seemed to her that her own troubles would have been +quite bearable if only her dear old friends could find, as she did, +the philosophical compensations of maturity. Occasionally, in her +travels, she encountered a woman like herself, old, isolate, seeking, +in new sights and scenes, a substitute for the personal drama which was +finished. “Poor woman,” the old lady would say of the other old woman, +then, suddenly, realizing that the one she pitied was like herself, and +alarmed by the sense of an intolerable identity, she would conjure up +cheerful thoughts and, from that time forward, gently avoid the new +acquaintance, and this without any intention of being cruel, but simply +to preserve something necessary to her. + +“We must all live our own lives. We old people have no right to prey +upon our children,” she often said. And it was this conviction which +made her, secretly, a little afraid of her grandchildren of whom her +daughter sent her photographs--the daughter who, with the dead son, had +been for many years the one absorption of the old lady’s life. When +she meditated upon the joys of maternity and the intimate relations +of a family, the old lady became confused. In some manner, in spite +of her devotion, her attitude toward her children had been an error, +but an error which she would never be able to localize within her or +describe to herself accurately. She only felt that such error, or its +equivalent, must be common to all the world, and, in apologizing so +constantly for herself, she apologized for others, too, and found that +any emotion which was not pity had become incomprehensible to her. The +most frightening thing of all was that pity itself required a defence, +and her very desire to confess for herself and admit for others +inadequacy, without condemning it, was the basis of her real apartness +from her former life. She wanted to state all this intelligibly, but +she had never been able to do so. Her thoughts became lost again in the +past, when her eyes filled with tears and the grief she had felt at her +husband’s death came back to her--not the grief she had experienced +at the time, to which her health had succumbed while her reason was +threatened, but another despair which was without any quality of +protest and which she vainly attempted to unify with the emotions of +twenty years before. She even tried to grieve more, but without success. + +It was her present incapacity for strong passion which drove her, in +her phantomlike existence, to dependence on routine, and the concrete +regularity of meal hours had become as important to her as any critical +event. In the vast dining saloon with its glass front overlooking +the water, she was punctual at one o’clock and at half-past seven, +and, though her appetite was variable, she was always one of the last +to leave the table. What nice young people those two in the corner +were, the ones who were newly married, and what an excellent mamma +was the stout woman of thirty with the little daughter. The old lady +usually had some pleasant remark for the waiter who, good-humored and +polite, was ready to serve her immediately upon her entrance into +the room, though he was somewhat perfunctory and reserved his most +refined solicitude for persons who, not poorer than she was, were more +difficult to please. She liked hot coffee that burned her withered +lips, and Michael was careful to bring coffee steaming and perfumed, +and she drank it on the terrace. Yet she bored him. There was nothing +beyond her guessed-at fortune to supply material for scandals or invite +interest. + +She did not resent living alone, but she was often conscious of her +lonely appearance and of what it might suggest to others. She wished, +on that account, to exhibit an occupation. When she went to the writing +room or sat on the beach, she carried a book with her, turned over the +pages carefully, and appreciated, perhaps, a paragraph of what she +read, but many of the lines she perused might have been inscribed in +some strange language as remote as a language of the Orient. Refusing +to confront this incapacity to receive, mentally, the new impression, +the secret of the universe was, to her, as if buried inscrutably in her +own soul, and to be divulged--if ever--in a reconstructed understanding +of what had happened to her, an understanding which included even the +most trivial incidents of former days. To have lived, loved, borne +children, and grown old was to have known everything. Why could she +find no words to make this meaning of intimate things intelligible to +her fellow men? Because she could not speak and make herself heard, +it was often as though, in living so fully, she had never lived. Her +heart beat in a troubled way. Her hands, on the leaves of her book, +trembled, and she resisted being sorry for herself. She tried to take +comfort in a religion in which her faith was no longer orthodox, and +ended, finally, with this great pity for the world which did not +ask to be pitied and despised pity--pity which was--she sometimes +doubtfully conjectured it--the reflection of her own weakness. Then +the only recourse from these vague and half-comprehended thoughts +was to consider a change to a new scene, a journey which would tax +her strength, in which, in speaking to Françoise, the old lady would +ridicule weakness and make light of it. Or she would rise from her +deck-chair and walk in the sunshine along the beach. + +The blue waters, angry and violent in the wind that flapped her skirts, +suggested to her a darkness of night in which green fields are visible. +The poetry of the comparison pleased her, as the image appeared +unpremeditatedly from her mind, and was like a memory of youth. As +she watched that steady onward movement of waters upon the land, she +experienced what was to her, in this day, a rare moment, a moment of +positive happiness. + +Beyond the pier, where she walked, leaning on her stick, the +sea surrounded the dripping rocks of a headland. The rocks were +bronze-colored and porous, like gutted and petrified combs of honey, +left there by bees of a giant size. Above them, in jagged curtains of +white foam, in the glow of the sun, the surf towered. For an instant +the suspended curtain hung twinkling in the light, to descend, with +the transcience of dew and the indolence of a floating veil, upon the +agitation of waves which had conveyed it. The surface of glass which +was the ocean, voluminous and rocking, like the sun-inflamed canopy +of a glass tent, washed up and down magnificently, somnolently, as a +cradle gently rocked, and the enormous tents of water, built up one +after another, were covered all over with globules of sunshine, round +and crystal, trembling like the drops that fall hesitatingly from metal +which, made over-warm, has begun to cool again. + +Once more the foam concentrated in seething currents, rushing together +with subterranean hisses. The foam concentrated, lifted, and made a +glittering edifice of snow, harsh, exquisite, and momentary, like the +Gothic traceries of frost. The tower of marble, of a lacy substance, of +the purity of linen left long to bleach, but with the adamant glitter +of diamonds, sank easily, waned in prismatic reflections, and was no +more than a pale breath, breathed on the distance of the intense sky +and evaporating like mist. Little water-spouts, such as pour from the +gargoyle-mouths of old fountains, ran steadily downward from crevices +in the stones. The tide rattled among the boulders. The sea had +subsided, only to come forward as before, but with a more implacable +ease. A glass tube, transparent on the length of the shore, showed, in +a bottle-blue wall, ribbon-tangles of reddish seaweed, designed in the +clear substance with the design of objects caught in amber. The swell, +with its mounting undulations, resolved in long blades of crystal, +run high in the air in a concave symmetry in which sank massive and +transparent shadows that were the reflections of the waves themselves, +carving the beaches. + +The old lady’s bonnet-strings whipped out under her chin, her wide +black dress was full like a banner and beat her legs, yet, though she +steadied herself against the onslaught of winds, felt salt vapors upon +her face, and was obliged to squint and lower her wrinkled lids against +the glare, she saw everything vividly. The foam, curdling the sands, +sticky amber and smooth as mirrors, was a flat scallop, like a ruffle +of soapsuds, and the scallops ran down coruscations and runnels that +were the imprints of wavy hair, faintly golden. A cold smell of rotted +fish and kelp came to the old lady on the same breeze that wafted to +her the screams of the children, of the little boys in their striped +bathing costumes who were wading in the shallows. And little girls in +white, little girls, barefoot, with sand-buckets and shovels, their +short skirts tilted behind their flying legs, were heard shrieking +happily as they swooped, like a flock of small gulls, straight down +to the water’s edge. More obscurely, as from a more vast distance, +the old lady heard the voices of the grown-up bathers, who, swimming +far out into the breakers, were carried, with heads bobbing, to an +immense height, lifted, by the indifferent sapphire waters, as upon the +flashing shoulders of armored giants. + +Then she turned toward the sultry horizon, where the brilliance of the +day succumbed to the overshadowing of clouds, and to something less +visible--perhaps an emanation from the light itself--which was like +unseen smoke. Beyond the cobalt welter of sun and waves, incessantly +flaked as with white flowers, a boat balanced quietly under one sail, +stood, upon the emptiness, like a swan upon a still lake, its head +under its wing. + +The old lady was fatigued by this unforeseen intensity of visual +appreciation. She had come to the end of the pier, and, turning +reluctantly, began to retrace her footsteps to the hotel. On the shore +she noted the rosy and dusked loftiness of the retreating mountains, +their peaks somber under the fogs of a summer rainstorm, while on the +rusted slopes the deep green of the trees suggested a relief of velvet +on an old brocade, the crushed foliage of the pines and cork oaks +hinting at the tactile qualities of variegated mosses. The fashionable +hotels along the waterfront, built in stucco and somewhat in the +Spanish style, ancient houses in the town with walls of plaster or +rubble, all showed in a violent radiance of sinking sun in which the +pallor of white surfaces and the redness of far-off roofs received a +remote emphasis on objects which seemed the minute dwellings of dolls. + +And the old lady was suddenly overcome by an emotion which she +afterwards preferred to forget. What she felt, as she turned from her +promenade, the sea-wind stinging her flaccid cheeks, was an immanence +of death, which came to her from nowhere out of nothing--from the cries +of the children, from the boat, the breeze, from the vast water that +flowed after her. Yes, most of all from the sea, the sea flashing in +the sunshine, the great sea, monotonous, voracious, untouched, and +merciless. “I shall die,” she thought, “but _they_ will die, too.” In +“they” she included the people in the village, the bathers in the surf, +and the ladies in their organdie frocks and flowered hats, with the +gentlemen in flannels, gentlemen dressed so precisely, if carelessly, +in imitations of the English style--the old lady, as she approached the +termination of her walk, could now see them all. And the quiet gale +that swept past her from some space infinitely distant, beyond even +the clouds of the coming rainstorm, was the breath of a holocaust. +“_They_” were all dead, all the people who covered the security of the +land, people the old lady loved and had loved, indeed people who were +dead already. That the sea was, had been, and always would be--long, +long after these, the young, the happy, the oblivious, had ceased to +live--this sea, of which she herself was afraid, so that she had never +undertaken an ocean voyage without a tremor, the sea comforted her with +an immense and terrible comfort, so that, for an instant, her spirit +flamed coldly and intensely. All was light, sunshine, happiness, and +moving waters, and all was death, forever and ever death--though she +scarcely called it so exactly, or by that name. + +Then her eyes grew dim. The peculiar accuracy with which, the moment +before, she had viewed and absorbed the details of her surroundings, +faded in her habitual hesitance and vagueness. She began to think of +saving her strength, of getting back to the hotel in time for her tea +when she would eat some nice little _brioches_, of buying Françoise a +new dress. Entering the hotel lobby at just quarter to five o’clock, +weak and at peace as after some exhausting victory, she gave to her +heart the shadowy acknowledgment of its new strength, and, in spite of +her cheerful resolutions, was conscious of a faint, austere bitterness. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [14] Copyright, 1925, by The Dial Publishing Company, Inc. + Copyright, 1926, by Evelyn Scott. + + + + + OLD MAN LEDGE[15] + + By MAY STANLEY + + (From _The Pictorial Review_) + + +Beyond Bald Head a long white curve of beach held the old house in +an encircling arm. There were no other buildings in sight. A thick +growth of stunted spruces ran down to a meadow covered with coarse +beach-grass, and the house stood on a small rise of ground at the edge +of the meadow, commanding an unbroken view seaward. On one side the +foundation had rotted away, so that the gray, weather-beaten dwelling +leaned slightly as though striving to catch the faint murmur of the +tides. + +Out at sea the waters glowed vividly, reflecting the brilliant colors +of sunset in wavering bars of rose and mauve and gold. The surface of +the bay heaved gently, thrusting long rollers beneath the fishing boat +as it swung in a wide curve around Bald Head. + +“Thar she is!” Orin Pettishall twitched the tiller-ropes as he spoke. +The boat swung obediently toward an old dock which made a gray blot +against the background of white sand. + +The girl nodded. “Bigger’n I thought ’twuz,” she said happily. “I wuz +over here onct cranberryin’ when I wuz leetle, but it’s bigger’n I +thought ’twuz then.” + +“Yeah, it’s a good house,” he agreed, “even ef ’tis kind uv old. +Still an’ all, ’tain’t old when ye think they’s oak beams in it. Paw +says Captain Beath got some uv the beams fer his house outer his +vessel--arter she wuz wrecked on Old Man Ledge out thar.” + +“Wonder how long ago ’tis?” Emily Widden glanced seaward. Half-tide +revealed the jagged rocks of Old Man Ledge standing up sharply above +the water. + +“Dunno. ’Fore paw’s time, fer ’twuz grampy told him.” He swung the boat +deftly in beside the dock and made it fast. “Looks like the house’s +kinder settlin’ ter the one side. Hev ter straighten her up fust uv +all. Come on! I got ter see how much fixin’ the dock’ll need.” + +With Emily beside him he went proudly across the dock, keeping a sharp +lookout for loose or rotting boards. Reaching shore, they paused +involuntarily and stood, hand in hand, looking up at the old house. + +“Nicer’n I thought ’twuz goin’ ter be,” the girl murmured. + +“Guess she’s goin’ ter be wuth what I’m payin’ fer her.” He tried to +speak calmly. “Seven hundred dollars ain’t sich a lot when ye think +’at they’s twenty acres goes with it--all this here shore-front an’ +back inter the woods a piece. Paid the real estate fellers two hundred +dollars cash money, an’ I got three years ter find the rest in.” + +Emily nodded. She had heard the story from Orin a half-dozen times +today, but it did not lose interest with repetition. + +“We kin do ’at easy,” she said. “I kin hev chickens an’ put in a +garden. ’Twon’t cost us much ter live.” + +“An’ they ain’t no reason ter put off gittin’ married,” he declared. +“We kin git married soon ez I git the house fixed up a mite an’ a +fish-house built.” + +“Guess we kin,” she assented shyly. + +They went quickly up the slope, along a path overgrown with weeds and +blackberry brambles. Emily cried out with pleasure at sight of a great +hedge of yellow lilies which lifted their slender stalks defiantly +above the encroaching weeds. At the front of the house a bricked walk +led up to a hooded doorway. High-backed seats had once stood on either +side. One of them was still in good repair, but the other sagged +forlornly on its broken supports. + +“’Nough fixin’ ter keep me busy fer a while, I guess,” Orin commented +as he unlocked the front door. It swung open with painful creakings, +showing a square hall with doors on either side. “S’pose this must ’a’ +been the parlor.” He led the way into a fair-sized room with windows +looking directly toward sea. Now they were so dark with dust and +spider-webs that little light came through. Opposite the door a stone +fireplace yawned. + +“It’ll be nice here when we git it fixed up.” Emily looked about the +room curiously. “Le’s see the rest uv it.” + +They passed through the door at the back which led into a small +bedroom, returned to the hall, and inspected in turn the dining room, +kitchen, and woodshed on the opposite side of the house. + +“Le’s go down in the yard an’ see what the well’s like,” Emily proposed. + +“I’d oughter go down cellar an’ hev a look at the foundation,” he +objected. “Ef I wait any longer it’ll be too dark ter see anythin’. You +go an’ hev a look at the well while I’m down cellar.” + +“A’ right. I won’t be long.” + +She ran down the steps, paused for a moment while her eyes searched +for a path, found it, and ran lightly along, pushing aside weeds and +brambles. Near a clump of spruces she saw the well-sweep and was going +toward it when her glance was caught by something at the left of the +house--something which showed gray in the surrounding greenness. + +“Wonder what’s thar?” Making her way through the intervening growth, +she cautiously lifted a matted bramble, then dropped it with a startled +exclamation and began to run back toward the house. + +“Orin!” she called. “Orin!” + +Orin came out on the back porch, his face reflecting the satisfaction +he felt. + +“’Tain’t goin’ ter be much work ter fix up the foundation. Not near so +much----” He paused at sight of her white face. “What’s come ter ye?” + +“Thar’s a grave out thar!” Her voice was trembling. “Somebody’s grave! +I see it when I wuz goin’ down ter the well.” + +“Guess ye must be mistook,” he said wonderingly. “Never heared tell uv +nobody bein’ buried here.” + +“I see the gravestun ez I wuz goin’ down ter the well,” she explained +breathlessly. “It’s kind uv layin’ down. Ye kain’t hardly see it +’ceptin’ it ketches the light. Come an’ see fer yerself.” She led him +down the path, unmindful of the brambles which caught and tore at her +skirt. “Thar ’tis!” + +Orin Pettishall stared at it thoughtfully, then stooped and tried to +read the words cut in the moldy stone. + +“Too dark,” he said at length. “Torch’s down in the boa-at. I’ll go git +it.” + +“Let me go fer it--I’d ruther.” + +“What’s the matter?” He glanced up, conscious of the fear in her voice. +“Ain’t scart uv an ol’ gravestun, air ye?” + +“N-o. Only I’d ruther go.” She hurried off. + +Left to himself, the boy sat down beside the grave and gazed proudly up +at the house. His house! Pretty nice to be able to buy it and move into +his own home this fall, when he and Emily were married. Pretty nice! If +lobster prices stayed up he’d maybe be able to pay something more on +it before Christmas. He was whistling jubilantly when Emily, hurrying +back, thrust the torch into his hands. + +“Read what it says!” she directed. + +Holding the light close to the moldy stone, he read slowly: +“‘Sacred--to the m--Nehemiah Hill--departed’--they’s a big chip out uv +the stone here--‘May thirtieth, eighteen hundred an’ fifty-two--Greater +love hath no man than this’--I kain’t read no more; it’s chipped off +some.” + +“‘That a man lay down his life for his friends.’” The girl finished the +quotation in a hushed voice. + +“Wonder who he wuz--Nehemiah Hill? I ain’t never heared tell uv no +Hills ’round here.” + +“Dunno.” She rose, shivering. “Le’s go back, Orin. It’s gittin’ late.” + +“I wanted ye ter see the cellar afore we go.” + +“At’ll keep,” she said hastily, and turned to the path which led down +to the dock. + +When he had started his engine and the fishing boat was chug-chugging +its way back to West Harbor, Pettishall turned to the girl. + +“What come ter ye, Em’ly?” he asked. “Ye ain’t said a word sense we +started. ’At grave didn’t upset ye none, did it?” + +“Yes--kind uv.” + +“It don’t do no hurt, fur ez I kin see.” Disappointment made his voice +cold. “Thought ye liked the place.” + +“So I do, only----” + +“Only what?” + +She turned to face him. “Dunno ez I c’d live whar they’s a grave,” she +said slowly. “It’s a nice place an’ all, only I dunno ez I c’d live +whar they’s a grave.” + +“Dunno what makes ye feel like ’at. An’ anyways we got ter live thar. I +bought the place, ain’t I?” + +“Yes.” + +“Wa-al, we got ter live thar, ain’t we?” + +She was silent. + +“We got ter live thar, ain’t we? Seein’ I bought it, we got ter live +thar.” Frustration, injured pride, bewilderment, were in the words. + +“Dunno ez we hev,” she retorted. “Leastways, dunno ez _I_ hev. They +ain’t nothin’ ter _make_ me!” + +He did not reply, but stared straight in front of him, head up and lips +set in a stubborn line. She could talk like that! That was all she +thought of their home, the home he was planning to get ready for her! +Well, if that was the way she felt about things---- + +“Orin!” Her voice was timid. + +“Yes.” + +“I ain’t meanin’ ter be cross ner spiteful. It’s only----” + +“Only ye don’t like the place I bought fer us. Wa-al, guess they ain’t +nothin’ more ter be said.” + +“A’ right,” she replied coldly, “ef ’at’s the way ye feel. I ain’t +goin’ ter stay by myself, day in an’ day out, ’ith a grave ter keep me +comp’ny. I’d like the place fine ef the grave wa’n’t thar. Even ef we +knowed who ’twuz----” + +“I kain’t he’p it, way things air,” he interrupted. “I didn’t know +’bout the grave when I bought the place, but it wouldn’t uv made no +diff’rence ter me ef I hed knowed. Way I see it we got ter live thar, +grave er no grave.” + +She shook her head sorrowfully. “No, I ain’t goin’ ter live thar. I +knowed I wouldn’t soon ez ever I see the grave. I jes’ kain’t an’ they +ain’t no use in talkin’ uv it!” + +“Wa-al,” Mrs. Widden said cheerfully, “what ye think uv the place Orin +bought?” + +Her daughter, heavy-eyed from a sleepless night, looked up and said +drearily, “A’ right, I guess.” + +“Mercy me! Is ’at all ye think uv it?” + +“Did ye know somebody wuz buried thar?” Emily demanded. “Right beside +the house?” + +“Mercy me!” Mrs. Widden exclaimed again. “I been cranberryin’ in the +medder a coupla times sense the ol’ captain died, but I never seed no +grave. Whose is it?” + +“Dunno. Name on it’s Nehemiah Hill. D’ye know who ’at is?” + +“Never heared tell uv no Hills in these here parts,” Mrs. Widden +shook her head solemnly. “They’s Hills over Lewiston way an’ they’s a +fambily--say, Paw,” as the door opened to admit Jeremy Widden’s bulk, +“did ye know somebody wuz buried over ter the ol’ Beath place?” + +“Never heared tell uv it.” Widden clumped across to the sink and drank +hugely from a tin dipper. “Here’s Hannah Anne Pettishall comin’. Mebbe +she’ll know.” + +“’Lo, ev’ybody!” Mrs. Pettishall panted genially. She was a huge +woman whose bulk almost filled the doorway and quite overflowed the +rocking-chair which Mrs. Widden pushed forward. “I’m all outer +crochet-cotton,” she explained, “an’ I thought I’d run over an’ borrer +a mite ter last till I kin git some f’om Po’tland.” + +“Yeah, I got some,” Mrs. Widden replied, “same number ez what ye’re +usin’. D’ye know ’bout thar bein’ a grave on the place Orin jes’ +bought?” + +“Never heared tell uv one. Mebbe ’at’s what made Orin so +grumpy--wouldn’t say a decent word breakfus’-time.” She wiped her face +meditatively with a corner of her apron. “My, it’s hot fer this time +uv year! Ef ye hurry up an’ git married, Em’ly Widden, ye’ll still hev +summer fer yer weddin’.” + +“I ain’t goin’ ter git married,” Emily said dully. + +“Ye ain’t _what_?” her elders demanded in chorus. + +“Me an’ Orin hed words las’ night,” Emily replied in a dull voice, +“’bout ’at grave. An’--an’--we hed words.” + +“D’ye mean ter say you an’ Orin fit?” Mrs. Pettishall demanded. “Wisht +ye’d hurry an’ make up ef ye did, so’s he won’t be so grumpy.” + +“I tol’ him I wouldn’t live no place whar they’s a grave ’longside uv +the house.” + +“Fer any sakes!” Mrs. Pettishall stared at her prospective +daughter-in-law in frank amazement. “Ye don’t mean ter say ’at jes’ +’cause they happens ter be a grave----” + +“Wa’al, ef’ ’at’s the way Em’ly feels I guess she’s got a right,” Mrs. +Widden broke in. + +“Now, Maw!” Widden counseled. “Stay out uv it an’ let the young folks +fight things out fer tharselves.” + +But his wife was not to be so easily silenced. “Tell yer maw ’bout it, +Em’ly,” she commanded soothingly. “Tell yer maw what the trouble is. Ye +didn’t want ter live thar ’count uv the grave? Wuz ’at it?” + +Emily nodded. + +“Wa-al, I mus’ say--” Mrs. Pettishall began heavily. + +“Orin said we’d hev ter live thar,” Emily explained. “An’ I said I +didn’t hev ter. An’ he said--” She dissolved into tears. + +“Wa-al, he didn’t hev no right ter say it!” Mrs. Widden stormed. “Guess +my girl ain’t goin’ ter set up housekeepin’ in no graveyard!” + +“Orin didn’t aim ter live in no graveyard,” Mrs. Pettishall returned +sharply. “I mus’ say, Lucindy----” + +“An’ he kin jes’ stay ’way f’om Em’ly!” Mrs. Widden threw down the +wooden needle with which she had been knitting trap-heads, crossed the +kitchen, and took her disconsolate daughter into her arms. “Thar! Ye +don’t need ter take on! Ye don’t hev ter do nothin’ ye don’t want ter!” + +Mrs. Pettishall got to her feet. + +“Ef ye’d leave the young ’uns ’lone, Lucindy, an’ mind yer own +business,” she said angrily, “they’d mebbe git things patched up! +Stan’s ter reason they won’t so long ez ye keep interferin’!” + +“Who’s interferin’?” Mrs. Widden demanded belligerently. + +“You, fer one! I mus’ say I think Orin’s patient to put up ’ith Em’ly +actin’ like she’s doin’----” + +“Thar now, Maw! Ca’m yerself!” Widden interposed. + +“An’ ef I wuz in his place I wouldn’t stand fer it!” Mrs. Pettishall +continued bitterly. “They’s other girls----” + +“Now, now, Hannah Anne!” + +“Ez fer you, Jeremy Widden,” Mrs. Pettishall turned to him, the +slowly kindling wrath of a fat woman in her voice, “ef ye wuzn’t so +petticoat-ruled an’ put upon in yer own house ye’d do better----” + +But here Mrs. Widden found voice. “Ef ye’ll jes’ go out uv my house, +Hannah Anne,” she said majestically, “an’ stay out it’s all I ask. I +don’t want you ner none uv your fambily ter darken my doors ag’in!” + +“Now, Maw--” but the sound of the kitchen door slamming to behind Mrs. +Pettishall drowned Widden’s vain attempts to make peace. + +Before nightfall every one in West Harbor knew that Lucinda Widden had +put Hannah Anne Pettishall out of her house because Hannah Anne didn’t +want Orin to marry Emily Widden, that some one of whom no one had ever +heard was buried over on the old Beath place, and that the real estate +people had given Orin Pettishall a hundred dollars to take the place +off their hands. Additional zest was given to these rumors when, in the +store that afternoon, the elder Pettishall told Jeremy Widden that he’d +just as soon have back the trawl which Widden had borrowed, and Widden +had retorted that any time Pettishall wanted to pay for having the new +engine put in his boat he’d better do it. + +West Harbor gasped! Nothing so exciting had happened since the time +Hepsibah Gutch and Lefey Williams quarreled one day at dinner and threw +hot soup at each other. This was even worse than Hepsibah and Lefey! + +Fred Hosmer said that in his opinion “growed-up folks hed oughter hev +more sense’n ter fight like kids.” + +Will Ellery retorted that “it’s all in the way a feller looks at +things. Some folks ain’t got ’nough spunk ter start a fight.” + +On which Fred Hosmer promptly invited Ellery out into the back yard if +he had any doubts about there being enough spunk around to lick any +Ellery that ever walked! + +Some one intervened and a truce was patched up. Thereupon Mrs. Will +Ellery, indignant at the insinuation directed against her husband, +instituted a campaign against Mrs. Fred Hosmer, whose dearest wish +it was to be elected president of the church sewing-circle. She was +defeated by three votes and indignantly resigned, taking with her six +devoted friends who were among the best workers and who had always +cooked lavishly for box socials and baked-bean suppers. + +Mrs. Uriah Goomes was heard to say that no one but a fool would think +of marrying Orin Pettishall, anyway. He was too smart and always trying +to get ahead of other folks. It was time he stubbed his toe. Which +remark, duly repeated, immediately dissolved friendly relations between +the Goomes and Pettishall families and led Mrs. Widden to remark +caustically that maybe Emily wasn’t such a fool as some people seemed +to think and, anyway, she wouldn’t ever be fool enough to marry any one +as lazy as Uriah Goomes, who, with his family, would have starved last +winter if every one in the Harbor hadn’t turned to and fed them! + +Alva Ryder, the storekeeper, told some one that in his opinion the +whole trouble started with the Widdens and Pettishalls and ought to +have stayed there. Folks were foolish, he said, to mix up in other +folks’ rows. Every one on hearing this said that it was no wonder +Alva Ryder thought West Harbor folks foolish. The way they’d dealt +with him, year in and year out, paying the awful prices he charged +for everything, would make any one think they were weak in the head! +Hereafter they would buy groceries in Bath or Portland or else do +without. + +Meetings at the schoolhouse had to be discontinued. No one but old +Uncle Henry Breedon, who was too deaf to hear anything, would go to +meeting after the Sunday when the Reverend Amos Putney preached from +the text, “Blessed are the peacemakers,” and referred pointedly to +local difficulties. Every one felt that Brother Putney might say what +he liked about people who danced or played cards or smoked--that was +his business. But any disagreement we might have with the Goomeses or +the Pettishalls or the Widdens was our own business and why did he want +to interfere? Besides, hadn’t the Widdens and the Pettishalls and the +Goomeses been the first to start trouble? Well, then, what could you +expect? + +Time failed to heal the dissensions, which, indeed, grew in number and +bitterness as the weeks went by. Two of West Harbor’s most respected +citizens charged two others, equally respected, with stealing lobsters +from the former’s traps. The fish warden was pressed into service +and spent several long, chilly, and fruitless nights in watching for +the supposed offenders. He did not catch any one, but the sight of a +mysterious figure “pokin’ ’round” on Jim Mears’s dock so upset Mrs. +Mears that she took to her bed and remained there until Jimmy, junior, +was born. Thereafter she laid blame for the undeniable fact that Jimmy +wasn’t very bright to the scare which Warden Jim had given her, and +talked darkly of suing the State and getting even with somebody. + +With the Sunday meetings discontinued and the sewing-circle disrupted +West Harbor women no longer convened save in groups of two or three. +Friendly borrowing of a cup of sugar or the “lend uv ’nough flour ter +make a mess uv biscuits” had ceased. Crochet- and dress-patterns were +no longer exchanged. + +When the Fred Hosmers drove to Bath in their car they did not, as in +former days, stop to ask folks if they wanted anything from town, but +drove straight ahead. Fishermen no longer gathered in Alva Ryder’s +store in the evenings to exchange news of the Portland market or to +“swap yarns.” The chair dedicated to the fisherman who could tell the +best story was empty evening after evening. Down at the fish-houses +or out in the boats solitary figures worked sullenly, refraining from +looking up or giving a friendly hail when another boat passed. + +Such was the state of things when Grammy Tagel--grandmother to the +Ellerys and the Tagels and great-aunt of Hannah Anne Pettishall--came +over from Augusta for a visit. + +At first Emily Widden had refused to admit even to herself that her +quarrel with Orin was serious. He would come over to see her, she was +quite sure, and they would talk things over. Then Orin would sell the +old Beath place and buy somewhere else. She _couldn’t_ live beside a +grave. Nobody could! But Orin would see how things were, once they had +a good talk. + +But Orin did not come. The days became weeks, and still, to Emily’s +dismay and hurt surprise, he made no sign. She couldn’t believe he +meant to stay away. Surely he was just mad at the fuss every one was +making and the things she herself had said. But he would get over it +soon. Then he would come to see her and they would talk things over. +From her father Emily learned that Orin had begun to “fix up” the old +house in his spare time. Mereen Tagel had gone over to help him repair +the foundation and build a fish-house. + +The girl’s spirits sank at the news. She was forced to admit to herself +that Orin had no intention of selling. And that meant he didn’t +really care for her or how she felt about things. He had never cared! +Perhaps--the awful thought smote her like a blow--Orin must be going +to marry some one else. He wouldn’t be fixing up the house unless he +planned to live there soon. The girl ceased to watch for his coming. At +night she cried into her pillow quietly and unobtrusively as she did +everything else. She refused to say anything when her mother railed +angrily at the Pettishals, and only her pale, miserable face and +red-rimmed eyes told Mrs. Widden her daughter was not forgetting Orin +Pettishall--that she would never forget him. + +And Orin was no happier. A hundred times he planned to see Emily, to +talk with her. Then he would remember that Emily did not really care +for him, that she had turned her back on the home he had bought for +her, refusing to live there. What was the use of going to see her when +she didn’t think enough of him to give up that silly feeling about a +grave? Some time she would be sorry for acting like she did! + +He would fix up the old place and live there alone, the way Captain +Beath had done. Perhaps he would die there, alone. Emily would come to +the funeral. Maybe she would cry when she saw what she had done--sent +him away to die. Or, perhaps, she wouldn’t care enough to come to the +funeral. She would marry some one else, and when she heard the news +she would say, “He was always queer. Went away to live alone with +nothing to keep him company but a grave. No wonder he died!” Orin +resolved bitterly to live. What was the use of dying when nobody would +care what happened to you? + +The only comfort he found was in hard work. He rose before dawn, hauled +trawl, carried his fish to market, then came back to work on the old +house until approaching twilight warned him it was time to bait trawl +for the next day’s set. + +All through the quiet afternoons of late August he worked about the +place, completing his fish-house, cutting away weeds and brambles from +paths long unused, resetting bricks in the walk, repairing the broken +settle. Sometimes he pictured Emily sitting here in the long summer +evenings, busy with her sewing. He would be down at the fish-house +baiting trawl. Emily would come out after the supper dishes were washed +and wait here for him. When all the tubs of trawl were finished he +would come up to sit in the other high-backed seat. They would talk or, +perhaps, just sit listening to the tides along the beach. + +He shook his head angrily, winking back unmanly tears. Emily would +never sit there in the quiet evenings. One seat would always be empty. +When his work was done he would come up to the house. There would be no +one to welcome him. He would sit there, watching the empty place--an +old, old man--alone. + +West Harbor folks looked on Grammy Tagel as a “character.” Perhaps, in +days not so far gone, she would have been known as a soothsayer, and +people would have consulted her when grave decisions were to be made +and followed her shrewd advice. But now she was just an old woman with +a philosophy wrought out of long, hard years, an old woman who didn’t +hesitate to tell folks what she thought of their words and actions, and +who took an unbounded interest in the affairs of those about her. + +Although more than ten years had passed since Grammy Tagel moved to +Augusta to make her home with a married granddaughter she still kept +in touch with all the principal events of the Harbor. She knew about +all births, marriages, and deaths. She could tell you who had moved +away in recent years and who had “built new”; had accurate information +regarding those who had “perfessed” religion at the annual revival +meetings and those who were still unsaved. + +Today, with her chair drawn comfortably close to the stove, the old +woman turned inquiring eyes on Hannah Anne Pettishall. + +“What’s wrong ’ith Orin?” she asked. “Looks kinder meachin’ ter me.” + +“Yeah, he’s meachin’, a’ right,” Mrs. Pettishall agreed. She carried +a pan of cookies to the oven, put them in, dusted the flour from +her hands, and wiped her face thoughtfully with a corner of her +blue-and-white-checked gingham apron. + +Grammy Tagel waited patiently. + +“I hate ter say it,” Hannah Anne went back to the table and began to +roll out another mound of cooky dough, “but it looks ter me like he’s +still takin’ on ’count uv Em’ly Widden.” + +“Which Widden?” + +“Em’ly--Lucindy Means’s girl. Ye mind ’at Lucindy married Jeremy +Widden, Uncle Uriah’s first. The other boy, Lige, went ter Po’tland, +an’ folks say he’s doin’ well workin’ in a garage. Makin’ money hand +over fist, Uncle Uriah says. I dunno.” + +“Don’t seem like Orin’s old ’nough ter be keepin’ comp’ny.” Grammy +Tagel deftly brought the conversation back. “Wuzn’t nothin’ but a +leetle squirt when I went off ter Augusty. Wuz they keepin’ comp’ny, +did ye say?” + +Mrs. Pettishall nodded. “Yeah, fer more’n a year. Right up ter the time +Orin bought the ol’ Beath place----” + +“Did he, now? Ye hedn’t told me afore. He’s a smart boy ter buy it. +Reel sightly place.” + +“’At’s what I say--mercy! I fergot the cookies!” Snatching the pan from +the oven, she tested its contents anxiously, found them unharmed, and +transferred the cookies to a plate. “Hev one, Aunt ‘Miry?” + +“Don’t mind ef I do. An’ ’n what happened?” + +“Wa-al, right arter he bought the place Em’ly found a grave +thar--leastways she _says_ she did--an’ started actin’ up. Lucindy, +who’d oughter hed more sense, ups an’ sides ’ith Em’ly. Says ’at no +girl uv hern is goin’ ter set up housekeepin’ in a graveyard. The very +idear! I’m a good-tempered woman, ez ev’ybody knows, but I don’t stand +fer bein’ put upon, an’ I give the hull Widden fambily a piece uv my +mind.” + +“An’ ’n what happened?” + +“Folks ’at hed any sense tuck my side an’ some tuck ’tother. Stirred up +considerable to-do, ez ye might say.” + +“Sh’dn’t wonder,” Grammy Tagel commented dryly. “What’d Orin an’ his +girl do?” + +“They ain’t spoke sense--not ’at I know uv. An’ ef Orin hez any right +pride ’bout him----” + +“Guess he’s got pride ’nough. I’ve allus noticed ’at young folks hez +too much pride ’bout things ’at matter.” The old woman got stiffly to +her feet. “Guess I’ll go ’long over an’ set ’ith Jerushy Spinney fer a +spell. Still in bed, ain’t she?” + +“Yes, an’ likely ter stay thar. Doctor said ’smornin’ ’twuz the wust +stroke he’d ever see anybody hev.” + +“Sh’dn’t wonder. Allus hed considerable temper, Jerushy hed, an’ temper +brings its own reward. You comin’ ’long?” + +“No, don’t guess I kin. Got a mess uv biscuits ter make when I git +these here cookies done an’ a couple uv pies.” + +“Wa-al, I won’t be long.” + +Gathering an ample gray shawl about her shoulders and grasping her +stick, Grammy Tagel went down the steps and along the path to the +Spinney house. But she did not spend many minutes there. On learning +that Mrs. Spinney was asleep she declined an invitation to come in and +sit for a while, and turned to hobble along the road. + +“Mercy me!” Mrs. Widden exclaimed, “ef ’at ain’t Grammy Tagel comin’ +ter see us!” She hastened to the door. “Come right in, Grammy! I wuz +kinder wonderin’ ef ye’d drop in ter see us er ef ye wouldn’t--things +bein’ like they air.” She ushered her visitor into the kitchen. + +“When ye git ter be my age, Lucindy,” Grammy Tagel replied, “ye won’t +pay much ’tention ter folks’ foolishness”; then, as Emily put down her +crocheting and came forward to place a chair for the old woman, “Ye +don’t say this is Em’ly! My, ain’t she growed up!” + +“Sure is,” Mrs. Widden rejoined. “Kain’t make myself b’lieve it +sometimes.” + +Grandmother Tagel regarded the girl searchingly, nodded as though some +question in her mind had been answered satisfactorily, and said, “I +stopped in ter see Jerushy Spinney on my way over. They been wonderin’ +ef they’d oughter move her downstairs, but I tol’ ’em ter wait till +they’d talked ’ith you. I said ef anybody’d know whether they’d oughter +move her it’d be Lucindy Widden.” + +“S’pose I best go over some time today,” Mrs. Widden mused. + +“Yes, ef I wuz in yer place I’d go right now an’ see how things air. +I’ll jes’ set here an’ talk whilst ye’re gone.” + +“Wa-al, I won’t be long.” + +When Mrs. Widden’s apron-clad form had disappeared up the road +Grandmother Tagel beckoned to Emily. + +“Come here an’ set down by me,” she said. “I got somethin’ ter tell ye +’at mebbe ye’ll be glad ter hear.” + + * * * * * + +The sunshine of early afternoon had disappeared, swallowed up in +threatening, black clouds which trailed sooty vapors faster and faster +across the sky. Fitful gusts of wind had begun to lash the tops of the +long rollers into foam. Waves climbed higher and higher, vainly seeking +to escape the fury of the wind. Like a toy in the hands of an angry +child the fishing-boat was tossed and shaken violently to and fro. It +slipped sideways in the trough of a wave, started sluggishly to climb, +stopped half-way, and buried its nose in the water, which swept over +the canvas covering the bow and flew backward in sheets of spray. + +The girl, who had until now been working frantically over the engine, +started up, grasped the tiller-ropes, and coaxed the bow up into the +wind. With no power to keep it going the little craft dropped off again +and swung about. The next wave caught it a violent blow and poured +water over the canvas until the floor of the boat was awash. + +“Ef I c’d only make this en-jine go!” Sweat stood out on the girl’s +face in spite of the bitter chill which had crept into the air. +Lifting an arm impatiently, she swept the damp hair back from her +forehead and once more bent over the lifeless engine. + + * * * * * + +It had seemed such an easy thing to do a half-hour back. She had left +Grammy Tagel sitting by the fire and hurried down to the dock, the +old woman’s words ringing in her ears: “They’s only one time ter put +trouble straight an’ ’at’s right away.” + +She hadn’t even noticed that a storm was gathering. Her father’s boat +was not at the mooring. That meant he had gone to Portland. He wouldn’t +be back before five or six o’clock, and she couldn’t ask any one to +take her--not with the whole Harbor knowing about her quarrel with +Orin. It had seemed such a simple thing to just take Will Ellery’s boat +for an hour. He wouldn’t be using it again until tomorrow morning and +the engine was the same as her father’s. Who would think that it would +stop when she was out here opposite the Head? + +A huge, wind-driven mountain of water towered suddenly above the +helpless boat, crashed down, just missing the bow and blotting out +the world in a welter of foam. A white squall! She _must_ make land +somehow. The boat wouldn’t ride out a squall with the engine crippled. + +She couldn’t even hope for the chance of a tow. The weather-wise +fishermen had seen the storm coming and were all safe in harbor. If +only the engine would start she could still make the shelter beyond +Bald Head although wind and tide were sweeping her each moment farther +and farther out to sea. + +Against the frail shelter of canvas the wind was now beating with long +moans that ended in furious shrieks. All around the drifting boat the +waves rose, horrible monsters with the foam of madness on their lips. +They struck against the boat with blows that made the frail thing +tremble like a creature in the last agony of fear. It plunged, rose, +and plunged again, vainly striving to shake off its tormentors. Long, +jagged streaks of lightning played across the sky and were reflected +fearfully in the black, tossing water, but no rain fell. If it would +only begin to rain! The sea would grow calm with the rain lashing +across it. But still the pent-up torrents remained in the black clouds. +Wind and sea screamed across the world. + +Suddenly a new sound, a sound as of giant drums beaten furiously, made +the girl creep to the stern of the boat, heedless of the lashing spray, +and stare westward. + +Old Man Ledge! The helpless boat was being carried straight toward it, +to the place where mighty waves lifted high in air before crashing down +on the jagged teeth of the reef. No boat could live once it was caught +in the grip of that swirling water! The girl sank to the floor of the +boat, shivering convulsively, her fear-numbed hands still clutching the +tiller-ropes. + +At sight of the approaching storm Orin Pettishall ceased work on the +dock and went up to the house to close windows and make everything +secure. Kindling a heap of driftwood he had piled in the fireplace, he +sat down before it to watch the leaping flames. The wind struck against +the old house, rattling windows and screaming angrily around the +gables. Through the windows, which looked westward, the boy could see +inky clouds rolling above the water and watch the giant waves pounding +across Old Man Ledge. + +“Gosh, I hope ev’ybody’s in!” + +Even as he spoke Pettishall’s eyes were caught by a black speck which +showed for a moment on the crest of a wave, then sank from sight. When +it appeared again the speck was farther out. It was some time before it +rose again, and then the young fisherman’s experienced eyes told him +something was wrong. No one would dare go near Old Man Ledge in such a +storm. He looked again, then hurried out of the room. A moment later he +was running down toward the dock, struggling into a sweater as he ran. +By the time he reached his boat, started the engine, and headed out +toward sea, the storm had burst in full fury. + +Yielding to the furious onset of wind and sea, his boat checked, then +came up stanchly to its work, water and spray streaming from the canvas +covering, rising and plunging while the engine coughed convulsively. +Pettishall bent over the engine, nursing it with care against the +onslaughts of flying spray while he guided, almost instinctively, the +desperate battle his boat was making. Twice only did he catch sight +of the helpless craft which was his goal and each time his heart came +up into his throat sickeningly, for it seemed that no power on earth +could snatch it away from the threatening reef. Still he urged his boat +on, confident in its strength, in the power of the engine choking and +coughing at its labor. + +A third time the drifting boat rose. “Will Ellery!” the boy gasped in +astonishment, but the wind caught up the words and seemed to drive +them back into his mouth. Now he was near it! He swung his own boat +out in a wide circle, rope coiled in his hand ready to throw. A figure +in oilskins scrambled to its feet and called something which he could +not hear. His spray-blinded eyes tried to measure the distance between +the boats. He threw the rope, only to see it fall short in the boiling +water. + +No one but a fisherman, born and bred to the world-old cruelty of +the sea, could have coaxed his boat once more near the disabled one, +fighting inch by inch nearer to the reef, the roar of its waters +beating in his ears and the driven spray striking against his face like +flying needles. Only a fisherman, fighting desperately for the life +of another, would have dared swing his boat in until for one ghastly +moment it stood poised on the crest of a giant wave, directly above the +one which wallowed helplessly in the trough beneath. It slipped, clung +to the wall of water for the eternity of a second, then plunged, barely +missing the other. In the moment he shot past, Pettishall flung the +rope outward. As it was caught and made fast he saw the girl’s white +face and knew who it was he had come out to rescue. + +Blinding torrents of rain had begun to fall, drawing a swirling white +curtain across the water. Presently the rain would cease and the sea +grow calm, but there could be still no question of rounding the Head. +He would have to take Emily ashore with him instead of bringing her +home. + +Towing the crippled boat as far back of him as the length of his +painter permitted, Pettishall at last gained shelter. After making his +own boat fast to its mooring he drew in the other. + +Emily looked up and made a brave attempt to smile. Glancing sharply at +her blue lips and haggard face, the boy swept her into his arms and put +her down in the dory. + +“Hev ye ashore in a minute.” Swiftly he moored the second boat and then +dropped into the dory with her. When they reached the dock he asked +anxiously, “S’pose ye kin go up the ladder?” + +“Sure I kin.” She stood up, swayed, and would have fallen had he not +caught her. + +“I kin walk now,” she told him when he had climbed with her to the +dock, and went slowly beside him along the path to the house. + +In the living room the fire still burned. Orin threw an armful of wood +on it. + +“Set up here close an’ git yerself good an’ warm,” he said. “Maw left +a dress here the day she come over ter clean fer me. I’ll fetch it fer +ye.” + +When he returned a second time, after leaving oilskins and seaboots in +the kitchen, Emily looked up and smiled. + +“I’m a’ right now,” she told him. “I wuz jes’--jes’ kinder upset.” + +“Yes,” he returned grimly, “sh’dn’t wonder ef ye wuz. What wuz ye doin’ +out in ’at boa-at? Ye might ’a’ been--ef I hedn’t happened ter see +ye--” The words stuck in his throat. + +“I’d ’a’ been drownded,” she said soberly, “ef ye hedn’t come out. I’d +’a’ struck the ledge in no time. I wuz comin’ here,” she explained +simply. “I hed ter see ye.” + +“Comin’ ter see me?” he echoed incredulously. “Comin’ here?” + +She nodded. “I hed somethin’ ter tell ye--somethin’ ’at made me want +ter git here fast ez ever I c’d. Set down here by me. I kin tell it +plainer ef ye do.” She nestled her cold fingers in his. + +“It’s what Grammy Tagel tol’ me,” she began, “’bout this house an’ +the grave out yan an’ how they happened ter be. She wuz only a young +’un when it happened, but she says ’at she minds the awful storm an’ +hearin’ folks tell ’bout how Captain Beath’s vessel wuz wrecked on Ol’ +Man Ledge an’ nobody saved, only jes’ him. Seven men in the crew an’ +only him saved, an’ he wouldn’t ’a’ been ef it hedn’t been fer one uv +the men. Him an’ Captain Beath hed gone ter school tergether an’ they’d +allus been friends, Grammy says. + +“They wuz hangin’ onto the dory, jes’ the two uv ’em. The vessel was +bustin’ up an’ they wa’n’t no trace uv the other men. Twict Captain +Beath wuz washed off, but the other feller got him both times an’ +fetched him up. The las’ time he says, ‘Ye got ter hang onto the +plug-strap. It’s yer turn,’ he says, but Captain Beath allus said +arterwards ’at it wuzn’t his turn. + +“Grammy says ’at when the captain come ter hisself he wuz layin’ on the +beach here. The storm wuz over an’ the sea wuz all shinin’ an’ blue. +He got up onto his feet an’ called fer his friend an’ then went ’round +lookin’ fer him, but they wa’n’t nobody else thar--only the shinin’ +water an’ the white beach an’ the tide comin’ in. They never found no +sign uv the other feller, never--” + +“The other feller,” Orin asked in a hushed voice, “who wuz he?” + +“Arter a while the captain built him a house here, so’s he c’d allus +see the place whar him an’ his friend wuz tergether fer the las’ time. +Grammy says ’at when folks made him see ’at his friend hadn’t been +saved it wuz then he put up the gravestun--kinder so’s they c’d be +tergether like they’d allus been. He uster tend it an’ put flowers on +it an’ got inter the habit uv settin’ out thar an’ talkin’. + +“They wa’n’t never nothin’ in the grave, nothin’! Grammy says ’at’s +the way things often is--’at folks makes trouble an’ sorrer fer +tharselves an’ fer others over things ’at wa’n’t never thar in the fust +place--like--like I done--” The words were lost in a passion of tears. + +The boy swept her into his arms, murmuring broken words: “It’s a’ +right! They wa’n’t never nothin’ wrong, Em’ly. It’s a’right!” + +Emily stood up at length, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Look,” she +said, “the storm’s breakin’.” + +The rain, which had been pattering steadily on the old roof, had +ceased. A broad band of sunlight streamed through the western window, +flooding across the quiet old room like a benediction. + +“Come on,” the girl said in a low voice, “it’ll be a good time arter +the rain ter pull weeds. We got ter git all the weeds ’way f’om ’round +the grave. I’m glad they’s lots uv lilies still so’s I kin trim it up +nice. Arter a while they’ll be bayberry an’ maple leaves fer me ter put +on it--an’ in winter they’ll be pine.” + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [15] Copyright, 1925, by The Pictorial Review Company. + Copyright, 1926, by May Stanley. + + + + + SIX DOLLARS[16] + + By WILBUR DANIEL STEELE + + (From _The Pictorial Review_) + + +When Tansy Snow was a young man of eighteen or nineteen he went one +night to the Stone Fold. The Stone Fold is an islet lying about two +miles to the southeast of us. There is a house on it built of stones, +and a sheep-shelter, and toward the southern end three thorn trees. + +Tansy took his father’s skiff and steered straight through the shoals +that lie that way, guided by the lamp in the garret of the house. +Donna, who had been in town with her father two days before, told him +she would put it there when the old man was asleep and the dogs shut up. + +Donna Salisbury wasn’t pretty. And she would have been better for a +mother’s care; better to look at. As you’d expect, living with only a +shepherd father, her clothes were heavy, stout things, fitted mostly +by guess, and none too clean, and her hair was thick and untended, and +the color of her father’s sheep. But she was strong, stronger than a +boy, and if her face had a dull look, there was something behind the +dullness that would make a fellow stop to look again, especially when +stars were bright enough to cast shadows among the rocks and the gray +grass. + +Tansy couldn’t understand why he should want to have anything to do +with her. He’d been to the Academy and now he had a position in the +new bank; he had to wear decent clothes every day, clean collars, and +polished boots; it went deeper than that: he had every day to be a +decent _man_ and wear a clean conscience; otherwise the pointing finger +of the banking business would find him out--bound to--in the long run +of a man’s life. + +He had been to the Stone Fold three times, steering by the light. +This time he was coming simply to say he wasn’t coming. It would be +awkward telling the girl. For a day and a night he had been busy trying +to think up something humane, but at the same time final. Finished. +Chopped off. + +He hadn’t guessed how awkward it would be, after all. They couldn’t +talk there on the beach on account of the dogs; they had to go along a +way. Occasional clouds, great fluffs of things, sailed over the sky, +and in the dark when they covered the stars Donna led him, taking his +fingers in her strong, dull, warm, eager hand. + +He would have said it at the first turn of the shore, but the surf on +the bar there was too loud; he didn’t want to shout. He would have said +it when they started inland toward the thorn-trees, but now they had +got into the wind, the full weight of the wind that came in from the +open sea and bore the great clouds among the stars and made a living +sound among the grasses. He would have said it under the thorn tree, +but under the thorn tree was Donna. + +It was half-past two when he left the island, and he hadn’t said it +yet. What he _had_ said he could hardly remember. Sometimes words, +fragments of sentences, promises, will come from a man’s mouth as if it +were some one else speaking: things he doesn’t mean at all. + +He pushed the skiff off the sand, holding it by the painter. + +“When’ll you be again?” she whispered. + +Now was the time to tell her. She might have seen how pale he was; +might have helped him by saying something. But she was a dumb young +thing and she hadn’t a word. Of a sudden he reached into his pocket and +pulled out the money he had there and thrust it into her hands. + +She was a dumb one, and she couldn’t make it out. + +“What’s this?” + +“I want you should buy yourself some present or other.” + +“Huh?” + +The dogs in the sheepfold began to bark. Tansy jumped into the skiff +and pushed off, leaving Donna to stand there, dumber than ever. + +He had a fair wind back and put up the sail. + +It was six dollars he had given her, a lot of money, the whole of his +first week’s wages. There were things he could have bought with that: +a new tire for his bicycle, and a Young People’s Union pin to give +Elsie Baker on her birthday. But it was all right. Better to start off +clear--not a debt outstanding--no matter what the cost might be. + +Even yet, though, he didn’t feel quite right. When he got home and up +to his room he had three hours to sleep, but he couldn’t sleep. He was +disgusted with himself. His memory reviewed the night with shame and +loathing. He saw the path down which he had started, and even if he had +got out of it now, it was disgusting to remember. + +All next day he felt drugged and haggard. He made mistakes with +figures, so that Mr. Matheson had to speak to him. But what was it? +He’d paid, hadn’t he? Squared up? Given everything he had to the girl? + +Yes, but how about the Lord God? Slowly, as the day went by, he saw +this. You can’t pay God with money. + +There was a sociable at Center Church that night. He had asked to see +Elsie Baker home. He looked so ill at supper time that his mother +advised him to stay in. To her surprise he acquiesced without trouble. +He went upstairs. When he was half undressed for bed, however, he +couldn’t do it. Getting dressed again, he stole out the back way and +went and stood behind a tree near the church and watched the people +going in. + +The windows were bright and there were sounds of a good time, a hymn, +then after a decent interval laughter and runnings about, games. Tansy +walked across the street and stood at the steps. + +He had given the girl everything he had. Can you give more than you +have? And, anyway, any girl that would do that! + +Yes, yes; but how about the Lord God? + +He went around to the wagon-shed, and in the dark there he fell on +his knees. “O, Heavenly Father, I’ve walked in evil; I’ve committed a +grievous sin; I beg Thee to forgive me in Thy mercy. I repent. O God, I +repent; I do, I do, honestly! Honestly, God, honestly----” + +In the church they were singing “My Country, ’Tis of Thee.” + +Tansy got up and brushed off his knees. His weariness was gone, like a +heavy coat he might have taken off and left there in the shed. In its +place there was a sense of security and well-being, such as comes after +a bath at the end of a sweaty day. He slipped back to his room and put +on his blacks, and, coming down the front way, he said he thought he +would go to the sociable. There was no turning him. + +Actually he didn’t go in, but waited on the steps. There was something +about his feelings that would no more have mixed with the romping and +the din than oil will mix with water. Yet it was marvelous just to sit +apart and listen to it, especially when the organ struck into some +familiar air, and all sang, soprano and alto, tenor and bass. It was +marvelous to be whiter than snow, one with God, a little child. + +He saw Elsie home, after all. It was only a couple of hundred yards, +down the shore street and up London Lane, but he would never forget it. +It was the first time he’d known that love and reverence could be one +and the same thing. Earthly love and religious reverence. + +Elsie was so pretty, so enchanting in ribbons and laces, so pure, +as pure as a flower on which God’s sun shines and God’s rain falls +unfailing, as if He were saying in the sun and rain: “Of such is the +portion of them that think none but healthy thoughts and dream none but +wholesome dreams; yea, even to the third and the fourth generation.” + +Elsie’s great-grandfather it was who gave the land for the Atheneum. +Her grandfather rescued the missionaries in Paul Straits, and founded +the “Light in Darkness.” Her father and mother were in the forefront of +everything for decency and right living, and they were well-to-do. + +The forefathers of that girl on the Stone Fold--what could they have +been? By what steps of wrong thinking, of evil impulses given way to +and higher impulses denied, must that strain have come down? + +But now, because something had been changed in him, Tansy could think +of her with nothing but pity. + +In London Lane the lights, shining up under the willows, made it seem +the nave of some dim cathedral, in which a boy and a girl walked +together. And then Elsie was up on her stoop and he stood at the foot +of the steps. + +“W-e-l-l?” she said. The light from the two long panes flanking the +door fell softly on either side of her figure. + +“Elsie,” he said, “excepting for my father and mother there’s nobody in +the world but you amounts to _that_, with me.” + +“What _are_ you saying, you silly?” + +She came back down the steps to read the silly’s eyes. She was so good +she didn’t guess the risk. He could have grabbed her and kissed her. + +But not he; not now! He kept his hands behind him. + +“Elsie, you wait and see. Some day I shall be the biggest man in this +town.” It wasn’t like boasting. “For your sake,” he might have said. + +He marveled as he walked homeward. On one side there were loveliness, +niceness, world’s goods; on the other unloveliness, a hard living, the +scorn of friends. Yet did God ask him to choose the stony way? By a +miracle, no. God asked him to choose the way it would have been the +part of even the worldly-wise to choose. + +Marveling so, as he crossed above the White Boys’ place he spied a +pin-prick of light away out beyond the Point. It was as though it +rested on the low neck of sand, a fallen star. + +“_Tonight?_” He felt angry. “She’s got her cheek, I must say!” + +On impulse he went down to his father’s wharf, cast off the skiff’s +painter, and got in. He would finish _that_ off. He would tell Donna +what was what. Straight from the shoulder! Then, before he had got the +oars out, he realized that it was only the devil tempting him, weaving +any arguments at all, just to get him out there to the Stone Fold again. + +He made the boat fast and went home. His parents were still up. He +shook his father’s hand and kissed his mother on the brow. She eyed him +with a knowing little smile. “Been seeing Elsie Baker home?” + +Tansy stood with his jaw out. + +“I’ve made a decision to-night,” he said. “Some day I shall be the +biggest man in this town.” + +He married Elsie Baker on the day he was made assistant cashier at the +bank. Within three months he was cashier. + +People trusted him. “No need to count your money when it’s Tansy passes +it out of the till.” His word was as good as a bond; better, for bonds +can be lost or burned or stolen. + +Old man Baker bought the Dow residence in the Brick Walk, had it +renovated, and gave it to the couple as a wedding-present. Nothing +could have been fitter. It was the smallest of the big houses built at +the height of the California days, brick for walls, slate for roofing, +and a wrought-iron grill around the turf-plot. Four-square with the +street, a house of strength and dignity. It was not too large, and +that was fit, too. In the great-grandfather’s family there were eleven +children; in the grandfather’s, fourteen; in the father’s, three. Elsie +herself had none. + +It was a town house, pure and simple; the Dows had always been +shorefolks, lawyers and doctors and the like. From the windows of the +guest-chamber upstairs, full of leafy boughs and neighboring gables, +you might have been a thousand miles from the nearest salt; the +sewing-room was the same, and so was the west-chamber, that had always +been known as “the children’s room.” Yet it is a hard thing to find a +house in Urkey without some peep of the water; even at Gramma Pilot’s, +about as thoroughly shut in as any in town, you’ve but to climb to the +garret to get a sight of blue under the rod of the drug-store chimney. +We may wear Brockton shoes, but we’re a web-footed race for all that. + +And so it was from the “used chamber” in the new Snow home. + +The first time they slept there after their wedding-tour to Boston +Elsie awoke in the middle of the night. For a moment she couldn’t say +why. It was too queer. She didn’t stir; simply lay there trying to +think what it was could be wrong. It wasn’t for instants that she +recollected where she was, that she was married, that her husband was +there beside her. She slid a hand over his pillow to touch his head. +There was no head to touch. She was so startled she didn’t know what +to do or think. She went cold. Then, of course, when she began to paw +around, her hand found Tansy’s back. He was sitting up in bed; that was +all. + +“What _is_ the _matter_?” she demanded, she was so upset. + +“Nothing. Why, nothing at all.” And he lay back on the pillow. + +But by and by, when he thought her asleep, he was up again, on an +elbow, looking at the window over the foot of the bed. Like burglars. + +You know the feeling of that. Up went Elsie without a word, staring +at that window too. And there was nothing there. Nothing but the rear +corner of Center Church, one side, and the corner of the Nickerson +house, the other, and their one outlook on the harbor in the slit +between. By day there would have been a bit of the harbor, a segment +of the Point, and out to sea. Now there was nothing but the spark of +a chance light; it might have been at the masthead of some vessel at +anchor; it was too low for a star. + +She was provoked. “What _are_ you _gawping_ at?” + +“Nothing. Why, nothing in the world. What makes you think I----” + +“Is it that light?” + +“Wha--what light?” + +“Well, I’m all afidget now.” + +He lay back and comforted her. They were young. + +Next morning, at the chamber-work, Elsie made a discovery. + +“You remember that light last night, Tansy?” she laughed at +supper-time. “Well, ’twas nothing but old Cabe Sal’sbury’s light in his +house over to the Stone Fold; you can see how it ranges in daylight. +Must be some one sick.” + +“Or else Cabe’s a great student,” she modified it when, at bedtime, she +saw the lamp burning again in the window on the Stone Fold. + +“What you say to closing those blinds?” Tansy suggested. “I vow there’s +a tang in the air to-night.” + +No, Elsie wouldn’t listen to that. + +“The best doctors nowadays say all the air you can have in your bedroom +is none too much, even in winter-time. I’d suffocate.” + +It was the following day that Tansy began to seem restless. To begin +with, he didn’t see where they were going to expect much company, +overnight, all their friends being local people, with houses of their +own. So why didn’t they shift into the front chamber, which was +roomier, with two closets; and as for air, certainly there was as much +air coming up the Brick Walk as there was in the church back yard. + +“My _spare_ chamber?” was all Elsie could gasp. + +“Or even the west chamber----” + +“The _children’s_ room?” + +Elsie went straight to her mother about it. Her mother smiled. Phidela +Baker had been a young woman once, with a new young husband and a new +house of her own. “They’re all the same; Providence made ’em so. Ever +notice a dog that’s made up his mind to lie down in a certain spot? +Made up or no, he’s got to wander and fidget a dozen times around it +first, before he settles down. Don’t you take on.” + +“But over and above everything,” was the parting advice, “don’t you +start out by humoring him too much. Be cheery, but put your foot down.” + +So when Elsie found Tansy at work one of those days, surreptitiously, +trying to get the bureau switched for the bed, and the carpet in a +tangle with it, she put her foot down. He looked foolish to be caught +so. His face got redder and redder. + +“Light shines in my eyes. That is--in the mornings.” + +“Can you _imagine_ how this room would _look_?” She demolished him +ruthlessly, but all the while with a smile. + +That smile of Elsie Snow’s grew famous. No matter if this went bad and +that worse, Tansy Snow’s wife always had a smile, always seemed to +be saying, like her mother before her: “Don’t you take on; God will +provide.” + +Her energy was amazing and fruitful. Once she was married and settled +down, and since she had no children to stop her, she was able to be a +power for good. She was a treasure for Tansy; she saved his pennies; +where another in her place might have got trained help from the +mainland she did with young girls to come in, carried the bulk of the +house herself, and never looked the worse for it. + +As she matured she rounded out amazingly; folks wouldn’t have believed +it, from the slip of a girl she had been. But no matter how full her +hands were, they were never too full to spare a finger where help was +needed. In the church, in the Dorcases, in the “Light in Darkness,” in +the Town Farm Association, at Easter, Thanksgiving, Memorial Day, the +word came to be: “See Elsie Snow; she’ll manage.” + +There were plenty to say that her capacity for managing didn’t go for +nothing in Tansy’s affairs. Certainly, once, when he wouldn’t have +foreclosed on Mrs. Hemans’s store--which was going to be a valuable +property as soon as the fish-freezer was built--certainly then it was +his wife showed the common sense of the two, asking him plainly: “Which +do you figure you owe the most to, Sarah Hemans or the men and women +and children that’ve got their all in your bank?” + +Yet too much may have been made of that. Tansy was honest, and honesty +goes a long way. When he made a statement across his desk in the +bank-block--it mattered not whether it was to the highest or the +humblest--that statement held. And yet, again, in another way, where +would he have been if it hadn’t been for her? People would really have +forgotten that he was alive. + +Tansy had turned out a silent and unsociable man. He never went to the +post-office; his mail came to the bank. From there home he took the +back way; that was about the only place, except church, you’d ever see +him, and then half the time he wouldn’t see you, walking as he did with +his eyes on the ground, studying. + +A silent man is a wise one: that’s common knowledge. Tansy ought to +have been Selectman. Yet he never was. It hurt Elsie. Fall after fall, +as town meeting came and passed, and somehow or other Tansy’s name +wasn’t mentioned, it got deeper and deeper under her skin. Of course +nobody ever knew. It wasn’t anything you could say anything about. But +it was bitter when she recollected the young Tansy standing at the +bottom of the steps and vowing: “Some day I shall be the biggest man in +this town.” + +She never mentioned it directly to her husband. The nearest she came +was when she would plague him: “Why _don’t_ you see more of folks? I +declare, I can’t make you out. What good does it do going to church if +you don’t take a hand in any of the activities? Or in town affairs? +See here now, So-and-so and So-and-so are coming in after supper about +the cake-sale, and I want you to put on your blacks and stay down +awhile--and talk. ’Twouldn’t harm you to crack a joke, even. Be cheery!” + +Tansy would change his collar and put on his blacks. He never crossed +his wife; never put _his_ foot down. Never but once. That was when +Elsie, perceiving at last that there was to be no one for the +“children’s room,” and moved by something too vague to say, suggested +they might be more comfortable in the west chamber, after all, as he +himself had said. It was the first time she had ever heard him speak as +he did. “We’ll stay where we are.” And they had stayed. + +But so he would freshen up after supper and come down as she bade +him and sit, absent of eye and mind, in a corner of the cake-sale +conference. Ten minutes. Half an hour. Then presently, as things warmed +up, like dew under the heightening sun, he would be found to be not +there. “Studying,” his wife would have to tell them with a sigh. “What +can a body do with a man whose work is never done? Up there in the +dark, from now to bedtime, like as not, studying, studying. You’d never +guess. But I declare if some folks were to work the amount Tansy Snow +does, and take on so blessed little about it-- Well, well. And now, +who’s it arranged shall get the paper for the streamers and festoons?” + +So Tansy would sit there, studying. All alone in the “used chamber,” +in the dark, in his shirt-sleeves, in the rocker. Studying, studying. + +First, in the early days, he thought it was a sin. It seemed to him +that it must be Satan himself who was putting that lamp in Donna’s +garret on the Stone Fold, night after night after night, to mock him, +around the very corner of the church of God, and beckon him from the +very pillow where he lay beside his wife. + +At first he was angry. “The cheek of her!” She knew he was married, +must know it; she had been in town with her father many times; he +had seen their boat. Yes, he had seen _her_--at a distance. Angry +and scared. Anything to escape that ray that poisoned his thoughts, +his dreams! Any room, any window, but that! Angry, scared, and +_fascinated_! That was the worst. Fascinated, so that it ate a hole +in the fabric of his honesty, like a moth-hole, tiny enough to escape +notice, but big enough to let a lie through. + +“I’ve to step upstairs and get my slippers, wife dear.” + +“You’re tired, Tansy; let me go.” + +“No, no, you stay by the fire and read; I’ll be but a moment, dear.” + +For a while he was ashamed of himself. He ran to the stairs and started +down if he heard Elsie coming. He felt he ought to make it up to her +somehow, pet her, show himself ten times more fervent than it was in +his nature to be. But that couldn’t last. Nothing that’s not in a man’s +nature can last. What _is_ in his nature will out. + +It’s in the nature of islanders to be weather-vanes. As the weather +goes, so do our spirits. There’s none that hasn’t, in some one of his +generations, had a ship. So, even though her husband was a confirmed +shore body, Elsie never thought it anything out of the way that he +should be weather-tender, and show it by fidgeting and prowling on +nights when the fog came and the wind was in the east. + +Through the spring and summer of their first year there was prevailing +fair weather, and only rarely a night like that--a blessed one (at +first) when the star on the Stone Fold was blotted out--a torment +(later on) when Tansy was upstairs as much as down, stealing peeps, +dreading, hoping. In September, though, there came a real spell, five +days of it as thick as a hat. In the night of the fourth a lobsterman +named Antony Coral claimed to have seen Mr. Snow of the bank in a dory +in Chalk Ground Slough, toward the Stone Fold--was near to running into +him--fact! + +If a tale like that had been let go far it might have harmed a man in +Snow’s position. But it didn’t go far. Before his mates at the dock had +got through guying the credulous “Portugee,” he began to wonder if he +hadn’t been asleep at his oars, after all, and dreaming dreams, and he +never brought it up again. + +One thing about that night is certain, however: Tansy wasn’t at home. +Another thing is certain: it was he that was rowing the dory in Chalk +Ground Slough, toward the Stone Fold. And it wasn’t above five minutes +after he had avoided collision with Coral’s lobster-boat that, close +aboard the island beach, he made out finally a disk of warm light the +size of a penny, up in that part of the vapors where Donna’s garret +window ought to be. + +That settled it. That made it another thing. Had it been no more than +spite, Donna wouldn’t have wasted oil and wick in weather that would +smother the spark in twenty rods, and never a chance in God’s world +for Tansy to see and suffer. It was something in _her_ made her do it, +then; like an act in some ritual of memory. Turning his boat around, he +rowed for home. What he had found out filled him with a sense of pity. +No, not pity. There was solemnity, tragedy in it, but it wasn’t pity, +nor sorrow. + +After that he began to lose his feeling of shame when he made excuses +to slip away upstairs, till he made them no more. He no longer stole +peeps from the window; he sat there brazenly, “studying.” As time +went by, if the good people gathered in Elsie’s parlor--if they could +have seen him at the moment of his escape upstairs--they would never +have known him for Tansy Snow. His face was contorted. He shook his +fist. “----the lot of you, you gabbling, gossiping little parcel of +busybodies, you and your holy little schemes, your little brains! The +devil! What claim have you on _me_?” + +But when he had reached the bedroom and found the rocker and sat down +with his back to the bedpost and his sock-feet on the window-sill, +little by little the lines would vanish from his face. Little by +little as he watched the fallen star, or thought of it shining in +secret there, he forgot to hear the busy voices below; he heard the +wind running in gray grasses and the living sound of breakers on +far-strewn reefs and the dry rustle of leaves in a thorn tree. And +what had happened was that he was no longer surrounded by walls and +gables and hemmed in by the thoughts and needs and elbows of hundreds +of industrious little two-legged vegetables; the walls had melted, his +horizon was the horizon of dark ocean, and he walked in space. + +And a girl walked with him--no, a woman--no (as time passed), more than +a woman, a kind of goddess, sea-begot, earth-born, the soil of the +mother still carelessly on her, and she the stronger for it, and slow, +as the tides as slow, and generous, as the earth is generous with the +seeds of life, and brooding calm as the sky is, which, knowing nothing, +holds within itself all the generations of them that know all. Her hair +was thick and tangled, because the grass grows so; eyes heavy, because +they looked at things far off; hands large, because the blood that fed +them was warm; and her words little words, because only little words +can stay in the wind that blows from the caverns among the stars. + +“The gray ewe dropped twins in that brush-patch. That’s a good ewe.” + +And Tansy could imagine his own words as simple. “Yes, a good ewe.” + +“I like the feel of the wind, like tonight; there’s rain to come. I +like it to blow under my hair, the same as kisses. I love kisses.” + +“I love to kiss you. I love to be with you with nothing but water +roundabout and nothing but stars above, and all on earth asleep, hushed +up.” + +“They’re awake in China, though, for the world’s round like a ball.” + +“Most folks know the world’s round, yet they think it’s flat. I love +that in you, Donna; you can _feel_ it, you can _see_ it being round +like a ball. And you can see the stars being round like balls as big as +suns, to shine hot on other worlds where there were sheep and people +living and having twins and dead under the grass a million centuries +before Adam and Eve--and never a thought in all their races whether it +should be a thousand or twelve hundred on the Dee Nickerson house, or +something useful like aprons or something tasty like doilies at the +Dorcas meeting next Tuesday week. You see it. You feel it.” + +“Yes, Tansy, I see it. I feel it.” + +“You and I. I love you. And here we are at the tree.” + +Nor could he any longer, caught in the net of fantasy, recognize the +thing as sin. _There’s_ revenge for you. To have grown to be a man who +didn’t know right from wrong. Tansy, whose honesty was his strength! + +After all, he wasn’t a man; he was two men. It was the other that +became president of the bank, director in both the new freezers, and +owner of considerable property in the town. No one knew his duplicity. +How was it possible? Certainly, after living with him ten years, his +wife didn’t know. Donna herself, who might have guessed, might have +wished, even Donna couldn’t _know_. He could assure himself there +was no one. So he had forgotten what had happened that night in the +wagon-shed behind the church (and almost under his window now). He had +forgotten God, who never forgets. + +But God moves in a mysterious way. It was a mystery to all “what it +was bit Tansy” in his thirty-sixth year. There he was one week, a +bit stoop-shouldered perhaps, but wiry for all that and going his +way. Honest Tansy, who ought to have been Selectman--and why didn’t +_some_body ever put him up? And there he was the next week, and talk of +galloping consumption. Or Bright’s disease. Or what? + +They couldn’t have got it out of him; he was too close of mouth. Nor +dig and delve as they would they couldn’t get it out of Mrs. Snow. +She didn’t know; that’s why. He sleeps poorly; that’s about all she +could say. He would toss, his head as restless on the pillow as if it +wore a crown of thorns. Once when he thought her asleep he got up and +went into the spare chamber. From the hall where she had stolen she +saw him with a candle staring at his own face in the bureau glass. +The night-puffed face, the thinning hair, the stooped shoulders--in +the mirrored eyes there was the look of a soul in hell, self-pity, +self-hate, self-mockery. + +Elsie was worried in earnest. When, without warning, a day or so later, +he announced: “We’ll try the west room a spell for a change,” she was +quick to humor him. Yet it came to nothing. Before she had so much as a +bedsheet shifted, there he was back, bareheaded: “Let it be as ’twas.” + +Here are the facts. Tansy oughtn’t to have gone near the docks. For +years he had kept clear of them, by instinct more than by reason. Now +the mysterious way God took was to make him careless. It was a bright +and innocent morning anyway; insurance was wanted on a big yawl; it’s +better to see a risk with your own eyes than to go by hearsay. (If you +can see the risk.) + +Alongside the yawl three single-handers were lying, the men in them +sorting their last night’s catch; lusty, brawny young fellows, a +pleasure to the eye with their deep color and their flashing grins +(more pleasure to the eye than a banker in a night-shirt before a +looking-glass). And their voices, in the clear of the morning, were gay +and strong. + +Five years later Tansy could have repeated every syllable of every word: + +“Looks o’ that catch o’ yourn there, Eddie, you didn’t set no very +likely place last night, did ye?” + +“Aw, leave Eddie be, Sam. Didn’t ye hear the terrible thing? Got a good +fare o’ haddock, Eddie did, only he had to heave the best part away. +Turn out to be moth-millers when he come to look. Whatcha make o’ that?” + +“Laugh, you fellows; I like to hear ye. But if ye really want to know +who _’twas_ fishin’ the Stone Fold las’ night, don’t ask me; ask +Codhead Collins; he’s the boy’ll know.” + +“All right, all right, don’t jump so. All reminded me was, I was +thinking I noted a new little face on the beach over there when I come +by the old girl’s last week. And a new batch o’ wash on the line.” + +“Godfrey! How many’s that she’s got now?” + +“Don’t ask me; I ain’t the only dory in the fleet.” + +It wasn’t consumption; Tansy didn’t cough. Nor Bright’s disease; it +didn’t act that way. The doctor said it was just insomnia, and it came +from too much work. Human flesh can’t stand studying at a desk the +livelong day and then in a bedroom rocker half the night. He advised, +and Elsie insisted, that Tansy ease up, go off somewhere, and take a +holiday. + +“No, I’ll just see it through,” was all Tansy would say. + +When he said that morning: “We’ll try the west room a spell,” it was a +confession of rout. Once away from that window he might forget; that’s +how he figured it. He hadn’t yet got it through his head that God +never forgets. At the bank, who should be waiting to see him but two +of those trawlmen, Eddie and Sam. It was something about a loan; Tansy +hardly knew; the business was done mechanically; the whole sudden thing +_he_ saw was that he wasn’t to be let escape; that God had sent those +wind-browned lusty young fellows as a sign and reminder that by no +hiding of his eyes was he to be let forget. He faced it. + +When the emissaries were gone he got down on his elbows on his desk +and looked at his conscience, and he saw that in all those years of +letting his imagination run to that island, instead of keeping it home +of nights where it belonged, he had been doing a sinful thing. Now for +atonement he was given a cross to bear. In the long run, unless he bore +it without flinching, the failure would find him out. It was then, +forgetting his hat, he ran home to Elsie with his “Let it be as ’twas.” + +“As ’twas!” The irony! As though it could be any nearer to what it had +been than heaven is to hell. + +He tried never to flinch. Shirt-sleeves and sock-feet, “as ’twas,” he +sat there whole evenings through. No longer did he stride across the +wind-blown grass with Donna by his side. He ran at a crouch under cover +of the brush-patches, peeping, spying. Or he lay hidden as near as he +dared to the thorn tree, holding his breath and listening--to youth. + +Almost as bad as the jealousy was the shame. Beginning by boasting he +would be the biggest man in town, he had ended by being the least in a +shady brotherhood, the scummiest of the scum of the waterfront. + +Sometimes he had to flinch a little; sometimes, revoking the image of +the goddess he had created, he would rail at them. And now his “_I was +the first!_” was the whine of a whip, and he had to grovel: + +“Lord, when I have borne enough, in Thy mercy take it away.” + +There came a time when it seemed it was to be taken away. Mercy’s +instrument was Austin Dow, the proprietor of the Seaside Lunch +that came with the steamer, along with other changes, when the old +packet-schooner gave up. More and more excursionists were coming for +the day’s sail from Gillyport, with an hour ashore at noon, and Dow +got to thinking he’d have a sign put on his roof, a big fellow, one +you could read from the harbor coming in, with “SHORE DINNERS OUR +SPECIALTY” in letters five feet high. And he wanted a license from the +town. + +It came up in special meeting in January, and it made a stir. There +were forward-looking people who realized that times had changed, and +they spoke in favor. There were just as many against it, though not +quite so apt at saying why; anyway, it would be an eyesore to the +worshipers coming out of Center Church, that monstrosity on a roof +across the street. And then a man got up in the back of the hall and +asked permission to speak. + +The man was Tansy Snow. If it had been George True, the town dummy, +folks wouldn’t have been struck so dead. And that was only the +beginning. From the first the thing that had made it look as though Dow +might get the vote was that it was the business men that were with him; +it was the sentimental old ladies (male and female) that were against. + +And now to hear Banker Snow, the busiest business man of them all, the +dried-up human calculator, the man with no sentiment, no romance, no +imagination beyond set-down-five-and-carry-two--to see him standing +there like a born revivalist--and to hear him carrying on--diving back +into history and coming up again--his face running sweat and his eyes +as big as quarters with earnestness--reciting the beauty and dignity +and grandeur of our island metropolis--recalling the impressions of his +boyhood, the simple nobility of that shore-street sky-line, as great +epochs had builded it slowly--and then taking the proposed sign-board +as a symbol of all the ills the mainland suffers from, making bigness +an idol, bustle a religion, the dollar a god to trample them in the +dust--it was too much for the town meeting. When it came to a vote, +there wasn’t a voice for the lunchroom: Dow was too done up even to +lift his own. + +No one was more amazed than Elsie Snow, or more thrilled. If Tansy +didn’t fathom what he had done, or what was to follow, she did. As she +took him out and home through the streets where people lingered she +held him by the arm, “the biggest man in town”; you couldn’t fool Elsie +Snow. + +When they had undressed and she had blown out the light and gone +to lift the window, she stood for a moment dreaming down at Dow’s +lunchroom on the shore, bright in the moonlight in the bottom of the +crevice between the Nickerson house and the corner of the church, +and, “By gracious,” she mused, “it never till this instant occurred +to me, but it would’ve cut off half our one and only sea-view, that +monstrosity of his.” + +No, there was one more amazed than Elsie. + +Staring out through the moonlight, and through the darkness when the +moon had set, Tansy Snow was wondering: + +“Why in the name of the Eternal did I do that?” + +Elsie was right about consequences. The town waked up and rubbed its +eyes. Tansy Snow had pulled the wool over them for a couple of decades, +but he couldn’t do it any more. From the minute he sat down after his +speech in meeting there wasn’t a question in anybody’s mind but what +he’d be chosen Selectman the coming autumn, in place of John Matheson, +who was “getting through.” If he’d take it, that is. + +What a question! As we used to say: “Will a duck swim?” And yet very +presently here was Elsie Snow going around with another kind of smile +and another and mysterious light in her eye. She was a wonder, Elsie +was. + +How did she get wind of it? you’ll ask. But you must remember that, +what with being chairman of this, manager of that, and corresponding +secretary of the other, the banker’s wife had in her hands the ends of +more underground wires than any dozen in Urkey, and under-water wires +too, tapping the gossip of all the towns and precincts the length of +the Cape. And wise in politics, she knew that two and two, coming at +the right time and at all dramatic, are apt to make nearer forty than +four. And she knew that there is a tide in the affairs of men. And she +knew that it never rains but it pours. + +She could hear them at Gillyport: “Well, they say Honest Tansy Snow +opened up his mouth at last, and the man’s a spellbinder; vow he is.” +And at Barnstable: “They knew him, and they knew he meant it; he ain’t +the kind to spout for spoutin’ sake, Banker Snow ain’t. And they do say +there was a good many noses blowed there toward the end.” + +But Elsie knew more than that. Piecing it together in her astute mind, +from a hint here, an allusion there, a slip of somebody’s tongue or +pen, she knew a thing that only three men in the Congressional District +happened yet to know. And this was that “the party,” what with the +chill of old blood and the heat of bad blood, was secretly in a bad +way indeed; that it wanted a doctor, and wanted one quickly--with the +autumn elections coming forward, and a member of Congress to be sent to +Washington. No veteran; no silver-trumpeting old war-horse. No, a new +name, a fresh fame, a clean slate. + +“And where, oh, where,” thought Elsie, “where will the lightning +strike?” + +Selectman? Selectman of a village? That was why she smiled. Since +Barlow Atkins left Congress in 1884 people in Urkey had almost +forgotten that an islander could sit under the dome in Washington. “The +biggest man in this town.” She remembered the young Tansy standing up +straight in London Lane. Well, she’d see. + +One afternoon in mid-July the Knights came over in the steamer _Senator +Bates_ for their annual “time,” a clambake at Blue Goat Cove in the +evening and the sail back home by moonlight later on. When they had +marched the length of the shore street behind their band and got a +start for the cove, they took half the population with them, but they +left three of their own number behind. + +The sail was all right for these three, but they weren’t much on +clambakes. They’d rather loaf around the old town, looking at the +houses. Perhaps they were interested in architecture. Or perhaps it +was lightning-rods. They were Mr. Claude Byram of Gillyport, Captain +Charlie Slocum of Barnstable, and ex-Senator Bates himself, and they +were the three men in the district who knew what Elsie knew. As +they strolled they talked. They talked about Henry Poor, the young +lawyer in Provincetown, who, unheard of a year ago, had just won the +Province-land suit for the Commonwealth. They talked of the new man who +was making such a name for himself as head of the Highmarket Academy--a +scholar--no taint of politics there. And once or twice, lingering +near the end of the Brick Walk, “Well, here’s where _he_ lives,” they +temporized. “What do we say?” + +But they couldn’t seem quite to say. They had to talk it all over +again. Six o’clock passed. They had a snack at Dow’s place, and then it +was seven, and then it was eight. Elsie Snow wasn’t the woman to wait +forever. It was in the drug store, where they had stopped for cigars, +that she brought them to earth. + +“Captain Slocum, as I live! And _Mr._ Byram! And--_not_ Senator +_Bates_! Well, I declare, who’d have thought to find _you_ drifting +around our little town, and without a soul to manage for you? I give +you my word----” + +She gave them her word it was an outrage, and that even if there wasn’t +a committee of welcome, there was a home that would be honored by their +presence, and a fresh lemon layer-cake, and a drop of rhubarb wine, put +down the year she and Tansy were married. And Tansy _would_ be tickled. + +It seemed providential; seemed to help to clear their minds. When they +had arrived, most easily, most pleasantly, at the foot of the Snow +steps, they slackened pace and let their hostess go on in ahead. + +She made it simple for them. “I’ll run on and see Tansy’s fit to be +looked at; he’s that much of a home body, he’s probably in slippers +now.” + +“I guess, Mrs. Snow,” the Senator called after her, spokesman for the +three, “I guess you can tell Snow _we’ll_ be tickled to see _him_.” + +All the woman could think, and that over and over, was, “This is the +greatest day in Urkey’s history.” + +Tansy, hearing voices, was half-way upstairs. She bustled him up the +other half, the news on her tongue, but then it was too enormous to +tell. + +“Get into your blacks, and _hurry_,” she bade him; “there’s company.” + +As she turned and swept downstairs again to put the company at its ease +with ash-trays and cake and rhubarb wine, the chosen of fortune felt +along the wall for the chamber door; with a sigh. Why wouldn’t people +let him be? + +Once inside, he started toward the window, of habit a quarter-century +old. Then he remembered he was to hurry. Company. Who? Why had there +been that note in her voice? Perhaps at last it was somebody about the +autumn meeting and the Selectmanship. Oh, Tansy knew. He never let on, +but he wasn’t a fool And he wanted it--as he’d never wanted anything. +Why? For the name? Yes, in a way. More than anything in life, he wanted +to be able to go to that window and throw back the taunt of that +leering eye of light. + +“Yah! Take a look at me--the man that’s trusted above all others! +Selectman! The biggest man in this island and this town! You, and your +‘moth-millers,’ your dirty, filthy nobodies, look at me! Yah!” + +But he had been told to hurry. In that funny way--hurry! It was the +Selectmanship! As good as done already. Because he had been an upright +citizen and an honest man. Here he was at the window, after all. + +It wasn’t a “Yah!” It wasn’t a sound, nothing formed, just a formless +outlashing of a life that was tired in secret; secretly, prematurely +old. Then, as he looked again, he lifted a hand and drew it across his +eyes. + +“Fog coming in. Won’t have much of a moonlight sail, that crowd.” + +He removed his hand and stared. There was no fog. The sky was as clear +as glass and full of stars. He put his other hand on the bedpost. The +bedpost was solid, anyway. + +“Good God! What’s--wh-what’s happened? What’s wrong?” + +Elsie couldn’t keep them occupied forever, even with cake and rhubarb +wine. Minutes are minutes to such men. When fifteen had passed, and +Slocum had looked at his watch twice, she went to the stairs and +called. Then, laughing, “What would you do with such a man?” she +marched up to find him. The bedroom was dark, and he wasn’t there. She +went to the spare chamber, to the west chamber, down the back way to +the kitchen. She returned to their bedroom; he _must_ be there. + +She felt on the bed, the chair; she stood staring out of the window. + +She shut her eyes and opened them again. A curious uneasiness, having +nothing to do with the company downstairs, seemed to lay hold of her. + +“Fog,” she said to herself. + +She turned around. What was the matter with this room tonight? Why +was everything so--so--so wrong--so lost--so funny? She touched the +bedpost. It was solid enough. She glanced toward the window again. + +She laughed. She saw what was wrong, and it was ridiculous. For two +dozen years, without knowing it, she had depended on seeing a light +there when the weather was clear. When it was thick, there was no +light; no light, it must be thick. And here it was clear, and no light. +Absurd, but it had given her the jumps. + +That shows what habit is. + +Rid of the spell, she remembered what she was about. Her lips whiter +and whiter with anger, running on frantic tip-toe, she searched the +house. + +Coming through the parlor she was all cheer. “Tansy’ll be down +directly,” she promised them, and, slipping out of the door, she was +gone. + +Time passed. Once or twice they heard a voice calling “Tansy! Tansy!” +off in the distance, among the houses and lanes. + +They got to talking. “You can’t tell me this fellow Poor hasn’t made +a big impression, especially down-Cape.” “Yes, but he’s a lawyer, and +that means politician to lots of people. Now this man McDowell over at +the Academy----” + +When Mrs. Snow reappeared it was awkward. They didn’t want to seem to +run, but there was a man Byram ought to see, and there was the boat. + +They got out backward, Slocum saying: “We’re right sorry not to have +seen Snow,” and the old Senator adding a word of kindness: “The talk’s +been up our way that your husband’s slated for the next Selectman over +here. I’m glad of that; he ought to make a good one, from all I hear.” + +Elsie stood staring at the closed door when they were gone. + +“Selectman!” she whispered. “_Selectman!_” + +All the poison of all the years came pouring out. “I’ll _see_ him +Selectman! I’d kill myself first! He shall stay a stick till the day of +his death, he shall. A dumb, stupid stick--stick-in-the-mud! _Ohhhh!_” + +In the kitchen of the house on the Stone Fold they were playing pachisi +down on the floor. The board was an old one, held together with +court-plaster; most of the men were buttons, and there were only two +dice left. Despite these defects, however; despite the two youngest, +two babies, creeping in continually and grabbing and getting slapped; +and despite the paralytic old shepherd in the chair behind the towel +rack, who wanted attending to now and then--despite these handicaps +they played with a quiet concentration, watching each the moves of all +the others, alert for cheating, a gamin shrewdness in the eyes narrowed +under the forelocks of tangled hair. It was an old game with them; yet +tonight there was something new about it; as new as though it had been +another game altogether, or the same game transported to heaven, where +all is light. + +“Better’n that old lantern!” + +“Better’n two lanterns!” + +“Better’n _ten_ lanterns!” + +So, from time to time, between moves, carried away afresh by +realization, they joined and gloated. + +“Better’n a _hundred_ lanterns!” + +The dogs were barking outside. An old one from under the stove sniffed +toward the door, bristling. The players paid no attention, but the +grandfather began to screech at the top of his lungs: “Shan’t have it! +Shan’t! Ain’t nobody no decency? With _her_ there? Etta, you tell ’em +go way. It’s an unholy sin--comin’ round a night like tonight--that’s +what it is! Etta!” + +“Shut your face!” Etta threw at him as, without haste, she got up from +the floor. She was a woman of twenty-odd, the mother of one of the +infants underfoot. “Remember, you, it’s my next move!” she threatened +the others; then again to the old man: “Won’t you shut up, f’ gracious +sake!” and finally to the door: “Well, well, ’tain’t locked, is it? +_Come in!_” + +The door opened. Those on the floor sat up straight. Etta retreated a +step, taken aback to see a stranger. + +“What d’y’ want?” she muttered. + +The man kept standing there, staring at her; staring at her squat, +strong-muscled figure, her lowering face, her hair, thick and matted +about her head, the color of unwashed brown sheep. She didn’t like it. + +“Who are ye, and what d’y’ want? Y’ dumb?” + +But the old shepherd began to screech now: “_I_ know ’im! I seen ’im +many’s the time over to the village. I see ye, Mr. Snow. I know ye +well, Banker Snow. Well, I vow! Draw out a chair for Mr. Snow, Etta. +Florry! Frank! Scabby! What a parcel o’ dummies! Git a chair for Banker +Snow.” + +“What d’y’ want?” Etta persisted, unmoved. + +Snow lifted a hand and passed it down over his face, which looked drawn +and moist. Like a man talking in his sleep, he asked: “What’s wrong +with Donna?” + +That seemed to loosen all tongues at once. The kitchen was as full of +voices, of a sudden, as it was of the yellow glare. + +“Donna’s dead.” + +“Donna’s in there; wanta see ’er?” + +“Ma went sick and she got worse and died off.” + +“Donna ain’t boss no longer, she ain’t.” + +“We got the lamp down.” + +“We gone and got the lamp on ’er now, for _all_ ’er.” + +“At last we got the lamp.” + +Snow seemed to see the lamp for the first time. Like a man walking in +his sleep he went to look at it. It was worth looking at. It stood on +its own stand, a good four feet high; its finely swelled reservoir +had variegated chasings of brass and nickel all over it; it had an +extra-size chimney without a nick, and two wicks, one within the other. +A lamp for any parlor in the world. All the parts that could be rubbed +were as bright as a new one in the store. It had been looked after, +like new; the price-tag, even, had never been taken off. It hung from +the stem of the regulator, and the mark was still legible on it amongst +the spotting of flies. Tansy read it. + +“$6.” + +Some folks have a God of Mercy. And some have a terrible God. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [16] Copyright, 1925, by The Pictorial Review Company. + Copyright, 1926, by Wilbur Daniel Steele. + + + + + THE HOME TOWN[17] + + By MILTON WALDMAN + + (From _The London Mercury_) + + +High, high up in the spire of a New York office building (higher +than the forty storeys which is the maximum that the foreigner’s +imagination, even when abetted by observation, seems able to compass) +sat a depressed and lonely little man. He was lonely because he was +alone, and unaccustomed to so being; his present occupation was to +discover why he was depressed. + +The little man was a very important person. On the door by which one +entered one might read in reverse, “Powell, Prescot and Shipton, +Publicity and Advertising Engineers. Henry J. Powell, Pres.” Though +the letters appeared black through the frosted pane, on the other side +they were bright gold. If, after entering one looked over Mr. Powell’s +head through the window beyond, where the streets and roofs of New York +extended to the south, one saw a few of the things for which he was +celebrated. Not many hundred yards out of that window is the famous +_Lesson in Economy_, the masterpiece commissioned by the Bungalow +Savings and Trust Company. It is an animated electric sign, which at +night shows the reception of depositors’ money at a window of the bank, +its passage to a huge transparent safe wherein the piles of currency +and checks undergo a metamorphosis into bricks, lumber, bathtubs, and +shrubbery, and fly away to a garden spot in the suburbs to arrange +themselves into neat little bungalows of an exact pattern with rows of +neighbours of similar origin. At the conclusion of the performance, +which requires about three minutes, all lights go out save those in the +most recent bungalow, on the steps of which are seen a man, a woman, a +small boy and a dog, above the ruby caption “You can Do This Too!” + +A quarter of a mile further on is visible the radiantly coloured +_tableau vivant_ of the Searchlight Stores, entitled _Nothing Too Good +for Milady_, which, around the charming figure of a modish young woman, +exhibits, in smaller pictures, the Searchlight’s myrmidons stalking +tigers, leopards and cobras’ skins in the jungles of India, ostriches’ +feathers in the deserts of Africa, caterpillars’ skeins in a sleepy +garden in Japan; one beholds the pearl divers in the shimmering waters +of the Orient, and chained gangs of Kaffirs plucking diamonds out of +the obdurate rock in Rhodesia. But a few steps further, on the other +side of the street, is the striking _Don’t Be Miserable When Enjoying +Yourself_, which presents an invalid and her nurse contentedly reading +novels while being wafted over the worst of roads in a monotone motor, +whilst on a parallel and greatly superior road a competing car and its +occupants are being gradually disintegrated. The editor of a magazine +for which Mr. Powell had once written an autobiographical article +had presented his contributor as “The Monarch of the Upper Reaches +of American Cities,” a just, but inadequate tribute to his manifold +activities. + +For Mr. Powell was more than a mere creator of striking advertisement +displays. He was, in his way, a philosopher, and in the modern sense +a poet as well. In the article referred to he expounds the philosophy +of publicity as it has never been done before. He demonstrates clearly +and succinctly that publicity, like all the best poetry, is a form of +self-expression; only the advertiser, instead of informing the reader +of the state of his private feelings, often an awkward affair to the +latter, or proclaiming the beauty of Nature’s handiwork, which the +public is well able to observe and judge for itself, reveals the merit +of the thing which his (the advertiser’s) creative urge, and perhaps +Fate, have set him to producing. Publicity thus redounds to the common +weal in two ways: by holding the advertiser to a high standard and +by elevating the taste of the public to a level which it could never +attain without the explanatory counsels of the expert makers of the +things the public required. For example, the manufacturer of rubber +heels, by illustrating to the pedestrian reader the advantages of his +conception, makes a promise, sets for himself an ideal which it is +both his duty and pleasure to live up to; while the pedestrian, if +not thus made aware of the maker’s ideal, would either be sapping his +vitality by continuing to bustle about on leather heels, or his purse, +by ignorantly satisfying himself with inferior rubber ones. The article +concludes: + + The world can’t _guess_ the work you’ve done, + ’Tis _you_ must let it know, + ’Twill give you then the prize you’ve won, + And, giving it, will glow. + +The photograph of the author, which accompanied the article was at +first sight disappointing. One anticipated that a man who had done big +things would keep his appearance in harmony with his achievements; but +instead of the burly shoulders, broad face, square jaw, thin lips and +aquiline nose which the reader expected to see, he was confronted with +the portrait of a round, stoop-shouldered little man, whose black hair +was brushed back from his forehead in Beethoven fashion, whose eyes +were deep-set and speculative rather than keen, and whose chin violated +all the canons by merely rounding off in a perfunctory way the boyish +contours of his cheeks. He wore a black coat of ministerial cut and a +flowing black tie. Yet, to those who knew him, Powell’s appearance was +the best possible index to his character. They were astounded by his +miracles, but stood in awe of his dreams. + +Now, for the first time in forty years of activity, he felt lonely +and depressed. His success, achieved always in the company of men +and by dint of untiring effort, had hitherto left no room for either +emotion. There was always something to do, somebody to see, at best +and worst some pleasant creative vision to think about. But a week +since, business being dull, his associates had departed in a body and +gone their separate ways to observe the ritual of Old Home Week. This +latter, a ceremony springing jointly from native sentimentality and +respect for humble beginnings, requires that the men in the cities who +have made their way in the big world should retrace their steps to the +towns and villages which have given them birth and join in tribute to +its virtues. All the absent are welcome, but the occasion is dedicated +rather to the successful than to the prodigal sons. + +So Prescot and Shipton and the younger partners, Wynn, Jacobson, +Bottinelli, Senkowsky, and the rest took leave, and now, five days +later, the head of the firm sat in his studio of gleaming mahogany, +leather and brass, perusing their exuberant accounts of the various +local festivities. Prescot wrote from a little desert village in the +Southwest of a Chamber of Commerce dinner in his honour, of a political +conference for the selection of a congressional candidate in which +his opinion was deferred to, of being asked to lead the subscription +towards a War Memorial in the public square. Wynn, in his best “copy” +manner, chronicled a round of rustic frolics in Minnesota. Bottinelli +sent him a clipping from a newspaper in a Southern California town, +which related the installation of a stained glass window in the church +where the young Italian had been christened and in which he now made +the dedicatory address. And so on, each in his turn contributing to +his chief’s forlorn sense of being out of it all. He had few friends +besides associates, and they were absent on similar missions, as +he knew from a week of solitary luncheons and dinners. It was a +dreadful thing, he reflected, for a man to have no interests outside +his profession. These others had something to carry them on, to look +forward to. It made life more complete, more harmonious, to have the +roots of one’s aspirations in one’s beginnings, to wish to honour one’s +past by means of one’s future. + +He looked back and recalled the early years from which his manhood +had so completely divorced itself. Born in a village in southeastern +England, he had emigrated with his father, long since dead, to New +York. Many other images now intervened between himself and the one he +was trying to reconstruct, the dormant blur of red roofs and green +fields which was Edginden as he had last seen it. Gradually the focus +became clearer and he saw a valley and two intersecting roads which +wound their yellow lengths rapidly away over the surrounding hills and +disappeared. At their intersection was a gray church steeple, a few +shops clustered in two rows on the north-and-south road, some grey, +some yellow, some burnt red, a few timbered or brick houses more openly +spaced, then the fields beyond, with the white wall or tiled gable of a +farmhouse revealed through the trees--old, old trees, sycamores, tall +oaks, chestnuts in full white bloom; he wondered what an Old Home Week +would be like in Edginden. + +He doubted that it would be a success. Very few of Edginden’s sons went +away. Those that did seldom came back, never for the purpose of paying +a tribute of sentiment to their birthplace. Besides, there was little +that Edginden wanted, very little indeed. It grumbled extensively, +but seemed only in need of those things which Providence alone could +supply. He tried to picture himself returning to join with other absent +ones in receiving welcome and admiration, in dispensing bounty of cheer +and money. He found that he could not even recall the faces of any +absent ones, or in fact of any one likely to be still alive. Of what +good---- + +He went to the window. Over the roofs and spires of New York he could +see the Atlantic glittering in the setting sun. A slim silvery object +was moving rapidly out into the bay, its ribbon of smoke settling +slowly down on the unruffled water behind it. He unconsciously put his +hands behind his back, in Napoleon fashion, and narrowed his eyes. It +was worth the trying, anyway, he decided; at least he knew that nothing +else would ease the new-born ache in his heart. + + * * * * * + +London pleased and puzzled him. It gave him an impression, first, of +vast size; through mile upon mile of small brick houses, one just +like the other, the train raced to Waterloo Station--so many miles of +repetition; he felt as one does in a semi-dream, when time loses all +proportion; only his watch showed him that the row he was seeing at +any instant was an actual extension in space, not in his imagination, +of all the others he recalled seeing. The bustle of the station, huge +and ugly, the ceaseless, punctuated buzz of queer vocal inflections +that awoke old echoes, the enormous taxicab, more like a private +car, save for its dirt and decrepitude, and again rows of houses +as like as peas. It was endless--infinitely larger than New York, +with its variety and its immovable water boundaries. It was late at +night when he finished his dinner, and he was too tired to leave the +hotel for further investigation, but he fell asleep with the curious +reflection that all comparisons he had seen or heard of between New +York and London were the exact reverse of the truth ... the latter +was infinitely the greater in its mass of teeming life, but rough, +inchoate, not nearly so finished as the former. + +Next day confirmed his impression. He sauntered about, examining +everything attentively, minutely, reconstructively, he might have +said, the while unconscious of the curious glances he attracted; the +broad black hat which he affected intensified the peculiar inward +concentration of his eyes and enhanced the contrast with the youthful, +indecisive curve of the lips and jaw above the negligé collar and +flowing black tie. What opportunities to remake this enormous London, +to shape this formless monster’s endless possibilities! The buildings +seemed stunted, totally inadequate to house the world-famous businesses +whose clumsy signs he saw on them. He found his London correspondents, +a firm of indisputable skill, importance and solvency, in a side +street, occupying a narrow house four storeys high, and entered by a +former servants’ doorway; its floors sagged, its stairways creaked, and +no amount of paint and electricity could raise it to his conception of +what was due to the business it housed. After long search he stumbled +by mere chance on the offices of a periodical with which he annually +spent thousands, to find its affairs placidly going on in a converted +stable in an old courtyard. The narrow streets offered, on a larger +scale, the tangle of horse, vehicle and pedestrian to be seen in any +American farm town overcrowded by market day. The electric signs of +Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square which would have caused his +associates to guffaw, brought a frown to his forehead. So many people, +so much riches--and how carelessly employed. + +Before long he began to wish that he could start at the beginning and +put some system into this amiable, haphazard metropolis. His desire +was extremely practical. He knew it would not do to take the whole +thing down and build it up again on carefully planned lines. That would +be too expensive, and he was aware that there might be prejudices +against so drastic a proceeding. He merely desired earnestly to use +in a proper manner the material now being so sinfully wasted. As an +instance, one couldn’t straighten the Thames, of course, useful as +that might be; but one could put to better purpose the many open +spaces of its bridge-heads to relieve their uninformative blackness at +night--although in this respect he saw immature efforts at improvement. +He wanted to knock out the dingy shop windows that prevailed +everywhere, even in the West End, and replace them with something +worthy of Fifth Avenue. + +Even outside the question of rebuilding, on small scale or large, +Powell was pained by the neglect of opportunities that fairly shrieked +at him for recognition and adoption. To disregard them indicated either +lack of vision in the English, or downright sloth. Perhaps it was due +to the race’s well-known self-satisfaction. But what just a little +imagination could do. He recalled with what eagerness he had undertaken +the publicity for a New York restaurant which boasted seventy-five +years of active life. “The stock which conquered the West and fought +the Civil War found sustenance at this historic hostelry. Lincoln ate +here while on his arduous campaign for the Presidency; it was Grant’s +first stopping place after being banquetted in all the palaces of the +world. Three-quarters of a century’s experience in the polite art +of entertaining ensures you those amenities which, to the epicure, +are _sine qua non_ when dining out.” And here almost hourly he saw +restaurants scattered from Richmond to the City whose weatherbeaten +signs diffidently proclaimed three hundred years of uninterrupted +cookery. What could they not boast of in the way of association, of +rich material for justifiable _réclame_. Without doubt there were still +extant tables in those places under which Cromwell and Wellington +had put their boots, pegs on which plumed Cavalier and stiff Puritan +hats had hung side by side. A complacent smile lingered for a moment +as he recalled how neatly he had effected the sale of Schindler, the +antique dealer’s, two colonial chairs, in which Clay and Webster were +supposed to have sat while visiting a famous Concord wit. _The Seats of +the Mighty_ was the neat caption by which the attention of newspaper +readers was attracted to the photograph of the chairs convincingly +occupied by the shades of the departed statesmen, and within +twenty-four hours a millionaire had purchased them for ten thousand +dollars. + +He made profound calculations on the revenue Westminster Abbey would +derive from the proper dissemination of facts regarding its peculiar +relation to the nation’s great dead; a quantity of judiciously +prepared, wisely distributed newspaper paragraphs illustrating in word +and picture the glory of _The Fane of Fame_, as he mentally entitled +it, would probably, in the course of ten years or so, enable it to +double its available space for coronations, etc. He wandered about the +Tower with a guide and a compatriot, and received the latter’s cordial +agreement to a suggestion that a special ’bus line from Charing Cross +would not only make the great monument more accessible, but would soon +pay for itself if the vehicles were made in the form of tumbrils (he +was not quite sure whether sixteenth-century England employed tumbrils, +but that could be adjusted later), and the driver and the conductor +attired, say, as Walter Raleigh and a headsman. + +He left Victoria Station in the morning, having purchased half-a-dozen +magazines to beguile the journey, but as the train issued into open +country, which he had previously traversed in the dark, he forgot them +in an unexpected interest in the countryside. In a very few minutes +he had gained a more favourable impression of British advertising +capacities than a week in London had given him. The signs were, indeed, +fewer to the mile than in the best parts of the United States, but +they were undeniably on the increase. From a professional point of +view he found them sufficiently large and colourful, and on the whole +well designed as regards employment of space. His only criticism was +directed at their literary weakness. Here, for instance, was a blue +background, a red and white tin, and the legend “Buy Tucker’s Tinned +Spinach--it saves Time.” The alliteration was not bad, but the idea was +primitive, an archaism in advertising. Here, a mile further along, +was a merry Roundhead in a green coat offering the passer-by a glass +of liquid with the words “I drank it in 1650--it’s even better today.” +That was all right to begin with, he thought, his lips pursed like an +infant’s in doubt, but more could be made of it. He reflected a moment, +and smiled happily to himself as the vision of the board repainted +flashed on him: + + We distilled our first whisky in 1650. + We have averaged 10,000 cases a year since. + No customer of ours ever voted for Prohibition. + +It was only a rough sketch, but it pleased him, and he looked forward +to his mission with content. + +He arrived at Edginden before he was aware, and for a moment looked +about him in bewilderment. What had been an adventurous descent forty +years ago had passed unnoticed in the railway carriage, and the little +grey railroad station failed to fit into the picture. He passed down +the stone platform, noticing coloured posters inviting one to exotic +south coast watering places he had never heard of, engaged a lonely +Ford and in a quarter of an hour found himself at the Unicorn. As he +stepped out of the car the smoke of the railroad train was just fading +into the trees at the brow of the hill to the west. It vanished, and +Edginden seemed to appear from behind it unchanged from half-a-century +before. The Unicorn himself, imperceptibly faded, was pawing with his +forelegs one side of the shield-shaped sign from the top of which +his horn protruded. Through the low curtained bow-window was still +faintly visible the portrait of a rubicund gentleman in wig and red +coat; the only sounds might have been echoes from the past--chickens +flapping their wings in a nearby yard, the rumble of a distant cart, +the creak and drip of water being drawn from a well. Suddenly he heard +a winnowing machine; he lifted his head, detected a faint odour of +petrol, looked about inquiringly, and pushed the green door of the inn. + +An ample, white-haired old lady gave him an unsmiling welcome, ignored +his request for a room with a bath, informed him that dinner would be +cold and served at half-past seven, and disappeared. A red-faced maid, +in black calico dress and white apron immediately issued from another +door and led the way up a flight of narrow, steep and noisy stairs. +Her long legs moved so rapidly that his short ones were unable to keep +up, and he only found his room by searching around until he perceived +his black patent leather bag on a bed almost as high as himself. The +maid had gone, but reappeared several moments later with a pitcher of +hot water, following her own knock so closely that he had no time to +recover the substantial portion of his garments he had already removed. + +The window of his room gave on the hills; for a long time he stood +regarding their smooth rectangular patches of emerald and bronze; his +eye followed the road past fence and house and barn to the purple of +the crest; and a feeling of forlornness came over him compared to which +the lonesomeness of the week in New York was vague and feeble. It +being due merely to the absence of people he cared about, their return +sooner or later would have made it right. For this there was no cure; +it came out of the essential isolation in which all human beings live, +that terrible isolation against which men devise the most fantastic +activities, in order to avoid facing it. It was like his first illness +after his mother’s death, when his pains and fears seemed to mean +nothing to any one. He decided to go downstairs and have a drink with +the landlady. + +The latter had no objection to his drinking, but declined to join him. +The bar was empty, it being outside of hours. He ordered a whisky and +soda, and drank it slowly; he detested the stuff and was a teetotaller +on principle, but lacked the courage to drink his favourite orange +squash in this environment. Besides he realised that the latter was not +an avenue to the sociability he craved. + +“Nice place you have here,” he began. + +“There’s worse,” she replied. + +Not being in a position to debate this he began afresh. + +“Do you get many Americans here?” + +“Some. Are you an American?” + +He warmed at this first indication of personal interest slight as it +was. “Yes--that is, I live there. As a matter of fact, I was born in +England.” + +“Couldn’t tell it any more,” she commented, wiping up the counter and +significantly setting out a fresh glass. “Which part?” + +He had braced himself for this moment. “Right here, in Edginden,” he +said, in the soft voice he reserved for the announcement of his most +startling projects. + +This time she was clearly interested. She scrutinised him carefully and +said, “It’s queer I don’t remember you. I know everybody who has ever +lived in these parts this sixty years.” + +“My father was George Powell.” + +She reflected an instant. “I remember,” she finally declared. “He was +from Portsmouth and married Jacob Gunn’s girl; the old man set them up +in a shop there, but it didn’t go and they came here to live on the +farm. I remember when you were born; you were only a little fellow when +your mother died and your father took you off to America.” She mused a +moment. “Just fancy, you being Sarah Gunn’s boy.” In her abstraction +she returned the glass to its place on the shelf behind her. + +Thus was Powell welcomed home. In a general way his reception elsewhere +resembled Mrs. Unicorn’s (This being the name by which he thought of +the landlady). Those that remembered him as a boy, like those that did +not, viewed him with curiosity as a tripper rather than as a son come +home. When he gave an impressive sum toward the restoration of the +church roof, which had for years bided this event, relying meantime on +the slender revenue derived from the solicitation of a torn sheet of +paper in the vestibule, he received a formal letter of thanks from a +committee and a shy, grateful handshake from the rector, but neither +mentioned his sentimental reason for the act, nor treated it as other +than the gift of a whimsically-minded rich man. + +The end of a week found him as far removed from the end of his mission +as if he had never come. By now he had company to drink with him in the +bar and most of the natives greeted him in the street, pointing him out +as the donor of the large sum toward the church’s restoration; but +any of this might have happened to any stranger. He wanted to be there +as of right, to be at home while he remained, regretted as a departing +son when he left. He realized that thus far he had moved little towards +that happy goal. He had made no enduring impression; these people +were as far from understanding the warm impulse he felt to pour out +his energies in their behalf, to receive their cordial assurance of +mutual bond and kinship, as he was from understanding how they found +life permanently tolerable without electric light, gas or bathtubs. +He wanted earnestly to plant some seed which would not only blossom +into a thing of utility and beauty for Edginden, but would in its very +nature prove to succeeding generations of its children that only one of +themselves could have conceived the idea of it. + +Numerous tentative projects floated through his brain, but the most +favoured children of his imagination all seemed ill-suited to his +purpose. The best, the only gift worthy of the name was the power of +growth, and he could see no possibility of expansion in Edginden. He +might set on foot tactfully a wide publicity campaign to set forth the +unique advantages of the place, but he frankly doubted that it had any. +There was no manufacturing, and no logical reason why any enterprising +manufacturer should choose it for a site. He was reasonably certain +that it would not, unlike the thriving small towns of America, buy up +tracts of land and offer them gratis as an inducement. Nor could he +conceive that the local squire, a stentorian fox-hunting giant who +owned the land at both ends of the village, would sanction the placing +of signboards, no matter how artistic, and for no matter what public +purpose, in his domain. He was sure that these people wanted their town +to grow, that was only human. But how to achieve it, how to overcome +their dimly perceived prejudices and make them all pull together toward +this end, for that he was beginning to despair of finding a solution. + +Then, one day, he unexpectedly found it. He was passing Roger Martin’s +shop and decided to drop in. Martin was his most intimate acquaintance +in Edginden. Each vaguely remembered the other as a boyhood playmate, +and each had a dislike of whisky, which drew them together in a corner +of the Unicorn’s cosy pub. Martin had an unlimited curiosity about the +New World, and Powell a tireless pleasure in gratifying it. + +The shop, in a more pretentious locality, would have been called an +antique shop. Here it served a more humble and daily need; though +filled with quantities of old vases, pots, bowls, urns, cups and other +household articles in copper, pewter and brass, with a fair sprinkling +of old chairs, tables and chests in oak and walnut, its chief business +was to supply Edginden homes, and particularly its kitchens, with the +commonplace utensils necessary for containing and cooking. The sale of +old things was subordinate to their mending, and to the making of new +things. + +Powell enjoyed watching almost any form of human activity, and found +his place in Martin’s old wing armchair soothing; it was where he +always sat while exchanging sentences with the latter between the +agreeable strokes of hammer on copper. The place was silent, however, +as he entered, and its owner was standing by his work-table, which was +pushed against the rear windows of the shop, overlooking a tiny walled +garden now abloom with red tulips and purple iris. Martin was a little +man, smaller even than Powell; his grey hair was thin at the top, but +thick, crisp and curly over his neck and ears; his distinguishing +features were red, wrinkled cheeks which dimpled when he smiled, merry +twinkling eyes, a disorderly white and black moustache, and prominent +upper teeth. At the moment he was attentively examining a bronze vase, +in the form of a cylinder imposed on the flattened top of a sphere. He +nodded over his shoulder to his visitor. + +“This has just come over from your country,” he said. “A lady who +passed this way once and bought some of my things sent it to me from +San Francisco to see if I could copy it. She wants to make them both +into lamps. Isn’t it a beauty?” He lovingly fingered the dull patine of +the bronze, lifting it in both hands. + +Powell was impressed by something else, however. So this little fellow +had a clientele extending to San Francisco. Strange. “Do you often +sell things in America?” he asked. + +“Oh, yes,” responded the smith, still caressing the vase “I’ve a number +now to go to New York and Boston. There are some of my things in India +and Australia, too,” he added proudly. “Hardly a month passes without +my getting an order from abroad.” + +Powell remained silent, thinking rapidly. So there was an activity +of Edginden with a fame beyond its confines. These bits of brass and +copper were known and desired by folk living at the ends of the earth. + +“Why do you keep such a small shop?” he demanded suddenly. + +Martin set the vase down; it gave the deep-toned ring of the G string +of a violin gently brushed in passing. “It’s bigger than I need now,” +he said, turning round in surprise. + +“But you could extend the business, couldn’t you? If you already +have customers in San Francisco and Sydney, in New York and--” the +alliteration failed him and he hurried on, “Why man, you could make a +big thing of this.” + +Martin had before this failed to follow the American’s mental flights; +now he stood puzzled, his hands holding the shoulder-straps of his long +blue apron, his head on one side like a sparrow’s, looking down on the +other. + +“But all that doesn’t keep me and Jim busy full time.” Jim, the +assistant, was at this moment occupied in wheeling a crying infant up +and down the walk in front of the shop, the while its mother was at the +chemist’s two doors away. “I’ve had more work outside of Edginden this +year than ever before, and I still have plenty of space and time to +spare.” + +“Yes, but listen, man!” Powell was in the full ecstasy of sudden +inspiration. He got up and walked over to the other; his eyes seemed +to come out of their shadowy retreat and were flashing. “Don’t you see +that if there is a little demand for your stuff, you can make a big +one? It isn’t as if you were limited to this place. Put your wares out +into the world. Advertise! I’ll bet all I’ve got you can triple your +business in a year and make it a hundred times as big in three. People +are going in for the old-fashioned stuff. Why, I’ll do the job for +you for nothing. I’ll make your shop and Edginden famous. This is the +chance I’ve been looking for. Give me a free rein and Martin’s Brass +and Copper will be known wherever English is spoken, and then some!” He +was aflame with his vision. He saw himself at last in his proper rôle, +his ordained relation to his native place. + +“But how?” persisted the bewildered little shopkeeper. “If you just +doubled the business it would be too big for me; I couldn’t do the +work.” + +“You wouldn’t have to,” snapped the other; then, lowering his voice +and putting his hand on the other’s shoulder, continued, “Quantity +production! That’s the answer. It’s my function in the world to show +people how to sell large quantities of things. That’s efficiency, +economy. It makes more and better things, and everybody happier. We’ll +instal the proper equipment, and you will just watch and see that +the thing’s done right. We’ll put up a model plant, get in outside +labour--why man, can’t you see what this will mean to you and your +town?” + +But Martin’s troubled expression, instead of vanishing, became more +anxious. “I don’t think you can make these things with machinery,” he +explained plaintively, “I’ve made most of the metal utensils in the +village myself, but sometimes they buy them outside, and very soon they +are brought in for repair. Most often they are not worth the trouble. +They are like that table in the garden--when Jim came to help me we +were too busy to make one for him, so I had that one sent down from +London. It’s no good after two years. You can see how the top is warped +and the legs have gone to pieces. This one I’m using my grandfather +made.” + +The American cogitated a moment. “I don’t see that,” he affirmed +presently. “Copper is copper, and brass is brass, and if you get the +right material and see that it’s made right, you will have done your +part of the job. You can turn out the same designs a thousand times +faster, and give employment to a thousand more men. Can’t you see the +difference it will make? We’ll get the railroad to run right into the +town instead of three miles off--why we’ll put the place on the map!” + +Martin became of a sudden very serious. “I--I’m not sure we want that. +We had a hard time keeping the railroad out of here in the first place, +and I’m afraid we couldn’t do with a lot of strangers. It would turn +things upside down. I’ve always done my best to please the people here +and I know what they like. And when I bought a bed from Sam Greene or +clothes from Bartlett or medicine from Rollo Hines I knew they were +giving me their best, just what _I_ wanted. We are sort of used to each +other and understand each other. I don’t think we should get along so +well if we had a lot of new people to deal with.” He was apologetic, +diffident, eager to explain his position, but underneath, Powell felt, +stubborn in his prejudices; for the first time he began to be slightly +exasperated. Convinced not only of the worth of his intentions but of +the soundness of the plan that had taken hold of him, feeling himself +on the verge of bringing a great boon to Edginden, he was annoyed +at the other’s failure to fall into step with him. He was already +visualizing the miraculous, mushroom growth with which he was familiar, +for which he had often been largely responsible, and the unlooked for +opposition dumbfounded him. He had often had difficulty in selling an +idea, in convincing people that they would get their money’s worth; +he had never as yet encountered, even remotely, opposition to his +underlying philosophy. It had never occurred to him that men might look +otherwise on expansion. Martin, sweet of temper, and shy in manner, +began to symbolise an obtuse, almost sullen unresponsiveness in the +people he was so eager to serve. If only he could come to some common +ground, if he could argue against objections he could understand. His +hopes were being dashed to pieces on a rock so unsubstantial that he +could not even see it. + +“But what would the world be like if everybody--” he began, when the +door opened and the proprietress of the Unicorn joined them, her parade +to the back of the shop punctuated by the clatter of furniture and +the toppling of metal ware. The aisle was narrow and irregular, Mrs. +Unicorn very wide and quite direct in her progress. She carried in her +hand a copper tea-kettle of unusual pattern, the spout coming from the +top of the kettle and issuing through a large, graceful handle. + +She ignored Powell and addressed Martin directly. + +“Roger, that girl of mine has gone and smashed this kettle against the +stove,” she said, exhibiting a gash in the fair copper surface. “Can +you mend it?” + +He took it from her and examined it carefully. A pathetic look of +distress settled on his face. “I’ll try, Miriam,” he observed finally, +“I shall let you know if I can’t.” + +“Well, do it as soon as you can, and don’t let it cost too much,” she +said pointedly, and took her departure. + +As soon as she was out of the door Powell laughed. “Serve her right +if you made her scrap this and sold her another kettle,” he remarked, +“she’s tight as a vice.” + +Martin did not reply for a moment. He continued to examine the +kettle, real pain showing in his eyes. He put aside the vase from San +Francisco, selecting some tools, lit his brazier. Finally he said to +his companion, “I hope I can make this right. It’s one of the best +things I’ve ever turned out of this shop.” He turned back to his work. + +Powell’s smile faded. The three-coloured, full-page advertisement he +had been inwardly contemplating, which was to blazon to the world +“Edginden for Excellence--Martin’s Metalware is as durable and +beautiful as the English village in which it was made” crumpled up and +disappeared as if it had been dropped into a large fire. He pondered +the other’s words a moment, noting keenly at the same time how he +fondled the injured utensil. An expression of understanding crept +slowly over his face, and he stole out softly without disturbing the +absorbed craftsman. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [17] Copyright, 1926, by Milton Waldman. + + + + + FIRE AND WATER[18] + + By GLENWAY WESCOTT + + (From _Collier’s Weekly_) + + + I + +The sky rolled from side to side like an animal in pain, outstretched +on the soft, saturated trees. Now and again there was a groan of +thunder, and lightning flickered with a glitter of enormous eyes, +rolling in their sockets. + +I was driving back to my father’s farm from the village. The downpour +beat on the buggy-top, splashing to the ground and spattering the +rubber laprobe. I disliked the smell of the wet harness leather and the +sweating horse, wishing to enjoy the sour fragrance of the vegetation +half-floating, half-rooted, in the fields. The lantern hanging from +the dashboard hollowed out a space in the darkness into which the rain +poured as bright as tin. + +As I crossed a small bridge the lantern-light fell for a moment on the +dripping hat and red face of a man who was leaning against the cement +rampart. It was a neighbor named George Stearns. Should I have stopped +to give him a lift? He was less than half a mile from home; he would be +drunk and troublesome, furthermore I should have had to wake his wife +and daughter, while he alone would roll quietly into the hay-mow. + +It was his custom to return from the village in this condition three +or four nights in the week, always on foot, since his daughter Amelia +would not let him take the horse. His drunkenness was proverbial, +and every one who used that road had seen him stumbling through the +underbrush, collapsing backwards into a ditch, or drawn up patiently +out of the way of hoofs and wheels. Weather meant nothing to him; he +dug his way through the drifts, lay in the mud, lurched into cold +creeks, but always got home. He was well liked by his neighbors, who +took a certain pleasure in pardoning a manly weakness, and praised his +good nature whenever his bad habit was mentioned. One autumn, having +swigged too frequently from a bottle behind a beam in the wagon-shed, +he dropped his pitch-fork into the hopper of a threshing-machine, +spoiling the blades which cut the twine; but after the owner had cursed +and threatened, he was not even forced to pay for the damage. + +As I passed the lamp rolled low, which Amelia always left in a window +to guide her father, I remembered a story I had heard, how at the age +of eight George had disappeared for a night and most of a day. His +family had lowered a lantern into the well, and shouted in the woods +around the sugar-bush, thinking of wild cats and wolves, which still +came out of the deep forests from time to time to carry off lambs and +ravish the chicken coops. His hysterical mother peered into the bear’s +pen, half-expecting to see strips of clothing on the ground and blood +on the animal’s tusks. The whole countryside was aroused. At last, +after a mournful meal, his father had gone into the basement with a +candle and a pitcher to bring up cider, and found the boy, drunk beside +a barrel. + +I thought then how one came to know people by the accumulation of +glimpses; the sight of George, wet and drunk on the little bridge, a +moment too fleeting even to speak to him; and after that his solitude +and my solitude, in which my memory assembled other casual words and +brief encounters. In that country I met my neighbors chiefly on the +road. Thickets and piles of brushwood, the gravel, the puddles, the +barbed-wire fences, the hitching-posts, and the piazzas, filled the +corners of every picture of their lives. A one-horse vehicle brought +me near them, like the field-glasses with which a naturalist detects +a bird in a tree, though its plumage is the color of the tree. All my +relations with George Stearns and his family, for example, were of this +kind: the talk of one of them and myself in a buggy, or between one in +a buggy and one standing beside the wheel or on a porch; the look of +one of them in a barnyard or a field.... + +Thus about the nucleus of George’s face in the rainstorm, previous +impressions gathered, later images and later conversations were to +gather, rounding out a pointless history. Recollections of similar +men’s lives served as intuition into his life, so that, as I turned +in at my father’s gate, I could see him behind me in the darkness, +blustering and hiccoughing, slipping down in the flooded grass, I could +hear his obstinate sighs in the wind as it pulled the clouds away. + +His eighty-acre farm was a miserable piece of property. Gashed with +gullies, the fields of red clay sloped acutely above the house and +barn, which were almost hidden in the edge of a swamp. A lake lay like +an immense ditch in the center of this swamp, and into it the rains +carried the topsoil from increasingly arid fields. George’s father had +understood the weakness of his farm, and had kept the upper acres in +sod-crops, filled the gullies with stone, planted clover to nourish the +soil, rotted the grain-straw in the barnyard, and carted it with manure +into the fields. But George preferred to forget these hard expedients, +and the farm became, as it were, a portrait of himself. He planted only +a little oats for the horse, a little corn for the cattle. The fences +tottered and fell under loads of woodbine and wild grapes. In great +pastures full of thistles two or three sharp-hipped cows gnawed the +june-grass that grew between the stones. + +George hired out by the day to his more ambitious neighbors. He was +satisfied with this way of life; to move from farm to farm without +responsibility, to work without haste or worry, to spend his earnings +and his leisure in a saloon. The lot of his wife and daughter was +not so agreeable. They lived like a pair of domestic animals in a +pen: coarse trees on three sides, the tantalizing road on the other; +no variety of duty or scene, no entertainment, no plans, nothing to +expect. Inevitably their poverty would pinch closer and closer, and +they were bound to a man who was happy and didn’t care. + +At first Amelia seemed to bear it better than her mother. As a tall, +wry-faced girl Mrs. Stearns, having been assured by her brothers that +she need not expect to be courted for her looks, had married George +to avoid becoming an old maid. George’s mother had suggested that +he might settle down when he married, and she had to take the risk. +The little house like a dry-goods box had seemed, in those days, a +respectable home; but other people’s prosperity had built all around +it, to its shame, incomparable mansions with turrets, lightning-rods, +and picketting around the chimneys, incomparable hip-roofed barns with +the name of the owner stencilled under crossed flags; and George’s +house had deteriorated with his land and himself. Mrs. Stearns fretted +less at her husband’s shortcomings than at the looks of the place. + +“Everything’s goin’ to pieces,” I heard her complain one day. “It’s +the worst lookin’ place in the county. Look at that broke rig with the +weeds growin’ through the wheels. The tools all out gettin’ rusted. +I’ll be switched if the mare don’t look mangy!” + +“Oh stop it, Ma!” Amelia muttered. “I’m tired of that kind of talk!” + +“Nobody goes by on the road,” her mother went on, “nothin’ to see, +nothin’ to do. And me sick. Your pa gets the best of it, he gets out +among folks. We women don’t get no further’n you could throw a stone.” + +Amelia marched across from the sink, her round shoulders raised, +shaking her dish-towel angrily. “Who’s to blame for this God-awful +marsh? What’s the good of whimperin’? Who’s to blame, I ast you? Better +go to bed, Ma, and rest.” + +When the girl went out to do her milking, the sick woman shuffled off +to bed. If it rained she tossed back and forth on her bed, kept awake +by the water which gushed in all the gullies, washing the best of their +land down to the lake. The temporary rivers gurgled and grew thick, +without foam, and ended as suddenly as they had begun. It seemed that +soon there would be nothing but rocks between the fences. + +Amelia was a short, flat-chested girl with muscular arms and extremely +wide hips. Her chapped and freckled skin seemed to have been drawn +tightly over the bones of her face--over the long nose, the cheek-bones +exactly in the center of her cheeks, the receding but stubborn chin--a +face in which were combined poor health and great strength. Her +eyelids fluttered so much that one could not remember the eyes, and her +thin lips pouted habitually. + +She did all the work, had always done it. As a child she went to school +only during the winter months, and ceased altogether at fourteen when +the school inspector could not force her to go. She kept the house +decently clean, baked, churned butter, made her own clothes, and +nursed her increasingly bed-ridden mother. Then there were the chores: +she gave the cattle frozen corn-fodder to supplement the straw which +they ate from the stack, milked them, and took the can to the cheese +factory, and pumped from the stinking vat her share of whey for the +pigs. I had seen her staggering down ditches which she had shovelled +in the snow drifts, her long arms almost pulled from their sockets +by the slopping pails of swill, or stooping over the smoke from a +kettle-shaped stove which melted the ice in the water-trough. At +butchering time she worked elbow to elbow with the men, scraping the +bristles from the carcass soused in boiling water, and she alone cut +up the pigs, rubbed and smoked the bacon, and ground the sausage. She +watched over the old sows when they farrowed, sometimes far into the +night, lest they eat their young. Her last duty was to turn down the +lamp in the kitchen window where her father could see it as he stumbled +up the road. + +In October I was driving to the village before dawn to meet a cousin +at the station. An odor, iced and musky, came out of the woods. The +dewy red leaves looked swollen, and the thickets very large with mist. +My horse was willing, and I enjoyed the road, pointed like a rod into +distant hollows and forests or lifted up to pierce the sky, feeling an +absolute solitude. But when I came near the Stearns farm I saw some +one waiting for me. It was Amelia, and she waved, and when I stopped, +gripped the wheel with her red hands and stared at me, her face very +sharp as if whittled away. + +“Gerson, won’t you stop and look at my pa. He’s sick. I’m +scared--scared to wake him up.” + +I followed her--not into the house, to my surprise--but into the barn, +where the light fell with a feeble quiver from the two peepholes and +innumerable cracks. Amelia pointed into the nearly empty hay-mow, where +I saw first a pair of heavy boots, smeared with mud, the toes turned +sharply outward, and beyond them George’s face, enormous, crimson, and +disdainful, with hay in his hair and several stalks in his moustache. + +“I’m sorry, Amelia. He’s dead.” + +“Oh Lord ... I thought so.” + +“Is there anything I can do? Shall I tell anybody?” + +“Well you can stop and tell Mrs. Bemis. You’re goin’ to the village? +Tell an undertaker to come, the cheapest one.” + +“Is that all?” I repeated, shocked by her perfunctory courage. + +“Yeah, that’s all.” She sighed. “I got to wake up mother and tell her.” + +Four months later she married a man named Nick Richter. Her mother +expressed a peevish gratification: “Amelia couldn’t stand it, bein’ +alone. I ain’t much company no more.” She grew weaker, and kept her +newly married daughter at her bedside all that winter, exercising a +tyranny with her eyes when she could not speak, and they buried her in +April. + +There was a large funeral, for during the six months by which she had +survived her husband, the community had decided that she was a martyr +to his drunken shiftlessness. Amelia asked my father and me to bring +two teams to take people from the house to the cemetery, and she +herself rode in my father’s carriage with her only living uncle, his +wife, and another relative. But after the service she separated herself +from her family and climbed into the front seat beside me, looking very +tired, her face tight and yellow, her mouth twitching as if with anger. + +“I couldn’t stand those sneaky women another minute. My Aunt Cynthy and +Mrs. Smart, the old hens. They think I don’t show a proper feeling. +They’ll start again’s soon as we get home, but I might’s well have a +rest, I guess.” + +“Good idea,” I said. + +“Of course I’ll miss her and she was always good to me,” she added +timidly, as if to please me, and buried her pale nose in a handkerchief. + +To change the subject I asked, “Are you and Nick going to stay at the +farm?” + +“I s’pose so.” + +“I thought you might try something else. The land isn’t much good, is +it?” + +“No good at all. Worn out, sandy--stones and ditches. It’s gettin’ now +so’s it won’t raise grass--never was manured any. And the fences are +all down. God, I hate it!” + +I asked why. + +“Well, not just because it’s poor farmin’. I don’ know--the woods +maybe, those rotten trees so close. It’s no way to live; you see ’em +all day and hear ’em all night. When I was a kid I used to be scared +our house would slide into the lake. Was you ever down there? It just +shows you what it’s always been like. If you fell in, you’d have some +chance--but if you was always in....” + +Her voice weakened to a loud whisper. “You need some excitement. +I never went nowhere, never saw nothin’--had to work. I guess you +wouldn’t have the nerve to get out of a dead hole like that if you knew +you got to come back. That’s why I never went to dances. I guess you’d +jump into the lake for good--when you got home I mean.” + +I felt uncomfortable. “Why don’t you sell the whole outfit and rent a +house near town. Nick could make as much by the day as he does here.” + +She did not seem to listen. “And it’s so awful still,” she muttered. +“My God. It’s so still you can hear the slime dripping in the well.” + +I renewed my encouragement. “Sell it and go to town. Nick could make +two or three dollars a day. Don’t try to stick it out another year. +Give yourself a chance. Have an auction,” I said. + +“Oh Lord,” she cried. “Sell all that junk? It wouldn’t bring thirty +cents. Spread all that rubbish round the yard for a lot of old women to +pick over? I should say not.” + +“Well, do something then,” I said impatiently. We were in sight of the +house. + +“Oh, I couldn’t,” Amelia moaned. “I couldn’t go off and leave that +house--everything the way it’s always been. It’d be like leaving one of +them, Ma or Pa, like not burying them,” she said. + + + II + +Nick Richter had married to improve his position. His father, a +blacksmith, having speculated in Texas oil, had been forced, just +before he died, to sell his house, his shop, and every hammer and +horseshoe. Nick disliked his father’s trade, and drifted in a radius of +ten miles around the village, working by the day, week, or month, at +odd jobs. He bought a horse and buggy when he could afford to, selling +them if he lost his job, and looked for a wife at every Saturday and +Sunday night dance for several years. But he danced with his jaw, his +neck, and his elbows, and the boisterous girls merely laughed at him, +so these entertainments left him lonely and discouraged. + +The lake in the swamp below the Stearns house contained pickerel and +black bass, which George had been too law-abiding as well as too lazy +to exterminate with nets. Since the owner was a bed-ridden widow in +Milwaukee, he was its virtual proprietor, and rented his flat-bottomed +rowboat two or three times a week. Nick drove up before the barn one +Sunday morning, two bamboo poles wagging behind his buggy, and Amelia +showed him where to tie his horse and brought the heavy oars from the +shed. + +He was soon recognized as her beau. George had always puttered about +the sheds on Sunday, and Amelia, leaving her chores to him, claimed her +first regular holiday. They went to picnics, and drove from village to +village, stopping at the saloons for soda and beer, and sat very late +on the back porch. Sometimes they went to the lake to fish or pretend +to fish. + +I saw them there one morning just before George died, as I walked +through the swamp on an old corduroy road. From the tall maples leaves +floated to the ground like a harvest of ghostly oranges. Through a +clearing I could see the murky hills, and when I approached the lake, +the water glimmered between the boughs in mother-of-pearl strips. From +the tottering boat-house a muddy channel led out through the reeds to +a cup-shaped harbor, separated from the deep water by a sand bar. In +this quiet place a few lilies grew, the yellow thrusting their closed, +hard heads above the surface, the white spreading tufts of petals like +miniature swans. + +Here the boat was at rest, the oars hanging from the oarlocks. I stood +on the shore for several minutes, unobserved, and then turned back +into the woods. Nick crouched in the bottom of the boat, half-hidden, +and Amelia, sitting on the broad back seat, held his head in her lap. +Upon her face there was a vague, pale look of ecstasy, an ecstasy of +possession without confidence and without hope. + +There followed George’s death, their hasty marriage, the mother’s +illness and death. By spring Nick must have recognized the sterility +of the farm, for he put in only the patch of oats and the patch of +corn, ploughed up the garden for Amelia, and began to hire out to +his neighbors as George had done. He was a good worker in his sour, +muttering way, his shoulders bent forward like the wings of a large +hawk, his gaunt wrists extended stiffly. Perhaps his marriage was a +disappointment; certainly he failed to feel the security of a man of +property, the serenity of a married man, of which he may have dreamed. +Perhaps he had been contaminated by Amelia’s discontent. Perhaps he +was afraid of her: a weak swimmer who had ventured into what looked +like a stagnant pool, to find himself in the embrace of a profound, +indomitable current. + +Early in the next harvest I stopped one afternoon to ask Amelia if +Nick could help my father any day that week. The horizon was wrinkled +with heat waves, the zenith as dark as a sea, and one never ceased to +hear the growling of binders. In all the reaped fields the stubble was +spotted with bindweed like drops of blood. As I turned down toward the +swamp I observed the poverty of the fields there, the exhausted soil +gaping through the grass, the thin stand of grain, the great parched +gullies, the bogs where the birds shouted over the ripe weeds. The +trees slept in the sunshine: not a leaf swayed, but sometimes one +feathered prematurely to the ground. + +My mare trotted in at Amelia’s gate under the poplars full of +blackbirds. In the semicircle of forest the little house squatted, +staring blindly from its windows. The sheds leaned against the barn. A +sick dove staggered over the rocks by the water-trough. A little way +from the kitchen door, some shirts and stockings and cotton sheets hung +on a line stretched between two posts. + +“Hello!” I shouted. No answer. “Amelia!” An echo, small and soft, came +back from the woods: “_Amee-lia!_” I jumped out of the buggy and went +up the steps, certain that if she had gone to town she would have taken +in the washing. The kitchen smelled of boot-leather, manure, soft soap, +and cooking, and there was another odor which I identified as that of +moth-balls. + +Could she be asleep? The pendulum of the clock creaked monotonously. I +stepped inside and called again. The breakfast dishes lay in and around +a dishpan of cold water, and the fire in the range was only a handful +of pink coals. I felt the embarrassment of an empty house. Deciding +that she had gone to the woods for blackberries, I drove away. + +As I passed one of the farms owned by a man named Beacon, I saw him +sitting on the lawn, a pitcher of water beside him, fanning his +brick-red face with a newspaper. In hot weather he left the heavy work +to his sons, since he weighed more than two hundred and fifty pounds. +He beckoned to me and came down, wheezing and ponderous, to the road. +“As you went by Stearns’,” he asked, with the worried frown of a man +who has a larger harvest than he can handle, “did you see anything of +Nick?” + +I shouted because he was deaf. “No, Mr. Beacon. I stopped at the house, +but there wasn’t anybody there.” + +“Whew,” he sighed. “Nobody there. Queer. Nick’s been helpin’ us out, +and he hain’t showed up today. He al’ays sends word. I thought he +must’a been sick.” + +“It is funny,” I admitted. “Amelia wasn’t there either.” + +“Well, it’s a new wrinkle for Nick,” he concluded mournfully. + +I intended to stop at Amelia’s again, but as I came back from the +village I detected in the air a faint bitterness of smoke--so faint at +first that I thought it had drifted down from a forest fire in the +north. When I came to the top of a hill I saw it, hanging in a black +mushroom over the swamp. I touched the mare with my whip and rattled +into the alley, where the smoke was thick and steady and the color of +wheat-chaff, blowing slowly overhead. + +It was the Stearns house. Through a hole in the roof a great draught +lifted the flame as if in a chimney. The yard was full of men, whose +faces in the ruddy light were strange and glistening. Sweat dripped on +their blue shirts. They were fighting the fire eagerly and with some +skill; already they had chopped away the flaming porch. Three men in +turn worked the handle of the coughing, spurting pump, and bucket after +bucket of water was passed from hand to hand and emptied. + +I saw immediately that Amelia and Nick were not there. Some buggies and +an auto had stopped along the road, and several women looked on with +interest, their summer dresses and parasols lending to the catastrophe +an air of picnic. Among the spectators, but near enough to make his +orders heard above the crackle and roar of the fire, the shouts, the +axes, the creak of the pump handle, old Beacon was enthroned on a +dry-goods box. + +“Well my boy,” he demanded, “what d’you think of this? Did they have +any insurance?” He smiled wickedly. + +Indignant at his suspicion, I tried to offer some explanation, to +remember some clue. Then I shouted into his ear, “They hadn’t any +insurance. I remember. Amelia asked father about it, and he told her +not to bother, but to sell out when she had a chance.” + +A look of perplexity, even of disappointment, passed across old +Beacon’s face, that resembled a great, sagacious beet. He swelled his +cheeks and blew wearily. “Well, I’ll be damned, anyway,” he said. + +The roof fell, splitting like paper, and after that the fire +diminished. The floor sent up smoke and steam, but no more flame. The +kitchen stove crashed through the charred boards into the cellar. + +“But I don’ know what these men are burstin’ themselves for at this +job,” the old man said. “Looks to me like nobody’s goin’ to thank ’em +for it. The mare and the cart’re gone.” He settled his damp cheeks in +the folds of his neck. + +“Oh,” I shouted half-heartedly, “I guess they’ve gone to town. They’ll +be back, poor devils.” + +“But I knew better.” My eyes had rested on the clothesline; the washing +which had hung there was gone, and on the ground beneath in an uneven +row the clothespins lay. I remembered the harmless dying coals in the +range. I remembered the unwashed dishes and the odor of mothballs. +I remembered what Amelia had said the day her mother was buried: “I +couldn’t go off and leave that house--everything the way it’s always +been.” + +Had they been in the house? Had they heard me call? Had they been +hiding there, in the other rooms or behind a door? + +The fire left a ruin shaped like a charred pot. The men drew off--wet, +black, tired, and puzzled--washed their faces at the pump and rolled +down their sleeves. The horses were untied, every one piled into one +vehicle or another, and they drove away shouting; but those who spoke +of the cause of the fire did so in pairs, very quietly. + +From the charred and broken house the smoke went up straight to the +sky. Now it was as soft as wool, now like a tower or shell. It widened +over the swamp, casting a shadow upon the lake, and persisted until +dusk with an even, melancholy trembling. + + + III + +Years afterward, while I was stopping for a few days in a town in the +western part of the State, a carnival set up its tents in a dance-hall +park between the river and the tracks. I saw a van or two come down +the main street, the horses’ fetlocks stirring up dust in clouds which +settled on their sweaty backs and on the faces of the man with his +cheeks full of tobacco and the hatchet-faced woman who sat on the +packing cases and rolls of canvas. That night two of the vagrants +appeared at the boarding-house table where I took my meals. The +shuttered dining room smelled like a potato cellar where the sprouts +have nosed their way upward and the scabby tubers have rotted for +months, and when the landlady trotted out of the kitchen and set down +platters of meat in slabs as large as her hand, the regular boarders +looked with sick faces at their plates and at one another. + +But the theatrical ladies ate with the silent heartiness of women +paid to eat in a shop window as an advertisement of whatever they +ate. Chemises of shadow lace showed through georgette shirtwaists, +making their bodies look embossed with garlands and butterflies. Under +mats of blondined hair fastened with rhinestone pins, their faces +had an identical appearance of porcelain, the hard eyes surrounded +by pencilled lashes and eyebrows, spots of orange rouge exactly +between the nose and the ear. Their nails cut in triangles shone +like celluloid. Grasping the knives and forks vigorously, their eyes +unfocussed, their red mouths in motion, they ate the fat meat to the +last drop of gravy, the soggy pie to the last crumb. + +The next afternoon I crossed the iron footbridge with an aimless +curiosity, into the Grove. The river was only a trickle from puddle +to puddle and gave off an odor similar to that of cucumbers, and the +reflections of narrow, green and yellow leaves upon its surface were +like the footprints of innumerable birds on a flat of mud. + +Five great wagons and a mud-caked Ford were drawn up along the river. +The horses grazed in an adjoining meadow, the sweat dried in flakes on +their backs, switching at the flies and never lifting their heads to +look at the noisy camp, unfolded from the loads which they had drawn. + +In the center, like a fat woman pirouetting, the merry-go-round +revolved laboriously. The mincing legs of its horses kicked out behind, +their foamless lips were parted, and a pair of crimson tigers drew +a chariot for those too timid or too large to go astride. The power +which set the minute stallions and sky-blue bears gradually rocking +and circling came from a steam engine like a short-necked bottle, +whose whistle preceded the slapping and squeaking of the leather belts +and the outburst of shrill tunes from the calliope, when all the +passengers, mostly children, had been hoisted and set upright in the +saddles. + +A crowd of untidy women and shouting boys filled the alley between the +tents. The refreshment booth, a great umbrella of canvas enclosed by +planks laid from barrel to barrel, did a brisk business in ice-cream +cones, in tepid drinks, in hot dogs and patties of ground meat stewing +on a black griddle. A young man whose hair hung down in shoestrings +and a plump woman with brown pouches beneath her eyes ran from side to +side shouting, “What’s yours?” and “Don’t push plee-ase,” storing the +nickels and dimes in a cash-register drawer which opened and shut with +a grating noise. + +Next to it stood a “hit-the-nigger-baby” establishment--a hierarchy +of dolls, and a pile of baseballs with which to knock them down, and +a display of bad cigars and felt pillow-covers for prizes. Though it +was Saturday afternoon few men were there to patronize it, for those +who had worked all morning in the heat naturally preferred to lie on +couches indoors, with newspapers over their faces. + +The showmen’s cheeks drooped with disillusionment and fatigue. Business +was not good; business was never good, or never good enough. It was a +hard life: shouting, luring, browbeating, laughing, and singing--eating +the poorest food, counting the smallest coins, packing the tents, +frayed finery, nigger-dolls, fangless rattlesnakes, and petrified +Belgian babies; the boss and his wife going ahead in the Ford to rent +the next park, the rest following slowly after the strong-smelling +horses. They must have learned, the youngest Carnival Queen and the +newest freak, that romance is for those who see, never for those who +do, and underpaid as a profession. + +I stopped to look at a picture of the dope-fiend, a moon-colored young +man with scaly, presumably allegorical beasts nestling against his +ribs. Hanging beside it were posters of Jocko, the Baboon-Man, who +spoke the monkey language and ate raw meat, a snake charmer among her +serpents which stood up in spirals as thick as trees, and the Fat +Woman, a belted, brooched, and corsetted feather-bed, with oval fingers +scarcely meeting across her tremendous chest. A nervous little man, who +looked as if he might at any moment burst into tears, was lecturing a +dozen people. I was not tempted by his promises, for I could hear the +tremolo of the young man who would say, “Cigarette smoking has made me +what I am today,” and the charmer crooning perfunctorily to her sick +snakes; I could smell his ether and her toilet-water. I had seen a Wild +Man from Java or Borneo or somewhere else who tore off the heads of +live, squawking hens with his teeth and sucked their blood, and felt +sure that this poor tent had nothing so sensational to offer. + +The leaves of the maples, pockmarked and bleached by a common blight, +loosened and glided through the windless air, the calliope played, the +barkers grew hoarse, several babies cried. I went on to the next tent, +labelled in great letters GAY PAREE, joining the crowd which gathered +to see a free show before the performance. + +Three women and a negro stood on a platform like a large bench. The +women wore diaphanous slips, all beads and fringe, which did not cover +a row of pink and green legs, two of which were crooked and four very +fat. I recognized the ladies of the boarding house. They stared at the +crowd with the solemnity of caged animals, apparently trying to look +voluptuous on the couchless, cushionless boards. One of them pulled her +blouse away from her body and stared avidly inside it. The negro who +stood sleepily beside them crouched now and began to pipe, drearily and +loud, on a sort of flute. The women stiffened, their lips parted, the +pupils of their eyes grew large and cold. Three arms were lifted, and +all their bodies throbbed, paused, and throbbed again. Then each one +curved her waist extremely, first to the right side, then to the left, +and each seemed to spring upward and relax like a bow from which an +arrow has been shot. Three shrill cries and a tapping of the negro’s +foot marked the beat. + +During the dance a woman came out of the tent behind the performers and +sat down in the ticket-box. It was Amelia. + +I was shocked and amazed. Seven years had passed. And the pair had +vanished like a rock, not thrown, but laid in a pond. No one had +suspected their intention, and after they went, their neighbors +wondered why rather than where they had gone. The police could have +traced them, but why should they have been traced? The farm, which was +heavily mortgaged, went to a real estate agent who came out from time +to time to stare at the ruin and to stamp over the miserable fields, +not knowing what to do with them. Seven years ago.... Doubtless some +one found out what had become of them, but I had been away from home +for years and had never heard. + +Amelia had changed more than I, and at first I was afraid she would +give me a wild welcome--to what? The tent was all she had. But in a few +moments I began to doubt if she would have recognized her own father. +She sat there above me like a figure in a jack-in-the-box, took out a +roll of tickets like a pulley-wheel, and counted the change in a box. +Her small eyes drifted heedlessly from dull face to dull face: so many +strangers, so many fools, so many tickets to be sold! She had forgotten +me, forgotten above all what I remembered. + +She was grotesquely fat. Her narrow lips had been pressed together +by rectangular cheeks, there were deep crevices at her wrists, and +the sharp chin was lost in a succession of double chins gathered into +a tight necklace of amber beads as large as cherries. Her hair was +drawn up in a pompadour over a visible brown rat, her purple velvet +dress had worn leathery at the elbows. But it was evident, by the way +she sat in that booth like a pulpit, that all this meant progress and +prosperity. Every distortion of her face, every aggrandizement of her +body proclaimed her contentment. Soothed by movement and noise, gorged +by excitement, the girl who had resembled years ago a wistful rat, was +satisfied. + +I looked about for Nick, and his appearance between the flaps, +coat-tails first, as he argued with some one inside the tent, silenced +the music and arrested the dancing. He came forward and began to +harangue the onlookers and to shake his large fists, straining the +frock-coat which was buttoned too tightly over his chest. He had not +changed, unless exaggeration be a change: his glance was still hurt +and ominous, and there was the suggestion of a curse in the tone of +his voice. It was plain that the carnival had not been his salvation. +Amelia did not look at him but nevertheless she seemed, in her +fulfillment, to mock his angry hands, the furtive hope of his eyes, his +mastiff-jaw that would never dare to snap. + +“You have here, ladies and gentlemen,” he continued, smiling wanly, +“the flower of Oriental art. It is no singing and dancing for children. +There are things about it they would not appreciate. All these famous +performers have appeared in Paris. The French do not relish tame +entertainments. They like it hot, they like it strong. You have seen +their free preliminary dance. It is only a sample of what they can do. +The admission is ten cents. I advise you strongly to come in. The show +starts in five minutes.” + +The women and the negro sauntered down the steps behind the flap. Nick +disappeared. Amelia began to tear off tickets and make change, and +presently she followed, never glancing at the stragglers or at me. + +I did not see them again. I did not need to hear their story. For in +the dusty grove were tents, the brass throats of the calliope opened +again, and the whole town throbbed with music. Those silences in which +she had heard “slime dripping in the well” were vanquished. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [18] Copyright, 1925 (under title “This Way Out”), by P. F. + Collier & Son Company. + Copyright, 1926, by Glenway Wescott. + + + + + THE DEVIL DRUM[19] + + By BARRETT WILLOUGHBY + + (From _The Century Magazine_) + + +_O-o-m, oom-oom. O-o-m, oom-oom. O-o-m, oom-oom._ + +Up from the _kashim_, the underground council-house, came the beat of +the devil-drum, pulsing hollow and strange amid the scream of the +gale and the rumble of icebergs grinding below the snow-buried Eskimo +village. + +_O-o-m, oom-oom. O-o-m, oom-oom. O-o-m, oom-oom._ + +Ah-king-ah, the medicine-man, was trying to change the wind. Day and +night for two moons the polar blizzard had split its force on the bleak +island pyramid thrusting up through the ice of Bering Strait. It was +a wind of death, a devil’s wind, piling floe on floe until the ice +grounded, yet keeping it ever a-stir. No life could exist beneath the +pack or on top of it, and in the igloos clinging to the white slope of +the shore the people, unable to hunt, were facing starvation. + +_O-o-m, oom-oom. O-o-m, oom-oom. O-o-m, oom-oom._ + +In the temporary lull the hollow rhythm grew louder, penetrating the +walls of the missionary’s igloo, where he, the only white man on the +island, sat alone before a table clutching an open book with both +mittened hands. The twilight of the arctic noon made no impression +on the thick frost-crust of the window, but the wan rays of a +kerosene-lamp fell on the volume, and on the missionary’s gray hair +showing above the dropped hood of his reindeer parka. With every breath +a shaft of vapor clouded the chill air, for his supply of driftwood had +vanished while the blizzard was in its first month, and after he had +shared his oil with the village families there was little left for use +in his Eskimo heating-lamp. + +The reverberation of the devil-drum was suddenly pierced by the wail +of a wolf-dog dying under the teeth of its hunger-maddened mates. The +man raised sunken eyes, blue and fervid with a terrible anxiety, and +listened. The sounds of cannibalistic ravening sent a tremor through +his body. + +“God--God--” he flattened his palms on the open Bible and strained his +thin face upward in desperate supplication--“God, Father, change the +wind!” During a moment’s silence his gaze remained fixed on something +beyond the blackened ceiling of the igloo, beyond the driven ice-dust +of the blizzard. Then in a voice that gathered confidence as he +proceeded he filled the room with ringing phrases from the Book: + +“He caused an east wind to blow in the heaven: and by his power he +brought in the south wind. + +“He rained flesh also upon them as dust, and feathered fowls like as +the sands of the sea. + +“And He let it fall in the midst of their camp, round about their +habitations. + +“So they did eat and were well filled.” + +_O-o-m, oom-oom. O-o-m, oom-oom. O-o-m, oom-oom_, the devil-drum beat a +barbarous amen. + +“They did eat and were well filled!” The missionary closed the Bible +and firmly, as one who has found new courage, repeated the words in the +Eskimo tongue. He rose from the table, a lean, little man even in his +heavy furs, and crossed over to a corner where a canned-milk box did +duty as a cupboard. From the curled bacon rind that hung there he cut a +thin slice and slipped it hungrily into his mouth. Chewing a bit of it +eased the gnawing in his stomach, which had not yet grown accustomed to +one meal a day, a ration made necessary since he had divided the last +of his provisions with the village. + +Opening a door at the back of the igloo he made his stooping way into +another larger room--the schoolhouse and church his own hands had built +so hopefully six months before. Under his stiff fingers the light +flared up from a bracket lamp, revealing a small wall-blackboard which +had never known a chalk mark and the yellow lumber of benches that had +yet to feel the contact of Eskimo garments. + +In the beginning the Eskimos had treated him with the good-natured +tolerance of their race. They accepted his presents, ate his food, and +begged or borrowed from him in accordance with their code: The white +man who outwits us is a better man than we, and we admire him; the +white man we outwit is a fool. The unsuspecting little missionary, +confident that he was making great strides into their friendship, was +unusually generous; but the moment he tried to preach the word of his +God, the moment he attempted to interfere with their customs, he found +himself up against a glacial wall of resentment. + +“Leave us alone! Leave us alone!” Milli-ru-ak, the hunter, had said +to him in the squirrel-hunting season when the missionary went to +remonstrate with him for biting off the nose of his wife’s lover. +“Leave us alone! Does the Eskimo force his way on the white man who +invades his country? Why does the white man force his way on the +Eskimo? Leave us alone!” + +“But Milli-ru-ak, to bite off the nose of thy neighbor----” + +“Listen, white man, to the law of my fathers!” The hunter’s dark eyes +narrowed. “Had my neighbor come to me and said: ‘Milli-ru-ak, thy +woman hath found favor in my eyes. Let us change wives during the +squirrel-hunting, that our families may be allied when the children are +born’; then would I have been proud that my neighbor should have taken +his pleasure with my wife and I with his. But my neighbor was without +honor. He waited until I was gone to the hunt, then like a thief he +goes to my woman. I found him there. I bit off his nose. Such,” said +Milli-ru-ak, turning on his heel, “was the just law of my fathers.” + +Aghast at this disclosure, the little missionary persistently attempted +to convince the hunter of his sins, and after a week Milli-ru-ak shot +at him--by accident. The bullet passed harmlessly between the white +man’s arm and his body, embedding itself in the shaky pulpit he was +building at the time. He could see the splintered hole now as he +placed his open Bible upon it and reached for the dangling bell-rope +behind the pulpit. + +The _ding-dong_ that marked the Sabbath day was caught up by the +blizzard and carried with the boom of the devil-drum out over the +polar wastes. Every Sunday and Wednesday since the completion of the +meeting-house the missionary had doggedly rung the first and second +bell summoning an indifferent people to listen to the word of his God. +Not a soul had ever responded. + +He rang the first bell longer than usual. Now that the magic of +Ah-king-ah had failed to change the wind, now that the dogs were +starving, and the people were eating the last of the moldy seal-meat +originally intended for the animals, surely, he thought, they were +ready to abandon their ways of darkness for the light of Christianity. + +He allowed the bell-rope to fall, and poured a bit of oil from a +deflated seal-skin container into the stone lamp in the middle of +the floor. When the flame flared up from the moss wick he held his +hands over it. Not for himself would he have used any of the precious +oil, but he hoped that some curious Eskimo might come and, seeing the +fire, spread the news of it in the village. The people might come to +him then, since there was no oil in the native igloos--no oil for +heating, no oil for melting ice for water, no oil for cooking the moldy +seal-meat. Only the medicine-man had oil now. + +The dogs outside had quieted, and the voice of Ah-king-ah’s drum alone +rode the gale. The little missionary, squatting over the lamp, kept +turning his thin, expectant face toward the outside door. He was always +looking for it to open, but it never did. Fifteen minutes dragged by +before he rose and rang the second bell. In the silence that followed +its last clang the _oom-oom_ of Ah-king-ah’s drum mocked him with his +failure in the service of his Master. + +Across the vapor of his breath the rows of clean new benches reproached +him with their emptiness, and from the bare wooden walls frost-pegs on +every nail-head pointed at him like accusing white fingers. He turned +slowly and, mounting the pulpit, stood, his hands on the open Bible, +his blue eyes looking down wistfully on the cheerless room. The smoky +bracket lamp behind him threw his shadow, long and grotesque, across +the bare benches, as if in pity trying to cover them. The sound of the +devil-drum filtered in faint, taunting, but the missionary cleared +his throat and, as was his wont, began his lonely Sunday service. His +voice, forlorn and strange at first, grew firmer as he proceeded. + +At the end he closed his Bible and turned out the light. There was a +dispirited sag to his narrow shoulders as he went back to his living +room. Today, because death was so near to them all, the Eskimos’ +animal-like indifference to him and his message made him feel small and +forsaken; made him ache with the terrible longing of the lonely white +man for his kind. For a moment he stood uncertain, his breath clouding +the cold, stale atmosphere of the igloo; then with the air of one +banishing personal weaknesses he shoved his parka hood over his head, +drew the long fur about his face, and made his way out through the snow +tunnel leading from his door to the open. + +The force of the gale struck him flat against a trampled snow-bank +where red stains still defied the covering of the wind-blown snow. Not +a bone or a piece of fur remained of the dog who had died there an hour +before. + +The pallor of the arctic noon was filled with frost-dust borne on +wind of such velocity that its passing was like the whiz of speeding +bullets. Through the fur about his face the man peered at the ice-pack +lying like a gray monster below him. Stationary it appeared at first, +but as his eyes grew accustomed to the murky light, it became a thing +of horrid life, heaving, quivering, forming itself into grotesque +shapes with a slowness that was as sinister and relentless as death. +Through the blizzard as far as he could see berg was creeping up over +berg, grinding, crunching, to heights of twenty, thirty feet, until the +masses tottered and crashed down on the other side, sending powdered +ice streaming on the gale like ocean spray. The awful, insensate force +loosed thus in a strange, unearthly land struck to the missionary’s +soul with primeval terror. He felt puny, insignificant, cruelly at the +mercy of that tremendous wind which was blowing the ice-pack down from +the pole and maliciously grounding it in the shallow waters of the +strait. For an instant something primitive in him was near to endowing +it with the malevolent personality the Eskimos were even then trying to +placate through Ah-king-ah’s drum. + +“God, Father,” he prayed with sudden, panicky earnestness, “change the +wind!” + +_O-o-m, oom-oom. O-o-m, oom-oom. O-o-m, oom-oom_, reverberated the +devil-drum. + +Far out on the pack, where death was certain, a dark thing moved. It +drew nearer the village, a great bull walrus scouting vainly for leads +of open water that meant life to the small herd wallowing along in its +wake. The scout rolled its three thousand pounds from side to side +over the moving ice, dexterously fastening its tusks into the base of +each berg and pulling itself to the top. On the pinnacle it reared +still higher on its flippers, sniffing the air, tusked head swaying, +short-sighted eyes trying to pierce the thick atmosphere. A moment of +decision, and through the stridor of the elements a bellowing grunt +rumbled deep and lone, signaling the advance of the herd. The valiant +creature wallowed on from point to point of vantage, progressing +through the zone of constant and terrible danger with a courageous +dignity that won admiration even from the hungry missionary, who saw it +as food, heat, life itself. + +Opposite the village the walrus escaped the buckling of the ice by +a hair’s-breadth, and drawing itself up to the peak of a moving +berg, paused longer than usual to toss its mighty tusks in nervous +apprehension of a new danger. Just as the berg began to topple it +sensed the presence of human beings, and sent its wild trumpetings +to warn the herd. The gallant animal, too late to take any thought +for itself, plunged recklessly. A patch of black in the gaping angle +between two floes, a slow closing of the frigid trap, and a long-drawn +despairing roar wove itself through the hissing of the wind and the +booming of the devil-drum. As it died away, the ice was marked by a +seeping red stain. + +The herd, panic-stricken at the loss of their leader, flung themselves +forward to destruction, leaving crushed bodies to mark a spotted trail +of death across the ice-field. + +The last terror-driven creature was disappearing in the haze of the +blizzard when a bent Eskimo battled his way down from the _kashim_ +to the edge of the heaving ice. He sheltered himself in the lee of +a floe, looking long at the evidences of tragedy before him. Three +wolf-dogs, scenting the blood, came out from under the snow and +sat on their haunches to send their hunger-cry keening through the +glimmering twilight. Starving though they were, neither man nor beasts +dared venture over the few feet that lay between them and the meat +tantalizing them on the creeping ice. + +“O God, Father, change the wind!” prayed the missionary. + +_O-o-m, oom-oom. O-o-m, oom-oom. O-o-m, oom-oom_, propitiated the +devil-drum of Ah-king-ah. + + + II + +When the white man saw the Eskimo, he started. Then tightening the +hood of his parka against the stinging ice-dust, he began creeping +cautiously away toward the sound of the drum. With every backward +glance he quickened his progress. At last he would be able to enter the +tunnel of the _kashim_ while the guard was absent from his post; for +though the missionary’s presence had been tolerated in the igloos, he +had never yet succeeded in forcing his way into the council-house. He +had convinced himself that once in the _kashim_, where he could address +the assembled village, he could persuade them to abandon their heathen +incantations and fling themselves on the mercy of God. + +He pressed forward eagerly toward the open jaws of a whale which formed +the entrance to the tunnel. Despite his haste, he came to an abrupt +halt inside the passage. A queer cross of driftwood lay there, warning +strangers against entering the _kashim_ while the medicine-man was +performing the weird mysteries of his calling. + +The missionary’s hesitation was banished by his zeal, and a moment +later he caught up a club from the stack of hunting implements near +the opening and began to feel his uneven way along the icy stones of +the tunnel. Half a dozen steps plunged him into darkness where every +movement of his feet roused wolf-dogs driven to shelter by the storm. +They leaped, savagely snarling their hatred of the disturbing white, +and the missionary, knowing that one misstep would send him sprawling +under their slavering jaws, laid about him with a club, beating a way +through the starving animals. + +He advanced blindly until a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel +guided him to the opening in the floor of the _kashim_ above. With a +gasp of relief, he clutched the ladder that led upward, and mounted. +He was not observed as he thrust his head into the dim room, hot and +rank with ammoniacal smells and the reek of close-packed bodies. +Miak, the witch-woman, huddled in one corner, tending the wick of +the medicine-man’s stone lamp. It’s smoky light barely revealed the +skin-covered shelf about the walls where hunters, stripped to the +waist, sat cross-legged and cross-armed, their Mongolian faces set in +earnest concentration. On the floor below them squatted the women, the +old men, and the quiet children, naked as fishes. + +All eyes were on Ah-king-ah, the medicine-man--Ah-king-ah who +had successfully defied the Christianizing efforts of two former +missionaries. Many were the tales told of the man’s cunning and +strength not only among the Eskimo tribes, but among the whalers and +the white traders of the arctic. In the Season of the Sun, when the +tribes assembled on In-ga-lee-nay for the yearly Festival of the Whale, +it took Miak, the witch-woman, three days to sing all the runes of his +magic. Mightiest and richest shaman of the high North was Ah-king-ah, +and great in the eyes of the Innuits, was the singing of Miak. So +strong were his words of enchantment, he could plunge a hunting-knife +through his vitals and dance with his necklace of bird-claws dangling +from the point behind. So marvelous were his chants of wizardry that +the sound of them formed kayaks, which took him far to the moonless +land, where spirits of departed ivory-hunters yielded up their secrets +to him. Ah-king-ah had the spirit of a crow. Ah-king-ah was a son of +the wind. Ah-king-ah flew to the moon on the rays of the ice-blink. +Once he flew to Siberia and challenged Nan-kum, the one-eyed shaman of +the Chuckchees, to battle for the supremacy of the North. Had not all +the village seen them fighting over the strait one morning--two great +black crows whose raucous screams sent chills to the hearts of the +bravest hunters? Mightiest shaman of the North was Ah-king-ah. With his +beak he had wrenched off the leg of Nan-kum and flung it to the ice, +cawing triumphantly, while the cripple flapped away defeated to Asiatic +shores. Had not Milli-ru-ak found the leg where it fell, and was it not +the leg of a man? And did not hunters returning from Siberian tundras +report Nan-kum hobbling about on one leg ever after? Great indeed was +Ah-king-ah, the medicine-man, and greater still would he be when he had +changed the wind that was bringing famine to In-ga-lee-nay; greater and +richer, for his price would be half the fruits of the village hunt for +the space of six hunting moons. + +The missionary’s eyes fell upon Ah-king-ah, half crouching in the +middle of the floor. He was six feet tall, and nude except for a +short, transparent garment made of the intestines of seals and trimmed +with the crimson beaks of sea-parrots. He was beating upon the sacred +devil-drum and chanting runes treating of the secret things of spirits, +while his slim, naked feet made weird passes and performed strange, +halting steps. With every movement his superb brown body rippled +beneath the transparent shirt, setting all the beaks clattering in +measured cadence. Behind him sat his three apprentices, swaying their +naked bodies as they thumped the floor with sticks adorned with +wolf-tails and gull-wings. + +A sudden, sinuous motion, and Ah-king-ah was facing the west. The drum +began a soft, rolling accompaniment to his rising, long-drawn croon. +The tawny torsos of the hunters, moving to and fro from the hips, +caught the light in zigzag waves. + +Ah-king-ah’s tones grew louder, the tempo of the drum quickened, and +its sound swelled until it became the voice of the wind, the thunder +of crashing seas, the expression of nature in all her moods of fury. +Swaying bodies responded. The people began to shout, to vent queer +cries in unison, urging the shaman to greater efforts, deeper magic. +Excitement grew until it was a very frenzy of earnestness that +increased the heat of the _kashim_ and started the sweat on the sixty +bodies packed there. The reek of them was sickening, the deluge of +sounds deafening. + +Suddenly everything stopped. Ah-king-ah grew rigid. While the jade and +amber beads dangling from the plugs in his lower lip quivered into +life, his dark face took on the look of a demon. He flung out his arms, +raised his chin, and sent an intonation soaring through the din of the +gale. + +“Thou, Almighty Devil----” + +“Stop!” The small figure of the missionary catapulted to the middle +of the room, one arm outstretched, one thin finger extended. “Stop, +blasphemer!” he shouted, lost to all sense of danger in the fervor +of his religious indignation. “Servant of Satan! son of Belial! +wouldst thou anger God by thy sacrilege?” His pale eyes flashed in his +twitching face, his accusing fingers trembled. “God alone is mighty! +God alone is good! Oh, poor deluded ones,”--he turned pleadingly to +the stunned and wondering people--“shut your ears to the evils of this +sorcerer! Turn to the true God, and the blizzard will die, and you +shall have meat!” + +In the smoky light the astonished expressions on the dark faces +changed. They grew sullen, grew threatening, in a silence that was +pregnant with hostility. One wolf-step brought Ah-king-ah close to the +white man, who became dwarfed and insignificant beside the powerful +Eskimo. Ah-king-ah’s voice rang deep and mellow and supremely exalted +after the thin, excited tones of the missionary. + +“The white man has spoken, my brothers. But--did we of In-ga-lee-nay +ask him for this God whom he says we insult? The white man has broken +in upon us. He has crossed the sign that warns all strangers from our +council-house. He has spoken. Listen now to Ah-king-ah and compare the +wisdom of our tongues.” He paused until the murmur of approval went +around the hunters’ shelf. “Well ye know that our people have lived on +In-ga-lee-nay for ten times a thousand moons, happy in the customs of +the ancient ones. Well ye know that our island and the waters about our +island have ever been the abode of plenty, the breeding-place of birds, +the dwelling-place of land-creatures, the home of sea-creatures. In +all the land of the Innuits no village has been so favored by the +spirits. In no village but thine could a man sit in his doorway and +shoot enough seals to give a feast.” + +The hunters grunted assent and gravely nodded their heads above their +folded arms. + +“Yea, my brothers, in the old time ye were happy. Your bellies were +rounded and well filled. Skins of oil hung from your ceilings, and oil +in plenty burned in the lamps of your igloos. This was the happy way of +life under the wise laws of your fathers.” Ah-king-ah shifted his drum +from one hip to the other and resumed with quickened utterance: + +“Then comes this white man from the South. Uninvited, he pushes his way +into your igloos with the words of his God. He comes with the ringing +of the bell that is bad medicine in the ears of the almighty devil, +tossing in his hands the ivory ball of the world. Then, my brothers, +from the Place of Winds strange evils have come upon you. Why? Why, my +brothers?” + +He allowed a moment’s silence before he leaned forward and whispered +slowly in a way that left the room ringing: + +“The--almighty--devil--is--angry--with--you!” + +In the hush that followed, the sound of the blizzard seeped in through +the thick walls. Ah-king-ah suddenly flung himself upright, and +continued in a voice that gathered volume as he proceeded: + +“The almighty devil is angry with you for harkening to new words. +Behold, your bellies grow flat against your backs. Your igloos grow +cold. Your dogs consume each other. Oh, hear the words of Ah-king-ah, +my brothers, whom the spirits have taught concerning these things +of mystery.” The shaman wheeled, and with a quick, accusing finger +transfixed the missionary. “It is because of this white man and his +ringing bell that the devil is angry!” he shouted. “Wherefore, I say, +let this white man take his God back to his own kind--back to the land +of his fathers!” The words rose to a shriek. “Let him take his God back +to the land of his fathers!” + +The muttering of the crowd broke loose in a yelling frenzy as men, +women, and children took up the cry. In the seething, sweating mass of +humanity the missionary’s protests were lost; but the dauntless little +man wrested himself from the hands of the medicine-man’s apprentices, +snatched the drum from the great Ah-king-ah himself, and leaped to the +now empty shelf of the _kashim_. + +“Wait! Wait!” he commanded. His fist banged the devil-drum, which +none but a shaman might touch on penalty of death. The very magnitude +of the sacrilege bludgeoned the people into an aghast silence. “For +the sake of your starving women and children, listen to the words +of the white man’s God. In the Book of which I have told you it is +written: ‘Whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, that will I do!’ Oh, +poor benighted ones, pray to God for help, and He will answer. For +two months ye have watched Ah-king-ah with his devil tricks trying to +change the wind. His words are a lie within his mouth! His sorceries +are an abomination to the Lord. His----” + +A lightning movement, and Ah-king-ah had snatched the drum to him. + +“We do not know this man’s God, and we do not want to know Him!” The +shaman’s mighty voice extinguished the missionary’s. “Let the white +man take his God back to the land of his fathers!” The rumble of the +drum began, and the shaman’s feet resumed their weird passes. Again +and again he repeated the words. His rhythmic chanting and the booming +of the drum woke the mob spirit in the people. The yelling crowd that +surged threateningly toward the missionary was led by Milli-ru-ak, who +leaped to the shelf and crooked his avid fingers about the white man’s +throat. + +“Stop, my brothers!” The medicine-man’s authoritative voice rang out. +He had ceased his capering, and there was a light of apprehension in +his wary eyes. “Milli-ru-ak, lay thy hands off! It is not well that the +people of In-ga-lee-nay do violence to such as he, for well ye know +how the long arm of the white man’s law reaches even from the South, +where the sun sinks under the world, to the North, where the water +ends. Have ye forgotten the fate of the three medicine-men, Sautock, +Beelack, and O-tock-tock in the year of the Red Death? They did but +bind the man O’Ryan until his spirit fled--the strange man O’Ryan, who +swung the little cup of smoke before his God, and wore the long garment +of a woman, with a cross about his neck. Remember my brothers, how in +the Season of the Sun there came high chiefs from the South, mighty +in anger, and with stars on their breasts glittering like the fishes’ +scales? Remember how they hanged Sautock, Beelack, and O-tock-tock high +on the slope back of the village? Have ye the minds of children that +ye can forget the long moons their bones rattled in the chains as the +east wind lipped them? I, Ah-king-ah, to whom spirits whisper, tell ye +it is not well that we do violence to a white man,”--he woke again the +rumbling rhythm of the drum--“but let him leave us in peace to practice +the ways of our fathers. Let him take his God back to his own land!” + +“Yea! Yea!” The people took up the words in a clamoring chorus, while +the shaman’s three apprentices seized the protesting missionary and +carried him to the opening in the floor. One of them placed his feet on +the ladder. The other two pressed him down rung by rung until he found +himself on the floor of the tunnel, where the eyes of starving dogs +menaced him. + +He stood uncertain for a moment while the _oom-oom_ of the devil-drum +rolled in his ears. Then blindly he groped and beat his way along the +slippery passage. + +“Oh, Thou, Almighty Devil--” The propitiatory chant of Ah-king-ah +followed him out into the blizzard. + +Darkness had already fallen. The malicious wind flung ice-dust like +splintered glass through the fur about his face. He shut his eyes +against the sting of it, and stumbled forward, a small, forlorn figure +in the polar night. A gust flung him into a drift, and he crawled on +his hands and knees until he encountered a dog asleep under the snow. +He rose hastily, shivering as the roused animal’s howls set all its +mates wailing their hunger in the blackness. + +Back in the chill emptiness of his igloo he swayed toward his bunk and, +dropping on tense knees beside it, began to pray. + + + III + +Day after day the blizzard continued unabated. The supply of moldy +seal-meat dwindled, vanished. The people began eating the walrus-skin +coverings of the oomiaks. They chewed the hide dry because there was no +oil for cooking except in the house of the medicine-man. The thin-faced +children and babies suffered mutely, sucking on sealskin ropes, on +thongs of snow-shoes, on anything that contained a bit of nourishment. +The dogs, with uncanny prescience, left the habitations of their +masters for the heights back of the village. There in the graveyard, +where the iron chains still clanked a warning against the hanging-posts +of Sautock, Beelack, and O-tock-tock, the gaunt beasts riddled the +sepulchers and fought like werwolves over what they found. Not even +Milli-ru-ak, the greatest hunter on In-ga-lee-nay, could battle his way +up through the blizzard to shoot at them for food. + +Hunger gnawed at the stomachs of the people and marked their faces +with hollows, yet there were no lamentations, no visible evidences +of despair. After the fatalistic manner of their race they waited +patiently, stoically, for a change of weather--or for death. + +One night the old mother of Miak, the witch-woman, froze to death. The +next day every family moved to the _kashim_, where, by shutting out the +air and huddling close together, the people could keep warm without +oil. Once a day Ah-king-ah brought them hope and comfort by lighting +the stone lamp and chanting magical words to the almighty devil. + +The missionary in his igloo spent desperate hours on his knees pleading +with his God to change the wind. In the darkness he paced his room, +warming his thin body by the exercise and striving for courage by +repeating over and over the promises of the Bible. Sternly he reduced +the rations for his scant daily meal until hunger brought upon him +that strange fanatical exultation which is akin to the ecstasy that +causes the fasting prophet to prophesy, or the medicine-man to perform +his greatest feats of magic. With the passage of each dreary day the +conviction grew upon him that this unprecedented blizzard had been +sent to test his zeal as a worker in the vineyard of the Lord. This +blizzard was his opportunity to win an entire village from the heathen +sway of the medicine-man. With every atom of his being the little +missionary grew to believe that if once he could persuade the people +to enter the meeting-house, if once he could induce them to pray to his +God, the wind would die, and the hunters be able to get food. + +This conviction forced him every afternoon through the gale to the +_kashim_. He ignored every rebuff, ignored utterly the danger to +himself, although he knew that Ah-king-ah, should he forget the fate +of the priest-murdering medicine-men, might have him killed as a witch +who had brought misfortune on the village. Sometimes, by dint of +superhuman self-denial, he brought bits of hardtack for the strangely +quiet little ones clinging to their mothers in the _kashim_. Always he +pleaded with the elders to turn from shamanism to the true God. The +Eskimos, apathetic from prolonged hunger, suffered his presence. While +he was with them, there was at least the light of his kerosene lantern. +Otherwise, the _kashim_ was always in darkness now, for Ah-king-ah’s +oil was gone. + +Construing this tolerance as an encouraging sign, the earnest little +man brought his Bible, and standing under the swinging light of the +lantern, he translated page after page of Exodus--the promises of +the Lord to the Children of Israel, the feeding of the wanderers in +the desert. But the Eskimos sat stolid, unmoved, apathetic. Even his +ardent rendering of the miracle of the loaves and fishes fell flat. +Ah-king-ah, as if in weary scorn of his rival, stretched himself on the +skins of his shelf and slept, or appeared to sleep. + +One day, by accident, the missionary read of the magicians and +sorcerers who competed with Moses and Aaron at the court of the +Egyptian Pharaoh. Milli-ru-ak raised his eyes from a sad contemplation +of his ailing infant son asleep in its mother’s arms. Miak, the +witch-woman, leaned forward over her empty lamp to listen. A stir of +interest went among the people. Here at last was something they could +understand. + +The white man had heretofore preached only a kind and beneficent +God, but seeing in this an opening in the wall of their indifference, +he plunged into detailed descriptions of the misfortunes that had +visited the Egyptians. His gaunt face and sunken eyes glowed with +fervor. Hunger lent a delirious and terrible vividness to his speech. +Vicariously, the starving Eskimos were drowned in his Biblical rivers +of blood. They were tormented by plagues of frogs and boils, locusts +and lice. They were terrified by hails and thunders. Aware of the +Eskimos’ almost idolatrous love for their offspring, he loosed his +tongue of all restraint when he pictured the smiting of the first-born. +To the sound of the howling blizzard he dwelt long on the pathos of the +dead childish faces in those desolate homes along the Nile. Ah-king-ah +bestirred himself and sat up. There was a murmuring among the hunters. +The mothers caught their children to their breasts and swayed back and +forth, moaning. The missionary, light-headed from hunger and emotion, +reeled under the swinging shadows of the lantern. + +“Would ye, like the Egyptians, harden your hearts against the word +of God and bring death to your children?” he shouted. “Oh, come, my +friends! Come with me before your little ones lie dead in your arms. +Pray to Almighty God and be delivered! Follow me before it is too +late!” Carried away by the effect of his eloquence on the hitherto +indifferent Eskimos, he caught at the lantern and lurched forward +toward the exit of the _kashim_. “Follow me to the house of God!” + +The mothers rose with hysterical cries. The hunters began to get down +from their shelf. But before the missionary had reached the ladder, +Ah-king-ah was standing in the middle of the floor. Calm and dignified, +he made a single motion with one hand. Not a soul moved farther to +follow the white man. + +The next day, when the missionary climbed to the opening of the +_kashim_, he found the hole covered. His knocks and pleas for entrance +met with no response, because Ah-king-ah was sitting on the door to +hold it down. + +Night brought a drop in temperature and an increase in the force of the +gale. The grinding and crash of the ice-pack seemed to threaten the +very foundations of the island. With the exception of the missionary, +every soul on In-ga-lee-nay was packed in the _kashim_. Men, women, +and children chewed desperately on dry walrus-hide and clung together +to keep from freezing. The little ones wedged between their parents +whimpered in misery. At last the company, weary from many wakeful +nights, jerked and flung their arms about in troubled sleep. + +When morning broke Milli-ru-ak’s child was dead. + +The wailing of the mothers mingled with the roar of the blizzard and +the increased fervor of the medicine-man’s incantations. Before the day +was done, two more little ones died. + +It was then that Milli-ru-ak, with three of the council men, appeared +in the igloo of the white man. + +“We will pray to your God,” said the hunter, wearily. + +The peals of the bell that summoned the people to the prayer-meeting +were freighted with the little missionary’s joy in the fulfilment of +his mission. He had wrested a whole village from the dominance of the +medicine-man! + +The sunken eyes in his gaunt, unshaven face glowed with fanatic +happiness as he looked down on the crowded room. Eskimos filled the +benches, stood about the walls, and squatted on the floor about the +last of his oil burning in the stone lamp below the pulpit. Of all +the village only Ah-king-ah was absent. The people sat silent, grave, +attentive, their eyes fixed on the Bible lying open on the pulpit. + +The missionary began his exhortation, raising his voice above the +raging of the blizzard and the rending of the icepack. Thrilled by a +sense of achievement and inspired by faith, he spoke with a confidence +and an eloquence he had never known before. Within him woke the spirit +of the evangelist. During the hour he worked upon his congregation he +felt himself rising to the sublime heights from which Jesus himself +had dominated all physical conditions. So exalted was he that his +preaching aroused a measure of faith in the starving Eskimos, even as +the incantations of Ah-king-ah had done. + +“Such is the might and goodness of our God,” he shouted after he had +combed the Bible for incidents showing the stilling of storms, the +feeding of the hungry, the raising of the dead. “And He is the same +yesterday, today, and forever! Oh, down on your knees, my friends!” +he cried with sudden vehemence. “Down on your knees and prove him +now--now!” + +His impassioned utterance swept his listeners to their knees, shouting, +praying, pleading in long, fragmentary prayers for food, for life, for +a change of wind. The fervid little white man leading them felt the +whole room to be charged with power--an invincible power that flowed +from him and from each one and definitely made its connection with the +Infinite Mind that rules creation. + +When he sprang to his feet at the end of the supplication, his thin +face was alight. + +“Go home, my people!” his voice rang out with confidence. “Go home and +wait on the salvation of our Lord. Sharpen your spears; put an edge on +your skinning-knives. Make ready your gears, for the day of hunting is +near!” + +“If the white man’s God answers, we will all become Christians!” cried +Milli-ru-ak, rising and bringing the others with him. + +“Yea! Yea!” came the chorus of assent. Miak, the witch-woman, sidled +close to the pulpit, putting out a curious, but cautious, finger to +feel the Bible. + +“If the white man’s God changes the wind,” she croaked, slanting a +wise, bleary eye up at the missionary, “the people of In-ga-lee-nay +will come when the bell calls and listen again to the words in the +black medicine-book.” + +From the supreme heights of his faith the missionary watched his +fur-clad congregation depart, seeing in them brands he had plucked from +the burning, souls he had saved from destruction. Finally, in his cold +living-room, he staggered toward his bunk and in sudden exhaustion sank +upon it. He had scarcely drawn the fur robes about him when he was +plunged into a heavy, dreamless sleep. + + + IV + +He awoke to a hush so intense that his soul ached with it. It was as if +the world had died, leaving him the only living thing upon it. After +a moment’s bewilderment he realized that the wind was still, and there +was no sound of grinding ice! His nerves, for ten weeks made taut by +the continuous shriek of the blizzard, relaxed with a suddenness that +was like a fall from a great height. Like a man swimming in a sea of +silence, he raised his hands, groping for the luminous-faced watch +by his bunk. He saw, with a gasp of incredulity, that he had slept +eighteen hours! + +Still dazed with sleep and hunger, he crawled from his robes and +hurried out into the glimmering twilight of the arctic day. Great as +was his faith in the power of prayer, he was astonished at the sight +that met his eyes. + +Under dark, moving clouds strangely shot with silver the ice-pack lay +quiet and gray. A quarter of a mile away an inky, jagged line marked +a lead of open water among the bergs. Every hunter in the village was +squatted along the lead, and, as he looked, a sudden fusillade of +rifle-shots registered the death of seals coming up to breathe. + +Along the shores women and children and old men swarmed laughing, +shouting, as some one threw a seal-hook into a dead animal and drew it +to the ice. They crowded about it, their excited yells increasing. Five +minutes later they were devouring the steaming flesh, stopping often to +toss bits to the dogs, which gulped it ravenously. + +The missionary bowed his head, a great gratitude, a great wonder in his +heart. God had listened. God had heard. The famine was over. + +Like the blizzard, that day’s hunting was unprecedented in +In-ga-lee-nay. Thirty seals and a sixty-foot whale fell to the lot +of the hunters. There was food in abundance, and oil for the lamps +and for the torches that fluttered yellow lights over the ice-bound +shores where the people worked joyously over the kill. All day the +missionary moved among them. He was happy, elated. They were his +flock, his children. In the flush of his joy he had to exercise +considerable self-control to keep from calling attention to the glory +of God’s mercy. The following day, Saturday, was also filled with +unusual activities, but he permitted himself to speak of the meeting +of thanksgiving which he would hold for them on Sunday. The Eskimos +nodded, and laughed in answer to his enthusiasm. Light-hearted, +variable, they had already forgotten the misery of the famine in the +plentitude of feasting. + +But the children with whom he had divided his last hardtack came shyly +to his side and took hold of his hands. They had not forgotten. The +little missionary had not realized his utter loneliness, his craving +for friendship, for love, until he felt the clinging of their small, +warm fingers. His vision was blurred as, one by one, he gathered them +up in his arms and talked to them. Here indeed was his work among these +benighted little ones and their parents. Here would he stay as long +as he lived, teaching them the ways of truth and civilization. His +last thought that night was of the meeting-house on the morrow filled +with grateful Eskimos sending up their praises to God. Perhaps even +Ah-king-ah, the defeated, might come to listen to the Holy Word and +become converted. + +Sunday morning found him up early preparing his sermon. He melted ice, +and for the first time in many weeks was able to shave. As he lighted +the blubber-lamps to heat the meeting-house, he noted a small pair +of fur mittens left by some child who had accompanied its mother to +the first gathering. He picked them up and placed them on the pulpit, +intending to return them later. The thought of the youngster sent him +to the bottom of his trunk for the flag he always carried with him. +He could not begin too soon to familiarize the little ones with their +country’s flag, he thought, as he pinned the Stars and Stripes above +the blackboard in anticipation of the near day when the people should +send their children to school. + +He rang the first bell, and then busied himself with a rearrangement +of the benches. Engrossed in happy thoughts, he did not realize how +swiftly time was passing until he glanced at his watch. Half an hour +had gone by since his call to meeting! Apprehension stirred in him +as he reached for the cord to ring the second bell, but before his +outstretched fingers touched it, he stiffened in the attitude of +arrested action. + +_O-o-m, oom-oom. O-o-m, oom-oom. O-o-m, oom-oom._ The air suddenly +began vibrating to the deep boom of the devil-drum. His hand fell to +his side. Incredulity, comprehension, anger, succeeded each other in +his face. Without pausing to tighten his parka hood he rushed out into +the calm arctic noon, and ran toward the _kashim_ tunnel. One leap +carried him over the medicine-man’s crossed sticks at the entrance, the +next plunged him into the darkness of the passage. + +Beat of drum and pagan chanting grew louder as he thrust his head up +through the opening in the floor which was once more the stage for +Ah-king-ah. Behind the shaman stood Milli-ru-ak, with the three whale +hunters who had helped him kill the whale. Bird-beaks and crab-claws on +their scanty garments were clattering to every motion of their dancing +bodies. Their feathered heads swayed above whale-charms of jade that +dangled on cords about their necks. Four Eskimo maidens in primitive +finery stood together, holding by its ivory chains the Ceremonial +Cup of the Whale filled with blubber cubes. At intervals, when the +medicine-man signaled, they held the cup aloft and uttered long, weird +cries like gulls. + +The people who had so recently prostrated themselves in supplication +before the white man’s God were now as fervently assisting Ah-king-ah +in the ancient rites of thanksgiving to the Spirit of the Whale. Their +faces glowed with happiness and well-being; their voices rose in joyous +unison with the voice of the shaman. + +At sight of the missionary the dancing and chanting ceased abruptly. +Ah-king-ah took a confident step forward. + +“Why does the white man bring his long face here to anger the spirits +of the hunt?” he asked. + +The missionary’s sunken eyes passed slowly over the faces of the +hunters squatted on the shelf, over the faces of the mothers and of the +old men and the children below. His anger ebbed to a great hopelessness +that showed in the weary sag of his shoulders. He was defeated, yet he +climbed to the floor of the _kashim_ and stood beside the half-nude +figure of the giant shaman. + +“Were your words then a lie within your mouths, ye people of +In-ga-lee-nay?” he asked quietly. “Ye did promise this day to send up +thanks to Almighty God for his mercies. If these promises were lies, +why did ye come to pray with me?” + +Milli-ru-ak started forward, his eyes narrowed with anger, but the +medicine-man gestured for silence. + +“Listen to the words of Ah-king-ah!” He spoke with primitive dignity, +his authoritative voice instantly quelling the murmur of the hunters. +“It was I, Ah-king-ah, who sent my people to the _kashim_ of the white +man.” + +The missionary turned incredulously. + +“Long had I chanted the runes that please the almighty devil tossing in +his hands the ivory ball of the world,” went on the medicine-man. “And +I knew the time was ripe for fulfilment. Yet the wisdom of my fathers +tells me that all things change form, even as the ice-pack changes its +face in the arms of the wind. New spirits come. Old spirits die. There +is sorcery in all things. Perhaps there is sorcery in the black Book +the white man keeps. Perhaps there is not. But I, Ah-king-ah, maker of +medicine, am not a man of wisdom if I protect not my people against +it. Therefore I sent them to thee, white man, who knoweth the ways of +thy God in the black Book, but before I sent them I promised that I, +Ah-king-ah, who knoweth the ways of the almighty devil, would stay +alone, working for them my strongest magic while they pray. They know +my medicine is great, for, behold! the storm dies like the last grunt +of the stricken walrus and”--he drew himself up proudly, resting his +drum on his thigh--“it is I, Ah-king-ah, mightiest shaman of the North, +who changed the wind!” + +In the approving chorus that filled the room the missionary tried to +make himself heard, but Ah-king-ah’s voice continued, vanquishing every +other sound: + +“And why should thy God be thanked?” he asked in the earnest manner of +one seeking to understand another’s point of view. “Thou hast told my +people He is a good God wanting to do only good to man. Why pray to Him +when he can do us no harm? But the almighty devil--he is evil, evil. +All his pleasure comes from doing evil to man. Therefore we must sing +the magic runes that please him, so he leaves us alone. Therefore we +must dance before the Spirit of the Whale to show our joy at the good +fortune the devil has permitted. White man”--Ah-king-ah’s shrewd dark +eyes were not unkind as he looked down on the little missionary “our +ways are still the ways of our fathers. Thy ways are the ways of thy +fathers. Leave us, then, and give thy thanks to whom it please thee.” +He raised the drum from his thigh and made a quick motion with it. As +the booming sounded, the three apprentices sprang forward. Not ungently +they laid hold of the missionary and led him to the opening in the +floor. Then rung by rung he was forced down the ladder until his feet +touched the icy cobblestones at the bottom. The trap-door dropped above +him, leaving him in darkness. + +As he stumbled over wolf-dogs gorged with food and indifferent with +sleep, his ears rang to the thump of the devil-drum and the pagan +chanting of well fed, joyous people. The sounds followed him from the +passage into the awful pervading silence of the polar day. He dragged +his forlorn figure back along the snowy trail to the meeting-house. +His knees trembled. A sudden awareness of his isolation from his kind +struck through his heart like a sickness. + +Past the mocking bareness of the benches, past the blackboard where +the flag, loosed from three of its tacks, hung limp and dispirited, +he made his way to the shaky little pulpit. He rubbed a fumbling hand +across his eyes then, as a hurt child seeks the comfort of its mother’s +breast, his gray head sank on his folded arms, and he pressed his face +against the open Bible. + +Numbed by his disappointment, crushed by his failure, he lay, a small, +defeated white man in the primitive fur garments of an alien race. +Gradually into his memory began to crowd the long months of loneliness, +sacrifice, and privation he had borne to bring the comforts of religion +and the uplift of civilization to an ungrateful heathen people. For +them he had given up everything a white man holds dear. For them he had +been willing to give even his life. His work had been futile. Futility! +The word stood out in letters of ice against the blackness of his +misery. But he was at the end. He was through. In the spring, when the +first boat came from the mainland, he would leave In-ga-lee-nay. He +_would_ take his God back to his own land, where there was at least the +companionship of his kind. + +Sagging wearily against the pulpit, he was oblivious to the passage of +time, deaf to the increasing happy shouts from the _kashim_. The oil in +the lamps burned away, the sputtering wicks grew black. Unconsciously, +one hand, opening and shutting in anguish, had taken hold of something +soft and warm. When at last he raised his face from his cramped arms, +his eyes, dull with brooding, fell on the tiny pair of mittens he had +placed on the pulpit that morning. + +For the space of a dozen breaths he stared at them, then slowly, +meditatively he began stroking them. Into his tired mind crept thoughts +of yesterday. Children had come to him then--children with upraised, +trusting eyes and warm, clinging fingers. They had come because they +believed in him. They liked him. They were potential hunters and +mothers of hunters. With their small clinging hands they were already +molding the future of their race. + +Little by little the look of hopelessness faded from his eyes, and a +new determination crept into his thin face. When he stepped from the +pulpit he turned and pinned the flag back into place, then hung the +mittens on a nail beside it. + +It was very late for the second bell, but the missionary crossed over +to the bell-rope. His step was firm again, his dogged chin upraised. He +laid hold of the rope and began pulling it vigorously, hopefully. + +Out over the still, white bergs of Bering Strait two sounds strove once +more for dominance in the arctic air: + +_O-o-m, oom-oom. O-o-m, oom-oom. O-o-m, oom-oom._ + +_D-i-n-g-d-o-n-g, d-i-n-g-d-o-n-g. D-i-n-g-d-o-n-g._ + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [19] Copyright, 1925, by The Century Company. + Copyright, 1926, by Barrett Willoughby. + + + + + GIDEON’S REVENGE[20] + + By ELINOR WYLIE + + (From _The Century Magazine_) + + +Gideon extinguished the flame wherewith he had lit his pipe; he +dropped the match tidily behind the wallflowers, and looked about +him with quiet, but incredulous, joy. Standing at the door of the +cottage, his head was stooped a little beneath the lintel, partly +from actual necessity and partly in a courteous gesture of apology to +this exquisite scene in which only children or delicately formed and +tinted women might appear appropriate and untarnished. Above him the +freshness of the honey-colored thatch contrasted pleasantly with the +rose-purple of ancient brick; the watery sheen of the upper windows +reflected a few hanging strands of straw, like gilded seaweed observed +in the profundity of a wave. Inclosed by its clipped hedge, the garden +lay like a small square pool of flowers drawn together in concentrated +brightness, as if many larger and grosser gardens had been melted into +one and poured into this narrow space. Across the green a dew pond +reversed the sky to another pool, and permitted Gideon’s vision to +plumb without fatigue the utmost depth of the empyrean. + +Gideon was a tall old man; his age was perhaps seventy. His face had +more of the falcon than the eagle in its lines; the beaked nose, the +bony setting of the large bright eyes, the hollowed cheek and temple, +were all carved and polished to a pattern sufficiently bold, but light +and restless and uneasy. His eyes were gray; his hair, which had once +been reddish, had now the faintly yellowed whiteness of flax; it rose +steeply to a crest above his brow. The garments which he wore hung +somewhat awkwardly upon his emaciation--an emaciation suggesting +austerity rather than weakness. The correct and shabby tweeds were +excellent in themselves, molded to fit with easy perfection the scene +and circumstance, but although they clothed with tolerable grace +the mortal form of Gideon, they did not fit his soul. You saw him +preferably in rusty black, with a hat remotely Spanish, and a cloak; +decidedly the soul of Gideon wore a black cloak. And indeed at this +very moment, within the cottage, Caroline was brushing just such a +cloak preparatory to putting it away forever with beautiful cakes of +gum camphor crumbling like soft and fragrant ice among its mysterious +folds. + +Gideon turned and entered the cottage; the rooms appeared deliciously +chilled and shadowed by the green orchard to the east. Avoiding the +larger chamber, where Caroline whisked fantastic garments into the +bland, golden obscurity of a tulip-wood chest of drawers, he turned +into the kitchen and surveyed its cool and ordered colors with minute +approval. It was a room decorous and subtly bright, a place for the +concoction of junkets and cherry pies. Gideon sighed with pleasure; it +was a miracle that he, a lawless, bitter man, should have imagined this +room and made it. Of course there had been the skeleton ready to his +hand--the stone floor, the beams, the fireplace--but he had breathed +upon cold ashes, and they had flowered like a domestic rose. + +Caroline had climbed the steep little stairs to the attic; he could +hear portmanteaus bumping about overhead like huge frolicsome beasts; +he had a sudden picture of the trim, pink-faced servant surrounded by +portmanteaus and kit-bags, labeled in dusty, barbaric scarlet, enormous +in the gloom. He reflected with satisfaction that all his papers +were already neatly pigeon-holed in his grandfather’s desk and his +mother’s boule cabinet; Caroline was merely rummaging among ponchos and +sombreros. + +Slowly, with a fastidious, yet sensual, savoring of his delights, +Gideon entered the other room and strolled down its entire length, +stopping here and there to touch the lovely surface of wood perversely +satin-skinned, or velvet worn and rosy as immemorial lichen. Here +again was something more than human in the happy confluence of various +times and manners; he had seen these objects scattered in obscure +exile among the Victorian ineptitudes of his mother’s vast drawing +rooms, or lately huddled ignominiously in storage warehouses; he had +purchased some of them carelessly at the ragged ends of the earth, and +now they were gathered together under the green and glazing twilight of +the apple trees to make a miraculous whole. He had bought a cottage, +knocked down a partition or two, and engaged a certain number of +pantechnicon vans; he had expected the place to be comfortable and +rather absurd, and by some curious necromancy of chance it was grave +and exquisite. It was as if it had always been so, and his. Between +open windows, his desk was flooded by calm radiance. + +As he fingered the firmly packed bundles of letters, bound with +pink legal tape, or more sentimentally confined by blue ribbons, he +considered the future with approval. It was eminently fitting; it was, +indeed, inevitable. How, save under conditions of the most shining +peace, could he hope to relax into that judicial clarity of mind so +necessary to his great project? The hardships, the astringent horrors +of his past career, had precisely steeled his hand to execution; it +now remained for a poor, but honest, gentleman to judge the culprits +before killing them, and Gideon was acutely aware of the propriety of +being equitable to begin with, if only to augment the pleasure of being +savage in the final sentence, the final act of revenge. + +He stared retrospectively down the lurid vista of the last twenty-five +years, his mind’s eye blinking, for all its falcon look, in the full +chemical glare of recollection. There had been, quite literally, +singularly little sunlight in the vista, and that little had quivered +to a tropical intensity removed by several continents from this +subaqueous glimmer stained by apple trees. But mostly, he remembered, +things had happened at night; that was, perhaps, the reason he +had achieved so flattering and profitable a reputation as special +correspondent. + +Special! Oh, very special indeed! For who but Gideon would have been +clever enough to be forever on the spot, the often bloody and unhealthy +spot, where things were happening at night? What other nocturnal +vigilance had so well observed, what vitriolic pen recorded, alike the +curious minutiæ and the vast apocalypse of life? From the beginning to +the end of that bewildering vista he had contrived to see the event +strangely, and to make the strangeness vivid by his words. Also, he +had advanced in wisdom and cunning; he recalled with contempt how +crudely he had daubed hell-fire and sanguine upon his earlier efforts. +In ninety-eight, when he had seen the _Maine_ intemperately uncurl a +million fronds of brilliance against the plushy dark, he could not, +telling the dreadful thing beheld, curdle the reader’s veins as now his +lightest, coolest whisper curdled them. The latest of all his writings, +the wry, amused account of Lenine stretched upon his crimson upholstery +under the great glass bell like some horrible wax flower, blooming +through unnatural, and electric, days, that was excellent, that was art. + + + II + +And now, the quarter-century past, he was quit of restraints, of +delicacies and decencies; now he was free of galling secret vows +and public scruples. The very last of the Pennimans had died twenty +years ago in the person of old Joseph; Gideon had kept his promise to +Millicent, and Millicent herself had been dead for twenty-five years. + +He was free to turn that intricate and fiery engine, his mind, upon the +people he had hated and had, for a measured space of time, striven to +forget. At first, after his wife’s death, he had acidly regretted his +promise to her--the promise given to the expiring appeal of her large +blue eyes, but never ratified by their wedded spirits in this world +or the vaguer one into whose ambiguities she had at once departed. He +had kept the promise because it was a promise; he had been totally +untrammeled by sympathy for its purpose or its beneficiaries. He had +spared the Pennimans for a score of years; he had not written a book, +no, not so much as an epitaph upon any of them until two decades had +yellowed the latest of their tombs. It had been a hellish bore, but +now he was glad he had refrained. The long and lenten abstinence from +revenge had but given edge to his appetite and sharpened his powers to +austere perfection. + +Gideon drew a dozen slim and pointed pencils from a drawer of the desk; +upon its dark-amber surface he placed a formidable pile of copy paper. +The book loomed before his happy contemplation, tremendous, Protean, +monstrous, yet alluring. A book, but not alone a book; a mighty chase, +a dexterous unmasking, a trial, and an execution. And Gideon, at once +Justice incarnate and the instrument of Justice, Gideon must be both +judge and executioner. The book was to be a headsman’s ax, savage, +medieval, elegant, and efficient. Then, picturing a row of Penniman +faces upon the spikes of Temple Bar, Gideon smiled a slight abstemious +smile. + +Apart from fancies, however charming, the facts were these; he reviewed +them swiftly, leaning back luxuriously in a chair whose polished curves +were as velvet to his neuralgic bones. The book was a debt to his own +soul, long overdue, heavy with accretion of interest. He had waited, +for Millicent’s darling and ridiculous sake, until all kith and kin +of hers were moldered into complete indifference. She had desired to +shield them from anger and annoyance, for surely their fatted, gelded +souls were incapable of pain; she had interposed her threadbare little +body between their torpor and his vengeance. Very well; it had been so, +but now he would remember it all, and set it down, and verily the page +should shrivel beneath the fire of his revelation. Though they skulked +in their sepulchers, shrouded in this their last cowardice, he would +burn them out of oblivion; the flame of their destruction should ascend +forever, purified and fervent, sweet in the nostrils of the brave. He +would tell the tale; he would release that holy indignation which for +so long had made his heart a fever. + +Milly--that foolish nickname wherein her family, with characteristic +impertinence, had clothed the golden pallor of her girlhood! If Gideon +pronounced her name, he enriched the vowels with a foreign inflection +which made it more Melisande than Millicent. That was her proper +appellation, that long soft veil of sound, fitting her sallow-flaxen +beauty with an enduring garment. + +She, who had lain so long asleep in his heart, should be brought forth +once more into the wide, bright chamber of his mind; he would look +at her in the unpitying glare of that illumination. She would stand, +willowy and disarming, lovely and ineffectual, beside the solid, stolid +forms of her murderers, the Pennimans. Gideon would look at them all; +the Pennimans would tremble and grow pale, they would even grow thin +perhaps; Millicent would smile. It would not be the smile of her later +days, painted narrow and colorless by despair; it would be the smile of +the beginning, of hope and casual courage and unconsidered joy. Gideon +ground his teeth, thinking how the Pennimans had destroyed her gaiety +and trust. She had loved her father and mother; she had even loved the +unspeakable Ambrose, with his long nose and liquid, languid eyes; by +love she had been broken and undone. + +Of course they had opposed the match; they were obstructive by instinct +and conviction, and Gideon, who had refused to be a barrister in order +to write for the lesser journals, was sufficiently above them in family +and below them in fortune to irritate their every prejudice. His wit +inflamed their mental tissues like cayenne pepper; his tongue was gall +and vinegar. They resented his height and were half afraid of his +hair, which was never properly brushed; he seemed an enigma designed +to insult them; his doing could not be other than wrong, but his mere +being was the radical error. Gideon knew that, and the reflection +soothed him; it meant that he had always, even without trying, done his +best to please them: his best must always fail with the Pennimans, and +he was glad he had not tried too hard. Millicent had tried too hard, +and, in foredoomed endeavor, been destroyed. + +He had been a strange son-in-law for the Pennimans; he had fluttered +that dove-cote with a vengeance. Fat pigeons they were, and Ambrose +with the melting gaze of a turtle above his little waistcoat’s curve. +And Millicent among them, white and fluttering, with her perpetual +olive branch: she was truly a dove! + +Without the Pennimans, pecking and obese, how far might they not have +flown together, Gideon and Millicent, the falcon and the dove! God +knew she had always wanted to be free; God had known it all along, +in fact, and that was Gideon’s quarrel with God, second only to his +quarrel with the Pennimans. For the Deity, frequently invoked by that +pious family, had apparently been moved by their flatteries rather than +by Gideon’s dignified silence; God had not saved Millicent even at the +last minute: he had, by allowing her to die, given her back to the +Pennimans. Gideon, who had never believed in God, found this impossible +to forgive; in his indignation he realized that he was a Christian. + +The Pennimans, outrageous to the last, had always blamed him for his +wife’s death; they had pecked her into shreds while he was cynically +examining the Spanish-American War. They had not even taken the +trouble to cable news of her illness; he had returned to find her _in +extremis_. Gideon was frantic; the Pennimans were sorrowful and mildly +complacent. They expressed surprise at his reappearance, and disgust at +what they were pleased to term his neglect. Millicent had, apparently, +been killed by the absence of a husband whose presence had always, +according to the Pennimans, constituted a criminal menace to her health +and sanity. The bronze door of the Penniman vault shut firmly upon her +mortal remains; the family, in solemn conclave, decided that Gideon was +sailing for South Africa with Milly’s blood upon his hands. Gideon knew +that their own hands were dabbled in her innocence. + +Gideon found the South African War a personal convenience, but against +the Pennimans he was very bitter, and his amazing despatches, colored +and brilliant with hate, were only a partial relief to his feelings. +He found it impossible to dislike the Boers with the authentic fervor +so desirable in a special correspondent; quite deliberately he dipped +his pen into his private gall before writing, and his passionate +loathing for a respectable family at Wimbledon fired half England to +a pure flame of patriotism. But it was all very unsatisfactory and +rather troublesome, this inner pretense that Cronje and Wessels were in +reality Mrs. Penniman and Ambrose. His despatches were devoured raw by +the popular appetite, but he himself went hungry; he starved for his +revenge. Gideon, remembering those days, laughed heartily. How fierce +he had been, and how frustrate! + +The sunlight fell across his dusky golden desk, and still he +remembered, and did not write. That was twenty-five years ago, and +this was England, and he was old, but neither frustrate nor starving. +The Gideon of the Transvaal had been a widowed Gideon of forty-odd, +bereaved and raging--a Gideon who had but just observed the wife of +his romantic youth go down to the grave shrunken to premature decay, +quenched in body and soul, the clear flame withered, the bright stem +trodden underfoot. For a long and parching term of years he had beheld +her obliquely in the flawed mirror of her dying face; later he had shut +his eyes while she slept in his heart. Now he looked at her again, in +the cool and blessed light of these windows, in the peace of this quiet +room; she was a girl again, and beautiful. But Millicent had always +been beautiful. + +It was the other Pennimans who had been ugly; how ugly he shuddered to +recall. He drew a packet of papers toward him. These were photographs +of the criminals, letters from Milly, letters from Ambrose, his own +wild scrawls. Gideon adjusted his spectacles. + + + III + +At seven o’clock Caroline lit the lamp; it was a pale unluminous yellow +against the western window-panes, where rose color was fading. Half an +hour later she placed a small tray at Gideon’s elbow; the noiseless +hand was also skilful, for the cutlet was done to a turn, the coffee +superlative. Gideon ate and drank, thanking the stars now set in +chrysoprase above the apple trees. At nine he put down the last of the +letters, and, lifting one of the photographs, examined it intently. A +curious trembling seized him; he appeared a prey to obscure emotions, +and his face was visibly convulsed. + +The picture, a highly glazed _carte-de-visite_ of the eighties, showed +a family group augmented by one stranger: it showed, clearly enough, +the four Pennimans and Gideon. There, seated side by side, were old +Joseph and his wife; at their feet was Ambrose; behind them, poised +as if for flight, the less substantial forms of Gideon and Millicent +wavered against a painted frieze of foliage. The faces were remarkably +distinct--distinct as the golden syllables of Harrogate bitten into +grayish cardboard below them. + +The photograph completed at a single shattering blow the annihilation +of Gideon’s hard-won calm. The tears poured from his eyes upon the +glassy countenance of Ambrose while Gideon laughed and laughed. + +Here, presented upon a little slip of grimy cardboard, was the whole +stupendous farce; the farce was here reduced to such miniature +proportions that the human eye could grasp it and the human +understanding contain it without effort. During the last three hours, +while letter after letter passed into the relentless illumination of +his mind, Gideon had gradually perceived the outlines of this farce; +they were at first too huge for his comprehension. But now, under the +complacent glow of the lamp, the picture made them very plain, very +clear and definite. + +The Pennimans were funny, and he was a fool. They had always been +funny, and he had always been a blazing fool not to see it. They were +harmless and absurd; anyone with eyes in his head could see that now. +Joseph was funny and innately charming; a perfect Cruikshank portrait +of a blustering, heavy father born fifty years too late. Mrs. Penniman +was funny and pathetic and rather a dear; yes, she was entirely a dear, +with her cotton-wool hair and her face like a frightened baby’s. And +Ambrose was funny, and--well, Ambrose was enormously funny; Gideon left +it at that. As for Millicent and Gideon, they were funniest of all; +they were, he realized, tremendous. + +There was Milly--and oh, how right the Pennimans had been to call her +Milly! There she was, in her famous green silk frock from Liberty’s, +looking like a Du Maurier drawing executed not in ink, but in China +tea, the sweet little ghost of a Du Maurier drawing. How sweet she +looked, and how extraordinarily silly! Yes, of course, that was the +word; that was precisely it--silly Milly, adorably silly Milly, +clinging to the arm of her devoted young husband. To the stalwart arm? +Perhaps not quite to the stalwart arm, but at least to the protecting +arm of a fiercely possessive Gideon in the first of all the black +cloaks, with the biggest and blackest of all the sombreros pulled down +over smoldering eyes, whose expression was accurately compounded of +love for his bride and haughty malevolence for the rest of the world. +Which meant, mostly, the Pennimans. No wonder poor Ambrose lifted his +own eyes in alarm to the face of his tall brother-in-law. + +Was it possible that he had ever believed himself a suitable husband +for that delightful little idiot in green silk and Italian corals who +was so obviously made of pink sugar candy? Both sun and rain must +inevitably melt the pretty creature; the chills and ardors of common +life must reduce her to crumbs of sugary dust. Brittle and soft and +sweet, Milly was always sweet. Oh, he had loved her right enough, and +she had loved him; but Milly had loved every one, and Gideon had loved +no one but Milly. + +Was it possible that he had ever expected the Pennimans to understand +his plans, his ambitions, for Milly and himself? He laughed again to +remember the mixture of frigid courtesy and contempt with which he had +invariably met their suggestions and advice. He might as well have worn +a black mask in addition to the outrageous sombrero for all he had +ever let them see of his thoughts or intensities of feeling. Not that +it mattered; he was such piercing vinegar to their emollient oil. It +was nobody’s fault: they were all of them good and kind; Milly was an +angel, a sugar angel; and the young, thin, eager Gideon no more than +an impulsive and infatuated fool. What a fool he had been to burden +himself with such confectionery! What a fool she had been to entrust +herself to his hot and sticky grasp! It was a miracle that they had +survived so long in each other’s strange company. + +Gideon again bent his falcon gaze upon the photograph, and his laughter +was quenched in pity. The people in the picture were all so ridiculous +and serious and profoundly innocent, and now he might laugh at them as +much as he liked. He could never laugh with them, and it was nobody’s +fault. + +And the book? Gone, like a gorgeous thundercloud, tiger-streaked, into +profound oblivion. Dead, like the Pennimans, who, in its death, were +prodigally revenged. + +Gideon stooped, and set a match to the fire. It flew upward like a +sanguine flower, and the room was roseate instead of amber-yellow in +the lamplight. Its colors glowed from new planes and facets; its shapes +were subtly altered and enhanced. Caroline came in quietly with the +whisky and soda. + +Presently Gideon rose, and lit his pipe. A tall and solitary figure, he +stood gazing into the lambent mystery of the fire; he sighed gently. + +“I suppose I shall have to learn to dislike my neighbors,” he told +himself in a low voice. “One might write a grim realistic novel about +those squat dark people at Skatt’s Farm.” + +But at the back of his mind was a sick conviction that they were +probably quite pleasant, harmless people, and after a little while he +took his candlestick from the hall table and went upstairs to bed. + +He jumped very quickly between the cool sheets, and fell asleep trying +hard to hate the squat dark people at Skatt’s Farm. But the dreadful +part of it was that Gideon could not hate them. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [20] Copyright, 1925, by The Century Company. + Copyright, 1926, by Elinor Wylie. + + + + + THE YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN + SHORT STORY + + OCTOBER, 1924, TO SEPTEMBER, 1925 + + + + + ABBREVIATIONS + + + I. PERIODICALS + + _A. D._ Arts and Decoration. + _A. Merc._ American Mercury. + _A. W._ All’s Well. + _Adv._ Adventure. + _Ain._ Ainslee’s Magazine. + _Am._ American Magazine. + _Am. B._ American Boy. + _Am. H._ American Hebrew. + _Asia_ Asia. + _Atl._ Atlantic Monthly. + _B. E. T._ Boston Evening Transcript. + _Blue Bk._ Blue Book Magazine. + _B’nai_ B’nai B’rith Magazine. + _Book. (N. Y.)_ Bookman. (New York.) + _Books_ Books. (New York Herald-Tribune.) + _C. D. N._ Chicago Daily News. + _C. E. P._ Chicago Evening Post Review of Books. + _C. G._ Country Gentleman. + _C. R. Rep._ Cedar Rapids Republican. + _Cath. W._ Catholic World. + _Cen._ Century Magazine. + _Charm_ Charm. + _Chic. Trib._ Chicago Tribune Syndicate Service. + _Col._ Collier’s Weekly. + _Com._ Commonweal. + _Cos._ Cosmopolitan. + _D. D._ Double Dealer. + _Day_ The Day. + _Dear. Ind._ Dearborn Independent. + _Del._ Delineator. + _Des._ Designer. + _Dial_ Dial. + _Echo_ Echo. + _Elks_ Elks Magazine. + _Ev._ Everybody’s Magazine. + _F. F._ Farm and Fireside. + _For._ Forum. + _Fron._ Frontier. + _Gal._ Golden Galleon. + _G. H._ Good Housekeeping. (New York.) + _Gol._ Golden Book. + _Guar. (Am.)_ Guardian. (Philadelphia.) + _H. C._ Hue and Cry. + _Harp. B._ Harper’s Bazaar. + _Harp. M._ Harper’s Magazine. + _Hear_ Hearst’s International. + _Hol._ Holland’s Magazine. + _I. A._ Inter-America. + _I. L. M._ Iowa Literary Magazine. + _Ind._ Independent. + _Int._ International Book Review. + _Int. Arts_ International Arts. + _J. F._ Jewish Forum. + _J. T._ Jewish Tribune. + _L. H. J._ Ladies’ Home Journal. + _L. Rev._ Literary Review of the New York Evening Post. + _Leonardo_ Leonardo. + _Lit. R._ Little Review. + _Liv. A._ Living Age. + _Ly._ Liberty. + _McC._ McClure’s Magazine. + _McCall_ McCall’s Magazine. + _MacF._ MacFadden Fiction-Lover’s Magazine. + _MacL._ MacLean’s Magazine. + _Men. J._ Menorah Journal. + _Mid._ Midland. + _Mod. Q._ Modern Quarterly. + _Mod. R._ Modern Review. + _Mun._ Munsey’s Magazine. + _N. A. Rev._ North American Review. + _N. Rep._ New Republic. + _N. Y. Sun_ New York Sun. + _N. Y. Times_ New York Times Book Review. + _N. Y. Trib._ New York Herald-Tribune. + _Nat. (N. Y.)_ Nation. (New York.) + _O. R._ Open Road. + _Opp._ Opportunity. + _Outl.(N. Y.)_ Outlook. (New York.) + _Pear. (Am.)_ Pearson’s Magazine. (Chicago.) + _Pict. R._ Pictorial Review. + _Pop._ Popular Magazine. + _Red. Bk._ Red Book Magazine. + _Rev._ Reviewer. + _S. E. P._ Saturday Evening Post. + _S. S._ Smart Set. (New York.) + _S. W._ Southwest Review. + _Sat. R._ Saturday Review of Literature. (New York.) + _Scan_ American-Scandinavian Review. + _Scr._ Scribner’s Magazine. + _Sea._ Sea Stories Magazine. + _Sh. St._ Short Stories. + _Strat._ Stratford Monthly. + _Sun._ Sunset Magazine. + _Tr._ Transatlantic Review. + _Tri._ Trident. + _V. F._ Vanity Fair. + _Va._ Virginia Quarterly Review. + _W. H. C._ Woman’s Home Companion. + _W. M._ Worker’s Monthly. + _W. T._ Weird Tales. + _W. W._ Woman’s World. + _W. Tom._ World Tomorrow. + _Wave_ Wave. + _World_ New York World. + _Y. I._ Young Israel. + _Yale_ Yale Review. + (161) Page 161. + (2:161) Volume 2, Page 161. + + + II. BOOKS + + _Aces_ Aces. + _Aces B._ More Aces. + _Aiken_ Aiken. Bring! Bring! + _Arlen C._ Arlen. Mayfair. + _Aumonier C._ Aumonier. Overheard. + _Austin B._ Austin. “13.” + _Austin C._ Austin. William Austin, the Creator of Peter Rugg. + _Barbey_ Barbey d’Aurevilly. The Diaboliques. + _Becke C._ Becke. Yorke the Adventurer. + _Bennett_ Bennett. Elsie and the Child. + _Bierce C._ Bierce. The Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter. + _Boyd B._ Boyd. Points of Honor. + _Bramah B._ Bramah. The Specimen Case. (English edition.) + _Buck_ Buck. Afterglow. + _Busch_ Busch. Selected Czech Tales. + _Cabell E._ Cabell. Straws and Prayer-Books. + _Child B._ Child. Fresh Waters. + _Cobb F._ Cobb. Alias Ben Alibi. + _Colette_ Colette. Cats, Dogs and I. + _Connell C._ Connell. Variety. + _Conrad B._ Conrad. Tales of Hearsay. + _Contact_ Contact Collection of Contemporary Writers. + _Coppard C._ Coppard. Fishmonger’s Fiddle. + _Copy B._ Copy, 1925. + _Corvo_ Corvo. In His Own Image. + _Cotton_ Cotton. Wall-Eyed Caesar’s Ghost. + _Dargan_ Dargan. Highland Annals. + _Eaton A._ Eaton. The Best Continental Short Stories of + 1923–24. + _Eaton B._ Eaton. The Best French Short Stories of 1923–24. + _Finger C._ Finger. Bushrangers. + _Flaubert_ Flaubert. Three Tales. + _Fox_ Fox. Il Conte. + _Freeman_ Freeman. The Freeman Book. + _French K._ French. Great Sea Stories. Second Series. + _Galsworthy D._ Galsworthy. Caravan. (English Edition.) + _Georgian C._ Georgian Stories, 1925. + _Gobineau_ Gobineau. Five Oriental Tales. + _Gonzales A._ Gonzales. The Captain. + _Gonzales B._ Gonzales. Laguerre. + _Gorky D._ Gorky. Story of a Novel. + _Gray_ Gray, “Dawgs.” + _Harper_ Harper. Harper Prize Short Stories. + _Hartley_ Hartley. Night Fears. + _Harwood_ Harwood. Judgment Eve. (English edition.) + _Hastings_ Hastings, Clough, and Mason. Short Stories. + _Hearn B._ Hearn. Japanese Fairy Tales. + _Hemingway B._ Hemingway. In Our Time. + _Herrick_ Herrick. Wanderings. + _Howard_ Howard. Three Flights Up. + _Hummel_ Hummel. Subsoil. + _Humphrey A._ Humphrey. The Best Love Stories of 1924. + _Ibáñez B._ Blasco Ibáñez. The Old Woman of the Movies. + _Jacqueline_ Jacqueline, and other Stories. + _Jewett_ Jewett. Best Stories. + _Komroff_ Komroff. Komroff. The Grace of Lambs. + _Kuprin C._ Kuprin. Gambrinus. + _Lawrence C._ Lawrence. St. Mawr. + _Lynch_ Lynch. The Best Ghost Stories. + _Macardle_ Macardle. Earth-Bound. + _Machen B._ Machen. The Shining Pyramid. + _Mann_ Mann. Death in Venice. + _Mansfield D._ Mansfield. The Little Girl. + _Maupassant J._ Maupassant. The Horla. + _Maupassant K._ Maupassant. Saint Anthony. + _Mayne B._ Mayne. Inner Circle. (English Edition.) + _New Dec. D._ New Decameron. Volume 4. + _Newman_ Newman. The Short Story’s Limitations. + _O’Brien L._ O’Brien and Cournos. The Best British Short + Stories of 1924. + _O’Brien M._ O’Brien and Cournos. The Best British Short + Stories of 1925. + _O’Brien N._ O’Brien. The Best Short Stories of 1924. + _O’Flaherty_ O’Flaherty. Spring Sowing. (English edition.) + _Ogawa_ Ogawa. Rose and Witch and other Stories. + _O’Shaughnessy_ O’Shaughnessy. Married Life. + _Osip_ Flying Osip: Stories of New Russia. + _Peterkin_ Peterkin. Green Thursday. + _Pilniak_ Pilniak. Tales of the Wilderness. + _Poole B._ Poole. The Little Dark Man. + _Prize F._ O. Henry Memorial Award. Prize Stories of 1924. + _Remizov_ Remizov. The Clock. + _Rhys B._ Rhys and Dawson-Scott. Twenty-Three Stories by + Twenty and Three Authors. + _Rice_ Rice. Winners and Losers. + _Robinson_ Robinson. Contemporary Short Stories. + _Sackville-West B._ Sackville-West. Seducers in Ecuador. + _Seitz_ Seitz. Monogatari. + _Sitwell_ Sitwell. Triple Fugue. + _Smith_ Smith. The Little Karoo. + _Squire_ Squire. The Grub Street Nights’ Entertainment. + _Street B._ Street. Mr. Bisbee’s Princess. + _Van Dyke_ Van Dyke. Half-Told Tales. + _Verga_ Verga. Little Novels of Sicily. + _Verhaeren_ Verhaeren. Five Tales. + _Watson_ Grant Watson. Innocent Desires. + _World_ Johnston. The World’s Best Short Stories of 1925. + + + + + ADDRESSES OF MAGAZINES + PUBLISHING SHORT STORIES + + + I. AMERICAN MAGAZINES + + Adventure, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City. + Ainslee’s Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. + All’s Well, Gayeta Lodge, Fayetteville, Ark. + American Boy, 142 Lafayette Boulevard, Detroit, Mich. + American Hebrew, 19 West 44th Street, New York City. + American Magazine, 250 Park Avenue, New York City. + American Mercury, 730 Fifth Avenue, New York City. + American-Scandinavian Review, 25 West 45th Street, New York City. + Argosy All-Story Weekly, 280 Broadway, New York City. + Asia, 627 Lexington Avenue, New York City. + Atlantic Monthly, 8 Arlington Street, Boston, Mass. + Blue Book Magazine, 36 South State Street, Chicago, Ill. + Bookman, 244 Madison Avenue, New York City. + Catholic World, 120 West 60th Street, New York City. + Century Magazine, 353 Fourth Avenue, New York City. + Charm, 50 Bank Street, Newark, N. J. + Chicago Tribune, Chicago, Ill. + Collier’s Weekly, 250 Park Avenue, New York City. + Cosmopolitan, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. + Country Gentleman, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa. + Delineator, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City. + Designer, 12 Vandam Street, New York City. + Dial, 152 West 13th Street, New York City. + Double Dealer, 810 Baronne Street, New Orleans, La. + Echo, 1837 Champa Street, Denver, Colorado. + Elks’ Magazine, 50 East 42d Street, New York City. + Everybody’s Magazine, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City. + Farm and Fireside, 250 Park Avenue, New York City. + Forum, 247 Park Avenue, New York City. + Frontier, Garden City, Long Island, N. Y. + Good Housekeeping, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. + Guardian, 720 Locust Street, Philadelphia, Pa. + Harper’s Bazar, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. + Harper’s Magazine, 49 East 33d Street, New York City. + Holland’s Magazine, Dallas, Texas. + Hue and Cry, Woodstock, N. Y. (In summer months only.) + Independent, 9 Arlington Street, Boston, Mass. + International Arts, 3 Christopher Street, New York City. + Jewish Tribune, Marbridge Building, New York City. + Ladies’ Home Journal, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa. + Liberty, 247 Park Avenue, New York City. + Little Review, 27 West 8th Street, New York City. + McCall’s Magazine, 236 West 37th Street, New York City. + McClure’s Magazine, 80 Lafayette Street, New York City. + MacLean’s Magazine, 143 University Avenue, Toronto, Ont., Canada. + Menorah Journal, 167 West 13th Street, New York City. + Midland, Care of Mr. John T. Frederick, Iowa City, Iowa. + Modern Quarterly, 318 North Exeter Street, Baltimore, Md. + Munsey’s Magazine, 280 Broadway, New York City. + New Republic, 421 West 21st Street, New York City. + Open Road, 284 Boylston Street, Boston, Mass. + Opportunity, 127 East 23d Street, New York City. + Outlook, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City. + Pearson’s Magazine, 157 East Ohio Street, Chicago, Ill. + Pictorial Review, 216 West 39th Street, New York City. + Popular Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. + Red Book Magazine, North American Building, Chicago, Ill. + Reviewer, Chapel Hill, N. C. + Saturday Evening Post, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa. + Scribner’s Magazine, 597 Fifth Avenue, New York City. + Sea Stories Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. + Short Stories, Garden City, Long Island, N. Y. + Southwest Review, Dallas, Texas. + Sunset, 460 Fourth Street, San Francisco, Cal. + Woman’s Home Companion, 250 Park Avenue, New York City. + Woman’s World, 107 South Clinton Street, Chicago, Ill. + World Tomorrow, 104 East 9th Street, New York City. + + + II. BRITISH AND IRISH MAGAZINES + + Adelphi, 18 York Buildings, Adelphi, London, W. C. 2. + Blackwood’s Magazine, 37 Paternoster Row, London, E. C. 4. + Blue Magazine, 115 Fleet Street, London, E. C. 4. + Bystander, Graphic Buildings, Whitefriars, London, E. C. 4. + Calendar, 1 Featherstone Buildings, High Holborn, London, W. C. 1. + Cassell’s Magazine, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E. C. 4. + Chamber’s Journal, 38 Soho Square, London, W. C. 1. + Colour Magazine, 53 Victoria Street, London, S. W. 1. + Corner Magazine, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E. C. 4. + Cornhill Magazine, 50a Albemarle Street, London, W. 1. + Coterie, 68 Red Lion Street, London, W. C. 1. + Criterion, 24 Russell Square, London, W. C. 1. + Dublin Magazine, 2–5 Wellington Quay, Dublin, Irish Free State. + Empire Review, Macmillan and Co., Ltd., St. Martin’s Street, London, + W. C. 2. + English Life, 9 East Harding Street, London, E. C. 4. + English Review, 4 Dean’s Yard, Westminster, London, S. W. 1. + Eve, Great New Street, London, E. C. 4. + Fortnightly Review, 11 Henrietta Street, London, W. C. 2. + G. K.’s Weekly, 20–21 Essex Street, Strand, London, W. C. 2. + Gaiety, 10 Adam Street, Adelphi, London, W. C. 2. + Grand Magazine, 8–11 Southampton Street, Strand, London, W. C. 2. + Graphic, Graphic Buildings, Whitefriars, London, E. C. 4. + Green Magazine, Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E. C. 4. + Happy Magazine, 8 Southampton Street, Strand, London, W. C. 2. + Home Magazine, 8 Southampton Street, Strand, London, W. C. 2. + Hutchinson’s Adventure Story Magazine, 34–36 Paternoster Row, London, + E. C. 4. + Hutchinson’s Magazine, 34–36 Paternoster Row, London, E. C. 4. + Hutchinson’s Mystery Story Magazine, 34–36 Paternoster Row, London, + E. C. 4. + Illustrated London News, 172 Strand, London, W. C. 2. + Irish Statesman, 84 Merrion Square, Dublin, Irish Free State. + John o’ London’s Weekly, 8 Southampton Street, Strand, London, W. C. 2. + London Magazine, Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E. C. 4. + London Mercury, 229 Strand, London, W. C. 2. + Manchester Guardian, 3 Cross Street, Manchester, England. + Nash’s and Pall Mall Magazine, 1 Amen Corner, Paternoster Row, London, + E. C. 4. + Nation and Athenæum, 10 Adelphi Terrace, London, W. C. 2. + New Age, 38 Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, London, E. C. 4. + New Leader, Napier House, 24–27 High Holborn, W. C. 1. + New Magazine, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E. C. 4. + New Statesman, 10 Great Queen Street, Kingsway, London, W. C. 2. + Novel Magazine, 18 Henrietta Street, London, W. C. 2. + Outlook, 167 Strand, London, W. C. 2. + Outward Bound, Edinburgh House, 2 Eaton Gate, London, S. W. 1. + Pearson’s Magazine, 17 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London, + W. C. 2. + Premier, Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E. C. 4. + Queen, Bream’s Buildings, London, E. C. 4. + Quiver, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E. C. 4. + Red Magazine, Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E. C. 4. + Romance, Long Acre, London, W. C. 2. + Royal Magazine, 17 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London, W. C. 2. + Saturday Review, 10 King Street, Covent Garden, London, W. C. 2. + Sketch, 172 Strand, London, W. C. 2. + Sovereign Magazine, 34–36 Paternoster Row, London, E. C. 4. + Spectator, 13 York Street, Covent Garden, London, W. C. 2. + Sphere, Great New Street, London, E. C. 4. + Story-Teller, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E. C. 4. + Strand Magazine, 8–11 Southampton Street, Strand, London, W. C. 2. + T. P.’s and Cassell’s Weekly, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, + E. C. 4. + Tatler, 6 Great New Street, London, E. C. 4. + Time and Tide, 88 Fleet Street, London, E. C. 4. + Truth, 10 Bolt Court, Fleet Street, London, E. C. 4. + 20-Story Magazine, Long Acre, London, W. C. 2. + Weekly Westminister, 12 Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, London, + E. C. 4. + Windsor Magazine, Warwick House, Salisbury Square, London, E. C. 4. + Woman, 34–36 Paternoster Row, London, E. C. 4. + Yellow Magazine, Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E. C. 4. + + + + + THE BIOGRAPHICAL ROLL OF HONOR + OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES + + OCTOBER, 1924, TO SEPTEMBER, 1925 + + +NOTE. _Only stories by American authors are listed. The index figures +1 to 11 prefixed to the name of the author indicate the last Roll of +Honor in which his work has been included. The figure 1 refers to 1914, +the figure 2 to 1915, etc. The Roll of Honor for 1914 appeared in the +volume for 1915. The list excludes reprints._ + + ADAMS, DAVID ERNEST. Born in Wilton, New Hampshire, 1891. Educated + at Phillips-Andover Academy and Dartmouth College. Graduate of + Union Theological Seminary. Married. Congregational Minister. + Lives in Ware, Massachusetts. + “Truth is Stranger----.” + + (10) AIKEN, CONRAD (_for biography, see 1922_). + Disciple. + Last Visit. + Strange Moonlight. + + (10) “ALEXANDER, SANDRA.” (MILDRED ALEXANDER LEWIS.) (_For + biography, see 1923._) + Gift. + + (11) ANDERSON, SHERWOOD (_for biography, see 1917_). + Meeting South. + Return. + + (6) ANDREWS, MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN (_for biography, see 1917_). + Passing the Torch. + + ANTHONY, JOSEPH. Born New York, 1897. B. A., Columbia, 1917. + Author: “Rekindled Fires,” 1918; “The Gang,” 1921; “The Golden + Village,” 1924. Began as reporter for the _Newark Evening News_, + then went into publishing work with Harper and Brothers, the + National Association of Book Publishers and the Century Company. + Spent two years in London, 1921–23, as manager of Century + Company’s foreign office. All writing done in intervals between + various jobs. Lives in New York City. + Kill or Cure. + + (11) ASCH, NATHAN (_for biography, see 1924_). + Gertrude Donovan. + + (11) BEEDE, IVAN (_for biography, see 1924_). + Haywired. + Storm. + + (3) BENEFIELD, BARRY. “Was born in a little, old mellow town in + northeast Texas--oh, yes, there are old towns in Texas--by name + Jefferson, in the piney woods, against the Louisiana border. + There was some studying at school, much hunting and fishing down + the bayou, a little teaching in the country districts, and then + an ambitious leap to the State University at Austin. Followed + newspaper work on _The Dallas_ (Texas) _News_ and on _The New + York Times_. Thus prepared, he began writing advertisements + and magazine fiction--mixed diet of what is called, foolishly, + romance and realism. The record to date is some forty or fifty + short stories, thousands of columns of advertisements and one + novel, ‘The Chicken-Wagon Family.’ Works in New York City + (advertisements), lives in Peekskill, New York (fiction).” + Blocker Locke. + Fiery Sweetness in the Air. + Guard of Honor. + + (11) BENÉT, STEPHEN VINCENT (_for biography, see 1920_). + Harrigan’s Head. + + (11) BERCOVICI, KONRAD (_for biography, see 1920_). + Beggar of Alcazar. + Flood. + Law of the River. + Millstones. + Steel Against Steel. + Storm. + Tinsel. + Vineyard. + + BIDDLE, FRANCIS B. Born in Paris, 1886. Educated at Groton School, + Harvard College, and the Harvard Law School. Formerly private + secretary to Mr. Justice Holmes of the United States Supreme + Court. Now Assistant United States Attorney in Philadelphia, + where he is also engaged in private law practice. + Aunt Jane’s Sofa. + + BROWN, KENNETH IRVING. Born in Brooklyn, New York, 1896. Educated + at Rochester public schools and the University of Rochester. In + naval service during the war. Ph.D. Harvard University, 1924. + Has had travelling fellowship from Harvard University. Now + professor of Biblical literature at Stephens College, Columbia, + Missouri. “‘The Christmas Guest’ relates an actual occurrence, + but the background has been changed from Greece to Colombia. + During the war I was for a time on a merchant vessel carrying + Government cargoes. On one trip we brought home a load of + lumber from the forests of Colombia, and during the course of + that loading I visited the lumber camp described in the story.” + Christmas Guest. + + (10) BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS (_for biography, see 1917_). + Beauty and the Blantons. + + BURTIS, THOMSON. + Man-Made Mutiny. + + (5) BUTLER, ELLIS PARKER (_for biography, see 1918_). + Idealist. + + (3) “BYRNE, DONN.” (BRYAN OSWALD DONN-BYRNE.) Born in New York + City, 1889. Educated at University College, Dublin, and in Paris + and Leipzig. Married. Author: “Stories Without Women,” 1915; + “Stranger’s Banquet,” 1919; “The Foolish Matron,” 1920; “The + Woman God Changed,” 1921; “Messer Marco Polo,” 1921; “The Wind + Bloweth,” 1922; “The Changeling,” 1923; “Blind Raftery,” 1924; + “An Untitled Story,” 1925. Lives at Riverside, Connecticut. + Blue Waves of Tory. + + (10) CABELL, JAMES BRANCH (_for biography, see 1918_). + Above Paradise. + Mathematics of Gonfal. + + CARVER, ADA JACK. Born in Natchitoches, Louisiana. Educated at + the Louisiana Normal College, Judson College, and Columbia + University. Married. Won first prize in the third short story + contest held by Harper’s Magazine in 1924. Lives in Louisiana. + Redbone. + + (11) CLARK, VALMA. + “Service.” + + (11) COBB, IRVIN S. (_for biography, see 1917_). + Nobody Sees the Waiter’s Face. + Principle of the Thing. + Standing Room Only. + + (11) COHEN, BELLA (_for biography, see 1924_). + Laugh. + Yetta’s Fella. + + (10) CORLEY, DONALD (_for biography, see 1923_). + Manacles of Youth. + + (11) CROWELL, CHESTER T. (_for biography, see 1924_). + Devil Born in Them. + Giovanni and the Goddess. + Mary Fisher’s Philosophy. + Pariah. + + (11) DELL, FLOYD (_for biography, see 1924_). + “Hallelujah, I’m a Bum.” + + DICKENSON, MAY FREUD. Born in San Francisco. Educated in New York + public schools and at Hunter College. Went on the stage and + later married a mining engineer. Has lived in Alaska, Ontario, + and India. Now lives in New York City. + Mouse. + + DINGLE, AYLWARD E. Born in Oxford, England, 1874. Went to sea in + 1899 as apprentice in a sailing ship. Served at sea twenty-two + years, during that time rising to command of square-riggers and + steamers. Served in Boxer Rebellion and Boer War. Began writing + in 1915. Is author of two novels and several hundred short + stories. Lives in Bermuda, but spends all possible time cruising + in a seventeen-ton schooner, “Gauntlet,” wherever fancy beckons. + Blow the Man Down. + Bound for Rio Grande. + + (11) DOBIE, CHARLES CALDWELL (_for biography, see 1917_). + Arrested Moment. + Elder Brother. + Hands of the Enemy. + + (11) DREISER, THEODORE (_for biography, see 1919_). + Glory Be! McGlathery. + + DUDLEY, WALBRIDGE. + Harvest. + + FAGIN, N. BRYLLION. “I am thirty-three years old. Married. I have + been errand boy, drug clerk, factory worker, government clerk + at Washington, lecturer and college professor. I have received + my education in the public and private evening schools of New + York, at Michigan State College, at Chicago, Columbia, George + Washington and Johns Hopkins universities. My first paid + contribution appeared in the _Atlantic Monthly_ in 1918. My name + did not appear. Since then I have contributed prose and verse to + many magazines, popular and unpopular.” ‘Short Story Writing: + An Art or a Trade?’ (Seltzer), 1923. A volume of youthful + storiettes, ‘Of Love and Other Trifles’ (Rossi-Bryn), 1925. I + live in Baltimore. + Buttoned Up. + + FISHER, RUDOLPH. Born in Washington, D. C., 1897. Educated in + Providence public schools and at Brown University. Graduate of + the Medical School of Harvard University, 1924. Married. Now + engaged in medical research at Columbia University, as Fellow of + the National Research Council. + City of Refuge. + + (9) FITZGERALD, F. SCOTT (_for biography, see 1922_). + Absolution. + + (11) GALE, ZONA (_for biography, see 1923)_. + Dime. + + (9) GEROULD, KATHARINE FULLERTON (_for biography, see 1917_). + Army with Banners. + + (9) GILKYSON, WALTER (_for biography, see 1922)_. + Coward’s Castle. + + (9) GRAEVE, OSCAR (_for biography, see 1922)_. + Ferry Boat. + + GREEN, PAUL. Born on a farm near Lillington, North Carolina. Has + written stories, sketches, and plays of a section of the Cape + Fear River country which he calls Little Bethel. At present, + he is editor of The Reviewer and a member of the faculty of + the University of North Carolina. Lives at Chapel Hill, North + Carolina. + Man Who Died at Twelve O’Clock. + + (2) GREGG, FRANCES. + Hunch-Back. + + HACKETT, FRANCIS. Born in Kilkenny, Ireland, 1883. Educated at + Clongowes Wood College, Kildare. Married. Came to America in + 1900. Newspaper work in Chicago, 1906–09. Editor, Chicago + Evening Post Literary Review, 1909–11. Associate Editor, New + Republic, 1914–22. Author: “Ireland, a Study in Nationalism,” + 1918; “Horizons,” 1918; “The Invisible Censor,” 1920; “The Story + of the Irish Nation,” 1922; “Candor,” 1924. Lives in Paris. + Unshapely Things. + + HALL, JAMES NORMAN. + Forgotten One. + + (9) HECHT, BEN (_for biography, see 1918_). + Lindro the Great. + + (11) HEMINGWAY, ERNEST. Born Oak Park, Illinois. Married. Reporter + on Kansas City Star before the War. Served on Italian Front + during the War. Wounded, Croce di Guerra. Medaglia D’Argento, + Valore Militare. Newspaper man in Europe since 1921. Written + short stories since 1916. Amateur boxer and bull fighter. + Author: “In Our Time,” 1925. Long story, “The Bull Ring,” + translated and published serially in Der Querschnitt, 1925. + Lives in Paris. + Cross-Country Snow. + Doctor and the Doctor’s Wife. + Mr. and Mrs. Elliot. + + HIBBEN, PAXTON. Born in Indianapolis, 1880. Educated at Princeton + and Harvard. F. R. G. S., F. A. G. S. Admitted to bar, but has + not practiced law. United States Diplomatic Service, 1905–1912. + Secretary International Tribunal of Arbitration at The Hague, + 1910. Candidate for Congress, 1914. War correspondent, Collier’s + Weekly and Associated Press, 1914–1917; Leslie’s Weekly, + 1920–1921. Special correspondent in Russia and Near East of + Chicago Tribune, London Daily Chronicle, L’Humanité and United + Press. Enlisted as private in United States Army in 1917; + captain, 1919; served at G. H. Q., A. E. F. Decorated: Orders of + St. Stanislas of Russia, Redeemer of Greece, Sacred Treasure of + Japan. Author: “Constantine I and the Greek People”; “The Famine + in Russia.” Lives in Indianapolis. + Young Man with Great Possessions. + + HOUSTON, MARGARET BELLE. + Gold Picayune. + + HOWARD, SIDNEY. Born in Oakland, California, 1891. Educated at + the University of California. Studied play-writing at Harvard. + With the American Ambulance in France and later aviator with + the rank of captain. Since the War he has been on the staff of + Life, The New Republic, Collier’s Weekly, International, and + other magazines. Married. Author: “Swords” (play), 1921; “Three + Flights Up,” 1924; “Bewitched” (play in collaboration with + Edward Sheldon), 1924; “They Knew What They Wanted” (play), + 1924; “Lucky Sam McCarver” (play), 1925. Has translated and + adapted various European plays. Winner of Pulitzer Prize. Lives + in New York City. + Such Women as Ellen Steele. + + (7) HUSSEY, L. M. (_for biography, see 1920_). + Conclusion. + Reunion. + + (10) JITRO, WILLIAM C. G. (_for biography, see 1922_). + Holiday. + + (11) KNOWLTON, CLARKE (_for biography, see 1924_). + Bridegroom. + + (10) KOMROFF, MANUEL. “Born in New York City in 1890 under protest + but in good humor. Tampered with schools and tried a college + or two under the impression that education was the mark of a + gentleman. Discovered his mistake. Travelled far across Siberia + and parts of China, and edited an English newspaper in Russia + during the Revolution. Married an Englishwoman in 1918 and tried + to support her by doing editorial work on newspapers. + + He began writing stories through sheer obstinacy and still has the + same wife he started with. His first stories appeared in Reedy’s + Mirror and The Dial after they had been rejected in other + places, and in the face of everything he still keeps on writing + when he finds time. He now works for a book publisher, but has + an agreeable nature though a sharp and quick tongue. + + In spite of his practical jokes his friends like him. He lives like + a fool and by so doing hopes to die a wise man.” + Beating of the Reed. + Grace of Lambs. + How Does it Feel to be Free? + + (9) LARDNER, RING W. (_for biography, see 1922_). + Haircut. + Zone of Quiet. + + (10) LEECH, MARGARET KERNOCHAN (_for biography, see 1923_). + Little White Village. + + LEHMAN, B. H. Born 1889. Graduate, Harvard, A.B., Ph.D. Associate + Professor of English in the University of California. Married. + Lecturer and writer. Novel: “Wild Marriage,” 1925. Residence, + Berkeley, California. + Sons. + + (11) LOWELL, AMY (_for biography, see 1924_). Died 1925. + Conversion of a Saint. + + (10) MARQUAND, JOHN PHILLIPS (_for biography, see 1923_). + Old Man. + + MARSH, HOWARD R. Born at Milwaukee, Wisconsin, 1893. Educated at + University of Michigan. Publicity and article work, 1915–1920. + Travels considerably. Lives at Jackson, Michigan, and Redlands, + California. + Rebellion. + + (7) MASON, GRACE SARTWELL (_for biography, see 1920_). + Gray Spell. + + MATHEUS, JOHN F. Born in Keyser, West Virginia, 1887. Childhood + passed in Steubenville, Ohio. Educated at Western Reserve + University and Columbia University. Professor of Romance + languages in the West Virginia Collegiate Institute since 1923. + Married. Has travelled widely. Lives at Institute, West Virginia. + Fog. + + MATHEY, FABYAN. Born in New Jersey, 1903. Educated at Princeton and + Columbia Universities. At various times in his life has been + lumberjack, longshoreman, and forest ranger. Is particularly + interested in music, painting, and French and Scandinavian + literature. Has been writing for two years--plays, poetry, and + stories. Lives at Cranford, New Jersey. + Sunday. + + (11) MONTAGUE, MARGARET PRESCOTT (_for biography, see 1919_). + Great Theme. + + MOON, LORNA. + Wantin’ a Hand. + + (11) MORRIS, LAWRENCE S. (_for biography, see 1924_). + Apples of Gold or Pictures of Silver. + + MOSLEY, JEFFERSON. Born in Texas. Educated at South Western + University, Texas, and Oxford University. Former Rhodes scholar. + Taught physics at South Western University, 1912–15. Has been in + the Civil Service. Is now editor of research publication at the + United States Forest Products Laboratory, Madison, Wisconsin. + Won first prize in Forum short story contest, 1924. + Secret at the Crossroads. + + MULLEN, KATE. + Interval. + + (10) NICHOLL, LOUISE TOWNSEND (_for biography, see 1919_). + Green Ice. + + (3) NORRIS, KATHLEEN. Born in San Francisco, 1880. Educated + privately and at University of California. Married Charles + G. Norris, the novelist, 1909. Author: “Mother,” 1911; “The + Rich Mrs. Burgoyne,” 1912; “Poor Dear Margaret Kirby,” 1913; + “Saturday’s Child,” 1914; “The Story of Julia Page,” 1915; + “The Heart of Rachael,” 1916; “Martie, the Unconquered,” 1917; + “Undertow,” 1917; “Josslyn’s Wife,” 1918; “Sisters,” 1919; + “Harriet and the Piper,” 1920; “The Beloved Woman,” 1921; + “Certain People of Importance,” 1922; “Butterfly,” 1923; “The + Callahans and the Murphys,” 1924. Lives on Long Island. + Masterpiece. + + (8) O’HIGGINS, HARVEY J. (_for biography, see 1919_). + Love Story of a Silent Man. + + (9) OPPENHEIM, JAMES (_for biography, see 1918_). + Last Man. + + PARSONS, ALICE BEALE. + Love at 42 Altgeld Avenue. + + (11) PETERKIN, JULIA (_for biography, see 1924_). + Maum Lou. + Sorcerer. + + (6) PRATT, LUCY (_for biography, see 1918_). + Dark Gate. + + PRUETTE, LORINE. “I was born in Tennessee, November 3, 1896. At an + early age I acquired the habit of going to school, and I seem to + have kept it up nearly ever since, finishing--I trust--with a + doctorate from Columbia University. My book, ‘Women and Leisure, + A Study of Social Waste,’ was published last year. I have just + completed a psychological biography of G. Stanley Hall, and my + next job is to write a book on Industrial Sociology. I am one of + the editors of ‘Industrial Psychology’ and have contributed to + various scientific journals. Writing stories and going to the + theatre are the chief joys of life. ‘Smile of Victory’ is my + third story to be published. My home is in New York City.” + Smile of Victory. + + (9) ROBBINS, TOD (_for biography, see 1921_). + Bit of a Banshee. + + (11) ROBIN, MAX (_for biography, see 1923_). + Itzikil. + + ROBINSON, ELSIE. + Misunderstood Husband. + + ROBINSON, ROBERT. Born near Taylor, Texas, 1899. Educated in Texas + Public Schools and graduated at the University of Arkansas. Has + worked at a variety of occupations ranging from harvesting to + school teaching. At present engaged in recreation work as boys’ + supervisor at Mount Vernon, N. Y. + Ill Wind. + + (11) SHIFFRIN, A. B. (_for biography, see 1924_). + Other Cheek. + Trickle of Red. + + (9) SPRINGER, FLETA CAMPBELL (_for biography, see 1917_). + Legend. + + STANLEY, MAY. (MRS. ELMER BROWN MASON.) Born in a pioneer cabin on + Puget Sound, Washington. “Never attended school, but studied for + a few months with an Oxford man when I was twelve years old. He + taught me more important things than mathematics and history--to + love trees and the sea and the books written about them.” + Newspaper worker since 1912, Washington and Minnesota. Came + to New York City in 1916, magazine work and musical criticism. + Author: “Fair Weather Cometh,” 1923. Lives in New York City, but + spends most of the time on the Maine coast. + Old Man Ledge. + + (11) STEELE, WILBUR DANIEL (_for biography, see 1917_). + Man Who Saw Through Heaven. + Sauce for the Goose. + Six Dollars. + Thinker. + When Hell Froze. + + (11) SUCKOW, RUTH (_for biography, see 1923_). + Golden Wedding. + Start in Life. + + (10) TARKINGTON, BOOTH (_for biography, see 1918_). + Shanty. + ’Thea Zell. + + TAYLOR, ELLEN DU POIS. Born in Huron, South Dakota. Educated at + Huron College, South Dakota, and Northwestern University. Has + been a publisher’s proof reader, manager of the Chicago Little + Theatre, director of the Speakers’ Bureau of the Illinois + Council of Defense, and has worked with women in politics. Lives + at Chesterton, Indiana. + Calico. + + (10) TOOMER, JEAN (_for biography, see 1923_). + Easter. + + (11) VENABLE, EDWARD CARRINGTON (_for biography, see 1921_). + Lines on the Portrait of a Lady. + + (11) VORSE, MARY HEATON (_for biography, see 1917_). + Sand. + + WALDMAN, MILTON. Born in Cleveland, Ohio, U. S. A., 1895. Educated + at Yale College, 1917. Journalist, New York and Cleveland. + Assistant editor London Mercury since February, 1924. Author: + “Americana,” 1925. + Home Town. + + (11) WESCOTT, GLENWAY (_for biography, see 1924_). + This Way Out. + + (11) WHARTON, EDITH (_for biography, see 1924_). + Bewitched. + Miss Mary Pask. + Velvet Ear-Muffs. + + (11) WHITMAN, STEPHEN FRENCH (_for biography, see 1924_). + That Famous Love Affair. + + (11) WILLIAMS, BEN AMES (_for biography, see 1918_). + Finished Story. + + WILLOUGHBY, BARRETT. “I am an Alaskan, white, Irish, and a Miss + instead of a Mister. My first home was my father’s trading + schooner that cruised up and down the shores of Alaska. My + people now have a trading post in Alaska. I received my + education in a convent in the States, and from the traders, + trappers, Indians, explorers, scientists and sea-faring men + who make of my father’s store a sort of wilderness club in the + winter. I wanted to tell the world about my country and its + people, so I borrowed some money and came down to San Francisco + to begin in 1920. Went broke before my book was done. Became, + for a year and a half, secretary to Frederick O’Brien, the South + Sea writer. Then finished my book--‘Where the Sun Swings North,’ + and I’ve been writing for myself ever since.” + Devil-Drum. + + (9) WOOD, CLEMENT (_for biography, see 1922_). + Blue Circle. + Mother. + Tzagan. + + WYLIE, ELINOR. (MRS. WILLIAM ROSE BENÉT.) Author: “Black Armor” + (poems), 1923; “Jennifer Lorn,” 1924; and “The Venetian Glass + Nephew,” 1925. Lives near New York City. + Gideon’s Revenge. + + + + +THE ROLL OF HONOR OF FOREIGN SHORT STORIES IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES + + OCTOBER, 1924, TO SEPTEMBER, 1925 + + +NOTE. _The index figures from 1 to 11 prefixed to the name of the +author indicate the last Roll of Honor between 1914 and 1924 in which +his work has been included. Thus the figure 1 indicates 1914, the +figure 5 indicates 1918, etc. The Roll of Honor for 1914 appeared in +the volume for 1915._ + + + I. BRITISH AND IRISH AUTHORS + + (11) ARLEN MICHAEL (DIKRAN KUYUMJIAN). + Ace of Thirteens. + One Gold Coin. + + (11) AUMONIER, STACY. + Dark Red Roses. + + (11) AUSTIN, F. BRITTEN. + Battle Piece: New Style. + On the Flagship. + + BENNETT, ROLF. + Cask. + + (11) BIBESCO, PRINCESS ELIZABETH. + “Peronnière Letters.” + + (4) BOTTOME, PHYLLIS. + Wonder-Child. + + (11) CHESTERTON, GILBERT KEITH. + Arrow of Heaven. + Asylum of Adventure. + Curse of the Golden Cross. + Man with Two Beards. + Mirror of Death. + Song of the Flying Fish. + + (2) COLUM, PADRAIC. + John Greggins--A Day in His Life. + + (11) COPPARD, A. E. + Field of Mustard. + + COULDREY, OSWALD. + Nandi in Pound. + + COULTER, GEOFFREY. + Decoy. + + (9) DE LA MARE, WALTER. + Connoisseur. + + (7) ERVINE, ST. JOHN G. + Mr. Peden Keeps His Cook. + + (10) GALSWORTHY, JOHN. + Last Card. + Mummy. + Water. + + GERHARDI, WILLIAM. + Big Drum. + + HUGHES, RICHARD. + Locomotive. + Poor Man’s Inn. + + (11) HUXLEY, ALDOUS. + Half Holiday. + + JACOBS, W. W. + Fickle Woman. + Something for Nothing. + + (11) KAYE-SMITH, SHEILA. + Working Man’s Wife. + + (11) KIPLING, RUDYARD. + Bull that Thought. + Prophet and the Country. + Wish House. + + (9) LAWRENCE, D. H. + Woman Who Rode Away. + + (11) MAUGHAM, W. SOMERSET. + Man Who Wouldn’t Hurt a Fly. + Mr. Know-All. + + METCALFE, JOHN. + Mole. + + MEYNELL, VIOLA. + Letter. + Ten Minutes. + + O’FLAHERTY, LIAM. + Conger Eel. + Wild Goat’s Kid. + + (11) POWYS, T. F. + Painted Wagon. + + RICHARDSON, ANTHONY. + Old Mossy Face. + + (11) WALPOLE, HUGH. + Old Elizabeth. + + WILLIAMSON, HENRY. + No Eel for Nog. + + (10) WOOLF, VIRGINIA. + Miss Ormerod. + + WRYNN, ANTHONY. + Equinox. + + + II. TRANSLATIONS + + (10) ANDREYEV, LEONID (_Russian_). + Giant. + + (6) D’ANNUNZIO, GABRIELLE (_Italian_). + Bells. + + DOSTOEVSKY, FYODOR (_Russian_). + Christmas Story. + + GOGOL, N. V. (_Russian_). + Diary of a Madman. + + (11) “GORKY, MAXIM” (_Russian_). + Hermit. + Story of a Novel. + Strange Murderer. + + GOURMONT, REMY DE (_French_). + Evening Chat. + Faun. + + (6) JACOBSEN, J. P. (_Danish_). + Two Worlds. + + MARTORELLO, NOÉ S. (_Argentinian_). + Pedro. + + (11) SCHNITZLER, ARTHUR (_Austrian_). + Lieutenant Gustl. + + SILLEN, MARTA AF (_Swedish_). + Two Sibyls. + + VON HEIDENSTAMM, VERNER (_Swedish_). + Sigrid the Haughty and Her Wooers. + + + + + THE BEST BOOKS OF SHORT STORIES OF 1925 + + + I. AMERICAN AUTHORS + + 1. AIKEN. Bring! Bring! Boni and Liveright. + 2. AUSTIN. William Austin. Marshall Jones. + 3. COBB. Alias Ben Alibi. Doran. + 4. FITZGERALD. All the Sad Young Men. Scribner. + 5. Harper Prize Short Stories. 1924. Harper. + 6. HEMINGWAY. In Our Time. Boni and Liveright. + 7. KOMROFF. The Grace of Lambs. Boni and Liveright. + 8. O’BRIEN, FITZJAMES. Collected Stories. A. and C. Boni. + + + II. BRITISH AND IRISH AUTHORS + + 9. ARLEN. Mayfair. Doran. + 10. AUMONIER. Overheard. Doubleday, Page. + 11. BECKE. Yorke the Adventurer. Lippincott. + 12. BLACKWOOD. Tongues of Fire. Dutton. + 13. BRAMAH. The Specimen Case. Doran. + 14. CONRAD. Tales of Hearsay. Doubleday, Page. + 15. COPPARD. Fishmonger’s Fiddle. Knopf. + 16. CORVO. In His Own Image. Knopf. + 17. DE LA MARE. Broomsticks. Knopf. + 18. KENNARD. Level Crossings. A. and C. Boni. + 19. LAWRENCE. St. Mawr. Knopf. + 20. LYND. The Mulberry Bush. Minton, Balch. + 21. MACARDLE. Earth-Bound. Harrigan Press. + 22. MACHEN. The Shining Pyramid. Knopf. + 23. MAYNE. Inner Circle. Harcourt, Brace. + 24. MEYNELL. Young Mrs. Cruse. Harcourt, Brace. + 25. SACKVILLE-WEST. Seducers in Ecuador. Doran. + 26. SITWELL. Triple Fugue. Doran. + 27. SMITH. The Little Karoo. Doran. + 28. WATSON. Innocent Desires. Boni and Liveright. + + + III. TRANSLATIONS + + 29. BARBEY D’AUREVILLY. The Diaboliques. Knopf. + 30. BLASCO IBÁÑEZ. The Old Woman of the Movies. Dutton. + 31. EATON, _editor_. The Best Continental Short Stories of 1924–25. + Small, Maynard. + 32. EATON, _editor_. The Best French Short Stories of 1924–25. Small, + Maynard. + 33. Flying Osip. International Publishers. + 34. GOBINEAU. Five Oriental Tales. Viking Press. + 35. GORKY. The Story of a Novel. Dial Press. + 36. MANN. Death in Venice. Knopf. + 37. MAUPASSANT. Collected Stories (Volumes 10–15). Knopf. + 38. PILNIAK. Tales of the Wilderness. Knopf. + 39. REMIZOV. The Clock. Knopf. + 40. ZWEIG. Passion and Pain. Bernard G. Richards. + + + + + VOLUMES OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES + + OCTOBER, 1924, TO SEPTEMBER, 1925 + + +NOTE. _An asterisk before a title indicates distinction. This list +includes single short stories and collections of short stories. Volumes +announced for publication in the autumn of 1925 are listed here, +although in some cases they had not yet appeared at the time this book +went to press._ + + + I. AMERICAN AUTHORS + + ABDULLAH, ACHMED. The Swinging Caravan. Brentano’s. + AIKEN, CONRAD. *Bring! Bring! Boni and Liveright. + ALLEN, JAMES LANE. *The Landmark. Macmillan. + ANDERSON, ISABEL. The Kiss and Queue. Four Seas Co. + ANDREWS, MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN. Pontifex Maximus. Scribner. + AUSTIN, WALTER, _editor_. *William Austin, the Creator of Peter Rugg. + Marshall Jones. + BAILEY, PAUL. The Man Who Turned Mex. Dorrance. + BAILEY, TEMPLE. The Holly Hedge. Penn. + BANNAN, THERESA. Waifs of War. Syracuse, N. Y.: Syracuse Printing and + Publishing Co. + BEACH, REX ELLINGWOOD. The Goose Woman and Other Stories. Harper. + BOYD, THOMAS. *Points of Honor. Scribner. + BUCK, MITCHELL S. *Afterglow. Frank-Maurice. + CLARK, BADGER. Spike. Badger. + COBB, IRVIN S. *Alias Ben Alibi. Doran. + COHEN, OCTAVUS ROY. Bigger and Blacker. Little, Brown. + COLLINS, CHARLES. The Sins of Saint Anthony. Covici. + CONNELL, RICHARD. *Variety. Minton, Balch. Copy--1925. Appleton. + COTTON, JANE BALDWIN. *Wall-eyed Cæsar’s Ghost. Marshall Jones. + DARGAN, OLIVE TILFORD. *Highland Annals. Scribner. + DE BRA, LEMUEL. Ways that are Wary. Clode. + FITZGERALD, F. SCOTT. *All the Sad Young Men. Scribner. + FOX, CHARLES DONALD, _editor_. Il Conte. Charles Renard Co. + FRENCH, JOSEPH LEWIS, _editor_. Great Pirate Stories--Second Series. + Brentano’s. Great Sea Stories--Second Series. Brentano’s. + GLASS, MONTAGUE MARSDEN. Y’Understand. Doubleday, Page. + GONZALES, AMBROSE E. *Laguerre. Columbia, S. C.: The State Co. *The + Captain. Columbia, S. C.: The State Co. + GRAY, CHARLES WRIGHT, _editor_. “Dawgs.” Holt. + GREENE, L. PATRICK. The Major-Diamond Buyer. Doubleday, Page. + *Harper Prize Short Stories. Harper. + HASTINGS, WILLIAM THOMPSON; CLOUGH, BENJAMIN CROCKER, _and_ MASON, + KENNETH OLIVER, _editors_. *Short Stories. Houghton Mifflin. + HEMINGWAY, ERNEST. *In Our Time. Boni and Liveright. + HERRICK, ROBERT. *Wanderings. Harcourt, Brace. + HUMPHREY, MURIEL MILLER, _editor_. *The Best Love Stories of 1924. + Small, Maynard. + JEWETT, SARAH ORNE. *The Best Stories of. 2 vols. Houghton Mifflin. + JOHNSTON, WILLIAM, _editor_. The World’s Best Short Stories of 1925. + Doran. + KENDRICK, ELSIE. The Rip Tide. Stratford. + KOMROFF, MANUEL. *The Grace of Lambs. Boni and Liveright. + LA MOTTE, ELLEN N. Snuffs and Butters. Century. + LARSEN, CAROLINE D. The Goosegirl’s Love Story. Rutland, Vt.: + Tuttle Co. + LYTLE, JOHN HORACE. The Story of Jack. Appleton. + MACMECHAN, ARCHIBALD. Old Province Tales. Doran. + MOORE, JOHN TROTWOOD. Uncle Wash, his Stories. Cokesbury Press. + *More Aces. Putnam. + NOBLE, EDWARD. The Mandarin’s Bell. Houghton Mifflin. + O’BRIEN, EDWARD J., _editor_. The Best Short Stories of 1924. Small, + Maynard. + O’BRIEN, FITZJAMES. *Collected Stories. A. and C. Boni. + O’SHAUGHNESSY, EDITH. *Married Life. Harcourt, Brace. + OVERS, W. H. Stories of African Life. E. S. Gorham. + POE, EDGAR ALLAN. The Best Tales of. Modern Library. + POOLE, ERNEST. *The Little Dark Man. Macmillan. + REEVE, ARTHUR B. The Boy Scouts’ Craig Kennedy. Harper. Craig Kennedy + on the Farm. Harper. Fourteen Points. Harper. + RICE, ALICE CALDWELL HEGAN, _and_ RICE, CALE YOUNG. Winners and Losers. + Century. + ROBINSON, KENNETH ALLEN, _editor_. *Contemporary Short Stories. + Houghton Mifflin. + ROYSTER, JAMES FINCH, _editor_. American Short Stories. Scott, + Foresman. + RUTLEDGE, ARCHIBALD. Heart of the South. Columbia, S. C.: The + State Co. + SALTUS, EDGAR. Purple and Fine Women. Covici. + SASS, HERBERT RAVENEL. Way of the Wild. Minton, Balch. + SCHWEIKERT, H. C., _editor_. Short Stories. Harcourt, Brace. + SOCIETY OF ARTS AND SCIENCES, _editors_. O. Henry Memorial Award. + Prize Stories of 1924. Doubleday, Page. + SPARLING, E. EARL. Under the Levee. Scribner. + STREET, JULIAN. Mr. Bisbee’s Princess. Doubleday, Page. + URNER, MABEL HERBERT. The Married Life of Helen and Warren. Small, + Maynard. + WITWER, H. C. Love and Learn. Putnam. + + + II. British and Irish Authors + + ARLEN, MICHAEL. *Mayfair. Doran. + AUMONIER, STACY. *Overheard. Doubleday, Page. + AUSTIN, F. BRITTEN. *Thirteen. Doubleday, Page. + BECKE, LOUIS. *Yorke the Adventurer. Lippincott. + BLACKWOOD, ALGERNON. *Tongues of Fire. Dutton. + BRAMAH, ERNEST. *The Specimen Case. Doran. + CONRAD, JOSEPH. *Shorter Tales. Doubleday, Page. *Tales of Hearsay. + Doubleday, Page. + COPPARD, A. E. *Fishmonger’s Fiddle. Knopf. + CORVO, FREDERICK, BARON. *In His Own Image. Knopf. + DE LA MARE, WALTER. *Broomsticks. Knopf. + DELL, ETHEL M. The Passer-By. Putnam. + FLETCHER, J. S. The Secret of the Barbican. Putnam. + GILES, HERBERT A. *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio. Boni and + Liveright. + KENNARD, SIR COLERIDGE. *Level Crossings. A. and C. Boni. + LAWRENCE, D. H. *St. Mawr. Knopf. + LYND, SYLVIA. *The Mulberry Bush. Minton, Balch. + MACARDLE, DOROTHY. *Earthbound. Worcester: Harrigan Press. + MACHEN, ARTHUR. *The Shining Pyramid. Knopf. + MCKENNA, STEPHEN. Tales of Intrigue and Revenge. Little, Brown. + MAYNE, ETHEL COLBURN. *Inner Circle. Harcourt, Brace. + MEYNELL, VIOLA. *Young Mrs. Cruse. Harcourt, Brace. + MILFORD, H. S., _editor_. *Selected English Stories. Oxford University + Press. + *New Decameron. Volume 4. Brentano’s. + O’BRIEN, EDWARD J., _and_ COURNOS, JOHN, _editors_. The Best British + Short Stories of 1925. Small, Maynard. + OLLIVANT, ALFRED. Boxer and Beauty. Doubleday, Page. + REDMOND, I. P. The Master’s Vineyard. Herder. + SACKVILLE-WEST, V. *Seducers in Ecuador. Doran. + “SAPPER.” The Dinner Club. Doran. Out of the Blue. Doran. + SITWELL, OSBERT. *Triple Fugue. Doran. + SMITH, PAULINE. *The Little Karoo. Doran. + SQUIRE, J. C. The Grub Street Nights’ Entertainments. Doran. + SUTTON, GRAHAM. Fish and Actors. Brentano’s. + WATSON, E. L. GRANT. *Innocent Desires. Boni and Liveright. + WILLIAMSON, HENRY. *Sun Brothers. Dutton. + + + III. Translations + + BANDELLO (_Italian_). *Tragical Tales. Dutton. + BARBEY D’AUREVILLY, JULES (_French_). *The Diaboliques. Knopf. + BERLIC-MAZURANIO, I. V. (_Croatian_). Croatian Tales of Long Ago. + Stokes. + BLASCO IBÁÑEZ, VICENTE (_Spanish_). *The Old Woman of the Movies. + Dutton. + CHIVAS-BARON, CL. (_French_). *Three Women of Annam. Frank-Maurice. + “COLETTE” (_French_). Cats, Dogs, and I. Holt. + DUVERNOIS, HENRI, _and others_ (_French_). Jacqueline. Minton, Balch. + EATON, RICHARD, _editor_. The Best Continental Short Stories of + 1924–25. Small, Maynard. *The Best French Short Stories of 1924–25. + Small, Maynard. + *Flying Osip (_Russian_). International Publishers. + GOBINEAU, JOSEPH ARTHUR, COMTE DE (_French_). *Five Oriental Tales. + Viking Press. + GORKY, MAXIM (_Russian_). *The Story of a Novel. Dial Press. + IBÁÑEZ, VICENTE BLASCO (_Spanish_). _See_ BLASCO IBÁÑEZ, VICENTE. + KELLER, GOTTFRIED (_German_). *The Fat of the Cat. Harcourt, Brace. + KUPRIN, ALEXANDRE IVANOVITCH (_Russian_). *Gambrinus and other Stories. + Adelphi. + MANN, THOMAS (_German_). *Death in Venice. Knopf. + MAUPASSANT, GUY DE (_French_). *The Horla. Knopf. *The Little Rogue. + Knopf. + OGAWA, MIMEI (_Japanese_). Rose and Witch. Overland Publishing Company. + PILNIAK, BORIS (_Russian_). Tales of the Wilderness. Knopf. + REMIZOV, ALEKSEI (_Russian_). The Clock. Knopf. + RUNG, OTTO (_Danish_). *Shadows that Pass. Appleton. + SEITZ, DON C., _editor_ (_Japanese_). Monogatari. Putnam. + TOWNSEND, R. S., _editor_. *Short Stories by Russian Authors. Dutton. + VICTORIN, M. (_French_). The Chopping Bee. Toronto: Musson. + ZWEIG, STEFAN (_German_). Passion and Pain. Bernard G. Richards. + + + + + ARTICLES ON THE SHORT STORY IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES + + OCTOBER, 1924, TO SEPTEMBER, 1925 + + +_Authors of articles are printed in capital letters. For articles in +British and Irish periodicals, see “The Best British Short Stories of +1925.” Unsigned reviews of minor importance are not indexed._ + + + + A + + Aakjaer, Jeppe. + By Waldemar Westergaard. Scan. Nov., ’24. (12:665.) + + AIDLINE-TROMMER, ELBERT. + Yiddish Short Story. Men. J. Nov.–Dec., ’24. (10:515.) + + AIKEN, CHARLES E. + James Stephens. Cath. W. Apr. (121:132.) + + Aiken, Conrad. + By Malcolm Cowley. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Jun. 27. (1:851.) + By Robert Morss Lovett. N. Rep. Jul. 22. (43:242.) + + ALDEN, STANLEY. + George Gissing. Books. Feb. 22. (11.) + + ALDERMAN, EDWIN A. + Edgar Allan Poe. Va. Apr. (1:78.) + + ALDINGTON, RICHARD. + Katharine Mansfield. L. Rev. Jan. 10. (8.) N. Rep. Oct. 22, ’24. + (40:207.) + + Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. + By C. Hartley Grattan. A. Merc. May. (5:41.) + + ALLEN, FLETCHER. + Sheila Kaye-Smith. Int. Sept., ’24. (2:726.) + + ALLEN HERVEY. + A. E. Gonzales. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Mar. 14. (1:595.) + + Allen, James Lane. + By John H. Finley. N. Y. Times. Mar. 1. (2.) + + ALLEN, LOUIS. + Jack London. Dear. Ind. May 16. (2.) + + American Short Story. + By John Davis Anderson. Int. Mar. (3:251.) + Anonymous. Book. (N. Y.) Nov., ’24. (60:370.) + By Herschel Brickell. L. Rev. Jan. 31. (7.) + By Louis Bromfield. Books. Feb. 15. (3.) + By Gerald Hewes Carson. Book. (N. Y.) Mar. (61:58.) May. + (61:348.) June. (61:438.) + By N. Bryllion Fagin. Int. Mar. (3:249.) + By Charles J. Finger. A. W. Dec., ’24. (7.) + By Henry B. Fuller. N. Y. Times. Jun. 28. (16.) + By Herbert S. Gorman. N. Y. Sun. Mar. 6. (16.) Int. Aug. 25. + (3:616.) + By M. M. World. Jul. 5. (9S.) + By Lloyd Morris. N. Y. Times. Jan. 18. (6.) + By Edward J. O’Brien. L. Rev. Apr. 11. (2.) + By John Pentifer. A. Merc. Jan. (4:90.) + By Janet Ramsay. Books. Aug. 16. (10.) + By R. L. Ramsay. L. Rev. May 9. (14.) + By Paul F. Sifton. N. Y. World. Feb. 22. (7.) + By John F. Smertenko. Nat. (N. Y.) Apr. 22. (120:469.) + By Blanche Colton Williams. N. Y. Sun. Jan. 31. (7.) + By R. Heylbut Wollstein. Int. Mar. (3:249.) + + ANDERSON, ISAAC. + Irvin S. Cobb. Int. Nov., ’24. (2:906.) + Selma Lägerlof. Int. Nov., ’24. (2:890.) + + ANDERSON, JOHN DAVIS. + American Short Story. Int. Mar. (3:251.) + + Anderson, Sherwood. + By D. A. Ind. Nov. 22, ’24. (113:429.) + By William Rose Benét. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Oct. 18, ’24. (1:200.) + By Louis Bromfield. Book. (N. Y.) Dec., ’24. (7:71.) + By V. F. Calverton. Mod. R. Fall, ’24. (2:82.) + By Joseph Collins. Book. (N. Y.) Mar. (61:22.) + By N. Bryllion Fagin. D.D. Jan. Feb. (7:91.) Guar. (Am.) (1:246.) + By Charles J. Finger. A. W. Dec., ’24. (7.) + By Waldo Frank. Guar. (Am.) Feb. (1:97.) + By Julius Weis Freind. D. D. Nov.–Dec., ’24. (7:71.) + By Isaac Goldberg. Strat. Jan. (4:83.) + By Herbert S. Gorman. Int. Dec., ’24. (3:15.) + By Harry Hansen. Nat. (N. Y.) Dec. 10, ’24. (119:641.) + By John L. Hervey. A. W. Mar. (9.) + By Sinclair Lewis. Books. Nov. 9, ’24. (1.) + By Robert Morss Lovett. N. Rep. Nov. 5, ’24. (40:255.) + By Flora Merrill. N. Y. World. Mar. 22. (1 M.) + By Christopher Morley. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Aug. 15. (2:43.) + By Lloyd Morris. N. Y. Times. Oct. 12, ’24. (6.) + By Frank Luther Mott. Mid. Jan. 15. (11:54.) + By Llewellyn Powys. Dial. Apr. (78:330.) + By Carl Van Doren. Cen. July. (110:362.) + By Virginia Woolf. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Aug 1. (2:1.) + + Andreyev, Leonid. + By Julian Leveridge. L. Rev. Jan. 10. (2.) + By Princess Radziwill. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Oct. 4, ’24. (1:164.) + By Joseph T. Shipley. Guar. (Am.) Apr. (1:261.) + + Arlen, Michael. + By William Rose Benét. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Jun. 6. (1:802.) + By Herschel Brickell. L. Rev. (N. Y.) Jun. 13. (3.) + By Bruce Gould. Int. May. (3:399.) + By Joseph Wood Krutch. World. May 24. (4 M.) + By Shane Leslie. Int. Oct., ’24. (2:769.) + By Robert Morss Lovett. N. Rep. Dec. 10, ’24. (41:8.) + By Herman L. Mankiewicz. N. Y. Times. Mar. 22. (2.) May 31. (5.) + By David Martin. Book. (N. Y.) Nov., ’24. (60:293.) + By Edmund Lester Pearson. Outl. (N. Y.) Jun. 10. (140:221.) + + ARNESSEN, ELIAS. + Knut Hamsun. For. Jun. (73:852.) + + Aumonier, Stacy. + By Stella Heilbrunn. Int. May. (3:426.) + By William McFee. N. Y. Sun. Feb. 14. (7.) + + Austin, William. + Anon. N. Y. Times. May 31. (21.) + + + B + + Balzac, Honoré de. + By Albert S. Guérard. S. W. Apr. (10:110.) + By Hugo von Hofmannsthal. Dial. May. (78:35.) + + Barbey d’Aurevilly, Jules-Amédée. + By Ernest Boyd. N. Y. Sun. Mar. 11. (16.) + By William A. Drake. Books. Apr. 19. (9.) + By John Eversharp. N. Rep. Aug. 19, ’25. (43:351.) + By Paul Souday. N. Y. Times. Jul. 19. (12.) + + “Barrington, E.” + By Gerald Hewes Carson. Books. Oct. 5, ’24. (8.) + By William Arthur Deacon. Int. July, ’25. (3:535.) + + BAUGH, HANSELL. + Short Story. Rev. Jul. (5:105.) + + Beach Rex. + By Carey Jeffreys. L. Rev. Aug. 8. (2.) + By Morris Markey. Int. Sept. (3:681.) + + BEAZELL, W. P. + Washington Irving. World. May 3. (6 M.) + + BEER, THOMAS. + Richard Harding Davis. Ly. Oct. 11, ’24. (15.) + Henry James. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Apr. 25. (1:701.) + + BELL, CLIVE. + Virginia Woolf. Dial. Dec., ’24. (77:451.) + + BELL, LISLE. + J. C. Squire. Books. Mar. 8. (11.) + + BELLOC-LOWNDES, MRS. + Henry James. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Sept. 19. (2:139.) + + BENÉT, WILLIAM ROSE. + Sherwood Anderson. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Oct. 18, ’24. (1:200.) + Michael Arlen. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Jun. 6. (1:803.) + Richard Connell. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Aug. 8. (2:23.) + Joseph Conrad. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Mar. 14. (1:594.) + Charles J. Finger. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Dec. 13, ’24. (1:380.) + John Galsworthy. Book. (N. Y.) Aug. (61:698.) + + Bennett, Arnold. + By George B. Dutton. Ind. Dec. 27, ’24. (113:577.) + By Kenneth Fuessle. Int. Jan. (3:98.) + By Henry B. Fuller. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Nov. 29, ’24. (1:319.) + By Henry Hazlitt. N. Y. Sun. Sept. 26. (8.) + By Joseph Wood Krutch. Books. Nov. 9, ’24. (4.) + By Frederic Lefévre. Liv. A. Mar. 28. (324:691.) + By H. L. Mencken. World. Sept. 13. (4 M.) + By Charles Wharton Stork. L. Rev. Jan. 3. (3.) + + Bercovici, Konrad. + By Ring W. Lardner. L. Rev. Oct. 18, ’24. (3.) + + BESTON, HENRY. + Charles J. Finger. Books. Dec. 28, ’24. (4.) + + Bierce, Ambrose. + By Ruth Guthrie Harding. Book. (N. Y.) Aug. (61:636.) + By Edna Kenton. Book. (N. Y.) Sept. (62:77.) + By Robert Littell. N. Rep. Oct. 15, ’24. (40:177.) + By Henry L. Mencken. World. Mar. 1. (3 E.) + By George Sterling. A. Merc. Sept. (6:10.) + + BISHOP, JOHN PEALE. + Kenneth Burke. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Jan. 3. (1:427.) + + BJÖRKMAN, EDWIN. + Ernest Bramah. L. Rev. Apr. 4. (3.) + Aldous Huxley. L. Rev. Oct. 4, ’24. (4.) + Thomas Mann. L. Rev. Feb. 28. (3.) + + Blackmore, Richard Doddridge. + By John Walker Harrington. Int. Sept. (3:666.) + + Blackwood, Algernon. + Anonymous. N. Y. Times. Feb. 22. (14.) + By Louise Maunsell Field. Int. Jun. (3:482.) + By Zona Gale. Books. Apr. 26. (1.) + By Robert Hillyer. N. Y. Sun. Mar. 7. (7.) + By Wallace Irwin. L. Rev. Mar. 7. (3.) + + Bland, J. O. P. + By Herschel Brickell. L. Rev. Dec. 27, ’24. (3.) + + Blasco Ibáñez, Vicente. + By Arthur Livingston. Int. Jul. (3:543.) + By Allan Nevins. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Jul. 4. (1:871.) + By Henry Longan Stuart. N. Y. Times. May 31. (9.) + + BOAS, GEORGE. + Comte Arthur de Gobineau. Rev. Apr. (5:101.) + + BOGAN, LOUISE. + Viola Meynell. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Apr. 25. (1:703.) + + BOIS, JULES. + Anatole France. Cath. W. Jan. (120:567.) + + BOLITHO, WILLIAM. + G. A. Borgese. World. Mar. 29. (7 M.) + Franz Kafka. World. Feb. 8. (6.) + Carlo Linati. World. Jul. 26. (3 M.) + Mario Puccini. World. Feb. 15. (6.) + + BOND, FRASER. + Archibald MacMechan. N. Y. Times. Jun. 14. (19.) + + Borgese, G. A. + By William Bolitho. World. Mar. 29. (7 M.) + + Bourget, Paul. + By Paul Souday. N. Y. Times. Apr. 5. (10.) + + BOWKER, VIVIAN RADCLIFFE. + Richard Washburn Child. Int. Feb. (3:211.) + Lemuel de Bra. Int. Sept. (3:681.) + Aino Kallas. Int. Sept. (3:683.) + + BOYD, ERNEST. + Jules-Amédée Barbey d’Aurevilly. N. Y. Sun. Mar. 11. (16.) + Anatole France. Nat. (N. Y.) Nov. 5, ’24. (119:488.) Ind. Jan. + 31. (114:133.) Sat. R. (N. Y.) Jun. 27. (1:853.) V. F. (N. Y.) + Aug. (42.) + Thomas Hardy. Harp. M. Jul. (151:234.) + Lafcadio Hearn. Ind. Dec. 20, ’24. (113:548.) + Henry James. Ind. Apr. 18. (114:448.) + James Joyce. World. Jan. 25. (9.) + Sylvia Lynd. Ind. May 9. (114:533.) + Paul Morand. Ind. Aug. 1 (115:135.) + Wladyslaw Rejmont. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Nov. 29, ’24. (1:317.) + Robert Louis Stevenson. Ind. Dec. 13, ’24. (113:520.) + Lyof Tolstoy. Ind. Jul. 4. (115:22.) + + Boyd, Thomas. + By John Dos Passos. N. Y. Sun. Mar. 28. (6.) + By Harrison Smith. Books. Apr. 26. (11.) + + BOYNTON, H. W. + Robert Herrick. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Sept. 19. (2:135.) + Thomas Mann. N. Y. Sun. Feb. 2. (14.) + J. C. Squire. N. Y. Sun. Feb. 2. (14.) + + BRADFORD, GAMALIEL. + Anatole France. Book. (N. Y.) Aug. (61:705.) + + BRAININ, JOSEPH. + Anatole France. J. T. Oct. 24, ’24. (11.) + + Bramah, Ernest. + By Edwin Björkman. L. Rev. Apr. 4. (3.) + + BREWSTER, E. H. + Augusta De Wit. Yale. Apr. (14:596.) + + BRICKELL, HERSCHEL. + American Short Story. L. Rev. Jan. 31. (7.) + Michael Arlen. L. Rev. Jun. 13. (3.) + J. O. P. Bland. L. Rev. Dec. 27, ’24. (3.) + Charles J. Finger. L. Rev. Oct. 11, ’24. (14.) + John Galsworthy. L. Rev. Aug. 8. (2.) + A. E. Gonzales. L. Rev. Jan. 10. (2.) + Japanese Short Stories. L. Rev. Jan. 3. (3.) + Boris Pilniak. L. Rev. Jan. 17. (6.) + Aleksei Remizov. L. Rev. Jan. 17. (6.) + + British Short Story. + By H. I. Brock. N. Y. Times. Jun. 28. (17.) + By Louis Bromfield. Books. Feb. 15. (3.) + By Henry B. Fuller. N. Y. Times. Jun. 28. (16.) + By Freda Kirchwey. Books. Jan. 4. (4.) + By Joseph Wood Krutch. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Jan. 24. (1:475.) + By William McFee. N. Y. Trib. Dec. 14. + By Johan J. Smertenko. Nat. (N. Y.) Apr. 22. (120:469.) + By R. Heylbut Wollstein. Int. Mar. (3:249.) + + BROCK, H. I. + British Short Story. N. Y. Times. Jun. 28. (17.) + Anatole France. N. Y. Times. Jun. 14. (6.) + + BROMFIELD, LOUIS. + Sherwood Anderson. Book. (N. Y.) Dec., ’24. (60:492.) + Short Story. Books. Feb. 15. (3.) + + BROUSSON, JEAN-JACQUES. + Anatole France. A. Merc. Sept., ’24. (3:9.) + + BROWN, GRACE Z. + Katharine Mansfield. Book. (N. Y.) Aug. (61:687.) + + BUEL, CLARENCE CLOUGH. + Henry James. L. Rev. May 9. (6.) + + BULGAKOV, V. + Lyof Tolstoy. McC. Aug. (1:538.) + + Bunin, Ivan. + By Alexander I. Nazaroff. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Feb. 7. (1:512.) + + Burke, Kenneth. + By John Peale Bishop. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Jan. 3. (1:427.) + By Malcolm Cowley. Dial. Dec., ’24. (77:520.) + By C. Hartley Grattan. Int. Dec., ’24. (3:60.) + By Matthew Josephson. Books. Nov. 16, ’24. (4.) + By Gorham B. Munson. L. Rev. Oct. 11, ’24. (3.) + By Glenway Westcott. Tr. Oct., ’24. (2:446.) + + Burke, Thomas. + By Howard Devree. N. Y. Times. Dec. 28, ’24. (15.) + + BURREL, ANGUS. + Thomas Hardy. World. Apr. 26. (6 M.) + + + C + + Cabell, James Branch. + By Arthur W. Colton. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Aug. 22. (2:62.) + By Henry Blake Fuller. N. Rep. Dec. 31, ’24. (41:151.) Sept. 16. + (44:104.) + By Ellen Glasgow. Books. Nov. 2, ’24. (1.) Apr. 5. (3.) + By Herbert S. Gorman. N. Y. Times. Mar. 29. (11.) + By L. M. Hussey. Guar. (Am.) Apr. (1:269.) + By George D. Meadows. Cath. W. Aug. (121:705.) + By Ben Ray Redman. Int. Nov., ’24. (2:860.) + By Burton Roscoe. Nat. (N. Y.) Apr. 29. (120:494.) + By Mary J. Sheridan. I. L. M. May. (38.) + By Carl Van Doren. Int. Dec., ’24. (3:12.) Cen. Nov., ’24. + (109:129.) + By James Southall Wilson. Va. Apr. (1:150.) + + Cable, George W. + Anonymous. Outl. (N. Y.) Feb. 11. (139:213.) + By Arthur H. Quinn. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Mar. 21. (1:609.) + + CALVERTON, V. F. + Sherwood Anderson. Mod. Q. Fall, ’24. (2:82.) + + CARSON, GERALD HEWES. + American Short Story. Book. (N. Y.) Mar. (61:58) May. (61:348.) + Jun. (61:438.) Sept. (62:40.) + “E. Barrington.” Books. Oct. 5, ’24. (8.) + Sarah Orne Jewett. Book. (N. Y.) Jul. (61:594.) + Short Story. Book. (N. Y.) Feb. (60:769.) + + CARTER, JOHN. + Theodore Dreiser. N. Y. Times. Aug. 9. (5.) + Sidney Howard. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Feb. 14. (1:523.) + Mimei Ogawa. N. Y. Times. Jul. 26. (1.) + P’u Sing-Ling. N. Y. Times. Mar. 29. (6.) + + Cather, Willa Sibert. + By Elizabeth Shepley Sergeant. N. Rep. Jun. 17. (43:91.) + By Walter Tittle. Cen. Jul. (110:305.) + + Chekhov, Anton. + Anonymous. N. Y. Times. Nov. 2, ’24. (2.) + By Louis S. Friedland. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Apr. 4. (1:654.) + By Maxim Gorky. Dial. Feb. (78:96.) + By Robert Littell. N. Rep. Mar. 25. (42:131.) + By Johan J. Smertenko. Nat. (N. Y.) Dec. 10, ’24. (119:652.) + By Eliss L. Tartak. J. T. Jan. 2. (16.) + By Leo Wiener. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Apr. 4. (1:646.) + By Abraham Yarmolinsky. Guar. (Am.) May-Jun. (1:341.) + + CHAPMAN, ELISABETH COBB. + Irvin S. Cobb. Ly. May 30, ’25. (11.) + + CHAPMAN, JOHN JAY. + Edgar Allan Poe. N. Y. Times. Nov. 2, ’24. (2.) + + Chesterton, G. K. + By W. Teignmouth Shore. Dear. Ind. May 2. (2.) + By Kathleen Woodward. N. Y. Times. Jul. 12. (2.) + + CHEW, SAMUEL C. + Anatole France. N. A. Rev. Dec., ’24. (220:296.) + Thomas Hardy. Guar. (Am.) Mar. (1:213.) + Arthur Machen. N. Y. Sun. Apr. 18. (6.) + + Child, Richard Washburn. + By Vivian Radcliffe Bowker. Int. Feb. (3:211.) + By Blanche Colton Williams. N. Y. Sun. Apr. 18. (7.) + + CLINE, LEONARD LANSON. + Stephen McKenna. Books. Sept. 27. (12 V.) + + CLOSSER, MYLA JO. + Harry Leon Wilson. Book. (N. Y.) Jun. (61:458.) + + Cobb, Irvin S. + By Isaac Anderson. Int. Nov., ’24. (2:906.) + By Elisabeth Cobb Chapman. Ly. May 30, ’25. (11.) + By Wallace Irwin. L. Rev. Mar. 14. (3.) + By Clement Wood. L. Rev. Oct. 18, ’24. (15.) + + COBLENTZ, STANTON A. + Lafcadio Hearn. Int. Mar. (3:239.) + + Colcord, Lincoln. + By Samuel Eliot Morison. Yale. Oct., ’24. (14:195.) + + Collins, Charles. + By Lawrence Lipton. Pear. (Am.) Apr. (53.) + + COLLINS, JOSEPH. + Sherwood Anderson. Book. (N. Y.) Mar. (61:22.) + Joseph Conrad. Book. (N. Y.) Apr. (61:173.) + Anatole France. L. Rev. Oct. 18, ’24. (1.) Va. Apr. (1:94.) + Lafcadio Hearn. Book. (N. Y.) Mar. (61:22.) + Henry James. Book. (N. Y.) Jun. (61:477.) + V. Sackville-West. L. Rev. Aug. 1. (2.) + + COLLINS, J. P. + Bret Harte. Liv. A. Dec. 6, ’24. (323:515.) + + COLTON, ARTHUR W. + James Branch Cabell. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Aug. 22. (2:62.) + A. Conan Doyle. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Oct. 18, ’24. (1:199.) + + Connell, Richard. + By William Rose Benét. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Aug. 8. (2:23.) + + Conrad, Joseph. + Anonymous. N. Y. Times. Dec. 7, ’24. (3.) Aug. 9. (13.) + By William Rose Benét. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Mar. 14. (1:594.) + By Joseph Collins. Book. (N. Y.) Apr. (61:173.) + By R. B. Cunninghame Graham. N. Y. Times. Jan. 4. 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(2.) Outl. (N. Y.) Jul. 1. + (140:333.) Jul. 8. (140:361.) + By Mark Van Doren. Nat. (N. Y.) Jan. 14. (120:45.) + By G. W. L. Rev. Mar. 21. (2.) + By Charles R. Walker. Ind. Feb. 7. (114:161.) + + Continental Short Story. + By Louis Bromfield. Books. Feb. 15. (3.) + By Matthew Josephson. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Jan. 10. (1:443.) + + Coppard, A. E. + By Margery Latimer. Books. Sept. 6. (5 V.) + + COURNOS, JOHN. + Fyodor Dostoevsky. L. Rev. Sept. 19. (2.) + Maxim Gorky. L. R. Jan. 24. (4.) + Short Story. L. Rev. Oct. 11, ’24. (1.) + L. A. G. Strong. L. Rev. Sept. 5. (2.) + Lyof Tolstoy. L. Rev. Sept. 19. (2.) + + COWLEY, MALCOLM. + Kenneth Burke. Dial. Dec., ’24. (77:520.) + Conrad Aiken. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Jun. 27. (1:851.) + + Crane, Stephen. + By Floyd Dell. Nat. (N. Y.) Dec. 10, ’24. (119:637.) + By James L. Ford. Int. Oct., ’24. (2:785.) + By Shane Leslie. L. Rev. Jan. 3. (7.) + By Stanley T. Williams. Yale. Oct., ’24. (14:172.) + + CRAWFORD, JOHN W. + D. H. Lawrence. World. Jul. 15. 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(6.) + + Powys, Llewellyn. + Anonymous. Books. Aug. 30. (5 V.) + By John Cowper Powys. Cen. Sept. (110:553.) + + Powys, T. F. + By John Cowper Powys. Cen. Sept. (110:553.) + + PRESTON, JOHN HYDE. + Joseph Conrad. Int. Jan. (3:137.) + + Puccini, Mario. + By William Bolitho. World. Feb. 15. (6.) + + PUCKETTE C. MCD. + R. Emmet Kennedy. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Jan. 3. (1:427.) + + Pushkin, Alexander. + By Alexander I. Nazaroff. Int. Nov., ’24. (2:864.) + + + Q + + QUICK, MARETTE. + George Gissing. Guar. (Am.) Apr. (1:274.) + + QUINN, ARTHUR H. + George W. Cable. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Mar. 21. (1:609.) + Thomas Nelson Page. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Mar. 21. (1:609.) + F. Hopkinson Smith. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Mar. 21. (1:609.) + + + R + + R., D. + Ring W. Lardner. Ind. May 23. (114:590.) + + RADZIWILL, PRINCESS. + Leonid Andreyev. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Oct. 4, ’24. (1:164.) + Honoré de Balzac. For. Jan. (73:40.) Feb. (73:189.) + Anatole France. For. Dec., ’24. (72:827.) + + RAMSAY, JANET. + American Short Story. Books. Aug. 16. (10.) + + RAMSAY, R. L. + American Short Story. L. Rev. May 9. (14.) + + RASCOE, BURTON. + James Branch Cabell. Nat. (N. Y.) Apr. 29. (120:494.) + Anatole France. Book. (N. Y.) Nov., ’24. (60:337.) + Waldo Frank. A. D. Oct., ’24. (41.) + Glenway Wescott. A. D. Oct., ’24. (41.) + + REDMAN, BEN RAY. + James Branch Cabell. Int. Nov., ’24. (2:860.) + Henry James. World. Apr. 19. (6 M.) + + Rejmont, Ladislas. + Anonymous. Liv. A. Jan. 17. (324:176.) + By Ernest Boyd. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Nov. 29, ’24. (1:317.) + By Rupert Hughes. Int. Feb. (3:170.) + By Stender-Petersen. Liv. A. Jan. 17. (324:165.) + + Remizov, Aleksei. + By Herschel Brickell. L. Rev. Jan. 17. (6.) + By William A. Drake. Books. Mar. 8. (7.) + By Joseph Wood Krutch. Nat. (N. Y.) Feb. 11. (120:163.) + By Avrahm Yarmolinsky. Books. Mar. 15. (11.) + + REUTER, GABRIELE. + Albrecht Schaffer. N. Y. Times. Jun. 14. (20.) + Frank Theiss. N. Y. Times. Jun. 14. (20.) + Jakob Wassermann. N. Y. Times. Jun. 14. (20.) + + RICE, VIRGINIA. + George Moore. Book. (N. Y.) Jun. (61:431.) + + RICKERT, EDITH. + James Joyce. N. Rep. Jan. 7. (41:181.) + D. H. Lawrence. N. Rep. Jan. 7. (41:181.) + + ROBERTS, CECIL. + Joseph Conrad. Book. (N. Y.) Jul. (61:536.) + + ROMAN, F. VINCI. + Luigi Pirandello. Pear. (Am.) Feb. (51:36.) + + ROSCOE, E. S. + Henry James. Book. (N. Y.) Jan. (60:584.) + + ROSS, MARY. + Katharine Mansfield. Books. Oct. 19, ’24. (3.) + Viola Meynell. Books. Apr. 12. (4.) + Osbert Sitwell. Books. Mar. 22. (11.) + + RUHL, ARTHUR. + Fyodor Dostoevsky. L. Rev. Oct. 11, ’24. (2.) + Boris Pilniak. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Mar. 14. (1:595.) + + RUSSELL, OLAND D. + Pauline Smith. L. Rev. Mar. 28. (12.) + + Russian Short Stories. + By Eva Goldbeck. L. Rev. Apr. 11. (3.) + By Betsy Greenebaum. N. Rep. May 27. (43:25.) + By John E. Mitchell. World. Mar. 29. (7 M.) + By Abbie Niles. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Mar. 28. (1:627.) + By Moissaye J. Olgin. Work. May. (325.) + By Johan J. Smertenko. Nat. (N. Y.) Apr. 22. (120:469.) + By Avrahm Yarmolinsky. Books. Apr. 19. (11.) + + + S + + Sabatini, Rafael. + By John Gunther. Int. Mar. (3:252.) + By Grant Overton. Book. (N. Y.) Feb. (60:728.) + + Sackville-West, V. + By Joseph Collins. L. Rev. Aug. 1. (2.) + By John Crawford. N. Y. Times. Jul. 5. (13.) + + SALPETER, HARRY. + Anatole France. World. Feb. 8. (6.) + John Galsworthy. Int. Sept. (3:678.) + Lafcadio Hearn. World. Jan. 25. (9.) + + SALTUS, EDGAR. + W. L. George. Pear. (Am.) Apr. (17.) + + SANBORN, PITTS. + Anatole France. Nat. (N. Y.) Nov. 5, ’24. (119:489.) + + Schaffer, Albrecht. + By Gabriele Reuter. N. Y. Times. Jun. 14. (20.) + + Schreiner, Olive. + By Jim Tully. Int. Sept. (3:653.) + + Schwob, Marcel. + By R. F. Dibble. Nat. (N. Y.) Nov. 5, ’24. (119:500.) + + SELDES, GILBERT. + Ring W. Lardner. V. F. (N. Y.) Jul. (45.) + + SERGEANT, ELIZABETH SHEPLEY. + Willa Cather. N. Rep. Jun. 17. (43:91.) + + SHEERS, EDWIN D. + R. Emmet Kennedy. Opp. Jun. (3:182.) + + SHEPARD, BROOKS. + Pauline Smith. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Apr. 25. (1:703.) + + SHEPHERD, WILLIAM G. + Richard Harding Davis. Col. Nov. 29, ’24. (39.) + + SHERIDAN, MARY J. + James Branch Cabell. I. L. M. May. (38.) + + SHERMAN, ELLEN BURNS. + Joseph Conrad. Books. Nov. 23, ’24. (11.) + + SHERMAN, STUART P. + Joseph Conrad. Books. Dec. 28, ’24. (1.) + Theodore Dreiser. Books. Aug. 23. (4 V.) + Anatole France. Books. Oct. 26, ’24. (1.) + Don Marquis. Books. Feb. 8. (11.) + Robert Louis Stevenson. Books. Nov. 23, ’24. (1.) + + SHIPLEY, JOSEPH T. + Leonid Andreyev. Guar. (Am.) Apr. (1:261.) + Anatole France. Guar. (Am.) Dec., ’24. (1:1.) + + SHORE, W. TEIGNMOUTH. + G. K. Chesterton. Dear. Ind. May 2. (2.) + + Short Story. + Anonymous. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Dec. 27, ’24. (1:409.) N. Y. Times. + Dec. 28, ’24. (12.) + By Hansell Baugh. Rev. Jul. (5:105.) + By Gerald Hewes Carson. Book. (N. Y.) Feb. (60:769.) + By John Cournos. L. Rev. Oct. 11, ’24. (1.) + By N. Bryllion Fagin. D. D. Jan.–Feb. (7:116.) Int. Apr. (3:301.) + By Henry L. Mencken. World. Feb. 22. (3 E.) + By John E. Mitchell. World. May 3. (7 M.) + By Paul Morand. Dial. Jan. (78:51.) + By Isabel Paterson. Books. Jan. 4. (11.) + By Carl Van Doren. Nat. (N. Y.) Dec. 24, ’24. (119:711.) + By Edith Wharton. Scr. Apr. (77:344.) + + SHUSTER, GEORGE N. + Robert Louis Stevenson. Cath. W. Oct., ’24. (120:89.) + + SIFTON, PAUL F. + American Short Story. World. Feb. 22. (7.) + + Sitwell, Osbert. + Anonymous. N. Y. Times. Mar. 1. (6.) + By Joseph Wood Krutch. Nat. (N. Y.) Apr. 29. (120:496.) + By Mary Ross. Books. Mar. 22. (11.) + By Lawrence Stallings. World. Mar. 27. (13.) + By Allan Updegraff. N. Y. Sun. Mar. 28. (7.) + By Glenway Wescott. Dial. Jun. (78:507.) + + SMERTENKO, JOHAN J. + American Short Story. Nat. (N. Y.) Apr. 22. (120:469.) + British Short Story. Nat. (N. Y.) Apr. 22. (120:469.) + George F. Hummel. Nat. (N. Y.) Apr. 22. (120:469.) + Charles Merz. Nat. (N. Y.) Apr. 22. (120:469.) + Russian Short Stories. Nat. (N. Y.) Apr. 22. (120:469.) + Giovanni Verga. Nat. (N. Y.) Apr. 22. (120:469.) + Emile Verhaeren. Nat. (N. Y.) Apr. 22. (120:469.) + Stefan Zweig. Books. Aug. 16. (5 V.) + + Smith, F. Hopkinson. + By Arthur H. Quinn. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Mar. 21. (1:609.) + + SMITH, HARRISON. + Thomas Boyd. Books. Apr. 26. (11.) + + SMITH, NORA ARCHIBALD. + Kate Douglas Wiggin. Book. (N. Y.) May. (61:281.) + + Smith, Pauline. + By Llewellyn Powys. Books. Apr. 19. (6.) + By Oland D. Russell. L. Rev. Mar. 28. (12.) + By Brooks Shepard. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Apr. 25. (1:703.) + + SORANI, ALDO. + Thomas Mann. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Aug. 1. (2:13.) + + SOUDAY, PAUL. + Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly. N. Y. Times. Jul. 19. (12.) + Paul Bourget. N. Y. Times. Apr. 5. (10.) + Anatole France. N. Y Times. Dec. 14, ’24. (8.) + Pierre Louÿs. N. Y. Times. May 17. (16.) + Guy de Maupassant. N. Y. Times. Sept. 13. (7.) + Paul Morand. N. Y. Times. Jul. 5. (16.) + Edgar Allan Poe. N. Y. Times. Feb. 22. (11.) + Jules Tellier. N. Y. Times. Sept. 20. (11.) + + Sparling, E. Earl. + By Grace King. L. Rev. Mar. 14. (12.) + By Lawrence Lee. Int. May. (3:427.) + + Squire, J. C. + By Lisle Bell. Books. Mar. 8. (11.) + By H. W. Boynton. N. Y. Sun. Feb. 2. + By E. V. N. Rep. Apr. 22. (42:246.) + + STAGG, HUNTER. + Edith Wharton. Rev. Jul. (5:98.) + + STALLINGS, LAWRENCE. + Ring W. Lardner. World. Apr. 13. (11.) + Osbert Sitwell. World. Mar. 27. (13.) + + STARRETT, VINCENT. + Richard Harding Davis. Rev. Oct., ’24. (4:352.) + + STEDMAN, NATHAN P. + Maxim Gorky. Int. Feb. (3:203.) + + Stein, Gertrude. + By Mary Crockett. Mod. Q. Feb. (2:233.) + + Stephens, James. + By Charles E. Aiken. Cath. W. Apr. (121:132.) + + STERLING, GEORGE. + Ambrose Bierce. A. Merc. Sept., ’25. (6:10.) + + Sternheim, Carl. + By William A. Drake. Books. Aug. 23. (7.) + + STEUART, JOHN A. + Robert Louis Stevenson. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Jan. 24. (1:486.) + + Stevenson, Robert Louis. + Anonymous. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Dec. 6, ’24. (1:339.) + By Ernest Boyd. Ind. Dec. 13, ’24. (13:520.) + By Clarence H. Gaines. N. A. Rev. Mar. (221:567.) + By Clayton Hamilton. Int. Jan. (3:110.) + By George S. Hellman. Book. (N. Y.) Jan. (60:575.) + By A. B. de M. C. S. M. Oct. 25, ’24. (9.) + By H. L. Mencken. A. Merc. Nov., ’24. (3:378.) Jan. (4:125.) + By George N. Schuster. Cath. W. Oct., ’24. (120:89.) + By Stuart P. Sherman. Books. Nov. 23, ’24. (1.) + By John A. Steuart. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Jan. 24. (1:486.) + By Frank Swinnerton. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Dec. 6, ’24. (:344.) + By Frederic F. Van de Water. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 27. (18.) + + STEWART, ALEXANDER G. + Rudyard Kipling. Int. Jan. (3:100.) + + STONE, MELVILLE E. + A. Conan Doyle. L. Rev. Oct. 18, ’24. (1.) + + STORK, CHARLES WHARTON. + Arnold Bennett. L. Rev. Jan. 3. (3.) + + Street, Julian. + By Markey Morris. Int. Aug. (3:618.) + + Strong, L. A. G. + By John Cournos. L. Rev. Sept. 5. (2.) + + STUART, HENRY LONGAN. + Vicente Blasco Ibáñez. N. Y. Times. May 31. (9.) + Thomas Hardy. N. Y. Sun. Jan. 19. (14.) + Ring W. Lardner. N. Y. Times. Apr. 19. (1.) + Guy de Maupassant. N. Y. Sun. Jan. 17. (6.) + + Sung-Ling, P’u. + By John Carter. N. Y. Times. Mar. 29. (6.) + + SWINNERTON, FRANK. + Robert Louis Stevenson. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Dec. 6, ’24. (1:344.) + + + T + + Tarkington, Booth. + By Flora Merrill. World. Jun. 21. (1 M.) + + TARTAK, ELIAS L. + Anton Chekhov. J. T. Jan. 2. (16.) + + Tellier, Jules. + By Paul Souday. N. Y. Times. Sept. 20. (11.) + + Terhune, Albert Payson. + By Grant Overton. Book. (N. Y.) Jun. (61:445.) + + Theiss, Frank. + By Gabriele Reuter. N. Y. Times. Jun. 14. (20.) + + THÉRIVE, ANDRÉ. + Georges Duhamel. Liv. A. Sept. 12. (326:587.) + + THOMPSON, DOROTHY. + Fyodor Dostoevsky. L. Rev. Jan. 3. (7.) + + THOMPSON, RUTH WILLIS. + Pierre Louÿs. L. Rev. Sept. 12. (5.) + + TINKER, EDWARD LAROCQUE. + “O. Henry.” Book. (N. Y.) Jun. (61:436.) + + TITTLE, WALTER. + Willa Cather. Cen. Jul. (110:305.) + Joseph Conrad. N. Y. Times. May 17. (2.) Outl. (N. Y.) Jul. 1. + (140:333.) Jul. 8. (140:361.) + Theodore Dreiser. Cen. Aug. (110:441.) + Ring W. Lardner. Cen. Jul. (110:305.) + Israel Zangwill. Cen. Oct., ’24. (108:798.) + + Tolstoy, Count Lyof. + By Ernest Boyd. Ind. Jul. 4. (115:22.) + By V. Bulgakov. McC. Aug. (1:538.) + By John Cournos. L. Rev. Sept. 19. (2.) + By Maxim Gorky. Dial. Feb. (78:96.) + By Alexander I. Nazaroff. N. Y. Times. Aug. 16. (1.) + + Tomlinson, H. M. + By Frank V. Morley. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Dec. 27, ’24. (1:409.) + + Toomer, Jean. + By Gorham B. Munson. Opp. Sept. (3:262.) + + TOWNSEND, R. B. + John Galsworthy. Outl. (N. Y.) Sept. 16. (114:98.) + + TSUNODA, RINSAKU. + Japanese Short Stories. W. T. Jun. (8:189.) + + TULLY, JIM. + Olive Schreiner. Int. Sept. (3:653.) + + + U + + UPDEGRAFF, ALLAN. + Osbert Sitwell. N. Y. Sun. Mar. 28. (7.) + + + V + + VAILLANT-COUTURIER, PAUL. + Anatole France. Nat. (N. Y.) Apr. 15. (120:406.) + + VAN DE WATER, FREDERIC F. + Robert Louis Stevenson. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 27. (18.) + + VAN DOREN, CARL. + Sherwood Anderson. Cen. Jul. (110:362.) + James Branch Cabell. Int. Dec., ’24. (3:12.) Cen. Nov., ’24. + (109:129.) + Anatole France. Cen. Dec., ’24. (109:418.) Aug. (110:510.) + Thomas Hardy. Cen. Jan. (109:418.) + Henry James. Cen. Sept. (110:637.) + D. H. Lawrence. Cen. Sept. (110:639.) + Short Story. Nat. (N. Y.) Dec. 24, ’24. (119:711.) + + VAN DOREN, MARK. + Joseph Conrad. Nat. (N. Y.) Jan. 14. (120:45.) + Anatole France. Nat. (N. Y.) Nov. 5, ’24. (119:497.) + John Galsworthy. Nat. (N. Y.) Sept. 2. (121:258.) + + Venezuelan Short Stories. + By Harriet V. Wishnieff. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Nov. 8, ’24. (1:271.) + + Verga, Giovanni. + By Johan J. Smertenko. Nat. (N. Y.) Apr. 22. (120:469.) + By Domenico Vittonini. Guar. (Am.) Aug. (1:405.) + By Eliseo Vivas. Books. Apr. 19. (15.) + + Verhaeren, Emile. + By John Herrmann. Books. Feb. 22. (3.) + By Johan J. Smertenko. Nat. (N. Y.) Apr. 22. (120:469.) + + VINCENT, ELIZABETH. + Maxim Gorky. N. Rep. Feb. 25. (42:22.) + + VITTONINI, DOMENICO. + Giovanni Verga. Guar. (Am.) Aug. (1:405.) + + VIVAS, ELISEO. + D. H. Lawrence. Guar. (Am.) Apr. (1:267.) + Giovanni Verga. Books. Apr. 19. (15.) + + Vorse, Mary Heaton. + By Flora Merrill. World. Jul. 12. (5 M.) + + + W + + WALKER, CHARLES R. + Joseph Conrad. Ind. Feb. 7. (114:161.) + + WASSERMANN, EDWARD. + Anatole France. Book. (N. Y.) Apr. (61:197.) + + Wassermann, Jakob. + By Gabriele Reuter. N. Y. Times. Jun. 14. (20.) + + WEAVER, RAYMOND. + Aldous Huxley. Book. (N. Y.) Nov., ’24. (60:262.) + + WEITZENHORN, LOUIS. + Anatole France. World. Jun. 21. (4 M.) + Thomas Hardy. World. Apr. 12. (6 M.) + + Wells, H. G. + By Llewellyn Jones. C. E. P. Oct. 24, ’24. (1.) + + WESCOTT, GLENWAY. + Kenneth Burke. Tr. Oct., ’24. (2:446.) + Osbert Sitwell. Dial. Jun. (78:507.) + + Wescott, Glenway. + By Burton Roscoe. A. D. Oct., ’24. (41.) + + WESTERGAARD, WALDEMAR. + Jeppe Aakjaer. Scan. Nov., ’24. (12:665.) + + WHARTON, EDITH. + Short Story. Scr. Apr. (77:344.) + + Wharton, Edith. + By James L. Ford. Int. Oct., ’24. (2:785.) + By Hunter Stagg. Rev. Jul. (5:98.) + + WHIPPLE, T. K. + Katherine Mansfield. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Dec. 6, ’24. (1:342.) + + WIENER, LEO. + Anton Chekhov. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Apr. 4. (1:646.) + + Wiggin, Kate Douglas. + By Nora Archibald Smith. Book. (N. Y.) May. (61:281.) + + WILLIAMS, BLANCHE COLTON. + American Short Story. N. Y. Sun. Jan. 31. (7.) + Richard Washburn Child. N. Y. Sun. April. 18. (7.) + + WILLIAMS, STANLEY T. + Stephen Crane. Yale. Oct., ’24. (14:172.) + Edgar Allan Poe. Yale. Jul. (14:756.) + + WILSON, EDMUND. + Anatole France. N. Rep. Feb. 11. (41:308.) + Ernest Hemingway. Dial. Oct., ’24. (77:340.) + James Joyce. Dial. Nov., ’24. (77:430.) + + Wilson, Harry Leon. + By Myla Jo Closser. Book. (N. Y.) Jun. (61:458.) + + WILSON, JAMES SOUTHALL. + James Branch Cabell. Va. Apr. (1:150.) + + WISHNIEFF, HARRIET V. + Venezuelan Short Stories. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Nov. 8, ’24. (1:271.) + + WOLLSTEIN, R. HEYLBUT. + American Short Story. Int. Mar. (3:249.) + British Short Story. Int. Mar. (3:249.) + + WOOD, CLEMENT. + Irvin S. Cobb. L. Rev. Oct. 18, ’24. (15.) + + WOODWARD, KATHLEEN. + G. K. Chesterton. N. Y. Times. Jul. 12. (2.) + + WOOLF, VIRGINIA. + Sherwood Anderson. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Aug. 1. (2:1.) + Ring W. Lardner. Sat. R. (N. Y.) Aug. 1. (2:1.) + + Woolf, Virginia. + By Clive Bell. Dial. Dec., ’24. (77:451.) + + WOOLSEY, DOROTHY BACON. + Ernest Poole. N. Rep. Sept. 23. (44:129.) + + WRIGHT, CUTHBERT. + Thomas Mann. Dial. May. (78:420.) + + WRIGHT RUSSELL. + Sir Coleridge Kennard. Books. Sept. 20. (V 11.) + + WYMAN, ELIZABETH HEYWOOD. + E. L. Grant Watson. Int. Mar. (3:285.) + + + Y + + YARMOLINSKY, AVRAHM. + Anton Chekhov. Guar. (Am.) May-Jun. (1:341.) + Fyodor Dostoevsky. N. Y. Times. Jul. 19. (9.) + Boris Pilniak. Books. Mar. 15. (11.) + Aleksei Remizov. Books. Mar. 15. (11.) + Russian Short Stories. Books. Apr. 19. (11.) + + Yiddish Short Story. + By Elbert Aidline-Trommer. Men. J. Nov.–Dec., ’24. (10:515.) + + + Z + + Zangwill, Israel. + By Walter Tittle. Cen. Oct., ’24. (108:798.) + + Zeledon, Manuel Gonzales. (Mayon.) + By Mona Lee. N. Y. Times. Jul. 5. (9.) + + Zweig, Stefan. + By Johan J. Smertenko. Books. Aug. 16. (5 V.) + + + + + INDEX OF SHORT STORIES IN BOOKS + + OCTOBER, 1924, TO SEPTEMBER, 1925 + + I. American Authors + + + A + + ADAMS, SAMUEL HOPKINS. (1871– .) (_See 1923._) + Such as Walk in Darkness. Gray. 227. + + ADE, GEORGE. (1866– .) (_See 1920._) + The Feud. Aces, B. 3. + + AIKEN, CONRAD POTTER. (1889– .) (_See 1924._) + Anniversary. Aiken. 211. + Bring! Bring! Aiken. 11. + By my Troth, Nerissa! Aiken. 93. + Dark City. Aiken. 144. + Disciple. Aiken. 56. Harper. 325. + Escape from Fatuity. Aiken. 120. + Hey, Taxi! Aiken. 132. + Last Visit. Aiken. 171. + Letter. Aiken. 186. + Orange Moth. Aiken. 158. + Smith and Jones. Aiken. 104. + Soliloquy on a Park Bench. Aiken. 232. + Strange Moonlight. Aiken. 37. + + ALEXANDER, CHARLES. (_See 1923._) + As a Dog Should. Gray. 3. + + ANDERSON, SHERWOOD. (1876– .) (_See 1924._) + I’m a Fool. Newman. 246. + Mother. Robinson. 1. + + ANTIN, MARY (MARY ANTIN GRABAU). (1881– .) + Malinka’s Atonement. Aces B. 7. + + ASCH, NATHAN. (1902– .) + Gertrude Donovan. Humphrey A. 227. + + AUSTIN, WILLIAM. (1778–1841). (_See 1923._) + Late Joseph Natterstrom. Austin C. 242. + Man With the Cloaks. Austin C. 270. + Martha Gardner, or Moral Reaction. Austin C. 257. + Peter Rugg, the Missing Man. Austin C. 207. + + + B + + BABCOCK, EDWINA STANTON. + Wavering Gold. Harper. 188. + + BANNING, MARGARET CULKIN. + Women Come to Judgment. Harper. 135. + + BARENTS, WILLIAM. + Early Arctic Adventure. French K. 28. + + BARNES, DJUNA. (1892– .) (_See 1920._) + Little Girl Tells a Story to a Lady. Contact. 1. + + BARTLETT, FREDERIC ORIN. (1876– .) (_See 1920._) + Trap. Humphrey A. 3. + + BASSETT, FLETCHER S. + Phantom Ship. French K. 276. + + BENET, STEPHEN VINCENT. (1898– .) + Uriah’s Son. Prize F. 53. + + BERCOVICI, KONRAD. (1882– .) (_See 1924._) + Drought. Aces B. 48. + + BIERCE, AMBROSE. (1842–1914?) (_See 1924._) + Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter. Bierce C. 19. + + BIGGERS, EARL DERR (1884– .) + Apron of Genius. Fox. 166. + + BOURKE, S. TEN EYCK. + “Will of the Gods.” Fox. 126. + + BOYD, THOMAS. + Kentucky Boy. Boyd B. 33. + Little Gall. Boyd B. 165. + Long Shot. Boyd B. 249. + Nine Days’ Kitten. Boyd B. 219. + Responsibility. Boyd B. 65. + Ribbon Counter. Boyd B. 191. + Rintintin. Boyd B. 131. + Semper Fidelis. Boyd B. 317. + “Sound Adjutant’s Call.” Boyd B. 97. + Unadorned. Boyd B. 1. + Uninvited. Boyd B. 299. + + BRADY, MARIEL. + Autograph Album. Copy B. 25. + + BRAND, MAX. + Bulldog. Gray. 37. + + BROWN, ALICE. + Girl in the Tree. Harper. 160. + + BROWNE, PORTER EMERSON. (1879– .) + Courtship of Miles Sheehan. Fox. 263. + + BRYSON, LYMAN LLOYD. (1888– .) + Cyprian. Humphrey A. 214. + + BUCK, MITCHELL S. + Courtesan. Buck 42. + Greek. Buck. 66. + Pharoah. Buck. 80. + Priest. Buck. 56. + Philosopher. Buck. 26. + Shepherdess. Buck. 90. + + BUCKLEY, FREDERICK ROBERT WAKELIN. + Primitive Method. World. 118. + + BUNNER, HENRY CUYLER. (1855–1896.) (_See 1923._) + Love-Letters of Smith. Hastings. 120. + + BURKE, MORGAN. (1886– .) + Champlin. O’Brien. N. 3. + + BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS. (1882– .) (_See 1922._) + Force of Habit. Humphrey A. 291. + + “BYRNE, DONN.” (BRYAN OSWALD DONN-BYRNE.) (1888– .) (_See 1923._) + Triangle. Gray. 259. + + + C + + CABELL, JAMES BRANCH. (1879– .) (_See 1922._) + Delta of Radegonde. Cabell E. 225. + Thin Queen of Elfhame. Cabell E. 123. + + CABLE, GEORGE WASHINGTON. (1844–1925.) (_See 1923._) + ’Sieur George. Hastings. 601. + + CANFIELD, DOROTHY. (DOROTHY CANFIELD FISHER.) (1879– .) (_See 1923._) + Cage. Aces B. 72. + Dr. Burke’s Cure. Fox. 252. + Portrait of a Philosopher. Robinson 27. + What “Really Happened.” Aces. 3. + + CARVER, ADA JACK. + Redbone. Harper. 57. + + CATHER, WILLA SIBERT. (1875– .) (_See 1920._) + Paul’s Case. Robinson. 44. + Scandal. Aces B. 78. + Sculptor’s Funeral. Hastings. 241. + + CHILD, RICHARD WASHBURN. (1881– .) (_See 1921._) + Eyes of the Gazelle. Child B. 274. + Fresh Waters. Child B. 1. + Gorilla. Child B. 113. + Here’s How. Child B. 51. + Keats Shadd. Child B. 160. + Lassiter. Fox. 296. + Lure. Child B. 23. + Man With the Metal Face. Child B. 84. + Playthings. Child B. 185. + Screen. Child B. 138. + Story for a Certain Lady. Child B. 251. + Strain of Blood. Child B. 233. + Thirty Thousand Dollar Slap. Child B. 213. + + CHISHOLM, A. M. + Tim of Bush Valley. World. 347. + + COATSWORTH, ELIZABETH J. (1893– .) + Man Who Loved Wild Animals. Humphrey A. 209. + + COBB, IRVIN SHREWSBURY. (1876– .) (_See 1924._) + Actor in Turn Meets Others. Cobb F. 207. + Ancient History. Cobb F. 158. + And Next Day Meets an Actor. Cobb F. 191. + Boss Goes to a Show. Cobb F. 180. + Cat Shows and Babies. Cobb F. 370. + Cub is Being Weaned. Cobb F. 58. + Fight Extra. Cobb F. 94. + Found Among the Effects. Cobb F. 346. + Full Page Ad. Cobb F. 48. + How to Play Your Side Cards. Cobb F. 237. + Job for the Reader. Cobb F. 214. + Kind of a Feeling. Cobb F. 272. + Not Exactly a Bookworm and Yet--. Cobb F. 227. + Once Upon a Time. Cobb F. 11. + One Evening at Sing Sing. Cobb F. 289. + Player of Hunches. Cobb F. 145. + Short Lecture on Bugs. Cobb F. 39. + Smart Aleck. Robinson. 70. + Southerners to Order. Cobb F. 254. + Special Edition, Limited. Cobb F. 320. + Standing Room Only. World. 42. + Star Changes Hands. Cobb F. 349. + Thirteenth Degree. Cobb F. 349. + Three Way Trail. Cobb F. 307. + Value of a Good Name. Cobb F. 264. + Wasted Headline. Cobb F. 129. + Who’s Who at the Zoo. Fox. 203. + Will a Worm Turn? Cobb F. 115. + + COHEN, OCTAVUS ROY. (1891– .) + Bass Ingratitude. Aces. 22. + + CONNELL, RICHARD. (1893– .) (_See 1924._) + All Wrong. Connell C. 153. + And the Nights Shall Be Filled with Music. Connell C. 119. + Big Lord Fauntleroy. Connell C. 3. + Great American Game. Connell C. 241. + Hero of the Devil’s Kitchen. Connell C. 221. + Isles of Romance. Connell C. 271. + Most Dangerous Game. Connell C. 815. Prize F. 71. World. 226. + Neighbors. Connell C. 139. + Pieces of Silver. Connell C. 139. + Second Egg. Connell C. 167. + Six Reasons Why. Connell C. 309. + Spring Flow’rets or Womanhood Eternal. Connell C. 61. + Ssssssssshhhh! Connell C. 35. + + COOPER, JAMES FENIMORE. (1789–1851.) (_See 1923._) + Whale. French K. 110. + + COTTON, JANE BALDWIN. + Another Marriage of Convenience. Cotton. 35. + Elizabethan Revival. Cotton. 71. + End of the Feud. Cotton. 97. + Wall-Eyed Caesar’s Ghost. Cotton. 1. + + CRAM, MILDRED R. (1889– .) (_See 1924._) + Billy. O’Brien N. 19. + + CRANE, STEPHEN. (1870–1900.) (_See 1922._) + Pace of Youth. Hastings. 176. + + CROWELL, CHESTER T. (1888– .) + Margaret Blake. Prize F. 25. + + CURTIS, BRIAN C. + Dinner Aboard the “Dog Star.” Copy B. 152. + + + D + + “D., H.” (ALDINGTON, HILDA DOOLITTLE.) + Hedylus. Contact. 91. + + DANA, RICHARD HENRY. (1787–1879.) + Burial at Sea. French K. 271. + + DARGAN, OLIVE TILFORD. + About Granpap and Trees. Dargan. 3. + Coretta and Autumn. Dargan. 24. + Evvie: Somewhat Married. Dargan. 107. + My Wild-Hog Claim: A Dubious Asset. Dargan. 138 + Proper Funeral Dargan. 229. + Sam. Dargan. 76. + Serena and Wild Strawberries. Dargan. 54. + Serena Takes a Boarder. Dargan. 180. + + DAY, HELEN J. + City of Abandon. Humphrey A. 242. + + DAY, HOLMAN FRANCIS. (1865– .) + Commander Jim Wickson’s “Habit.” Fox. 139. + + DE BRA, LEMUEL. + Life--a Bowl of Rice. Rhys B. 95. + + DELL, FLOYD (1887– .) (_See 1924._) + Phantom Adventure. O’Brien N. 39. + + DE LEON, WALTER. + Boob, Humphrey A. 135. + + DERIEUX, SAMUEL ARTHUR. (1881–1922.) (_See 1924._) + Wild Bill McCorkle. World. 152. + + DICKENSON, MAY FREUD. + Mouse. Copy B. 1. + + DOBIE, CHARLES CALDWELL. (1881– .) (_See 1920._) + Cracked Teapot. O’Brien N. 53. + Hands of the Enemy. Harper. 84. + Horse and Horse. Prize F. 93. + Wild Geese. Harper. 218. + + DRAKE, CARLOS C. (1900– .) + Last Dive. O’Brien N. 70. + + DREISER, THEODORE. (1871– .) (_See 1924._) + Second Choice. Robinson. 116. + + DWIGHT, HARRY GRISWOLD. (1875– .) (_See 1920._) + Mehmish. Hastings. 334. + + + E + + EASTMAN, REBECCA HOOPER. (MRS. WILLIAM FRANKLIN EASTMAN.) (1877– .) + Oldest Boarder. Humphrey A. 24. + + + F + + FERBER, EDNA. (1887– .) (_See 1924._) + Gay Old Dog. Robinson. 142. + Old Man Minick. Aces. 50. + + FINGER, CHARLES J. (1871– .) (_See 1924._) + Andrew Lang. Finger C. 187. O’Brien N. 74. + Beresford of Ballarat. Finger C. 127. + Captain Moonlight. Finger C. 85. + Ned Kelly and Co. Finger C. 163. + Popjoy. Finger C. 5. + + FITZGERALD, FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. (1896– .) (_See 1923._) + Gretchen’s Forty Winks. Aces. 77. + + FREEMAN, LEWIS RANSOME. (1878– .) + Firebrand. French K. 90. + + FREEMAN, MARY ELEANOR WILKINS. (1862– .) (_See 1924._) + Village Singer. Hastings. 131. + + FROST, MEIGS OLIVER. + Shackles of Service. World. 66. + + + G + + GALE, ZONA. (1874– .) (_See 1923._) + Biography of Blade. World. 173. O’Brien N. 95. + Charity. Aces. 102. + Happy New Year. Humphrey A. 268. + Things They Saw. Fox. 75. + Winter’s Tale. Aces B. 101. + + GEROULD, KATHARINE FULLERTON. (1879– .) (_See 1923._) + Bird in the Bush. Robinson. 187. + + GERRY, MARGHERITA SPALDING. (1870– .) (_See 1920._) + Light in Her Eyes. Fox. 274. + + GIBSON, MABEL. + “And Friendless.” Humphrey A. 182. + + GILKYSON, PHOEBE H. + Amateur. Harper. 274. + + GLASGOW, ELLEN ANDERSON GHOLSON. (1874– .) (_See 1923._) + Romance and Sally Byrd. World. 91. + + GONZALES, AMBROSE E. + After the Fruit the Flour. Gonzales A. 51. + Bed and Board. Gonzales B. 243. + “Caesar ... turned to Clay.” Gonzales B. 201. + Captain. Gonzales A. 1. + Clever Alice. Gonzales B. 53. + Colony at the Ebb. Gonzales A. 265. + Colony at the Flood. Gonzales A. 251. + Critic on the Hearth. Gonzales B. 145. + Crusader and the Cow. Gonzales B. 127. + Daddy Bo’sun. Gonzales A. 81. + Feud in Feathers. Gonzales B. 31. + First Cabin Completed. Gonzales A. 219. + Green Calabash. Gonzales A. 65. + How the Devil Lost his Tail. Gonzales A. 367. + Huntress and the Buck. Gonzales A. 299. + Judgment of Solomon. Gonzales B. 279. + Laguerre. Gonzales B. 1. + Land in Sight. Gonzales A. 125. + Land on Paper. Gonzales A. 141. + Land Settled. Gonzales A. 235. + Land Surveyed. Gonzales A. 155. + Law and the Lady. Gonzales B. 223. + “Man in the Case.” Gonzales B. 71. + More Deadly Than the Male. Gonzales B. 43. + On the Judgement Seat. Gonzales B. 11. + Pa Jumbo at the Bar. Gonzales B. 21. + “Place aux Dames!” Gonzales B. 107. + Quest of the Land. Gonzales A. 111. + Riever of the Black Border. Gonzales A. 17. + River and the Sea. Gonzales A. 317. + Road Called Straight. Gonzales B. 163. + “Run, Niggah, Run!” Gonzales A. 33. + Settling the Land. Gonzales A. 203. + Sharpie and the “Trus’-Me-Gawd.” Gonzales A. 349. + Survey Completed. Gonzales A. 187. + Survey Continued. Gonzales A. 173. + Taming of the Shrew. Gonzales B. 263. + Tide Run Low. Gonzales A. 283. + To Have and to Scold. Gonzales B. 181. + Tragedy of the Marsh. Gonzales A. 301. + Trencherman and the Shark. Gonzales A. 333. + Trials of Tumbo. Gonzales B. 87. + Under Dog. Gonzales A. 93. + + GREENWALD, TUPPER. (1902– .) + Corputt. O’Brien N. 100. + + + H + + HARRIS, ROBERT J. (1887– .) + Two Walls. Humphrey A. 90. + + HART, FRANCES NOYES. (1890– .) (_See 1924._) + American. Copy B. 200. + + HARTE, FRANCIS BRET. (1839–1902.) (_See 1924._) + Outcasts of Poker Flat. Hastings. 48. + + HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL. (1804–1864) (_See 1924._) + Mr. Higginbotham’s Catastrophe. Hastings. 14. + + HAY, LILIAN R. + Tanya. Humphrey A. 257. + + HEARN, LAFCADIO. (1850–1904) (_See 1921._) + Boy Who Drew Cats. Hearn B. 29. + Chin-Chin Kobakama. Hearn B. 9. + Goblin-Spider. Hearn B. 18. + Green Willow. Hearn B. 89. + Hare of Inaba. Hearn B. 42. + Matsuyama Mirror. Hearn B. 102. + Momotaro. Hearn B. 126. + My Lord Bag-o’-Rice. Hearn B. 47. + Old Man and the Devils. Hearn B. 53. + Old Woman Who Lost Her Dumpling. Hearn B. 21. + Reflections. Hearn B. 110. + Silly Jelly-Fish. Hearn B. 36. + Tea-Kettle. Hearn B. 69. + Tongue-Cut Sparrow. Hearn B. 57. + Urashina. Hearn B. 80. + Wooden Bowl. Hearn B. 60. + + HELLMAN, SAM. + I am a Pirate King. Aces B. 136. + + HEMINGWAY, ERNEST. (_See 1924._) + Battler. Hemingway B. 63. + Big Two-Hearted River. Hemingway B. 177. + Cat in the Rain. Hemingway B. 117. + Cross Country Snow. Hemingway B. 139. + Doctor and the Doctor’s Wife. Hemingway. B. 23. + End of Something. Hemingway B. 33. + Indian Camp. Hemingway B. 13. + Mr. and Mrs. Elliot. Hemingway B. 107. + My Old Man. Hemingway B. 151. + Out of Season. Hemingway B. 125. + Revolutionists. Hemingway B. 103. + Soldier’s Home. Hemingway B. 87. Contact. 77. + Three Day Blow. Hemingway B. 43. + Very Short Story. Hemingway B. 81. + + “HENRY, O.” (WILLIAM SYDNEY PORTER.) (1862–1910.) (_See 1924._) + Furnished Room. Hastings. 222. + Snow Man. Fox. 19. + Memoirs of a Yellow Dog. Gray. 121. + + HERGESHEIMER, JOSEPH. (1880– .) (_See 1923._) + Bread. Robinson. 208. + + HERRICK, GERTRUDE. + Shrines. Humphrey A. 55. + + HERRICK, ROBERT. (1868– .) + Adventures of Ti Chatte. Herrick. 151. + Magic. Herrick. 3. + Passions of Trotsky. Herrick. 255. + Stations of the Cross. Herrick. 71. + + HERRMAN, JOHN. + Work in Progress. Contact. 114. + + HERVEY, HARRY. (1900– .) + Young Men Go Down. O’Brien. N. 110. + + HESS, LEONARD L. + Lesser Gift. Humphrey A. 116. O’Brien N. 119. + + HOUGH, EMERSON. (1857– .) + Holy City Quartette. Fox. 64. + + HOWARD, SIDNEY. + God They Left Behind Them. Howard. 237. + Likeness of Elizabeth. Howard. 1. + Mrs. Veitch. Howard. 139. + Transatlantic. Howard. 79. + + HUGHES, RUPERT. (1872– .) (_See 1923._) + Grudges. O’Brien. N. 137. + + HULL, ALEXANDER. (1887– .) + Justice in the Painted Hills. Gray. 97. + + HUMMEL, GEORGE F. + Abigail Foster’s Rebellion. Hummel. 231. + Apotheosis of Auzy Ward. Hummel. 13. + Coming of Electricity to Ollie Ben. Hummel. 171. + Donkey Ditch. Hummel. 197. + Fall Flight. Hummel. 63. + June Roses. Hummel. 297. + Katy Catt. Hummel. 271. + Ring Around the Rosie. Hummel. 95. + Tilly May’s Revenge. Hummel. 31. + Victory to the Strong. Hummel. 127. + + HURST, FANNIE. (1889– .) (_See 1924._) + Gold in Fish. Aces B. 157. + Good Provider. Robinson. 239. + + + I + + IRWIN, INEZ HAYNES. (1873– .) + Spring Flight. Prize F. 1. World 249. + + + J + + JAMES, HENRY. (1843–1916.) (_See 1924._) + Private Life. Newman. 174. + Visits. Hastings. 159. + + JEWETT, SARAH ORNE. (1849–1909.) (_See 1923._) + Along Shore. Jewett. 1:184. + At the Schoolhouse Window. Jewett. 1:15. + Aunt Cynthy Dallett. Jewett. 2:279. + Backwood View. Jewett. 1:300. + Bowden Reunion. Jewett. 1:156. + Captain Littlepage. Jewett. 1:20. + Country Road. Jewett. 1:144. + Dulham Ladies. Jewett. 2:64. + Dunnet Shepherdess. Jewett. 1:207. + Feast’s End. Jewett. 1:175. + Flight of Betsy Lane. Jewett. 2:22. + Going to Shrewsbury. Jewett. 2:90. + Great Expedition. Jewett. 1:134. + Green Island. Jewett. 1:48. + Hermitage. Jewett. 1:115. + Hilton’s Holiday. Jewett. 2:248. + Martha’s Lady. Jewett. 2:158. + Miss Tempy’s Watchers. Jewett. 2:137. + Mrs. Todd. Jewett. 1:3. + Old Singers. Jewett. 1:80. + Only Rose. Jewett. 2:109. + On Shell-Heap Island. Jewett. 1:127. + Outer Island. Jewett. 1:42. + Poor Joanna. Jewett. 1:98. + Queen’s Twin. Jewett. 1:242. + Quest of Mrs. Timms. Jewett. 2:193. + Return. Jewett. 1:1. + Schoolhouse. Jewett. 1:11. + Strange Sail. Jewett. 1:86. + Town Poor. Jewett. 2:224. + Waiting Place. Jewett. 1:31. + Where Pennyroyal Grew. Jewett. 1:72. + White Heron. Jewett. 2:1. + William. Jewett. 1:66. + William’s Wedding. Jewett. 1:279. + + + K + + KIRK, R. G. + White Monarch and the Gas-House Pup. Gray. 291. + + KOMROFF, MANUEL. (1890– .) (_See 1924._) + Beating of the Reed. Komroff. 101. + Burning Beard. Komroff. 55. + Dark Cloak. Komroff. 69. + En Route. Komroff. 177. + Grace of Lambs. Komroff. 13. + How Does It Feel to be Free? Komroff. 200. + In a Russian Tea-House. Komroff. 187. + Lady Lotto. Komroff. 163. + Little Master of the Sky. Komroff. 29. + Moscow Rehearsal. Komroff. 139. + Political Horse. Komroff. 199. + Thumbs. Komroff. 117. + Union of Beggars. Komroff. 89. + Wedding Feast. Komroff. 149. + + KYLE, ANNE D. + Easter Lambs. Copy B. 168. + + + L + + LARDNER, RING W. (1885– .) (_See 1924._) + Katie Wins a Home. Robinson. 280. + + LEACH, A. R. + Captain Out of Etruria. Harper. 300. + + LEON, WALTER DE. _See_ DE LEON, WALTER. + + “LESSING, BRUNO.” (RUDOLPH BLOCK.) (_1870_– .) + Love and Cloaks and Suits. Aces. 123. + + LEWIS, ALFRED HENRY. (1857–1914.) + Tucson Jennie’s Jealousy. Hastings. 201. + + LYNDE, FRANCIS. (1856– .) + Pied Piper of One-Track Gulch. Fox. 236. + + LYON, HARRIS MERTON. (1883–1916.) (_See 1920._) + John Jones Comes to Life. Fox. 216. + + + M + + MACY, W. H. + Last Whale. French K. 302. + + MARQUIS, DON. (1878– .) (_See 1921._) + Being a Public Character. Gray. 21. + + MARSHALL, EDISON. (1894– .) (_See 1922._) + Shag of the Packs. Gray. 185. + + MELVILLE, HERMAN. (1819–1891.) (_See 1923._) + Cape Horn. French K. 318. + + MERWIN, SAMUEL. (1874– .) + More Stately Mansions. World. 375. + + MILHAM, CHARLES GILBERT. (1883– .) + His Doctor. Humphrey A. 170. + + MIRRIELEES, EDITH RONALD. + Professor Boynton Rereads History. Prize F. 113. + + MORRIS, GOUVERNEUR. (1876– .) (_See 1924._) + Holding Hands. Fox. 89. + Postscript to Divorce. O’Brien N. 155. + + MORROW, HONORE MCCUE WILLSIE. + Fighting Blood. World. 312. + + MOSLEY, JEFFERSON. + Secret at the Crossroads. Prize F. 126. + + + N + + NAYLOR, CHARLES J. + Five-Thirty. Copy B. 97. + + NEWMAN, FRANCES. + Rachel and Her Children. Prize F. 45. + + NORRIS, KATHLEEN. (1880– .) + Masterpiece. Aces B. 265. + Unbecoming Conduct of Annie. Aces. 138. + + + O + + “OXFORD, JOHN BARTON.” (RICHARD BARKER SHELTON.) + Angie. Humphrey A. 100. + + O’SHAUGHNESSY, EDITH. + Arthur Albion Street’s Illness. O’Shaughnessy. 167. + Mr. Bishop. O’Shaughnessy. 183. + Mr. Crane’s Last Wife. O’Shaughnessy. 3. + Seeing Edward Again. O’Shaughnessy. 139. + Souls in Intaglio. O’Shaughnessy. 225. + You Never Can Tell. O’Shaughnessy. 101. + + + P + + PARADISE, VIOLA L. + Calabrian Goes Home. Humphrey A. 194. + + PATTULLO, GEORGE. (1879– .) + Tie that Binds. Prize F. 142. + + PETERKIN, JULIA M. + Ashes. Peterkin. 9. + Cat Fish. Peterkin. 123. + Finding Peace. Peterkin. 94. + Green Thursday. Peterkin. 26. + Meeting. Peterkin. 62. + Missie. Peterkin. 50. + Mount Pleasant. Peterkin. 79. + Plum Blossoms. Peterkin. 170. + Red Rooster. Peterkin. 103. + Son. Peterkin. 132. + Sunday. Peterkin. 143. + Teaching Jim. Peterkin. 115. + + POE, EDGAR ALLAN. (1809–1849.) (_See 1924._) + Fall of the House of Usher. Lynch. 264. + Masque of the Red Death. Hastings. 27. + + POOLE, ERNEST. (1880– .) + Salvatore Schreider. Fox. 37. + Dormeuse. Poole B. 9. + Little Dark Man. Poole B. 41. + Mother Volga. Poole B. 103. + Stories that His Uncle Told. Poole B. 65. + + PRICE, EDITH BALLINGER. (1897– .) + Boy from Beyant. Humphrey A. 67. + + + R + + READ, FRANCES KAUTZ. + Engagement on the Rhine. Copy B. 113. + + REESE, LIZETTE WOODWORTH. (1856– .) + Forgiveness. O’Brien N. 167. + + RICE, ALICE CALDWELL (HEGAN). (MRS. CALE YOUNG RICE.) (1870– .) + Between Trains. Rice 185. + Day of Resurrection. Rice. 237. + Miss Gee. Rice. 61. + Mourning a la Mode. Rice. 133. + Phoebe. Rice. 3. + + RICE, CALE YOUNG. (1872– .) + Commonwealth’s Attorney. Rice. 103. + Environment. Rice. 157. + Gull’s Nest. Rice. 271. + Heroes: Two Storiettes. Rice. 209. + Out of Darkness. Rice. 33. + + RINEHART, MARY ROBERTS. (1876– .) + Twenty-Two. Aces. 164. + + ROBERTSON, MORGAN. (1861–1915.) + Argonauts. Fox. 50. + + RUNYON, ALFRED DAMON. (1840– .) + Breeze Kid’s Big Tear-Off. Fox. 111. + + + S + + SERGEL, ROGER L. (1894– .) + Nocturne: A Red Shawl. O’Brien N. 175. + + SHELTON, RICHARD BARKER. _See_ “OXFORD, JOHN BARTON.” + + SHER, BENJAMIN R. + Abe’s Card. Aces. 224. + Rubber Heels. Aces B. 308. + + SHIFFRIN, A. B. (1902– .) + Black Laugh. O’Brien N. 191. + + SINGMASTER, ELSIE. (ELSIE SINGMASTER LEWARS.) (1879– .) (_See 1920._) + Courier of the Czar. Prize F. 155. + November the Nineteenth. World. 331. + Pair of Lovers. Gray. 155. + + SMITH, EDGAR VALENTINE. (1875– .) (_See 1924._) + ’Lijah. Prize F. 172. + + SPEARS, RAYMOND SMILEY. (1850– .) + River Combine--Professional. Prize F. 190. + + SPRINGER, FLETA CAMPBELL. + Legend. Harper. 108. + + SQUIER, EMMA-LINDSAY. (MRS. GEORGE LLOYD MARK.) (1893– .) + Flower of Gold. Humphrey A. 37. + Soul of Caliban. Gray. 241. + + STEELE, WILBUR DANIEL. (1886– .) (_See 1923._) + Woman at Seven Brothers. Robinson. 382. + What Do You Mean--Americans? Prize F. 205. + When Hell Froze. Harper. 241. + + STEIN, GERTRUDE. + Two Women. Contact. 303. + + STOCKTON, FRANK RICHARD. (1834–1902.) (_See 1924._) + Widow’s Cruise. Hastings. 187. + + STONE, ELINORE COWAN. + One Uses the Handkerchief. Prize F. 225. + + STREET, JULIAN LEONARD. (1879– .) (_See 1923._) + Mr. Bisbee’s Princess. Street B. 1. + Speaking Likeness. Street B. 85. + Syringas. Street B. 159. + + SUCKOW, RUTH. (1892– .) (_See. 1924._) + Four Generations. O’Brien N. 198. + + SWIFT, HELEN. (_See 1924._) + Chicken-Woman and the Hen-Man. Freeman. 273. + Zachariah Jones. Freeman. 277. + + + T + + TARKINGTON, NEWTON BOOTH. (1869– .) (_See 1924._) + Big, Fat Lummox. Robinson. 406. + Fox Terrier or Something. Gray. 59. + + TARLEAU, LISA YSAYE. + Loutré. World. 178. Harper 1. + + TERHUNE, ALBERT PAYSON. (1872– .) (_See 1923._) + Grudge. Gray. 65. + + THOMPSON, MARY WOLFE. (_See 1924._) + Turtle. Copy B. 182. + + TRAIN, ARTHUR CHENEY. (1875– .) + Old Duke. Gray. 129. + + TUTTLE, WORTH. (_See 1923._) + Tree in the Forest. Copy B. 75. + + + V + + VAN DEN BARK, MELVIN. (1897– .) + Two Women and Hog-Back Ridge. O Brien N. 211. + + VAN DINE, WARREN L. (1902– .) + Poet. O’Brien N. 228. + + VAN DYKE, HENRY. (1852– .) (_See 1920._) + Beggars Under the Bush. Van Dyke B. 91. + Change of Air. Van Dyke B. 84. + Hero and Tin Soldiers. Van Dyke B. 145. + In the Odor of Sanctity. Van Dyke B. 120. + Jericho Road. Van Dyke B. 31. + Key of the Tower. Van Dyke B. 59. + King’s Jewel. Van Dyke B. 64. + Man Praying. Van Dyke B. 43. + Old Game. Van Dyke B. 78. + Parable of Wedlock. Van Dyke B. 20. + Primitive and His Sandals. Van Dyke B. 137. + Return of the Charm. Van Dyke B. 109. + Ripening of the Fruit. Van Dyke B. 71. + Stronghold. Van Dyke B. 98. + Tale of a Habitation Forfeited. Van Dyke B. 16. + Tale of Friends. Van Dyke B. 57. + Tale of Learning by Experience. Van Dyke B. 25. + Tale of Man and the Machine. Van Dyke B. 55. + Tale of Peace. Van Dyke B. 54. + Tale of Travel. Van Dyke B. 3. + Tale of the Cursing of Capital. Van Dyke B. 9. + Tale of the Embankment. Van Dyke B. 26. + Tale of the Hitching-Post. Van Dyke B. 37. + Tale of the Jewels. Van Dyke B. 11. + Tale of the Only Infallible Soap. Van Dyke B. 40. + Tale of the Philosophic Husband. Van Dyke B. 52. + Tale of the Prisoner. Van Dyke B. 50. + Tale of the Shaky Bridge. Van Dyke B. 46. + Tale of the Two Runners. Van Dyke B. 6. + Tale of the Two Wolves. Van Dyke B 28. + + + W + + WARREN, HAMILTON M. + Faithful Image. Copy B. 134. + + WATSON, MARION ELIZABETH. + Bottle-Stoppers. Copy B. 44. + + WEIMAN, RITA. (1889– .) + Stage Door. Aces. B. 324. + + WELLES, HARRIET OGDEN DEEN. (_See 1924._) + Progress. Prize F. 238. + + WESCOTT, GLENWAY. (1901– .) + In a Thicket. O’Brien. N. 240. + + WHARTON, EDITH NEWBOLD JONES (1862– .) (_See 1924._) + Kerfol. Rhys B. 1. + Verdict. Hastings. 261. + Xingu. Robinson. 467. + + WILLIAMS, HENRY MEADE. + Tides. Humphrey A. 163. + + WINSLOW, THYRA SAMTER. (1889– .) (_See 1923._) + Her Own Room. Aces B. 354. + Love Affair. Aces. 260. + + WOOD, FRANCES GILCHRIST. (_See 1924._) + Shoes. Copy B. 14. O’Brien N. 248. + + WOODROW, NANCY MANN WADDELL. (MRS. WILSON WOODROW.) + New Earth. Fox. 182. + + + II. BRITISH AND IRISH AUTHORS + + A + + ALLISON, JAMES MURRAY. + Mr. Franklin’s Adventure. O’Brien L. 3. + + “ARLEN, MICHAEL.” (DIKRAN KUYUMJIAN.) (_See 1924._) + Ace of Cads. Arlen C. 59. + Battle of Berkeley Square. Arlen C. 116. + Dancer of Paris. World. 130. + Farewell, These Charming People. Arlen C. 327. + Gentleman from America. Arlen C. 224. + Ghoul of Golder’s Green. Arlen C. 276. + To Lamoir. Arlen C. 251. + Prince of the Jews. Arlen C. 133. + Revolting Doom of a Gentleman Who Would not Dance with His Wife. + Arlen C. 202. + Romance in Old Brandy. Arlen C. 36. + Shameless Behavior of a Lord. Georgian C. 3. + Three-Cornered Moon. Arlen C. 166. + Where the Pigeons Go to Die. Arlen C. 95. + + ARMSTRONG, MARTIN. (1882– .) (_See 1924._) + Materialist. Georgian C. 12. + Mrs. Lovelace. O’Brien L. 12. + + AUMONIER, STACY. (1887– .) (_See 1924._) + Dark Corridor. Aumonier C. 45. + Dark Red Roses. Aumonier C. 241. + Fall. Aumonier C. 9. + Freddie Finds Himself. Aumonier C. 275. + Friends. Aumonier C. 89. + Kidnapped “General.” Aumonier C. 71. + Little Window of the Night. Aumonier C. 257. + Mother of Carmen Colignon. Aumonier C. 215. + One Sunday Morning. Aumonier C. 33. + One Thing Leads to Another. Aumonier C. 197. + Overheard. Aumonier C. 1. + Persistent Mother. Aumonier C. 119. + What _Was_ She to Think? Aumonier C. 185. + When the Earth Stopped. Aumonier C. 141. + William’s Narrow Squeak. Aumonier C. 161. + + AUSTIN, FREDERICK BRITTEN. (1885– .) (_See 1923._) + Affair of Honour. Austin B. 146. + Drum. Austin B. 75. + Infernal Machine. Austin B. 47. + Mother Sits by the Fire. Austin B. 25. + Nach Verdun! Austin B. 231. + One Beloved. Austin B. (121.) + Panzerkraftwagen! Austin B. 97. + Problem in Reprisals. Austin B. 289. + Red Shawl. Austin B. 258. + She Who Came Back. Austin B. 317. + “S. O. S.” Austin B. 206. + Through the Gate of Horn. Austin B. 178. + Under the Lens. Austin B. 1. + + + B + + BARING, MAURICE. (1874– .) + Shadow of a Midnight. Lynch. 31. + + BECKE, LOUIS. (_See 1924._) + Black Bream of Australia. Becke C. 96. + Colonial Mortuary Bard. Becke C. 83. + Fish Drugging in the Pacific. Becke C. 203. + “Five-Head Creek.” Becke C. 181. + John Corwell, Sailor and Miner. Becke C. 218. + “Martin of Nitendi.” Becke C. 110. + “Old Mary.” Becke C. 144. + Poisonous Fish of the Pacific Islands. Becke C. 246. + “Reo,” the Fisherman. Becke C. 88. + River of Dreams. Becke C. 122. + Yorke the Adventurer. Becke C. 7. + + BENNETT, ENOCH ARNOLD. (1867– .) + Box-Office Girl. Bennett. 111. + During Dinner. Bennett. 73. + Elsie and the Child. Bennett. 9. + Fish. Bennett, 294. + Idiot. Robinson. 18. + Last Love. Bennett. 219. + Limits of Dominion. Bennett. 321. + Mr. Jack Hollins Against Fate. Bennett. 132. + Mysterious Destruction of Mr. Ipple. Bennett. 243. + Nine O’Clock To-Morrow. Bennett. 157. + Outside and Inside. Bennett. 201. + Paper Cap. Bennett. 91. + Perfect Creature. Bennett. 268. + Yacht. Bennett. 179. + + BENNETT, ROLF. + Bill Grimes His Soul. O’Brien L. 21. + + BENSON, EDWARD FREDERIC. (1867– .) (_See 1920._) + Thing in the Hall. Fox. 154. Lynch. 10. + + BERESFORD, JOHN DAVYS. (1875– .) (_See 1924._) + That Sort of Thing. New Dec. D. 78. + + BIBESCO, PRINCESS ELIZABETH. (_See 1923._) + Red Hair. O’Brien M. 3. + + BLACKWOOD, ALGERNON. (1869– .) (_See 1924._) + Willows. Lynch. 29. + Violence. Rhys B. 253. + + “BLAIR.” + Altars. New Dec. D. 112. + Dame aux Jarretières. New Dec. D. 262. + + BRAMAH, ERNEST. (_See 1924._) + Bobbie and Poetic Justice. Bramah B. 215. + Bunch of Violets. Bramah B. 68. + Dead March. Bramah B. 53. + Delicate Case of Mlle. Celestine Bon. Bramah B. 45. + “Dragan” of Swafton. Bramah B. 290. + Dream of William Ellgood. Bramah B. 298. + Fate and a Family Council. Bramah B. 116. + From a London Balcony. Bramah B. 310. + Goose and the Golden Egg. Bramah B. 186. + Great Hockington Find. Bramah B. 158. + Hautepierre’s Star. Bramah B. 176. + Heart of the Pagan. Bramah B. 237. + Lucretia and the Horse-Doctor. Bramah B. 129. + Marquise Ring. Bramah B. 278. + Making of Marianna. Bramah B. 198. + Ming Tsenen and the Emergency. Bramah B. 23. + Once in a Blue Moon. Bramah B. 259. + Revolution. Bramah B. 97. + Smothered in Corpses. Bramah B. 103. + War Hawks. Bramah B. 139. + Very Black Business. Bramah B. 61. + + “BRYHER.” _See_ MCALMON, WINIFRED. + + BURKE, THOMAS. (1887– .) (_See 1921._) + Chink and the Child. Rhys B. 32. + Sign of the Lamp. Robinson. 18. + + BUTTS, MARY. (1891– .) (_See 1924._) + Deosil. O’Brien L. 27. + Friendship’s Garland. Contact. 30. + + + C + + CAINE, WILLIAM. (1872– .) (_See 1923._) + Three Kings. Hastings. 351. + + “CONRAD, JOSEPH.” (JOSEPH CONRAD KORZENIOWSKI.) (1857–1924.) (_See + 1924._) + Black Mate. Conrad B. 85. + Conte. Fox. 1. + Lagoon. Robinson. 99. + Prince Roman. Conrad B. 29. + Secret Sharer. Hastings. 279. + Tale Conrad B. 59. + Warrior’s Soul. Conrad B. 1. + + COPPARD, ALFRED EDGAR. (1878– .) (_See 1924._) + Alice Brady. Coppard C. 145. + At Laban’s Well. Coppard C. 175. + Diversion with Thomas. Coppard C. 295. + Dumbledon Donkey. Coppard C. 217. + Fifty Pounds. O’Brien M. 20. + Fishmonger’s Fiddle. Coppard C. 260. + Higgler. Coppard C. 73. O’Brien L. 38. + Italian Whirligig. Coppard C. 114. + Jewel of Jeopardy. Coppard C. 121. + Little Boy Lost. Coppard C. 284. + Little Mistress. Coppard C. 32. + Mr. Lightfoot in the Green Isle. Coppard C. 303. + Old Martin. Coppard C. 9. + Snare. Coppard C. 252. + Three-Handed Reel. Coppard C. 225. + Watercress Girl. Coppard C. 155. + Wildgoose Chase. Coppard C. 181. + Willie Waugh. Coppard C. 64. + + CORVO, FREDERICK, BARON. + About a Vegetable Purgatory. Corvo. 323. + About Beata Beatrice and the Mamma of Sampietro. Corvo. 378. + About Divin Amore and the Maiden Anima. Corvo. 130. + About Doing Little, Lavishly. Corvo. 145. + About Doubles in General: and San-benanzio and Santagapito in + Particular. Corvo. 168. + About One Way in Which Christians Love One Another. Corvo. 409. + About Our Lady of Dreams. Corvo. 273. + About Papa Ferretti and the Blest Heresiarch. Corvo. 119. + About Sampietro and Sampaolo. Corvo. 347. + About Sodom and Gomorrah and the Two Admirable Jesuits. Corvo. 97. + About Some Friends. Corvo. 228. + About Some Kings. Corvo. 112. + About the Aforesaid, and Padre Dotto Vagheggino, S. J. Corvo. 187. + About the Check of Fra Sebastiano of the Cappuccini. Corvo. 15. + About the Fantastical Fra Guilhelmo of the Cappuccini. Corvo. 3. + About the Four Things Necessary. Corvo. 295. + About the Heresy of Fra Serafino. Corvo. 391. + About the Holy Duchess and the Wicked King. Corvo. 12. + About the Insistence of Sangiuseppe. Corvo. 311. + About the Love Which Is Desire and the Love Which Is Divine. Corvo. + 122. + About the Miraculous Fritter of Frat’ Agostino of the Cappuccini. + Corvo. 19. + About the Original Fritter of San Giuseppe. Corvo. 26. + About the Penance of Paisalettrio. Corvo. 252. + About the Preface of Fra Cherubino. Corvo. 303. + About These Tales, the Key, and Purgatory. Corvo. 207. + About the Witch’s Head and Santignazio of Loyola. Corvo. 82. + About What Is Due to Contrition. Corvo. 336. + Being an Epic of Sangiorgio, Protector of the Kingdom. Corvo. 35. + Caprice of Some Cherubim. Corvo. 368. + Why Cats and Dogs always Litigate. Corvo. 125. + Why the Rose is Red. Corvo. 66. + + CURZON OF KEDLESTON, MARQUESS. + Drums of Kairwan. Rhys B. 84. + + + D + + DEFOE, DANIEL. (1660?–1731.) (_See 1924._) + Remarkable Passage of an Apparition. Hastings. 4. + + “DELAFIELD, E. M.” (EDMEE ELIZABETH MONICA DE LA PASTURE DASHWOOD.) + Appeal. O’Brien L. 67. + + DE LA MARE, WALTER JOHN. (1873– .) (_See 1924._) + Creatures. Rhys B. 326. + + DOYLE, SIR ARTHUR CONAN. (1859– .) (_See 1924._) + Captain Sharkey. Rhys B. 236. + + “DOYLE, LYNN.” (LESLIE ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY.) (1873– .) + Rapparee. O’Brien M. 279. + + DUNSANY, EDWARD JOHN MORETON DRAY PLUNKETT, EIGHTEENTH BARON. (1878– + .) (_See 1924._) + Highwayman Hastings. 272. + + + E + + EVANS, CARADOC. (_See 1920._) + Coffin. O’Brien L. 75. + + + F + + FARJEON, ELEANOR. + Faithful Jenny Dove. O’Brien M. 36. + + FORSTER, EDWARD MORGAN. (1879– .) (_See 1923._) + Story of the Siren. Georgian C. 18. + + + G + + GALSWORTHY, JOHN. (1867– .) (_See 1924._) + Acme. Galsworthy D. 425. + Apple Tree. Galsworthy D. 333. + Black Godmother. Galsworthy D. 269. + Blackmail. Galsworthy D. 837. + Bright Side. Galsworthy D. 247. + Broken Bott. Galsworthy D. 207. + Cafard. Galsworthy D. 793. + Choice. Galsworthy D. 213. + Compensation. Galsworthy D. 809. + Conscience. Galsworthy D. 817. + Consummation. Galsworthy D. 417. + Courage. Galsworthy D. 239. + Dead Man. Hastings. 331. + Defeat. Robinson. 170. Galsworthy D. 433. + “Dog it Was That Died.” Galsworthy D. 505. + Expectations. Galsworthy D. 647. + Feud. Galsworthy D. 731. + First and the Last. Galsworthy D. 863. + Fisher of Men. Galsworthy D. 769. + Grey Angel. Galsworthy D. 165. + Had a Horse. Galsworthy D. 923. + Hedonist. Galsworthy D. 663. + Japanese Quince. Galsworthy D. 663. + Juryman. Galsworthy D. 559. + Knight. Galsworthy D. 521. + Late--299. Galsworthy D. 681. + Long-Ago Affair. Galsworthy D. 857. + Man of Devon. Galsworthy D. 281. + Man Who Kept His Form. Galsworthy D. 187. + Manna. Galsworthy D. 781. + Miller of Dee. Galsworthy D. 673. + Mother Stone. Galsworthy D. 609. + Neighbours. Galsworthy D. 459. + Nightmare Child. Galsworthy D. 631. + Once More. Galsworthy D. 827. + Pack. Galsworthy D. 499. + Peace Meeting. Galsworthy D. 613. + Philanthropy. Galsworthy D. 275. + Portrait. Galsworthy D. 147. + Prisoner. Galsworthy D. 399. + Quality. Galsworthy D. 179. + Recruit. Galsworthy D. 801. + Reversion to Type. Galsworthy D. 641. + Salta pro Nobis. Galsworthy D. 493. + Salvation of a Forsyte. Galsworthy D. 1. + Santa Lucia. Galsworthy D. 595. + Silence. Galsworthy D. 705. + Simple Tale. Galsworthy D. 407. Aces B. 125. + Spindleberries. Galsworthy D. 481. + Stoic. Galsworthy D. 45. + Strange Thing. Galsworthy D. 621. + Stroke of Lightning. Galsworthy D. 467. + Timber. Galsworthy D. 583. + Two Looks. Galsworthy D. 851. + Ultima Thule. Galsworthy D. 221. + Virtue. Galsworthy D. 449. + Woman. Galsworthy D. 657. + + GARVIN, VIOLA. + Miss Wickers. O’Brien M. 52. + + GASKELL, ELIZABETH CLEGHORN. (1810–1865.) + Old Nurse’s Story. Lynch. 107. + + GOLDING, LOUIS. (1895– .) + Call of the Hand. Rhys B. 210. + + GRANT WATSON, E. L. (_See 1924._) + Black Wedgewood. Watson. 163. + Boy and Girl. Watson. 129. + Case of Sir Reginald James Farquharson. Watson. 43. + Cave of Colycus. Watson. 93. + Diamond. Watson. 141. O’Brien M. 219. + Farewell. Watson. 217. + Friend and Neighbor. Watson. 247. + Gnilgie. Watson. 205. + Last Straw. Watson. 227. + Man and Brute. Watson. 69. + Mediator. Watson. 117. + Out There. Watson. 11. + Raison d’Etre. Watson. 191. + White and Yellow. Watson. 175. + + + H + + HARTLEY, L. P. + Apples. Hartley. 207. + Beautiful Character. Hartley. 109. + Condition of Release. Hartley. 153. + Friends of the Bridegroom. Hartley. 83. + Island. Hartley. 1. Georgian C. 28. + Last Time. Hartley. 213. + Night Fears. Hartley. 37. O’Brien L. 81. + New Prime Minister. Hartley 139. + Portrait. Hartley. 89. + St. George and the Dragon. Hartley 59. + Sentimental Journey. Hartley. 103. + Summons. Hartley. 123. + Talent. Hartley. 31. + Telephone Call. Hartley. 49. + Tonic. Hartley. 165. + Visit to the Dentist. Hartley. 129. + Witheling End. Hartley. 179. + + HARWOOD, H. C. + Adversity. Harwood. 210. + Easy Tavern. Harwood. 270. + Ernest. Harwood. 9. + House Proud. Harwood. 81. + John Meadowes. Harwood. 137. + Judgement Joe. Harwood. 279. + Legend of the Green Lady. Harwood. 162. + 1919. Harwood. 191. + Quemby Pembé. Harwood. 89. + Secret Valley. Harwood. 47. + Seven Devils. Harwood. 242. + Wandering Jew. Harwood. 108. + + HICHENS, ROBERT SMYTHE. (1864– .) + Nomad. Rhys B. 48. + + HORSNELL, HORACE. + Water Sprite. New Dec. D. 195. + + HUGHES, RICHARD. (_See 1923._) + Ghost. Georgian C. 48. + Poor Man’s Inn. O’Brien M. 77. + + HUXLEY, ALDOUS LEONARD. (_See 1924._) + Little Mexican. Georgian C. 53. + + HYNE, CHARLES JOHN CUTCLIFFE WRIGHT. (1866– .) + Ransom. Rhys B. 161. + + + J + + JACOBS, WILLIAM WYMARK. (1863– .) (_See 1924._) + Monkey’s Paw. Rhys B. 311. + Question of Habit. Hastings. 212. + + JAMES, MONTAGUE RHODES. (1862– .) (_See 1921._) + Mezzotint. Hastings. 229. + Tractate Middoth. Lynch. 142. + + JAMESON, MARGARET STORM. (_See 1923._) + Monotony. New Dec. D. 178. + + JESSE, FRYNIWYD TENNYSON. (MRS. H. M. HARWOOD.) (_See 1924._) + Baker’s Fury. Georgian C. 89. + + JOYCE, JAMES. (1882– .) + Arabie. Hastings. 344. + Ivy Day in the Committee Room. Newman. 283. + + + K + + KAYE-SMITH, SHEILA. (_See 1923._) + Mockbeggar. Hastings. 371. + + KEABLE, ROBERT. (_See 1923._) + Late Extra. New Dec. D. 215. + + KINGSMILL, HUGH. + “W. J.” Georgian C. 111. + + KIPLING, RUDYARD. (1865– .) (_See 1924._) + False Dawn. Hastings. 112. + + + L + + LANDON, PERCEVAL. (1869– .) + Thurnley Abbey. Lynch. 169. + + LAVRIN, JANKO. + Old Story. O’Brien L. 88. + + LAWRENCE, DAVID HERBERT. (1885– .) (_See 1924._) + Jimmy and the Desperate Woman. O’Brien M. 88. + Last Laugh. New Dec. D. 235. + St. Mawr. Lawrence C. 1. + Shades of Spring. Newman. 262. + Rex. Gray. 171. + + LYNCH, ARTHUR. + Sentimental Mortgage. Rhys B. 229. + + LYND, SYLVIA. + Adversaries. Lynd B. 209. + Conversation in War-Time. Lynd B. 257. + Day in Town. Lynd B. 127. + Eat, Drink, and Be Merry. Lynd B. 43. + Exile. Lynd B. 15. + Fish Face. Lynd B. 107. + Getting the Sack. Lynd B. 245. + Gooseberry. Lynd B. 73. + Guilty Passion. Lynd B. 87. + Intruder. Lynd B. 223. + Journey’s End. Lynd B. 113. + Mulberry Bush. Lynd B. 3. + Night and Morning. Lynd B. 267. + Out of the Wind. Lynd B. 167. + Romaunt de la Rose. Lynd B. 153. + Sixth Act. Lynd B. 97. + Story for Ornithologists. Lynd B. 193. + Sybarite. Lynd B. 141. + Tact. Lynd B. 179. + Two Old Bachelors. Lynd B. 61. + Vengeance. Lynd B. 53. + Worth the Money. Lynd B. 235. + + + M + + MCALMON, WINIFRED. (“BRYHER.”) + South. Contact. 11. + + MACARDLE, DOROTHY. + Brother. MacArdle. 34. + By God’s Mercy. MacArdle. 80. + De Profundis. MacArdle. 72. + Earth-Bound. MacArdle. 7. + Prisoner. MacArdle. 46. + Portrait of Roisin Dhu. MacArdle. 90. + Return of Niav. MacArdle. 56. + Samhain. MacArdle. 20. O’Brien M. 286. + Story Without an End. MacArdle. 102. + + MCFEE, WILLIAM. (1881– .) + Deckers on the Coast. O’Brien L. 93. + + MACHEN, ARTHUR. (1863– .) (_See 1922._) + Education and the Uneducated. Machen B. 177. + Happy Children. Machen. B. 63. + In Convertendo. Machen B. 155. + Martyr. Machen B. 165. + Mystic Speech. Machen B. 129. + Out of the Earth. Machen B. 49. + Secret of the Sangreal. Machen B. 83. + Shining Pyramid. Machen B. 13. + + MACKENZIE, G. H. (_See 1924._) + Lion’s Courage. O’Brien L. 109. + + MACNICHOL, KENNETH. + Redemption of Madame Fradeau. O’Brien M. 115. + + MANNING-SAUNDERS, GEORGE. + Fox, O’Brien M. 134. + + MANSFIELD, KATHERINE. (KATHLEEN BEAUCHAMP MURRY.) (1890–1923.) (_See + 1923._) + Bains Turcs. Mansfield D. 114. + Black Cap. Mansfield D. 189. + Carnation. Mansfield D. 204. + Daughters of the Late Colonel. Robinson. 305. + How Pearl Button Was Kidnapped. Mansfield D. 10. + Indiscreet Journey. Mansfield D. 152. + Journey to Bruges. Mansfield D. 17. + Late at Night. Mansfield D. 180. + Little Girl. Mansfield D. 79. + Millie. Mansfield D. 86. + New Dresses. Mansfield D. 36. + Marriage à la Mode. Hastings. 360. + Ole Underwood. Mansfield D. 72. + Pension Séguin. Mansfield D. 95. + Poison. Mansfield D. 235. + Samuel Josephs. O’Brien L. 120. + See-Saw. Mansfield D. 209. + Sixpence. Mansfield D. 225. + Something Childish, but Very Natural. Mansfield D. 122. + Spring Pictures. Mansfield D. 175. + Suburban Fairy Tale. Mansfield D. 198. + This Flower. Mansfield D. 215. + Tiredness of Rosabel. Mansfield D. 1. + Truthful Adventure. Mansfield D. 25. + Two Tuppenny Ones, Please. Mansfield D. 184. + Violet. Mansfield D. 104. + Woman at the Store. Mansfield D. 55. + Wrong House. Mansfield. D. 220. + + MARSHALL, ARCHIBALD. (1866– .) (_See 1923._) + Oakfield House. O’Brien L. 127. + + MASEFIELD, JOHN. (1874– .) (_See 1924._) + Davy Jones’s Gift. Rhys B. 205. + In Nelson’s Time. French K. 223. + Western Islands. Hastings. 256. + + MASON, ALFRED EDWARD WOODLEY. (1865– .) + Hatteras. Rhys B. 131. + + MAUGHAM, WILLIAM SOMERSET. (1874– .) (_See 1923._) + In a Strange Land. O’Brien L. 155. + Letter. World. 275. + Rain. Robinson. 331. + Taipan. Rhys B. 341. + + MAYNE, ETHEL COLBURN. (_See 1924._) + Black Magic. Mayne B. 55. + Campaign. Mayne B. 97. + Dialogue in a Cab. Mayne B. 189. + Franklin’s Problem. Mayne B. 199. + Latchkey. Mayne B. 9. + Lavender and Lucinda. Mayne B. 139. + Picnic. Mayne B. 155. + Shirt of Nessus. Mayne B. 37. + Still Life. Mayne B. 173. + Stripes. Mayne B. 69. + White Hair. Mayne B. 85. + + MERRICK, LEONARD. (1864– .) (_See 1923._) + Laurels and the Lady. Aces B. 208. + + METCALFE, JOHN. + Picnic. O’Brien M. 142. + + MEYNELL, VIOLA. + We Were Just Saying. O’Brien L. 159. + + MITCHISON, NAOMI. + Hostages. Georgian C. 187. + + MONKHOUSE, ALLAN NOBLE. + Friend in Need. O’Brien M. 155. + + MONTAGUE, CHARLES EDWARD. (1867– .) (_See 1923._) + In Hanging Garden Gully. Georgian C. 200. + + MORDAUNT, ELINOR EVELYN MAY. (_See 1923._) + Fountain. Lynch. 194. + Hodge. Rhys B. 102. + + MORTIMER, RAYMOND. + Lion’s Den. O’Brien L. 168. + + MOULT, THOMAS (“SIDNEY SOUTHGATE.”) (_See 1923._) + Third Chicken. Humphrey A. 157. + + MUIR, WARD. (1878– .) + Reward of Enterprise. Rhys B. 263. + + + O + + O’FLAHERTY, LIAM. (_See 1923._) + Beauty. O’Flaherty. 77. + Benedicamus Domino. O’Flaherty. 25. + Black Bullock. O’Flaherty. 256. + Black Mare. O’Flaherty. 141. + Blackbird. O’Flaherty. 82. + Bladder. O’Flaherty. 263. + Blood Lust. O’Flaherty. 99. + Colic. O’Flaherty. 215. + Cow’s Death. O’Flaherty. 20. + Doctor’s Visit. O’Flaherty. 174. + Fight. O’Flaherty. 206. + Going Into Exile. O’Flaherty. 269. + His First Flight. O’Flaherty. 104. + Hook. O’Flaherty. 168. + Josephine. O’Flaherty. 224. + Landing. O’Flaherty. 65. + Pig in a Bedroom. O’Flaherty. 123. + Pot of Gold. O’Flaherty. 194. + Reaping Race. O’Brien M. 296. + Rockfish. O’Flaherty. 60. + Selling Pigs. O’Flaherty. 87. + Shilling. O’Flaherty. 109. + Sniper. O’Flaherty. 155. + Sport: The Kill. O’Flaherty. 150. + Spring Sowing. O’Flaherty. 9. O’Brien L. 202. + Struggle. O’Flaherty. 237. + Three Lambs. O’Flaherty. 115. + Tramp. O’Flaherty. 40. + Two Dogs. O’Flaherty. 162. + Wave. O’Flaherty. 35. + Wild Sow. O’Flaherty. 188. + Wolf Lanigan’s Death. O’Flaherty. 242. + Wren’s Nest. O’Flaherty. 134. + + O’LEARY, CON. + Banished. O’Brien L. 209. + + + P + + PAIN, BARRY. + Not on the Passenger-List. Lynch. 244. + + PALMER, ARNOLD. + Brown of Epsom. Georgian C. 214. + + PENN-SMITH, FRANK. + Hang. Georgian C. 291. + + PICKTHALL, MARMADUKE WILLIAM. (1875– .) + Quest. O Brien M. 159. + + POWYS, T. F. (_See 1923._) + Alleluia. Rhys B. 305. + Beautiful Sea. O’Brien L. 213. + Painted Wagon. O’Brien M. 179. + + PUGH, EDWIN WILLIAM. (1874– .) (_See 1923._) + Other Twin. Rhys B. 176. + + PURCHAS, SAMUEL. (1575?–1626.) + Invincible Armada. French K. 1. + + + R + + RALEIGH, SIR WALTER. (1552?–1618.) + Revenge. French K. 21. + + RICHARDSON, DOROTHY M. + Death. O’Brien L. 218. + + RICKWORD, EDGELL. + Undine, the Last Adventurer of the Chevalier Errant. New Dec. D. 92. + + ROBERTS, MORLEY. (1857– .) + Grear’s Dam. Rhys B. 272. + + ROBERTS, RICHARD ELLIS. (1879– .) + Narrow Way. Rhys B. 184. + + ROOTHAM, HELEN. + Creaking Sarah and Laughing Sal. O’Brien L. 221. + + RUSSELL, WILLIAM CLARK. (1844–1911.) (_See 1921._) + Duel. French K. 166. + + + S + + SACKVILLE-WEST, VIOLET. (_See 1923._) + Seducers in Ecuador. Sackville-West. B. + + SADLEIR, MICHAEL. (_See 1923._) + Mother’s Comedy. New Dec. D. 143. + + SCHREINER, OLIVE. (1863–1920.) (_See 1923._) + Buddhist Priest’s Wife. Hastings. 146. + + SCOTT, MICHAEL. (1789–1835.) (_See 1923._) + In the Hornet’s Nest. French K. 119. + + SIMPSON, HELEN. + At the Mickleham Arms. O’Brien L. 226. + + SINCLAIR, MAY. (_See 1924._) + Intercessor. Contact. 237. + Victim. Lynch. 294. + + SITWELL, EDITH. + Undergrowth. O’Brien L. 230. + + SITWELL, OSBERT. (1892– .) (_See 1923._) + Friendship’s Due. Sitwell. 67. + Greeting. Georgian C. 254. Sitwell. 99. + His Ship Comes Home. Sitwell. 145. + Low Tide. Sitwell. 11. + Machine Breaks Down. Sitwell. 175. + Triple Fugue. Sitwell. 193. + + SMITH, PAULINE. + Anna’s Marriage. Smith E. 107. + Ludovitje. Smith E. 147. + Miller. Smith E. 69. + Pain. Smith. E. 17. + Pastor’s Daughter. Smith E. 125. + Schoolmaster. Smith E. 49. + Sinner. Smith E. 85. + Sisters. Smith E. 157. + + SMITH, WILL. + Escape of Saemundr. O’Brien M. 184. + + SMOLLETT, TOBIAS GEORGE. (1721–1771.) + In Good King George’s Time. French K. 54. + + SQUIRE, JOHN COLLINGS. (1884– .) + Baxteriana. Squire. 136. + Best Seller. Squire. 38. + Cemetery. Squire. 184. + Golden Scileus. Squire. 114. + Lecture. Squire. 159. + Man Who Kept A Diary. Squire. 13. Georgian C. 299. + Man Who Wrote Free Verse. Squire. 239. + Painful Dilemma. Squire. 215. + Success. Squire. 72. + + STACPOOLE, HENRY DE VERE. (1865– .) (_See 1921._) + King of Maleka. Rhys. B. 285. + + STEPHENS, JAMES. (1882– .) (_See 1924._) + Three Heavy Husbands. Hastings. 322. + + STERN, G. B. (MRS. GEOFFREY LISLE HOLDSWORTH.) (1890– .) (_See 1923._) + “Beloved.” Aces B. 291. + “Eleventh Hat.” Aces. 238. + + STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS. (1850–1894.) (_See 1924._) + Sword of Alan. French K. 34. + Providence and the Guitar. Hastings. 75. + + STRONG, LEONARD A. G. + Buckross Ring. New Dec. D. 40. + Storm. O’Brien M. 188. + + + T + + THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE. (1811–1863.) (_See 1921._) + Barbazure. Hastings. 34. + + TOMLINSON, H. M. (1873– .) (_See 1920._) + Bible Brown. O’Brien L. 244. + + TURNER, W. J. (1889– .) + Mask of Michichiyo. O’Brien L. 251. + + + V + + VACHELL, HORACE ANNESLEY. (1861– .) + Tug of War. Georgian C. 317. + + + W + + WALPOLE, HUGH SEYMOUR. (1884– .) (_See 1923._) + Enemy in Ambush. O’Brien M. 202. + Lois Drake. Robinson. 433. + + WARREN, C. HENRY. + While ’Zekiel Ploughed. O’Brien M. 214. + + WATSON, E. L. GRANT. _See_ GRANT WATSON. E. L. + + WELLS, A. W. + “Chanson Triste.” O’Brien M. 230. + + WELLS, HERBERT GEORGE. (1866– .) (_See 1924._) + Truth About Pyecraft. Robinson. 454. + + WHEEN, ARTHUR. + Two Masters. O’Brien M. 240. + + WHYMPER, FREDERICK. + Great Sea Serpent. French K. 247. + + WILSON, ROMER. (MRS. EDWARD J. O’BRIEN.) (1891– .) + Tambourin Chinois. O’Brien L. 264. + + WYLIE, IDA ALENA ROSS. (1885– .) (_See 1920._) + Little Fraülein and the Big World. World. 13. + + + Y + + YEATS, WILLIAM BUTLER. (1865– .) + Crucifixion of the Outcast. Rhys B. 74. + + YOUNG, FRANCIS BRETT. (1884– .) + Cage Bird. O’Brien M. 260. + + + Z + + ZANGWILL, ISRAEL. (1864– .) (_See 1924._) + Noah’s Ark. Aces. 276. + + + III. Translations + + A + + AKURATERS, JANIS, (1876– .) (_Latvian._) + Death. Eaton A. 239. + + ANDERSEN, HANS CHRISTIAN. (1805–1875.) (_Danish._) + Shepherdess and the Chimney Sweep. Newman. 61. + + ANONYMOUS. (_French._) + About the Peasant Who Got into Heaven by Pleading. Newman. 20. + Of the Churl Who Won Paradise. Hastings. 1. + + ANONYMOUS. (_Japanese._) + Account of the Hari-Kiri. Seitz. 280. + Archery in the Olden Time. Seitz. 236. + Bell of Kawagoye. Seitz. 124. + Bitter for Sweet. Seitz. 219. + Carp in a Dream. Seitz. 106. + Confessions of Two Monks. Seitz. 240. + Doll Flowers. Seitz. 183. + Dream or No? Seitz. 231. + Fencing-Master’s Story. Seitz. 132. + Forty-Seven Ronins. Seitz. 3. + Fowler. Seitz. 128. + Hangataro: The Faithful Dog. Seitz. 245. + Heroism of Torii Katsutaka. Seitz. 58. + Hidakagawa. Seitz. 254. + Holy Houses of Sleep. Seitz. 206. + Honest Kyusuke. Seitz. 35. + How to Meet Death. Seitz. 77. + Human Destiny. Seitz. 77. + Ichinotani. Seitz. 194. + Living-Field River. Seitz. 210. + Mecca of the Pilgrim. Seitz. 152. + My Lord Bag-o’-Rice. Hearn B. 47. + Old Man and the Mirror. Seitz. 227. + Ooka as a Matchmaker. Seitz. 164. + Oshichi of the Greengrocer. Seitz. 135. + Priest’s Staff. Seitz. 201. + Rat Boy. Seitz. 177. + Shuzo’s Wife--A Story of True Love. Seitz. 113. + Sundry Ghosts. Seitz. 170. + Sword. Seitz. 259. + True Story of Hidari Jingoro. Seitz. 79. + Ungo-yenji. Seitz. 265. + Vision of the Unseen. Seitz. 214. + Winning Without Hands. Seitz. 148. + Wrestling of a Damio. Seitz. 89. + + ABOSEV, A. (_Russian._) + Lenin. Osip. 137. + Soldiers. Osip. 130. + + + B + + BARBEY D’AUREVILLY, JULES. (1808–1889.) (_French._) + At a Dinner of Atheists. Barbey. 181. + Beneath the Cards of a Game of Whist. Barbey. 127. + Crimson Curtain. Barbey. 3. + Greatest Love of Don Juan. Barbey. 51. + Happiness in Crime. Barbey. 77. + Woman’s Revenge. Barbey. 239. + + BLASCO IBANEZ, VINCENTE. (1867– .) (_See 1920._) (_Spanish._) + Cabure Feather. Ibáñez B. 221. + Four Sons of Eve. Ibáñez B. 182. + General’s Automobile. Ibáñez B. 280. + Hero. Ibáñez B. 35. + Life Sentence. Ibáñez B. 330. + Mad Virgins. Ibáñez B. 381. + Martinez’s Insurrection. Ibáñez B. 305. + Monster. Ibáñez B. 350. + Old Woman of the Movies. Ibáñez B. 1. + Serbian Night. Ibáñez B. 341. + Serenade. Ibáñez B. 256. + Shot in the Night. Ibáñez B. 104. + Sleeping Car Porter. Ibáñez B. 369. + Sunset. Ibáñez B. 150. Eaton A. 362. + Widow’s Loan. Ibáñez B. 63. + + BOCCACCIO, GIOVANNI. (1313?–1375.) (_Italian._) + Abraham Goes to the Court of Rome. Newman. 34. + + BOULENGER, MARCEL. (1873– .) (_French._) + Prodigal Child. Eaton B. 3. + + BOURGET, PAUL. (1852– .) (_French._) + Father and Son. Eaton B. 54. + + BOUTET, FREDERIC. (_See 1922._) (_French._) + Quarter Pound. Eaton B. 74. + + BRATESCU-VOINESTI, J. A. (1869– .) (_Rumanian._) + Violoncello. Eaton A. 298. + + BROCCHI, VIRGILIO. (_Italian._) + Illusion. Eaton A. 158. + + + C + + CAPEK, KAREL. (_Czechoslovak._) + Imprint. Eaton A. 42. + + CAPEK, KAREL. (1890– .) _and_ CAPEK, JOSEF. (1887– .) + (_Czechoslovak._) + Island. Busch. 165. + Living Flame. Busch. 180. + + CAPEK-CHOD, K. M. (1850– .) (_Czechoslovak._) + At the Rotary Machine. Busch. 193. + + CHEKHOV, ANTON PAVLOVITCH. (1861–1904.) (_See 1923._) (_Russian._) + Darling. Newman. 222. + + “COLETTE.” (MME. HENRI DE JOUVENEL.) (_French._) + Ambulance Dogs. Colette. 151. + Autumn. Colette. 99. + For Sale: A Little Dog. Colette. 41. + Jealous Dog. Colette. 9. + Little Bulldog. Colette. 94. + “Lolu”--the White Borzoi. Colette. 59. + Man With the Fishes. Colette. 133. + Monsieur Maurice. Eaton B. 88. + Monsieur Rouzade’s Little Pig. Colette. 140. + Mother Cat. Colette. 86. + Nonache--A Cat and a Kitten. Colette. 78. + Performing Dogs. Colette. 67. + Politicians, or The Old Lady and the Bear. Colette. 145. + “Poum”--The Devil Cat. Colette. 1. + Perrou--The Cat Who Had Such a Sad Life. Colette. 16. + Ricotte--The Brazilian Squirrel. Colette. 122. + Shah--The Persian Cat. Colette. 25. + Snakes. Colette. 128. + Taxidermist and the Cat. Colette. 106. + Tomcat. Colette. 34. + Too Small for a Dog. Colette. 51. + Zoölogical Garden. Colette. 115. + + + D + + DAUDET, ALPHONSE. (1840–1897.) (_See 1921._) (_French._) + Death of the Dauphin. Hastings. 43. + + D’AGUILAR, A. (_Portuguese._) + Treasure of Almeida. Eaton A. 271. + + DRIEU LA ROCHELLE, P. (_French._) + Empty Bag. Eaton B. 92. + + DUHAMEL, GEORGES. (“DENYS THEVENIN.”) (1894– .) (_French._) + Miracle. Eaton B. 130. + + DUVERNOIS, HENRI. (1873– .) (_See 1922._) (_French._) + Jacqueline. Jacqueline. 3. + Man’s Man. Eaton B. 139. + + + E + + EJERINS, JANIS. (1891– .) (_Latvian._) + Pink Ass. Eaton A. 227. + + ELSTER, KRISTIAN. (_Norwegian._) + Uncle Ferdinand. Eaton A. 247. + + + F + + “FARRERE, CLAUDE.” (FREDERIC-CHARLES-PIERRE-EDOUARD BARGONE.) (1876– + .) (_French._) + Year 1937. Eaton B. 167. + + FLAUBERT, GUSTAVE. (1821–1881.) (_French._) + Herodias. Flaubert. 125. + Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller. Flaubert. 75. + Simple Heart. Flaubert. 13. + + + G + + GARDONY, GEZA. (_Hungarian._) + Getting Acquainted. Eaton A. 144. + Painter in the Village. Eaton A. 136. + + GERALDY, PAUL. (_French._) + Prelude. Eaton B. 186. + + “GESTA ROMANORUM.” (_Latin._) + Tale of the Emperor, the Lyon, and the Bere. Newman. 29. + + GLESSNER, EDMOND. (_Belgian._) + At the Sign of the Pelican. Eaton A. 22. + + GOBINEAU, JOSEPH ARTHUR, COMTE DE. (1816–1882.) (_French._) + Dancing Girl of Shamakha. Gobineau. 17. + Illustrious Magician. Gobineau. 185. + Lovers of Kandahar. Gobineau. 185. + Story of Gamber-Aly. Gobineau. 81. + War with the Turkomans. Gobineau. 133. + + “GORKY, MAXIM.” (ALEXEI MAXIMOVITCH PYESHKOV.) (1868 or 1869– .) + (_See 1922._) (_Russian._) + Hermit. Gorky D. 137. + Incident. Gorky D. 40. + Rehearsal. Gorky D. 87. + Sky-Blue Life. Gorky D. 180. + Story of a Novel. Gorky D. 3. + + GUITET-VAUQUELIN, PIERRE. (1882– .) (_French._) + Passion of Aragon. Eaton B. 327. + + + H + + HALID, RESIK. (_Turkish._) + Grey Donkey. Eaton A. 403. + Peach Garden. Eaton A. 392. + + HELLSTROM, GUSTAV. (1882– .) (_Swedish._) + Theodore. Eaton A. 378. + + HERRMANN, IGNAT. (1854– .) (_See 1920._) (_Czechoslovak._) + Childless. Busch. 97. + + HUGO, VICTOR-MARIE. (1802–1895.) (_See 1921._) (_French._) + Octopus. French K. 336. + + + I + + IBANEZ, VINCENTE BLASCO, _See_ BLASCO IBANEZ, VINCENTE. + + IVANOFF, VSEVOLOD. (_Russian._) + Child. Eaton A. 306. + ’Merican. Osip. 114. + On the Rails. Osip. 121. + + + J + + JENSEN, JOHANNES V. (_Danish._) + Maiden. Eaton A. 59. + + JOSEPH-RENAUD, J. (_French._) + Behind the Veil. Jacqueline. 75. + + + K + + KALLAS, AINO. (_See 1924._) (_Finnish._) + Smuggler. Eaton A. 70. + + KASATKIN, IVAN. (_Russian._) + Flying Osip. Osip. 21. + + KATHFORNE, N. G. (_Greek._) + For a New Resurrection. Eaton A. 108. + + KESSEL, J. (_French._) + Child Who Came Back. Eaton B. 267. + + KOLOSOV, MARK. (_Russian._) + Thirteen. Osip. 147. + + KUPRIN, ALEXANDER. (1870– .) (_See 1920._) (_Russian._) + Captain Rybrinkoff. Eaton A. 318. + Disciple. Kuprin C. 115. + Gambrinus. Kuprin C. 11. + Monte Carlo. Kuprin C. 77. + Old City of Marseilles. Kuprin C. 149. + Roach Hole. Kuprin C. 95. + + + L + + LACRETELLE, JACQUES DE. (_French._) + Beautiful Day. Eaton B. 277. + + LAFORGUE, JULES. (1860–1887.) (_French._) + Miracle of the Roses. Newman. 146. + + LECHARTIER, GEORGES. (1868– .) (_French._) + Two Heroes. Eaton B. 297. + + LE NORMAND, HENRI RENE. (1882– .) (_French._) + Moroccan Spring. Eaton B. 315. + + LEVEL, MAURICE. (_See 1922._) (_French._) + Old Maids. Jacqueline. 223. + + LICHTENBERGER, ANDRE. (1870– .) (_French._) + Poor Man. Eaton B. 326. + + “LOTI, PIERRE.” (LOUIS-MARIE-JULIEN VIAUD.) (1850–? .) (_See 1921._) + (_French._) + Fishers of the Deep. French K. 90. + + + M + + MACORLAN, PIERRE. (1883– .) (_See 1922._) (_French._) + King Rose. Eaton B. 365. + + MAKUSZYNSKI, KORNEL. (_Polish._) + Forgotten Ghost. Eaton A. 259. + + MANN, THOMAS. (1875– .) (_See 1924._) (_German._) + Death in Venice. Mann. 13. + Tonio Kröger. Mann. 193. + Tristan. Mann. 127. + + MAUPASSANT, HENRI-RENE-ALBERT-GUY DE. (1850–1893.) (_See 1924._) + (_French._) + Baptism. Maupassant K. 223. + Caresses. Maupassant J. 51. + Child. Maupassant K. 145. + Clochette. Maupassant J. 110. + Coco. Maupassant K. 135. + Denis. Maupassant J. 259. + Devil. Maupassant K. 137. + Dowry. Maupassant K. 111. + Epiphany. Maupassant J. 148. + Family. Maupassant J. 165. + Forgiveness. Maupassant K. 283. + Hand. Maupassant K. 55. + Happiness. Maupassant K. 87. + He! Maupassant K. 99. + Hole. Maupassant J. 101. + Horla. Maupassant J. 57. + Jewelry. Maupassant K. 185. + Jewels. Newman. 135. + Julie Romain. Maupassant J. 11. + Little Soldier. Hastings. 104. + Love. Maupassant J. 93. + Madame Parisse. Maupassant J. 1. + Madman. Maupassant K. 31. + Marquis of Fumerol. Maupassant J. 117. + Old Amable. Maupassant J. 22. + Old Cripple. Maupassant K. 247. + Old Man. Maupassant K. 199. + On Horseback. Maupassant K. 233. + Parricide. Maupassant K. 171. + Robber. Maupassant K. 213. + Saint Anthony. Maupassant K. 1. + Sigh. Maupassant J. 128. + Simon’s Papa. Maupassant K. 15. + Solitude. Maupassant K. 45. + ’Toine. Maupassant K. 67. + Two Friends. Maupassant K. 123. + Walk. Maupassant K. 123. + Wolf. Maupassant K. 273. + + MERIMEE, PROSPER. (1803–1870.) (_French._) + Etruscan Vase. Newman. 110. + + MILLE, PIERRE. (1864– .) (_See 1922._) (_French._) + Field Marshal. Jacqueline. 59. + + MILOSHLEVICH, MOMCHILO. (_Jugoslav._) + Vassitza. Eaton A. 191. + + MORAND, PAUL. (1888– .) (_See 1924._) (_French._) + Child of a Hundred Years. Eaton B. 378. + Nordic Night. Newman. 312. + + MUSSET, ALFRED DE. (1810–1857.) (_French._) + Mimi Pinson. Newman. 73. + + + N + + NERUDA, JAN. (1834–1891.) (_See 1920._) (_Czechoslovak._) + Vampire. Busch. 90. + + NOAILLES, COMTESSE ANNA MATHIEU DE. (1876– .) (_French._) + Fear of Being Useless. Eaton B. 387. + + + O + + OGAWA, MIMEI (_Japanese._) + Day He Could Not Walk. Ogawa. 45. + Red Poison. Ogawa. 63. + Rose and Witch. Ogawa. 3 + Rosy Finger. Ogawa. 23. + + + P + + PETRONIUS ARBITER. (?–66.) (_Latin._) + Matron of Ephesus. Newman. 10. + + PICARD, GASTON-LOUIS-CHARLES. (1892– .) (_French._) + Great Unrest of Man. Eaton B. 403. + + PILNIAK, BORIS. (_Russian._) + Always on Detachment. Pilniak. 85. + Bielokonskoie. Eaton A. 353. + Bielokonsky Estate. Pilniak. 165. + Crossways. Pilniak. 211. + Death. Pilniak. 181. + Forest Manor. Pilniak. 135. + Heirs. Pilniak. 195. + Over the Ravine. Pilniak. 69. + Snow. Pilniak. 1. + Snow Wind. Pilniak. 121. + Thousand Years. Pilniak. 53. + Year of Their Lives. Pilniak. 37 + Leather Jackets. Osip. 56. + + PIRANDELLO, LUIGI. (1867– .) (_Italian._) + Red Notebook. Eaton A. 183. + + POHJANPAA, LAURI. (_Finnish._) + The Death of Old Deemster. Eaton A. 78. + + + R + + REMIZOV, ALEKSEI. (_See 1924._) (_Russian._) + Clock. Remizov. 3. + Betrothed. Remizov. 205. + Easter. Remizov. 211. + White Heart. Remizov. 195. + + “ROSNY, J. H., _aïné._” (J. _and_ H. BOËX.) (1856– .) (_See 1922._) + (_French._) + Immortal Curse. Eaton B. 414. + + RUMANIA, MARIE, QUEEN OF. (_Rumannian._) + In the Winter of War. Eaton A. 287. + + + S + + SALDA, F. X. (1868– .) (_Czechoslovak._) + Death of Count Christopher des Loges. Busch. 213. + + SCHNITZLER, ARTHUR. (1862– .) (_See 1924._) (_Austrian._) + Fate of the Baron Von Leisenbohg. Eaton A. 3. + + SEIFULINA, LYDIA. (_Russian._) + Lawbreakers. Osip. 61. + + SEMENOV, S. (_Russian._) + Hunger: A Diary. Osip. 170. + + SHISHKOV, VYACHESLAV. (_Russian._) + Theatrical Performance in the Hamlet of Ogrysovo. Osip. 34. + + “SVETLA, CAROLINE.” (JOHANNA ROTTOVA MUZAK.) (1830–1899.) (_See + 1920._) (_Czechoslovak._) + Kiss. Busch. 1. + + SVOBODOVA, RUZENA. (1868–1920.) (_Czechoslovak._) + Shot. Busch. 235. + + + T + + TETMAJER, KAZIMIERZ. (_Polish._) + Maiden Dew. Freeman. 283. + + THARAUD, JEAN. (1877– .) _and_ THARAUD, JEROME. (1874– .) (_French._) + Bells of Marrakech. Eaton B. 432. + + THEER, OTOKAR. (1885–1917.) (_Czechoslovak._) + Naughty Child. Busch. 225. + + + U + + UPITIS, ANDREJS. (1877– .) (_Latvian._) + Golden Staircase. Eaton A. 201. + + + V + + VANDEMERE, HEENDRICK. (_Dutch._) + Caliban. Eaton A. 127. + + VAZOFF, IVAN. (1850– .) (_Bulgarian._) + Is He Coming? Eaton A. 35. + + VERGA, GIOVANNI. (1840–1922.) + Across the Sea. Verga. 211. + Black Bread. Verga. 129. + Don Licciu Papa. Verga. 41. + Gentry. Verga. 183. + His Reverence. Verga. 13. + Liberty. Verga. 197. + Malaria. Verga. 67. + Mystery Play. Verga. 53. + Orphans. Verga. 81. + Property. Verga. 95. + So Much for the King. Verga. 29. + Story of the Saint Joseph’s Ass. Verga. 107. + + VERHAEREN, EMILE. (1855–1916.) (_Belgian._) + Horse Fair at Opdorp. Verhaeren. 49. + In a Village. Verhaeren. 37. + Inn of Gentle Death. Verhaeren. 13. + One Night. Verhaeren. 79. + Three Friends. Verhaeren. 63. + + VOLTAIRE, FRANCOIS-AROUET DE. (1694–1778.) (_French._) + Old Woman’s Story. Newman. 45. + + + W + + WARNOD, ANDRE. (_French._) + Nénette, Alice, and Marie. Jacqueline. 175. + + WINCKLER, JOSEPH. (_German._) + Holiday Child. Eaton A. 89. + + + Z + + ZOZULYA, EFIM. (_Russian._) + A Mere Trifle. Osip. 288. + + + + + MAGAZINE AVERAGES + + OCTOBER, 1924, TO SEPTEMBER, 1925 + + +_The following table includes the averages of distinctive stories in +twenty American periodicals published from October, 1924, to September, +1925, inclusive. One, two and three asterisks are employed to indicate +relative distinction. “Three-asterisk stories” are considered worth +reprinting in book form. The list excludes reprints._ + + + -----------------------+---------+----------------+------------------ + | | NO. OF | PERCENTAGE + | NO. OF | DISTINCTIVE | OF DISTINCTIVE + PERIODICALS | STORIES | STORIES | STORIES + |PUBLISHED| PUBLISHED | PUBLISHED + | +-----+----+-----+-----+------+----- + | | * | ** | *** | * | ** | *** + -----------------------+---------+-----+----+-----+-----+------+----- + American Mercury | 17 | 13 | 10 | 6 | 77 | 59 | 35 + Atlantic Monthly | 26 | 24 | 20 | 11 | 92 | 77 | 42 + Catholic World | 31 | 15 | 1 | 1 | 48 | 3 | 3 + Century | 26 | 26 | 20 | 14 | 100 | 77 | 54 + Chicago Tribune | 52 | 14 | 8 | 2 | 27 | 15 | 4 + (Syndicate Service) | | | | | | | + Collier’s Weekly | 163 | 56 | 18 | 11 | 34 | 11 | 7 + (except September 19)| | | | | | | + Cosmopolitan | 128 | 46 | 20 | 8 | 36 | 16 | 6 + Delineator | 30 | 9 | 0 | 0 | 30 | 0 | 0 + Designer | 38 | 7 | 1 | 1 | 18 | 3 | 3 + Dial | 17 | 17 | 17 | 16 | 100 | 100 | 94 + Everybody’s Magazine | 74 | 16 | 5 | 2 | 22 | 7 | 3 + Good Housekeeping | 55 | 19 | 11 | 7 | 35 | 20 | 13 + Harper’s Magazine | 36 | 35 | 28 | 15 | 97 | 77 | 42 + Ladies’ Home Journal | 52 | 17 | 9 | 1 | 33 | 18 | 2 + Midland | 23 | 21 | 8 | 0 | 91 | 35 | 0 + Pictorial Review | 49 | 33 | 21 | 13 | 66 | 42 | 26 + Red Book Magazine | 119 | 28 | 15 | 5 | 24 | 13 | 4 + Saturday Evening Post | 396 | 67 | 14 | 5 | 16 | 4 | 1 + Scribner’s Magazine | 42 | 26 | 12 | 6 | 62 | 29 | 15 + Woman’s Home Companion| 63 | 27 | 3 | 1 | 43 | 5 | 2 + =======================+=========+=====+====+=====+=====+======+===== + + +_The following tables indicate the rank, during the period between +October, 1924, and September, 1925, inclusive, by number and percentage +of distinctive short stories published, of twenty periodicals coming +within the scope of my examination which have published an average of +15 per cent or more of distinctive stories. The lists exclude reprints, +but not translations._ + + + BY PERCENTAGE + + 1. Century Magazine 100% + 2. Dial 100% + 3. Harper’s Magazine 97% + 4. Atlantic Monthly 92% + 5. Midland 91% + 6. American Mercury 77% + 7. Pictorial Review 66% + 8. Scribner’s Magazine 62% + 9. Catholic World 48% + 10. Woman’s Home Companion 43% + 11. Cosmopolitan 36% + 12. Good Housekeeping 35% + 13. Collier’s Weekly 34% + 14. Ladies’ Home Journal 33% + 15. Delineator 30% + 16. Chicago Tribune (Syndicate Service) 27% + 17. Red Book Magazine 24% + 18. Everybody’s Magazine 22% + 19. Designer 18% + 20. Saturday Evening Post 16% + + + BY NUMBER + + 1. Saturday Evening Post 67 + 2. Collier’s Weekly 56 + 3. Cosmopolitan 46 + 4. Harper’s Magazine 35 + 5. Pictorial Review 33 + 6. Red Book Magazine 28 + 7. Woman’s Home Companion 27 + 8. Century Magazine 26 + 9. Scribner’s Magazine 26 + 10. Atlantic Monthly 24 + 11. Midland 21 + 12. Good Housekeeping 19 + 13. Dial 17 + 14. Ladies’ Home Journal 17 + 15. Everybody’s Magazine 16 + 16. Catholic World 15 + 17. Chicago Tribune (Syndicate Service) 14 + 18. American Mercury 13 + 19. Delineator 9 + 20. Designer 7 + + +_The following periodicals have published during the same period ten +or more “two-asterisk stories.” The list excludes reprints, but not +translations, Periodicals represented in this list during 1915, 1916, +etc., to 1924 inclusive are represented by the prefixed letters a, b, +etc., to j inclusive._ + + 1. abcdefghij Harper’s Magazine 28 + 2. bcdefghij Pictorial Review 21 + 3. abcdefghij Century Magazine 20 + 4. cdef hij Atlantic Monthly 20 + 5. ij Cosmopolitan 20 + 6. abcde j Collier’s Weekly 18 + 7. fghi Dial 17 + 8. i Red Book Magazine 15 + 9. abcdef j Saturday Evening Post 14 + 10. abcdef hij Scribner’s Magazine 12 + 11. Good Housekeeping 11 + 12. American Mercury 10 + 13. i Hearst’s International 10 + + +_The following periodicals have published during the same period five +or more “three-asterisk stories.” The list excludes reprints, but not +translations. The same signs are used as prefixes as in the previous +list._ + + 1. fghij Dial 16 + 2. abcdefghij Harper’s Magazine 15 + 3. abcdefghij Century Magazine 14 + 4. bcdefghij Pictorial Review 13 + 5. cdef hij Atlantic Monthly 11 + 6. ab d j Collier’s Weekly 11 + 7. ij Cosmopolitan 8 + 8. j Transatlantic Review 7 + 9. c j Good Housekeeping 7 + 10. American Mercury 6 + 11. a Forum 6 + 12. abcdef hij Scribner’s Magazine 6 + 13. ij Hearst’s International 6 + 14. Bookman (New York) 5 + 15. i Red Book Magazine 5 + 16. abc ef i Saturday Evening Post 5 + 17. MacLean’s Magazine 5 + +_Ties in the above lists have been decided by taking relative rank in +other lists into account._ + + + + + INDEX OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES + + OCTOBER, 1924, TO SEPTEMBER, 1925 + + _All short stories published in the following magazines are indexed_: + + All’s Well + American Magazine + American Mercury + American-Scandinavian Review + Asia + Atlantic Monthly + Bookman (New York) + Books (New York Herald-Tribune) + Catholic World + Century + Chicago Tribune (Syndicate Service) + Collier’s Weekly (except September 19) + Cosmopolitan + Delineator + Designer + Dial + Double Dealer + Echo + Everybody’s Magazine + Forum + Golden Book + Good Housekeeping + Guardian (Philadelphia) + Harper’s Bazar + Harper’s Magazine + Hearst’s International + Holland’s Magazine + Independent + International Arts + Ladies’ Home Journal + Leonardo + Liberty + Living Age (except April 18 to August 29) + Little Review + McCall’s Magazine (except July to September) + Menorah Journal + Midland + Modern Quarterly + New Republic + New York Tribune (except September 13 and 20) + North American Review + Opportunity + Outlook (New York) + Pearson’s Magazine (Chicago) + Pictorial Review + Red Book Magazine + Reviewer + Saturday Evening Post + Scribner’s Magazine + Southwest Review + Stratford Monthly + Transatlantic Review + Vanity Fair + Wave + Woman’s Home Companion + Workers’ Monthly + World Tomorrow + Yale Review + + +_Short stories of distinction only, published in the following +magazines during the same period, are indexed. The list includes two +British periodicals in which American stories were published which did +not appear elsewhere._ + + Adventure + Ainslee’s Magazine + American Boy + American Hebrew + Blue Book Magazine + B’nai B’rith Magazine + Calendar (London) + Canadian Forum + Cedar Rapids Republican + Charm + Commonweal + Country Gentleman + Day, The + Dearborn Independent + Elks Magazine + Farm and Fireside + Frontier + Golden Galleon + Hue and Cry + Inter-America + Iowa Literary Magazine + Jewish Forum + Jewish Tribune + London Mercury + McClure’s Magazine + Macfadden Fiction-Lover’s Magazine + MacLean’s Magazine + Munsey’s Magazine + New York Evening Post Literary + Review + Open Road + Popular Magazine + Sea Stories Magazine + Short Stories + Sunset + Trident + Woman’s World + Young Israel + + +_I have considered many other magazines without finding any stories of +distinction. One, two or three asterisks are prefixed to the titles of +stories to indicate distinction. Three asterisks prefixed to a title +indicate the fact that the story is listed in the “Roll of Honor.” +Cross references after an author’s name refer to the last previous +volume of this series in which his or her name appeared. (H) after the +name of an author indicates that other stories by this author have been +published in American periodicals between 1900 and 1914, and that these +stories are listed in “The Standard Index of Short Stories” by Francis +J. Hannigan, published by Small, Maynard and Company, 1918. The figures +in parentheses 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. As the reader will have noted, a few odd numbers of periodicals +have been so far unprocurable for my purpose. I hope to report upon +these next year. Those which I failed to obtain in time for last year’s +book are for the most part reported upon here._ + + + I. AMERICAN AUTHORS + + A + + ABBOTT, ELEANOR HALLOWELL. (MRS. FORDYCE COBURN.) (1872– .) (_See + 1924._) (_H._) + Out of Nothing--and Roses. Del. May. (5.) + + ABDULLAH, ACHMED. (ACHMED ABDULLAH NADIR KHAN EL-DURANI + EL-IDRISSYEH.) (“A. A. NADIR”.) (1881– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Affair of Honor. Hear. Jan. (58.) + *Ahee! Des. Aug. (5.) + First Hundred Thousand. Ev. June. (10.) + **Gates of Tamerlane. A. Merc. Aug., ’24. (2:391.) + *Hound of the Wilderness. McCall. Feb. (14.) + *Magnificent Gesture. Elks. Mar. (5.) + *Matter of Oriental Imagination. Elks. July. (4.) + Million. Ev. Aug. (25.) + *“Say Ye of the Truth: Is This Sorcery?” Chic. Trib. Dec. 14, ’24. + Second Hundred Thousand. Ev. July. (75.) + + ABER, CAROLINE. + **Morituri. Mid. Nov., ’24. (10:387.) + + “ADAMS, BILL.” (BERTRAM M. ADAMS.) (1879– .) (_See 1924._) + *Helmsman of the Mandarin. Adv. Aug., 30. (99.) + **Old Sea Flower. Adv. Dec. 20, ’24. (37.) + “Said Death--With his Magniloquent Breath.” Outl. (N. Y.) June 10. + (140:232.) + Slim Ball’s Religion. Outl. (N. Y.) May 6. (140:28.) + *Three Thieves. Outl. (N. Y.) Sept. 16. (141:97.) + + ADAMS, DAVID ERNEST. (1891– .) + ***“Truth is Stranger--.” Atl. Apr. (135:470.) + + ADAMS, EVA MOORE. + Shady. Scr. Dec., ’24. (76:625.) + + ADAMS, FRANK R. (1883– .) (_See 1924._) + Against all Comers. Ly. Dec. 6, ’24. (11.) + Bungleshed. Ly. Jun. 14, ’24. (11.) + For Love of Money. Cos. Jan. (65.) + Highlighter. Ly. Sept. 27, ’24. (9.) Oct. 4, ’24. (35.) + Little Miss Light Fingers. Cos. Nov., ’24. (89.) + Rendezvous in Paris. Cos. June. (84.) + Spare Parts. Am. March. (31.) + Words that begin with K. Ly. Oct. 25, ’24. (5.) + + ADAMS, SAMUEL HOPKINS. (1871– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + It Did Happen. Ly. Nov. 1, ’24. (14.) + Ostrich. Chic. Trib. Oct. 12, ’24. + + ADDINGTON, SARAH. (1891– .) (_See 1923._) + Four Letter Word Meaning Girl. L. H. J. July. (8.) + + AIKEN, CONRAD. (1889– .) (_See 1923._) + ***Disciple. Harp. M. Dec., ’24. (150:11.) + ***Last Visit. Dial. April. (78:285.) + ***Strange Moonlight. Dial. Mar. (78:195.) + + AKERS, ARTHUR K. (_H._) + Execution of Bugwine. Red Bk. May. (93.) + Meet the Manager. Red. Bk. Sept. (75.) + *Old Man Debbow. Red Bk. Apr. (90.) + + ALDRICH, BESS STREETER. (“MARGARET DEAN STEVENS”.) (1881– .) (_See + 1924._) + Weakling. Am. Feb. (46.) + + ALDRICH, DARRAGH. (_See 1924._) + “Hel” Breaks Loose. Del. Aug. (12) + + ALEXANDER, CHARLES. (_See 1924._) + Major of Lamontai. Ev. Feb. (122.) + + ALEXANDER, ELIZABETH. (1894– .) (_See 1924._) + Lunch Money. S. E. P. Feb. 28. (45.) + + “ALEXANDER, MARY.” _See_ KILBOURNE, FANNIE. + + “ALEXANDER, SANDRA.” (MILDRED ALEXANDER LEWIS.) (1888– .) (_See + 1924._) + ***The Gift. Rev. April. (5:77.) + + ALLEN, JAMES LANE. (1849–1925.) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***King Solomon of Kentucky. (_R._) G. B. May. (1:692.) + + ANDERSON, DAVID MERRILL. + **Play a Waltz. A. Merc. Mar. (4:314.) + **Raveling. Cen. Sept. (110:589.) + + ANDERSON, FREDERICK IRVING. (1877– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Fifty-Fifty. S. E. P. Dec. 6, ’24. (5.) + Impromptu Con Brio. S. E. P. July 25. (16.) + Magician. S. E. P. Mar. 7. (18.) + White Horse. S. E. P. June 20. (16.) + + ANDERSON, SHERWOOD. (1876– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Meeting South. Dial. Apr. (78:269.) + ***Return. Cen. May. (110:3.) + + ANDERSON, WILLIAM ASHLEY. (1890– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Bwana Who Laughed. Ev. Dec., ’24. (31.) + Outcast. Hear. Jan. (50.) + + ANDREWS, CLARENCE EDWARD. (1883– .) (_See 1924._) + *Harshest Thing in the World. Atl. July. (136:49.) + + ANDREWS, MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + His Only Love. Des. Sept. (5.) + ***Passing the Torch. L. H. J. Oct., ’24. (3.) + *Traffic Squad. Am. Aug. (21.) + + ANTHONY, JOSEPH. (1897– .) + *Bandy Legs. F. F. Sept. (8.) + ***Kill or Cure. Elks. July. (18.) + + ASCH, NATHAN. (1902– .) (_See 1924._) + ***Gertrude Donovan. Tr. Dec., ’24. (2:608.) + + ATON, JAMES. + *Apostle of Thunder. For. Sept. (74:430.) + *Too Good to Be True. For. Mar. (73:359.) + + AVERY, STEPHEN MOREHOUSE. (_See 1924._) + By the Sword. Hol. Oct. ’24. (7.) + *Dragon Fly. L. H. J. Feb. (10.) + Duck Luck. McCall. Nov., ’24. (12.) + Forced Down. Red Bk. Apr. (84.) + Gilded Pheasant. Col. July 18. (13.) + Green Cynic. G. H. Nov., ’24. (64). + Happy Hunting Ground. Ly. Jan. 17. (31.) + In the Night. L. H. J. Nov., ’24. (26.) + Incompatible Angels. Col. June 27. (5.) + Lady in Jeopardy. Col. Sept. 5. (7.) + Ticket to Timbuctoo. Ly. Feb. 21. (19.) + + + B + + BABCOCK, EDWINA STANTON. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Browning in Parc Monceau. Harp. M. Feb. (150:287.) + Dunelight. L. H. J. June. (16.) + **Wavering Gold. Harp. M. Jan. (150:141.) + + BACON, JOSEPHINE DODGE DASKAM. (1876– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Lame Ducks. Red Bk. Feb. (60.) + Roof. Chic. Trib. Feb. 1. + Savage. Harp. B. April. (90.) + Touchstone. S. E. P. Dec. 20, ’24. (8.) + *Trunk. W. H. C. Dec., ’24. (27.) + + BAILEY, ETHEL. + Young United Stateser. McC. July. (1:461.) + + BAILEY, IRENE TEMPLE. (_See 1919._) (_H._) + Candle in the Forest. G. H. Dec., ’24. (28.) + + BALL, CALVIN. + Office Reform. S. E. P. May 30. (20.) + + BALMER, EDWIN. (1883– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Beyond the Détour. Chic. Trib. April 19. + Chance. Ly. Sept. 19. (16.) + Enchantment. Des. April. (5.) + + BAMBERGER, THERON. (_See 1923._) + Man Who Married a Dumbbell. Chic. Trib. March 15. + + BANNING, MARGARET CULKIN. (_See 1924._) + *Blonde. Col. July 25. (15.) + Bread-and-Butter Complex. Am. Nov., ’24. (12.) + Don’t Go to Any Trouble. Am. May. (38.) + Fortune Hunter. Del. Sept. (8.) + **Great Club Woman. Harp. M. Nov., ’24. (149:744.) + Honeymoon. Red Bk. May. (60.) + King Cophetua. L. H. J. Oct., ’24. (24.) + Little Puddle. Col. Feb. 7. (15.) + New Blood. Red Bk. Nov., ’24. (72.) + Old War Horse. S. E. P. April 25. (56.) + On the Inside. S. E. P, Aug. 29. (33.) + Poverty de Luxe. Red Bk. Oct., ’24. (58.) + Silk Velvet. Red Bk. July. (64.) + “That’s Politics.” Ly. April 25. (26.) + This Little Model. Red Bk. Jan. (60.) + Vote it Straight. S. E. P. Mar. 28. (48.) + **Women Come to Judgment. Harp. M. Oct., ’24. (149:562.) + + BARI, VALESKA. (_See 1924._) + Gift of Tongues. Atl. Sept. (136:389.) + *Majority Rule. Atl. Jan. (135:78.) + + BARKER, ELSA. (_See 1924._) + *Hard as Nails. Ev. Jan. (101.) + Special Purpose. Des. Feb. (14.) + **Veiled Goddess. Harp. M. Aug. (151:333.) + + BARNARD, LESLIE GORDON. (_See 1924._) + *Snow in Spring. MacL. June 1. (16.) + *Song of the Loo Foy. MacL. Jan. 15. (26.) + + BARNES, DJUNA. (1892– .) (_See 1924._) + *Passion. Tr. Nov., ’24. (2:490.) + + “BARRINGTON, E.” (_See 1923._) (_See also_ BECK, L. ADAMS.) + **Twin Wives. Atl. Nov., ’24. (134:634.) + + BARSTOW, RALPH. + Hypostasia. Ev. Mar. (135.) + Seeds of Greatness. Ev. Dec., ’24. (127.) + + BARTLETT, FREDERIC ORIN. (1876– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Bittersweet. W. H. C. June. (32.) + Home Missions. Des. July. (8.) + Old Folks at Home. S. E. P. Apr. 25. (12.) + + “BAWN, PHELIM.” + For God and St. Patrick. Cath. W. Mar. (120:737.) + + BEACH, REX ELLINGWOOD. (1877– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Frenchy. Hear. Nov., ’24. (20.) + Goose Woman. Hear. Oct., ’24. (42.) + Man Who Overplayed His Hand. Hear. Jan. (18.) + Michigan Kid. Hear. Dec., ’24. (64.) + + BEARD, WOLCOTT LE CLEAR. (1867– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + *Dean of Rascals’ Row. Adv. Dec. 30, ’24. (66.) + + BEATTY, BESSIE. (1886– .) (_See 1924._) + Servant of Love. Ly. Sept. 12. (12.) + To-morrow Day. G. H. July. (78.) + + BEAUMONT, GERALD. (_See 1924._) + Betty’s a Lady. Red. Bk. May. (80.) + Great Dane. Red. Bk. Nov., ’24. (48.) + Lady Who Played Fidèle. Red Bk. Feb. (31.) + Making of O’Malley. Red Bk. Oct., ’24. (38.) + Mulhall’s Great Catch. Red Bk. Jan. (50.) + Racing Fool. Red. Bk. July. (50.) + Said with Soap. Red. Bk. April. (52.) + Whir of Wings. Red. Bk. March. (56.) + + BECHDOLT, FREDERICK RITCHIE. (1874– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + His Flesh and Blood. Red. Bk. June. (46.) + Soft Side of Hate. Cos. Nov., ’24. (96.) + Son-in-law with Sand. Cos. Oct., ’24. (72.) + Tenderfoot Girl. Cos. Aug. (82.) + Two Women of Delight. Cos. March. (80.) + + BECK, L. ADAMS. (_See also_ “BARRINGTON, E.”) + **Hidden One. Atl. Oct., ’24. (134:520.) + **Sea of Lilies. Asia. June. (25:483.) + *V. Lydiat. Atl. Feb. (135:223.) + + BEEDE, IVAN. (1896– .) (_See 1924._) + ***Haywired. Tr. Oct., ’24. (2:386.) + ***Storm. Tr. Dec., ’24. (2:646.) + + BEER, THOMAS. (1889– .) (_See 1924._) + *Appreciation. S. E. P. Feb. 7. (26.) + Civilization. S. E. P. Oct. 18, ’24. (20.) + *Joab. S. E. P. April 4. (18.) + Love’s Simple Tale. S. E. P. Dec. 6, ’24. (24.) + *Observation. S. E. P. May 16. (18.) + **Secret Goddess. S. E. P. May 30, (45.) + Sophistication. S. E. P. Oct. 11, ’24. (24.) + + BENCHLEY, ROBERT C. + Gay White Peters. Red Bk. June. (96.) + Let’s Go! Red Bk. Aug. (66.) + Mark of Peters. Red Bk. Sept. (58.) + One Way Traffic. Red Bk. March. (86.) + Peters’ at the Play. Red Bk. April. (70.) + Peters’ Try the Literary Life. Red Bk. May. (77.) + They Asked for It. Red Bk. July. (72.) + When the Peters Came to Town. Red Bk. Feb. (28.) + + BENDA, LILITH. + Triangle. Hear. Oct., ’24. (72.) + + BENEFIELD, BARRY. (_See 1917._) (_H._) + ***Blocker Locke. Cen. Feb. (109:441.) + ***Fiery Sweetness in the Air. Col. April 11. (12.) + ***Guard of Honour. Pict. R. July. (8.) + + BENET, STEPHEN VINCENT. (1898– .) (_See 1924._) + Canned Salmon. Ev. March. (30.) + Cigarettes. Ly. June 20. (14.) + ***Harrigan’s Head. Ev. May. (19.) + Jolly Roger. Ly. Nov. 1, ’24. (42.) + Miranda, the Measles, and Marmaduke. Red Bk. Dec., ’24. (46.) + Raveled Sleeve. Cos. Oct., ’24. (90.) + + BENET, WILLIAM ROSE. (1886– .) (_See 1917._) + Late Mr. Waller and the Wow. Red. Bk. April. (73.) + + BERCOVICI, KONRAD. (1882– .) (_See 1924._) + ***Beggar of Alcazar. Cen. Feb. (109:500.) + **Devil of the Desert. Chic. Trib. Mar. 8. + ***Flood. G. H. July. (34.) + *Goats. Col. Sept. 26. (11.) + ***Law of the River. G. H. May. (20.) + ***Millstones. Pict. R. Nov., ’24. (14.) + ***Steel Against Steel. G. H. Feb. (18.) + ***Storm. Des. Jan. (5.) + ***Tinsel. Col. Aug. 29. (5.) + ***Vineyard. G. H. Jan. (20). + + BETTS, ALEXANDER. + Post-Mortem. S. E. P. Aug. 15. (12.) + + BIDDLE, FRANCIS B. (1886– .) + ***Aunt Jane’s Sofa. For. May. (73:679.) + + BIERCE, AMBROSE. (1842–1914.) (_See 1921._) (_H._) + ***Inhabitant of Carcosa. (_R._) Gol. July. (2:99.) + ***Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge. (_R._) Gol. Mar. (1:335.) + + BLACK, DOROTHY. + Faithful Lover. L. J. H. Sept. (24.) + + BLACKMAR, BEATRICE. (_See 1924._) + Westward--How? Ly. Feb. 14. (7.) + + BLOCK, RUDOLPH. _See_ “LESSING BRUNO.” + + BLODGETT, RUTH ROBINSON. (_See 1924._) + Mrs. Renwick Plays the Game. Scr. May. (77:480.) + + BONNER, MARIETTA. + **Hands. Opp. Aug. (3:235.) + + BORDEN, MARY. + Meeting in Mayfair. Harp. B. June. (102.) + + BOUMPHREY, J. T. + **Delicate Cedar. Atl. June. (135:763.) + + BOYD, THOMAS. (_See 1924._) + *Kentucky Boy. Scr. Jan. (77:23.) + *Little Gall. Scr. Feb. (77:133.) + *Responsibility. Scr. March. (77:273.) + **Uninvited. A. Merc. Nov., ’24. (3:270.) + + BRACE, BLANCHE. (_See 1924._) + Exit Eglantine! Am. May. (31.) + Miss Smith of New York. S. E. P. Aug. 1. (42.) + Pink Dress. Ev. May. (136.) + Shining Palace on the Sand. Am. Aug. (42.) + Something Diff’rent. Am. Sept. (30.) + + BRACE, BLANCHE. (_See 1924._), _and_ CONNOLLY, VERA L. + Just a Little Bit of Home. Am. Dec., ’24. (54.) + + BRACKETT, CHARLES. (1892– .) (_See 1924._) + Father’s Day. S. E. P. July 4. (14.) + Tenth-Word Love. S. E. P. Jan. 10. (6.) + + BRADY, MARIEL. (_See 1922._) + Autograph Album. G. H. Oct., ’24. (68.) + Eyes of Argus. Hol. May. (16.) + + BRECHT, HAROLD W. + **Two Heroes. Harp. M. Sept. (151:478.) + + BRENT, ROBERT WILLIAM. + Doctor Winkleman. Oracle. March. (1:9.) + + BRETHERTON, VIVIEN R. (_See 1924._) + Wind Harp. McCall. Feb. (13.) + + BRIGGS, ELLIS O. (_See 1924._) + Quiet Turkish Evening with Geraldine. Col. Oct. 11, ’24. (5.) + *Shah is Dead: Checkmate. Ev. Jan. (43.) + + BRINIG, MYRON. + **Fear God and Take Your Own Part. Pict. R. June. (5.) + + BRIRY, MALCOLM. + Little Drops of Water. Ev. Sept. (25.) + + BROOKS, GEORGE S. (_See 1924._) + Comedy Comet. McC. July. (1:375.) + *Pete Retires. Scr. Dec., ’24. (76:645.) + + BROOKS, JONATHAN. (_See 1924._) + Bright Work. Col. Oct. 18, ’24. (8.) + Brothers under the Pigskin. Col. Nov. 22, ’24. (19.) + Half-a-Stroke Heywood. Ev. Sept. (77.) + His Son’s Dad. Ev. Nov., ’24. (47.) + Jack O’Lantern. Ly. Aug. 15, (48.) + Runnin’ Fool. Am. Nov., ’24. (52.) + Three-Laigged Hoss. Ev. June. (59.) + True Bills. Col. Dec. 6, ’24. (17.) + Water Bucket Baby. Am. Sept. (54.) + Weep no Mo’, Mah Lady. Col. Dec. 27, ’24. (15.) + + BROOKS, WINN. + *Sixteen Fathoms Deep. Col. June 27. (9.) + + BROWN, ALICE. (1857– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Piece of a Dream. W. H. C. Jan. (7.) + + BROWN, BERNICE. (1890– .) (_See 1924._) + Letter. Red. Bk. Oct., ’24. (77.) + Persian Apple Sauce. L. H. J. Aug. (10.) + Why Girls Leave Rome. L. H. J. March. (12.) + + BROWN, KATHARINE HOLLAND. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Chivalry. Outlook. (N. Y.) Aug. 19. (140:561.) + + BROWN, KENNETH IRVING. (1896– .) + ***Christmas Guest. Atl. Dec., ’24. (134:797.) + + BROWN, ROYAL. (_See 1924._) + All the Symptoms But One. Ly. Nov. 7, ’24. + Among the Idle Rich. Hear. Oct., ’24. (64.) + Engagements are Like That. Des. Oct., ’24. (5.) + Everybody Lies. Des. May. (8.) + Girl with the Pay-Roll. Cos. March. (81.) + Inevitable Clinch. Cos. Aug. (68.) + Love at First Sight. Hear. Nov., ’24. (40.) + Love is Blind. Hear. Jan. (36.) + Love Makes Gamblers of Us All. Cos. June. (62.) + Should a Body Kiss a Body. Hear. Feb. (58.) + So This is Love. Cos. July. (104.) + When a Girl Needs a Friend. Cos. Sept. (104.) + + BROWNE, R. K. G. + Fruitful Visit. G. H. May. (54.) + + BRUBAKER, HOWARD. (1892– .) (_See 1922._) (_H._) + Connie Makes the Grade. Red Bk. Feb. (50.) + Connie’s Double Life. Red Bk. Mar. (76.) + Conquering Connie. Red Bk. Jan. (74.) + Soiled Wings. W. H. C. April. (13.) + + BRYSON, LYMAN LLOYD. (1888– .) (_See 1918._) + **Cyprian. Atl. Nov., ’24. (134:603.) + + BUCHANAN, ROSEMARY. + *Between Trains. Cath. W. Sept. (121:768.) + + BUNNER, HENRY CULVER. (1855–1896.) (_See 1920._) (_H._) + **Hector. (_R._) Gol. Jan. (1:129.) + **Zenobia’s Infidelity. (_R._) Gol. May. (1:731.) + + BURANELLI, PROSPER. (_See 1924._) + *White Pigeon. Ev. Mar. (150.) + + BURKE, MORGAN. (1886– .) (_See 1924._) + Next Time a Lion. Ly. Oct. 25, ’24. (37.) + + BURLINGAME, ROGER. + Bachelors on Horseback. Scr. April. (77:405.) + + BURNET, DANA. (1888– .) (_See 1924._) + Breakfast with Bettina. S. E. P. June 20. (12.) + Child. S. E. P. Aug. 8. (12.) + Fine Feathers. Red Bk. March. (33.) + Pinwheel Age. Cos. Oct., ’24. (32.) + Rose-covered Cottage. Col. June. 13. (18.) + *Technic. S. E. P. May 16. (14.) + Those High-Society Blues. S. E. P. May 23. (8.) + Underground Romance. Ly. Oct. 11, ’24. (8.) + Wings. Ly. Dec. 27, ’24. (5.) + + BURT, KATHERINE NEWLIN. (1882– .) (_See 1924._) + Fair Exchange. Red Bk. Nov., ’24. (52.) + Intruder. Cos. Jan. (73.) + Loneliest Man Alive. Cos. Feb. (46.) + Outlaw’s Daughter. Cos. May. (83.) + Swan’s Mate. Cos. Sept. (76.) + + BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS. (1882– .) (_See 1924._) + ***Beauty and the Blantons. McCall. June. (7.) + *“You are All Pardoned.” Pict. R. Sept. (14.) + + BURT, WILL. (_See 1922._) + **Compensation. Mid. Feb. 1. (11:57.) + + BURTIS, THOMSON. (_See 1924._) + ***Man-made Mutiny. Am. B. Sept., ’24. + + BUTLER, ELLIS PARKER. (1869– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Bum’s Rush. S. E. P. Dec. 6, ’24. (32.) + *Dog Wanted: Male. Del. Jan. (5.) + Fenderton Roper, Pressman. Ly. Feb. 28. (14.) + *Fragrance of Lilacs. Del. May. (7.) + *Good Sport. S. E. P. Nov. 22, ’24. (16.) + ***Idealist. Book. (N. Y.) March. (61:13.) + Mascot. S. E. P. May 23. (42.) + Organizing Grandpa. L. H. J. June. (24.) + Second Husband. W. H. C. Aug. (25.) + Telling Jedbury. S. E. P. Sept. 5. (10.) + + “BYRNE, DONN.” (BRYAN OSWALD DONN-BYRNE.) (1888– .) (_See 1924._) + (_H._) + ***Blue Waves of Tory. Pict. R. June. (8.) + *Certain Regrettable Occasion. Harp. B. July. (90.) + *County People. Pict. R. July. (5.) + *Fair Girl of Wu. Pict. R. April. (14.) + *Green Eyes. Pict. R. Jan. (14.) + *In Praise of James Carabine. S. E. P. May 9. (3.) + *Pipes o’ Glory. Col. Mar. 21. (7.) + *Supreme Sacrifice. Macf. Oct., ’24. (49.) + + + C + + CABELL, JAMES BRANCH. (1879– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + ***Above Paradise. A. Merc. Feb. (4:143.) + ***Mathematics of Gonfal. Cen. Aug. (110:387.) + + CAFFREY, A. A. + John A. S. E. P. May 23. (22.) + + CALLOWAY, ARTEMUS S. (_See 1924._) + Uncle Titus. Hol. Oct., ’24. (13.) + + CAMERON, ANNE. (_See 1924._) + Cherchez la Femme. S. E. P. July 11. (18.) + Gramp. S. E. P. Feb. 21. (19.) + There’s No Justice. S. E. P. Dec. 27, ’24. (10.) + + CAMPBELL, EVELYN. (_See 1924._) + Splurge. McCall. Nov., ’24. (20.) + + CAMPBELL, LILLIAN HANKINS. + Missionary. Cath. W. Mar. (120:792.) + + CANFIELD, DOROTHY. (DOROTHEA FRANCES CANFIELD FISHER.) (1879– .) + (_See 1923._) (_H._) + **Cage. Book. (N. Y.) Dec., ’24. (60:392.) + + CARNE, MARY AMELIA. (_See 1922._) + David Giddings, Conqueror. Cath. W. June. (121:300.) + + CARSON, SAM. (_See 1924._) + Both in the Money. Ev. Dec., ’24. (87.) + Ex-Has-Been. Ev. Nov., ’24. (121.) + Ran Second. Ev. Oct., ’24. (122.) + Squirrel-Teeth. Ev. Jan. (168.) + + CARSTAIRS, ELIZABETH NAIL. + Rich Man’s Son. Scr. Nov., ’24. (76:485.) + + CARVER, ADA JACK. (_See 1917._) + ***Redbone. Harp. M. Feb. (150:257.) + + CARY, LUCIAN. (1886– .) (_See 1924._) + “I Guess You’d Better Do Your Stuff.” S. E. P. May 16. (24.) + Neither Innocent nor a Bystander. Ev. Feb. (21.) + New Yorker in the Sticks. Col. Mar. 7. (17.) + Once at Pluma Gogg’s. W. H. C. Nov., ’24. (27.) + Sporting Thing to Do. Ev. Mar. (89.) + Story for Fathers. Col. June 20. (5.) + White Flannels. S. E. P. June 27. (20.) + + CASTLE, EVERETT RHODES. (_See 1924._) + Held Up. S. E. P. May 23. (14.) + Sharpest Man in Willowville. S. E. P. June 13. (38.) + + CASTLEMAN, SAMUEL. + Clothes Competition. Chic. Trib. Jan. 11. + + CHAMBERLAIN, GEORGE AGNEW. (1879– .) (_See 1924._) + *Jarrad, Last of the Pineys. S. E. P. May 30. (5.) + Pillbeck and Eggs. S. E. P. Jan. 24. (20.) + Pillbeck and Pillbeck. S. E. P. Dec. 27, ’24. (8.) + + CHAMBERS, ROBERT W. (1865– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Girl in Golden Rags. McCall. Nov., ’24. (17.) + Grey Iris. McCall. Jan. (13.) + Reversion. McCall. Dec., ’24. (18.) + + CHANDLER, JULIA. + *Ninth Coleman. Des. Dec., ’24. (14.) + + CHAPMAN, ELISABETH COBB. + Drama for Lunch. Ly. May 16. (24.) + Golf Bride. Ly. Oct. 25, ’24. (59.) + Mathilde is Different. Cos. July. (98.) + + CHAPMAN, FREDERICK. + One Cocker Spaniel Going North. W. H. C. Aug. (12.) + + CHILD, MAUDE PARKER. + Romance. S. E. P. Sept. 19. (18.) + + CHILD, RICHARD WASHBURN (1881– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Cat. Des. Nov., ’24. (5.) + *Donna Quixote. Des. Dec., ’24. (8.) + For the Woman. Cos. Sept. (94.) + Her Two Men. S. E. P. Jan. ’24. (10.) + *No Knowing Why. Des. Mar. (8.) + + CHILDS, MARQUIS W. + Roomer. I. L. M. May. (21.) + + CHITTENDEN, GERALD. (_H._) + *Mrs. Riddle. Scr. Sept. (78:243.) + + CLARAGE, ELEANOR. + Anniversary. A. Merc. June. (5:169.) + + CLARK, EMILY. (MRS. EDWIN SWIFT BALCH.) (_See 1924._) + *Chocolate Sponge. A. Merc. June. (5:160.) + + CLARK, VALMA. (_See 1924._) + **Devil’s Third Horn. Col. Feb. 28. (18.) + *Drive. Col. July 18. (17.) + ***“Service.” Scr. Oct., ’24. (76:356.) + Substitute. Hol. Dec., ’24. (12.) + *Superstition. Hol. Oct., ’24. (14.) + **Woman of No Imagination. Scr. Aug. (78:129.) + + CLAUSEN, CARL. (_See 1923._) + Shelled. Chic. Trib. Jan. 18. + + CLEMENS, SAMUEL LANGHORNE. _See_ “TWAIN, MARK.” + + “CLOSE, UPTON.” _See_ HALL, JOSEPH W. + + COATSWORTH, ELIZABETH J. + *Man Who Loved Wild Animals. D. D. Nov.–Dec., ’24. (7:43.) + + COBB, IRVIN SHREWSBURY. (1876– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + **Ace in the Hole. Cos. Aug. (40.) + *Black Duck. Cos. July. (34.) + *Button, Button.... Cos. Dec., ’24. (20.) + **Coyote in Central Park. G. H. July. (22.) + **Dead Line. Cos. Feb. (24.) + *Hands Across the Sea. Harp. B. Aug. (45.) + ***Nobody Sees the Waiter’s Face. Cos. Jan. (26.) + ***One Block from Fifth Avenue. (_R._) Gol. May. (1:629.) + *Parker House Roll. Cos. May. (64.) + *Power of the Press. Cos. June. (34.) + ***Principle of the Thing. Cos. April. (68.) MacL. March 15. (2.) + ***Standing Room Only. Cos. Oct., ’24. (16.) + **We of the Old South. Cos. Nov., ’24. (24.) + + COHEN, BELLA. (“BELLA NEYO.”) (1899– .) (_See 1924._) + ***Laugh. Calendar. July. (1:387.) + ***Yetta’s Feller. Macf. Oct., ’24. (21.) + + COHEN, OCTAVOS ROY. (1891– .) (_See 1924._) + Barberous. S. E. P. March 14. (22.) + Bathing Booty. S. E. P. Oct. 4, ’24. (10.) + Blackmale. S. E. P. Jan. 17. (14.) + Blue Steel. Red Bk. Aug. (56.) + Bounce of Prevention. S. E. P. Sept. 19. (20.) + **Case Ace. S. E. P. Feb. 28. (41.) + Damaged Good. S. E. P. July 18 (14.) + Fly and the Ointment. Chic. Trib. Nov. 23, ’24. + Inside Inflammation. S. E. P. Nov. 1, ’24. (24.) + Interlude. Ev. Nov., ’24 (59.) + Jazz You Like It. S. E. P. Aug. 8. (14.) + Lion and the Uniform. S. E. P. Jan. 31. (14.) + Little Child. S. E. P. Oct. 18, ’24. (24.) + Miss Directed. S. E. P. Apr. 11. (20.) + On With the Lance. S. E. P. May 2. (24.) + Prologue. Des. May. (10.) + Silent Call. G. H. May. (32.) + To Love and to Honour. Col. Sept. 12. (5.) + Union Suit. Chic. Trib. May 24. + White Lights and Amber. S. E. P. Dec. 20, ’24. (33.) + Write and Wrong. S. E. P., Mar. 7. (60.) + + COLLINS, CHARLES. (_See 1924._) + Marvellous Marco. Chic. Trib. Nov. 30, ’24. + + COMFORT, MILDRED H. + Water Gypsy. Ind. Jan. 3. (114:11.) + + COMFORT, WILL LEVINGTON. (1878– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Another’s Man’s Game. Ev. Sept. (9.) + Damsel. Ev. June. (27.) + Koot Hoomi. S. E. P. Jan. 10. (10.) + Merv--. S. E. P. Aug. 29. (8.) + Outside of a Horse. S. E. P. July 11. (12.) + Thirty Years Late. S. E. P. April 18. (8.) + + CONDON, FRANK. (_See 1924._) (_H._). + Best Minds. S. E. P. May 2. (30.) + Big Names. S. E. P. April 4. (28.) + Brownie. S. E. P. Nov. 29, ’24. (14.) + Chronic and Incurable. Col. Nov. 1, ’24. (5.) + Directed by Andy. S. E. P. Dec. 20, ’24. (16.) + Finders Keepers. S. E. P. Dec. 27, ’24. (14.) + If and When. Ly. May 16. (46.) + Little Drops of Water. S. E. P. April 25. (18.) + Minor Changes. S. E. P. June 6. (26.) + Mud. S. E. P. Sept. 12. (26.) + New Stuff. S. E. P. Nov. 8, ’24. (10.) + Poor Old Pete. Ly. Mar. 7. (27.) + Red Coat. S. E. P. May 30. (18.) + Small Thanks. Ly. March 21. (28). + Voice of Spring. Ly. May 31, ’24. (8.) + + CONNELL, CATHERINE. + Widow’s Mite. Hol. Feb. (15.) + + CONNELL, RICHARD. (1893– .) (_See 1924._) + *Big Things--in a Bigger Way. Ly. Jan. 3. (13.) + Coils of Chance. Red Bk. Jan. (71.) + Cold-Blooded. Am. Oct., ’24. (47.) + First Gentleman of the Land. S. E. P. May 9. (10.) + Fourth Degree. S. E. P. June 6. (12.) + Great Unopen Spaces. Ly. Dec. 20, ’24. (11.) + Higher Salesmanship. S. E. P. Mar. 21. (15.) + Law’s an Ass. Red Bk. Dec., ’24. (33.) + Percentage. 000. Col. Apr. 25. (18.) + Schools of Success. S. E. P. Feb. 21. (18.) + Second Egg. S. E. P. Oct. 25, ’24. (16.) + *Six Reasons Why. Cen. April. (109:756.) + Spring Flow’rets. Harp. B. Feb. (78.) + Sssssssssshhhh! S. E. P. Dec. 13, ’24. (5.) + Umps. Ly. Oct. 4, ’24. (57.) + Unbeatable Bettle. S. E. P. Sept. 5. (20.) + Yatz-Gatz. S. E. P. Feb. 7. (13.) + + CONNOLLY, JAMES BRENDON. (1868– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Driving Home from George’s. S. E. P. July 4. (17.) + *Home Lights. Red Bk. Apr. (37.) + *In the Wake of the Gale. S. E. P. Aug. 8. (18.) + *Rough-Water Captains. S. E. P. June 27. (7.) + *Shoal Water. S. E. P. Aug. 1. (11.) + **Trawler. (R.) Ev. Aug. (108.) + + CONNOLLY, MYLES. + Simpleton. Cath. W. Dec., ’24. (120:306.) + + CONNOLLY, VERA L. _See_ BRACE, BLANCHE, _and_ CONNOLLY, VERA L. + + COOK, FRANCIS C. + **Dreamer. Ind. Oct. 11, ’24. (113:255.) + + COOPER, ANICE PAGE. + *June and the Prophet. Strat. Jan. (4:63.) + + COOPER, COURTNEY RYLEY. (1886– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Big Boy. Ev. Aug. (9.) + Chinook. Red Bk. May. (70.) + King of Strawberry Flats. Ly. May 24, ’24. (48.) + One Woman’s Man. Red Bk. July. (84.) + When Death Stalked. Red Bk. Aug. (69.) + + CORLEY, DONALD. (_See 1923._) + **Legend of the Little Horses. Pict. R. Oct., ’24. (12.) + ***Manacles of Youth. Harp. M. Dec., ’24. (150:85.) + + CRAM, MILDRED R. (1889– .). (_See 1924._) + *Captain Sparhawk. Blue Bk. Dec. ’24. (16.) + *Paris--France. Chic. Trib. Aug. 16. + Very Old Amber. Harp. B. Feb. (60.) + Waters under the Bridge. Harp. B. May (74.) + + CRANE, CLARKSON. (_See 1922._) + **Renewal. Dial. March. (78:208.) + + CRANE, FRANCES. + **Visit. Mid. Sept. (11:263.) + + CRANE, STEPHEN. (1870–1900.) (_See 1916._) (_H._) + ***Grey Sleeve. (R.) Gol. Jul. (2:5.) + ***Open Boat. (R.) Ev. Aug. (96.) + + CRAWFORD, CHARLOTTE HOLMES. (_See 1917._) + *Point of Recoil. Scr. Oct., ’24. (76:404.) + + CRICHTON, KYLE S. + *For Sale: Med. Show. Scr. Feb. (77:176.) + + CROSS, RUTH. (_See 1924._) + Stuff of Youth. Am. June. (29.) + + CROWELL, CHESTER T. (1888– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + **Bringer of Grist. Cen. Sept. (110:526.) + *Crime of Crimes. Cen. March. (109:696.) + ***Devil Born in Them. A. Merc. Jul., ’24. (2:275.) + Fair-Weather Love. Cos. June. (100.) + Fight. S. E. P. Aug. 1. (18.) + ***Giovanni and the Goddess. S. W. Jan. (34). + *Hicks, D. D. S. S. E. P. Mar. 28. (41.) + ***Mary Fisher’s Philosophy. A. Merc. May. (5:46.) + ***Pariah. A. Merc. Aug., ’24. (2:481.) + *Ruins of Empire. Am. March. (39.) + **Very Wicked Man. Hear. Dec., ’24. (20.) + Women, Women, Women. Col. July 4. (13.) + + CURTISS, PHILIP EVERETT. (1885– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Penny in the Wide. L. H. J. Sept. (16.) + + + D + + DALE, VIRGINIA. (_See 1924._) + Love Shy. Red Bk. Oct., ’24. (68.) + Men are So Different. Red Bk. Mar. (53.) + Some Men Stay Single. Cos. Sept. (73.) + Things. Red Bk. Sept. (66.) + + DALRYMPLE, C. LEONA. (_See 1919._) (_H._) + Age. Hol. Aug. (8.) + + DANA, FRANCIS. (1866– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Tripper Trap. S. E. P. July 25. (18.) + + DARGAN, OLIVER TILFORD. (_See 1924._) + *Serena Takes a Boarder. Rev. Apr. (5:10.) + + DAVENPORT, WALTER. + Geoffrey John of Amiens. Ly. May 23. (33.) + Señor Roams with Rooney. Ly. Oct. 11, ’24. (29.) + Society. Ly. Sept. 12. (25.) + Tough. Ly. Mar. 21. (37.) + + DAVIES, OMA ALMONA. (_See 1924._) + Bargain with Fate. G. H. Feb. (76.) + Eben and Ezer. S. E. P. June 13. (18.) + Friend fur Apple Butter. S. E. P. May 9. (18.) + Ground for Divorcement. S. E. P. Apr. 11. (34.) + Hind End Frontmost. S. E. P. Sept. 12. (30.) + Just a Way to Go. G. H. Aug. (84.) + Kind fur Kind. S. E. P. Oct. 4, ’24. (20.) + Ten Cents a Cone Yet. S. E. P. July 4. (8.) + Two Girls to Oncet. S. E. P. Dec. 6, ’24. (12.) + + DAVIS, AARON. (_See 1924._) + Bull of Bashan. S. E. P. May 9. (24.) + Kitchen Cabinet. S. E. P. May 30. (39.) + Opalescent Bore. S. E. P. Mar. 28. (17.) + Polka-Dot Hounds. S. E. P. Oct. 25, ’24. (42.) + Simon Called Peter. S. E. P. Mar 7. (20.) + + DAVIS, ELMER HOLMES. (1890– .) (_See 1924._) + Jeshurun. Col. Jan. 31. (10.) + No Girl. Col. Jan. 3. (8.) + + DAVIS, LOUISE TAYLOR. + Hour at Tranquillity. Des. June. (14.) + + DAVIS, MARTHA KING. + Qualifying of Vivian. Hol. Feb. (12.) + + DAVIS, RICHARD HARDING. (1864–1916.) (_See 1918._) (_H._) + **Consul. (_R._) Ev. July. (111.) + ***Walk Up the Avenue. (_R._) Gol. Jan. (1:37.) + + DAY, LILLIAN. (_See 1923._) + Brief-Case Men. Hol. Feb. (22.) + + DE BURGH, ELIZABETH. + **Mrs. Buckle. Atl. Jan. (135:105.) + + DELAND, MARGARET WADE (CAMPBELL). (1857– .) (_See 1915._) (_H._) + **Third Volume. (_R._) G. B. May. (1:702.) + + DELANO, EDITH BARNARD. (_See 1924._) + (_See “H” under_ BARNARD _and_ DELANO.) + **Face of the Waters. L. H. J. May. (12.) + **Resurrection. L. H. J. July. (14.) + Three Wise Men. L. H. J. Dec., ’24. (3). + + DE LEON, WALTER. (_See 1924._) + Beautiful and the Dumb. Red Bk. Nov., ’24. (63.) + Claudia and the Fired Man. Red Bk. Mar. (66.) + Green Complex. Red Bk. Sept. (82.) + Locke and Keyes. Hear. Dec., ’24. (32.) + Prof. B. B.’s Mary. Ly. May 31, ’24. (49.) + + DELL, FLOYD. (1887– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Hallelujah, I’m a Bum! Cen. June. (110:137.) + Runaway. W. H. C. Oct., ’24. (15.) + + DERIEUX, SAMUEL A. (1881–1922.) (_See 1924._) + Old Man Trouble. Col. Sept. 12. (20.) + + DETZER, KARL W. (_See 1924._) + Red in the Devil’s Hair. Ev. Dec., ’24. (79.) + *Landman. Col. Aug. 15. (28.) + + DEUTSCH, HERMANN BACHER. (_See 1922._) + *Man who Did not Matter. Cos. July. (40.) + Slunge. Col. Sept. 12. (7.) + *Queen of the Turf. Col. July 25. (5.) + Roughneck and the Lady. Cos. April. (80.) + + DE VOTO, BERNARD. + Lesion. Guar. Dec., ’24. (4.) + + DEXTER, GAYNE. + *Broadway Forever. Ev. Mar. (99.) + Fiddling Fool. Ly. Nov. 8, ’24. (32.) + Lulu--She Steals the Show. Ev. Feb. (72.) + *Serpent of Lies. Cos. Aug. (64.) + Shark Bait. Cos. Sept. (102.) + Society Stuff. Ev. April. (143.) + Star-Maker. Ev. Jan. (30.) + + DIAMANT, GERTRUDE. + *Channa Makes Her Bed. Men. J. Feb. (11:1.) + + DICKENSON, EDWIN COLE. (_See 1918._) + Jonesy Gets His Swim. Scr. April. (77:385.) + + DICKENSON, MAY FREUD. (_See 1924._) + ***Mouse. A. Merc. July, ’24. (2:357.) + + DICKSON, HARRIS. (1868– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Jungle Woman. Red Bk. July. (68.) + Talking Bird. S. E. P. Sept. 19. (14.) + + DICKSON, W. LEE. (_See 1924._) + Fifty Miles from Nowhere. Ev. Oct., ’24. (36.) + + DINE, WARREN L. VAN. _See_ VAN DINE, WARREN L. + + DINGLE, AYLWARD E. (1874– .) (_See 1922._) + ***Blow the Man Down. S. E. P. May 2. (18.) + ***Bound for Rio Grande. Ly. Dec. 20, ’24. (38.) + Hunchback of the Hesperus. S. E. P. Nov. 22, ’24. (35.) + *Kelp. Adv. Sept. 30. (62.) + Mayes. Ev. Mar. (37.) + Skipper of the Titania. S. E. P. Feb. 7 (22.) + Tarrible Swede. S. E. P. Nov. 8, ’24. (20.) + They Builded a Ship Ly. Mar. 28. (15.) + *Worth Their Salt. S. E. P. June 20. (20.) + + DIVINE, CHARLES. (1889– .) (_See 1924._) + Conquerors of the City. Ev. April. (179.) + Part-Time Hero. Hol. Aug. (20.) + Shrinking Violet. Del. Sept. (7.) + + DOBIE, CHARLES CALDWELL. (1881– .) (_See 1924._) + ***Arrested Moment. Rev. July. (28.) + ***Elder Brother. Harp. M. Feb. (150:323.) + ***Hands of the Enemy. Harp. M. March. (150:441.) + *Wild Geese. Harp. M. June. (150:11.) + + DODGE, LOUIS. (1870– .) (_See 1923._) + *Wentworth’s Masterpiece. Scr. Sept. (78:280.) + + DOREN, CARL VAN. _See_ VAN DOREN, CARL. + + DORRINGTON, ALBERT. + Peter’s Pipe. Hol. Aug. (7.) + + DOUGLAS, MARJORY STONEMAN. (_See 1924._) + Bird Dog in the Hand. S. E. P. Sept. 12. (6.) + Green Mango Pie. S. E. P. April 18. (46.) + Hat Named Horace. S. E. P. Oct. 18, ’24. (12.) + Pineland. S. E. P. Aug. 15. (14.) + Solid Mahogany. S. E. P. June 20. (24.) + + DOUNCE, HARRY ESTY. (_See 1924._) + **Flaw in My Great-Uncle Amos. Col. Mar. 7. (10.) + *Heroine. Col. Jan. 31. (5.) + + DOWNES, ANNE MILLER. (_See 1923._) + Just Fifteen Minutes. Pear. (Am.) Oct., ’24. (29.) + + DOWNING, J. HYATT. + **Closed Roads. Scr. Aug. (78:191.) + + DOX, JULIA C. + Mission at Martin’s. Cath. W. Aug. (121:653.) + + DRAPER, RUTH. + Three Generations in the Court of Domestic Relations. W. H. C. + Nov., ’24. (23.) + + DREISER, THEODORE. (1871– .)(_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Glory Be! McGlathery. Pict. R. Jan. (5.) + + DUDLEY, WALBRIDGE. + ***Harvest. Pear. (Am.) Feb. (9.) + + DUGANNE, PHYLLIS. (_See 1924._) + Another Kind of Girl. Ly. April 4. (11.) + Connie. L. H. J. Feb. (8.) + Fed Up. Harp. B. July. (62.) + *Heap Big Squaw! Charm. Feb. (14.) + Judy Clubs the Ball. L. H. J. April. (12.) + Nan is Diverted. Red Bk. Oct., ’24. (48.) + Two from the Chorus. Harp. B. Sept. (68.) + + DUNN, JOSEPH ALLAN. (1872– .) (_See 1922._) (_H._) + Dragon’s Breath. Chic. Trib. Mar. 1. + Pearl of Amaru. Chic. Trib. Jan. 4. + + DUTTON, LOUISE ELIZABETH. (MRS. PARKER FILLMORE.) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Keys of Heaven. S. E. P. Aug. 29. (16.) + + DWYER, JAMES FRANCIS. (1874– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + Sabri. W. H. C. June. (21.) + Seven Turkeys from Hong Kong. W. H. C. Aug. (20.) + *With Topgallants Set. Blue Bk. June. (1.) + + + E + + EASTMAN, REBECCA LANE HOOPER. (1877– .)(_See 1924._) (_H._) + Bureau Hunt. G. H. Sept. (24.) + Fourth Miss Pelicoes. G. H. Oct., ’24. (32.) + *Oh, That We Two Were Maying--Again! G. H. Mar. (26.) + Primrose Frock. Des. Aug. (8.) + + EDWARDS, HARRY STILLWELL. (1855– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Two Runaways. (_R._) Gol. Feb. (1:226.) + + ELDRIDGE, PAUL. (_See 1923._) + *Fortune-Teller. Guar. Mar. (1:179.) + *He Who was God. Dec., ’24. (3:230.) + Tragi-Comedy. Rev. Oct., ’24. (4:367.) + + ELIOT, ETHEL COOK. (1890– .) + *Maternal. For. June. (73:812.) + + ELKIN, MARCIA. + What Every Sister Knows. W. H. C. May. (34.) + + ELLARD, GERALD. + Lady Miriam’s Christmas Story. Cath. W. Dec., ’24. (120:355.) + + ELLERBE, ALMA MARTIN ESTABROOK. (1871– .), _and_ ELLERBE, PAUL LEE. + (_See 1924._) (_See “H” under_ ELLERBE, PAUL LEE.) + *Battle Axe. Col. Sept. 5. (20.) + *Doors. Del. Feb. (11.) + Pack Rat Springs the Trap. Col. Oct. 4, ’24. (16.) + **Services Rendered. Col. Aug. 8. (12.) + Sunshine, Fresh Air, and a View. W. H. C. Oct., ’24. (27.) + **$2,000.00 Reward. Cos. Mar. (98.) + *Woman Nothing Ever Happened To. W. W. Nov., ’24. (5.) + + ELLIOTT, JOHN L. + Yippy. Cen. July. (110:292.) + + ELMALEH, LEON H. _See_ SOLIS-COHEN, JUDITH _and_ ELMALEH, LEON H. + + EMERY, STEUART M. (_See 1924._) + Homer Becomes Himself. Hol. June. (14.) + Wild, Wild Child. Ly. Jan. 31. (13.) + With Interest to Date. Hol. May. (5.) + + EMMETT, ELIZABETH. (_See 1924._) + Moon and Michael. Hol. July. (14.) + + ENGLAND, GEORGE ALLAN. (1877– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + Half a Brick. S. E. P. June 6. (22.) + + ERSKINE, LAURIE YORK. (_See 1924._) + Pictures. Ev. Nov., ’24. (28.) + + EVANS, IDA MAY. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Achilles Always Has His Heel. S. E. P. Nov. 8, ’24. (22.) + Daughter of a Hawk. Red Bk. Sept. (78.) + Little Devil. Red Bk. Aug. (52.) + Man’s Money’s Worth. S. E. P. Nov. 29, ’24. (36.) + Secret Room. Red Bk. June. (51.) + Spendthrift. Hear. Feb. (50.) + Su Sam Sa. Chic. Trib. July 19. + We Knew Him When--. Cos. Aug. (72.) + + EVERMAN, PAUL. (_See 1924._) + *Ashen-Yellow. A. W. Oct., ’24. (9.) + + + F + + FAGIN, N. BRYLLION. (_See 1924._) + ***Buttoned Up. Pear. (Am.) Feb. (48.) + + FANLET, GEORGE. + Lie. Echo. Sept. (5.) + + FARAGOH, FRANCIS EDWARDS. (_See 1924._) + *Bessie Goes Steady. Pict. R. Oct., ’24. (24.) + + FARIS, PHOEBE O’NEALL. (_See 1924._) + Moon’s Laws. Des. April. (14.) + + FARNHAM, W. I. + Professor Highbrow’s Mule. Hol. Sept. (14.) + + FARRAR, JOHN CHIPMAN. (1896– .) (_See 1922._) + Greatest Lover. Ev. Feb. (152.) + + FERBER, EDNA. (1887– .) _(See 1924._) (_H._) + *Classified. Cos. Nov., ’24. (16.) + **Mother Knows Best. Cos. April. (28.) + + FERNALD, CHESTER BAILEY. (1869– .) (_See 1921._) (_H._) + **Gentleman in the Barrel. (_R._) Gol. Mar. (1:325.) + **Perhaps It Didn’t Matter. (_R._) Gol. Sept. (2:340.) + ***Pot of Frightful Doom. (_R._) Gol. June. (1:806.) + + FIELD, EDWARD SALISBURY. (“CHILDE HAROLD.”) (1878– .) (_H._) + Freedom First. S. E. P. May 30. (14.) + Open Season. S. E. P. April 25. (16.) + + FINGER, CHARLES J. (1871– .) (_See 1924._) + *Count of St. Germain. Dearb. Ind. May 30. (16.) + *Edward Wortley Montague. Dearb. Ind. May 2. (16.) + *“Romeo” Coates. Dearb. Ind. May 16. (16.) + *Thomas Lodge. Dearb. Ind. June 27. (16.) + *William Parsons, Esquire. Dearb. Ind. June 13. (16.) + + FISHER, DOROTHEA FRANCES CANFIELD. _See_ CANFIELD, DOROTHY. + + FISHER, RUDOLPH. (1897– .) + ***City of Refuge. Atl. Feb. (135:178.) + **Ringtail. Atl. May. (135:652.) + + FITZGERALD, FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. (1896– .) (_See 1924._) + ***Absolution. A. Merc. June, ’24. (2:141.) + **Adjuster. Red Bk. Sept. (47.) + *Baby Party. Hear. Feb. (32.) + Love in the Night. S. E. P. Mar. 14. (18.) + *One of My Oldest Friends. W. H. C. Sept. (7.) + **Our Own Movie Queen. Chic. Trib. June 7. + **Pusher-in-the-Face. W. H. C. Feb. (27.) + Sensible Thing. Ly. July 5, ’24. (10.) + + FITZGERALD, W. G. _See_ “PHAYRE, IGNATIUS.” + + FOLSOM, ELIZABETH IRONS. (1876– .) (_See 1924._) + End of the World. Hol. Nov., ’24. (20.) + *Miracle of Love. Macf. Dec., ’24. (12.) + + FORD, SEWELL. (1868– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Coots, S. E. P. Mar. 14. (16.) + *Easing In with Egbert. S. E. P. Nov. 29, ’24. (32.) + Enter Emil the Deuce. Ly. July 25. (5.) + *Out and Back with Old Whit. S. E. P. Mar. 7. (28.) + *Rusty and the Early Birds. S. E. P. Jan. 3. (35.) + *Rusty and the Sob Sister. S. E. P. Oct. 25, ’24. (20.) + *Rusty as a Runner-Up. S. E. P. Nov. 15, ’24. (20.) + *Rusty Gives ’Em What They Want. S. E. P. Aug. 15. (16.) + *Rusty Watches ’Em Wriggle. S. E. P. Mar. 21. (28.) + *Tessie and the Little Sap. S. E. P. Mar. 28. (20.) + *Tessie Mates Them Up. S. E. P. Sept. 26. (40.) + *Tessie Works the Shift. S. E. P. May 16. (28.) + *Trained Up With Chita. S. E. P. Jan. 17. (30.) + Where Tessie Missed Out. S. E. P. June 6. (20.) + + FORD, TORREY. + **Cap’n Quiller Listens In. Scr. July. (78:44.) + + FORMAN, WILLIAM S. + F. O. B. the Bahamas. Ly. April 11. (5.) + + FOSTER, MAXIMILIAN. (1872– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Guardian Angel. S. E. P. Feb. 28. (6.) + Sir Dub the Knight. S. E. P. Oct. 11, ’24. (14.) + Three Out of Five. S. E. P. Feb. 21. (12.) + + FRASER, WILLIAM ALEXANDER. (1859– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Time is Money. S. E. P. Dec. 6, ’24. (20.) + + FREEDMAN, DAVID. (1898– .) (_See 1924._) + *Elephantasm. Pict. R. Feb. (14.) + **We Are Four. Pict. R. Dec. (28.) + + FREEMAN, MARY ELEANOR WILKINS. (1862– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + ****The Shadows on the Wall. (_R._) Gol. July. (2:107.) + + FRIEL, ARTHUR OLNEY. (1885– .) + Apples. S. E. P. Jan. 31. (39.) + Blue Gold. S. E. P. Mar. 21. (38.) + Thirty Days After Death. S. E. P. Nov. 29, ’24. (8.) + + FROST, MEIGS O. (_See 1924._) + Hokum in the Heart. Col. Jan. 17. (8.) + Ol’ Man Cap’n Blows Up. Col. Nov. 8, ’24. (10.) + + FULLERTON, HUGH STEWART. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Egg in the Shell. Ly. Aug. 1. (12.) + Orders Is Orders. Ly. June 14, ’24. (27.) + + FURMAN, LUCY. (_See 1923._) (_H._) + *Glass Window. Atl. Aug. (136:208.) + *Little Lowizy. Atl. Sept. (136:347.) + + + G + + GAER, YOSSEF. (_See 1924._) + *Letter from America. Men. J. Nov.–Dec., ’24. (10:481.) + *Matchmaker. Men. J. Nov.–Dec., ’24. (10:490.) + *Shopping. Men. J. Nov.–Dec., ’24. (10:486.) + + GALE, ZONA. (1874– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Dime. Cen. April. (109:730.) + *Happy New Year. Del. Jan. (6.) + He and She. Del. May. (10.) + Himself. G. H. Sept. (72.) + In the Lobby. Cen. July. (110:333.) + Lovell’s Gilded Hell. W. H. C. May. (26.) + Mother of the Unknown Soldier. Col. May 30. (5.) + Thief in the Night. Del. Sept. (5.) + + GAREY, ROBERT B. + Masterpiece. A. Merc. Oct., ’24. (3:149.) + + GARLAND, HAMLIN. (1860– .) (_See 1920._) (_H._) + ***Among the Corn-Rows. (_R._) Gol. July. (2:88.) + + GATLIN, DANA. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Jack. S. E. P. July 18. (18.) + My Fair Lady. Des. May. (14.) + Only Once in a Lifetime. Col. Nov. 15, ’24. (15.) + She Never Had a Beau. Col. Jan. 31. (14.) + + GELZER, JAY. (_See 1924._) + Leaves in the Breeze. G. H. March. (78.) + Lucky Little Boy. G. H. Sept. (44.) + Playtime. G. H. May. (80.) + Something Different. G. H. July. (40.) + + GEROULD, KATHARINE FULLERTON. (1879– .) (_See 1922._) (_H._) + ***Army With Banners. Harp. M. Aug. (151:311.) + + GERRY, MARGARITA SPALDING. (1870– .) (_See 1922._) (_H._) + Pending Litigation. Harp. M. July. (151:176.) + + GILBERT, MORRIS. + “When a Man Marries.” Pict. R. April. (12.) + + GILKYSON, PHOEBE H. + *Amateur. Harp. M. July. (902:142.) + *Bird of Paradise. W. H. C. May (9.) + + GILKYSON, WALTER. (1880– .) (_See 1922._) + ***Coward’s Castle. Atl. Oct., ’24. (134:479). + Second Marriage. Scr. Sept. (78:297.) + + GILL, TOM. + Delilah. Hear. Dec., ’24. (42.) + South of Rio Grande. Hear. Nov., ’24. (72.) + + GILLMORE, INEZ HAYNES. _See_ IRWIN, INEZ HAYNES. + + GLASGOW, ELLEN. (1874– .) (_See 1923._) + *Romance and Sally Byrd. W. H. C. Dec., ’24. (11.) + + GLASS, MONTAGUE MARSDEN. (1877– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *That’s the Way It Goes. Hear. Oct., ’24. (42.) + + GLENN, ISA URQUHART. (MRS. S. J. BAYARD SCHINDEL.) (_See 1924._) + *As It Is in the Service. Am. April. (53.) + Coffee-Cooler. Scr. Nov., ’24. (76:517.) + **Tropical Heat and White Men. Scr. April. (77:360.) + + GOLDBECK, EVA. + *Mike Cobb. Guar. Feb. (1:113.) + + GOLDMAN, RAYMOND LESLIE. (_See 1924._) + Malowan. Pict. R. Sept. (12.) + + GOODHUE, STODDARD. (_See 1922._) + Linoleum Trail. Ev. Jan. (91.) + Subconscious Witness. Ev. Feb. (115.) + + GOODLOE, ABBIE CARTER. (1867– .) (_See 1922._) (_H._) + Madness of Gamaliel Sevenoaks. Scr. Aug. (78:180.) + + GOODRICH, CASPAR FREDERICK, REAR ADMIRAL, U. S. N. (1847– .) + *Bully of Barencas. Trident. Spring. (5.) + + GORDON, DON. + *The Mirror. Am. H. May 15. (117:26.) + + GORDON, MARY R. + **Wayfarers All. Scr. Feb. (77:167.) + + GRAEVE, OSCAR. (1885– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Ferry Boat. Pear. (Am.) Feb. (27.) + + GRAHAM, DOROTHY. (_See 1924._) + *Circus Day. Cath. W. Aug. (121:586.) + + GRANGES, HENBY FRANCIS. (_See 1923._) + Jackstone Qualifies. Am. Oct., ’24. (53.) + + GRAY, DAVID. (1870– .) (_See 1919._) (_H._) + *Mr. Carteret and His Fellow Americans Abroad. (_R._) Gol. Mar. + (1:341.) + + GREEN, ELIZABETH. + Independence. Hol. Mar. (19.) + + GREEN, HELEN. (1882– .) (_H._) + *Making a Prince into a Good Sport. (_R._) Gol. Mar. (1:420.) + + GREEN, PAUL. (_See 1924._) + ***Man Who Died at Twelve O’Clock. S. W. July. (43.) + + GREENE, J. H. + **Flagellant of Farthing Rock. Ev. Feb. (85.) MacL. Jan. 15. (12.) + On Cultivator Shoal. Adv. Aug. 20. (57.) + + GREENOUGH, WALTER. + Gravel Forty. Col. Feb. 21. (14.) + + GREENWALD, TUPPER. (1902– .) (_See 1924._) + Before He Gave Them Wheat. + Mid. June 1. (11:209.) + Hill. Mid. June 1. (11:197.) + + GREGG, FRANCES. (_See 1915._) + ***Hunch-Back. Dial. July. (79:31.) + + GREY, ZANE. (1875– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + Wolf Tracker. L. H. J. Nov., ’24. (6.) + + GROMER, BELLE BURNS. (_See 1924._) + Dead Reckoning. Cos. Nov., ’24. (72.) + **Man at the Crossroads. Cos. Jan. (34.) + *Moth Man. Cos. Dec., ’24. (96.) + *Woman from a Circus. Cos. Sept. (108.) + **Woman Without a Heart. Cos. July. (88.) + + GUERNON, CHARLES. (_See 1923._) + That Emmy. McCall. Mar. (9.) + + GUYOL, LOUISE HUBERT. + *Service of Lights. Strat. Dec., ’24. (3:195.) + + + H + + HAARDT, SARA. (1898– .) (_See 1924._) + Paradox. Rev. Jan. (5:64.) + + HACKETT, FRANCIS. + ***Unshapely Things. A. Merc. Aug. (5:415.) + + HAGEN, HERBERT J. + Gesture. Echo. Mar. (7.) + + HALE, AGNES BURKE. (_See 1924._) + Her Brother’s Keeper. S. E. P. Feb. 14. (14.) + Judgment from Paris. S. E. P. Jan. 24. (14.) + + HALE, EDWARD EVERETT. (1822–1909.) (_See 1920._) + ***Man Without a Country. (_R._) Ev. July. (99.) + + HALE, LOUISE CLOSSER. (1872– .) (_See 1922._) (_H._) + *“Oh, New York! New York!” W. H. C. Jan. (9.) + Once Aboard a French Canal Boat. L. H. J. Sept. (10.) + + HALL, HAZEL. + **Boy Passes By. Mid. Apr. 1. (11:141.) + *On a Park Bench. Mid. Apr. 1. (11:154.) + Red Hat. Mid. Apr. 1. (11:156.) + + “HALL, HOLWORTHY.” (PORTER, HAROLD EVERETT.) (1887– .) (_See 1924._) + (_H._) + Bachelor in Biarritz. Cos. Sept. (62.) + Holiday Love. Des. June. (5.) + In Picardie. S. E. P. Nov. 29, ’24. (16.) + Obolensky Pennon. S. E. P. Dec. 6, ’24. (8.) + Treasure Hunt. Des. Sept. (12.) + + HALL, JAMES NORMAN. + ***Forgotten One. Atl. Mar. (135:289.) + + HALL, JARVIS. + The ladies of His Family. W. H. C. Sept. (20.) + + HALL, JOSEPH W. (“UPTON CLOSE.”) (_See 1916._) + *Dyeing Vat. D. D. July. (8:204.) + + HALL, WILBUR J. (_See 1924._) + Big-Hearted Bandit. Cos. June. (38.) + Jeanette Takes It Easy. Am. Oct., ’24. (20.) + *Three Old-Timers. Am. July. (20.) + + HALLET, RICHARD MATTHEWS. (1887– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Kitchen Democrat. S. E. P. May 30. (10.) + Tame Crow. S. E. P. June 15. (14.) + *Transient Woman. S. E. P. Jan. 31. (8.) + **Winter Kill. S. E. P. June 27. (10.) + + HANSON, NELL. + Enemy by Command. McC. Sept. (1:754.) + + HARDY, ARTHUR SHERBURNE. (1847– .) (_See 1922._) (_H._) + ***Ambassador (_R._) Gol. July. (2:5.) + + HARRIS, FRANK MANN. + Journal of Willie. S. E. P. Dec. 6, ’24. (10.) + Willie Painter, Matchmaker. S. E. P. Aug. 22. (34.) + Willie Painter, Strategist. S. E. P. Apr. 11. (44.) + + HARRIS, KENNETT. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Contented Soul. S. E. P. Mar. 21. (12.) + Food of Love. S. E. P. Mar. 7. (24.) Jael. S. E. P. May 2. (22.) + Next to Godliness. S. E. P. April 4. (16.) + Straight and Narrow Path. S. E. P. Jan. 17. (40.) + + HART, FRANCES NOYES. (1890– .) (_See 1924._) + *Happy Ending. McCall. Oct., ’24. (12.) + + HARTE, FRANCIS BRET. (1839–1902.) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Brown of Calaveras (_R._) Gol. Jan. (1:119.) + ***Passage in the Life of Mr. John Oakhurst. (_R._) Gol. Mar. + (1:384.) + + HASTY, JOHN EUGENE. + Born Unlucky. Hol. Oct., ’24. (18.) + + HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL. (1804–1864.) (_See 1921._) + ***Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment. (_R._) Ev. Sept. (95.) + ***Virtuoso’s Collection. (_R._) Gol. July. (2:79.) + + HAY, JAMES, JR. (1881– .) (_See 1915._) (_H._) + Fair Chance. Chic. Trib. May 17. + + HECHT, BEN. (1896– .) (_See 1923._) + ***Lindro the Great. Ly. July 11. (9) + Sentimentalist. A. Merc. Oct., ’24. (3:213.) + + HEFFERNAN, DEAN L. (_See 1922._) + Sentenced to Six Months. Am. May. (51.) + + HELLMAN, SAM. (_See 1924._) + Ebon Emu. S. E. P. Feb. 14. (20.) + Homebodies. S. E. P. Jan. 3. (14.) + Let ’Em Hit ’Em. S. E. P. May 2. (12.) + Meet the Life. S. E. P. April 4. (50.) + Mike Signs Off. S. E. P. July 11. (28.) + Roaring Rabbit. S. E. P. April 18. (14.) + Seven Hearts in San Sablo. S. E. P. Sept. 12. (16.) + Sure Shouter. S. E. P. Dec. 20, ’24. (36.) + + HEMINGWAY, ERNEST. (_See 1924._) + ***Cross-Country Snow. Tr. Dec., ’24. (2:633.) + ***Doctor and the Doctor’s Wife. Tr. Nov., ’24. (2:497.) + ***Mr. and Mrs. Elliot. Lit. R. Autumn-Winter. (9.) + + “HENRY, O.” (PORTER, WILLIAM SYDNEY.) (1867–1910.) (_See 1920._) + (_H._) + ***Caballero’s Way. (_R._) Ev. June. (113.) + ***Handbook of Hymen. (_R._) Gol. May. (1:655.) + ***Phonograph and the Graft. (_R._) Gol. Jan. (1:15.) + ***Rathskeller and the Rose. (_R._) Gol. Feb. (1:175.) + ***Roads of Destiny. (_R._) Ain. Sept. (49.) + + HEPBURN, ELIZABETH NEWPORT. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Blue Counterpane. Cos. Feb. (40.) + + HERFORD, OLIVER. (1863– .) + Impossible Pudding. L. H. J. Dec., ’24. (24.) + + HERGESHEIMER, JOSEPH. (1880– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + **Merry Dale. McCall. April. (16.) + + HERRICK, GERTRUDE. (_See 1924._) + *Passage. Echo. Aug. (1.) + + HESS, LEONARD L. (_See 1924._) + *Eighth Wonder. Am. H. Aug. 21. (117:439.) + + HEYWARD, DUBOSE. (_See 1919._) + *Crown’s Bess. For. Aug. (74:246.) Sept. (74:430.) + + HIBBEN, PAXTON. (1880– .) + ***Young Man with Great Possessions. Col. April 11. (7.) + + HICKMAN, W. ALBERT. (_H._) + **New Power (_R._) Gol. Aug. (2:149.) + + HILL, MARION. (MRS. CHARLES R. HILL.) (1870– .) (_See 1915._) (_H._) + Time in Court. McC. June. (80.) + + HINES, JACK. (_See 1923._) (_H._) + Gabe’s Ornery Kid. Ly. Nov. 29, ’24. (19.) + + HIRSCH, J. ALBERT. + *Rosebush. Am. H. Oct. 31, ’24. (115:781.) + + HISE, ALICE VAN. _See_ VAN HISE, ALICE. + + HOLDING, ELIZABETH SANXAY. (1889– .) (_See 1924._) + Another Blue Day. W. H. C. Sept. (23.) + Long Night. L. H. J. Sept. (23.) + *Marionette. Cen. Jun. (110:209.) + Mrs. Prunes. W. H. C. May. (30.) + + HOLT, HENRY P. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Beachcomber. Chic. Trib. Oct. 5, ’24. + Creeping Shadow. Ly. Jun. 6. (48.) + On the Plinth. Ly. Aug. 22. (14.) + + HOLTON, EDITH AUSTIN. + Silhouettes. Hol. Jun. (11.) + + HOPE, EDWARD. + Almost a Gentleman. S. E. P. Feb. 28. (12.) + Practically Perfect Copy. Col. May 23. (16.) + + HOPPER, JAMES MARIE. (1876– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *At the End of the Line. Col. Oct. 18, ’24. (15.) + *Bianchetta. Col. Nov. 22, ’24. (10.) + **Debts of John Goodwin. W. H. C. Mar. (21.) + Father and Son. S. E. P. Oct. 25, ’24. (10.) + *Juan Peralta. Col. Dec. 13, ’24. (15.) + + HORNE, JOHN. + *How the Cobbler Married the Dey’s Wife. Asia. Oct., ’24. (24:773.) + + HORNE, W. + Contrariwise. S. E. P. Oct. 11, ’24. (18.) + + HOSSFIELD, MARIAN. + Afterglow. W. Tom. Apr. (110.) + + HOUSTON, MARGARET BELLE. (_See 1923._) (_H._) + ***Gold Picayune. Pict. R. Aug. (13.) + + HOVEY, CARL. (1875– .) (_H._) + Knight in Armor. Cos. Dec., ’24. (90.) + + HOVEY, PRISCILLA. (_See 1924._) + Father Who Didn’t Understand. Am. Apr. (57.) + Gift without the Giver. Am. Dec., ’24. (38.) + + HOWARD, SIDNEY. (1891– .) + Likeness of Elizabeth. McCall. Nov., ’24. (6.) + ***Such Women as Ellen Steele. Scr. Jan. (77:64.) + + HUGHES, LLEWELLYN. (_See 1924._) + Running Fool. Ly. Jul. 25. (48.) + + HUGHES, RUPERT. (1872– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Average Husband. Hear. Jan. (14.) + By Their Fruits Ye Shall Know. Red Bk. Aug. (80.) + Daughter of Today. Cos. Aug. (58.) + Every Boy. S. E. P. Sept. 5. (8.) + Let X = Love. Cos. Apr. (100.) + *Love and Nagasqua. McCall. Feb. (9.) + Mr. Spendthrift and Mr. Tightwad. Cos. Mar. (28.) + *News of No Importance. Col. Sept. 26. (22.) + *Suspense. Ly. Feb. 7. (5.) + + HULL, ALEXANDER. (1887– .) (_See 1924._) + Meanest Man in the County. Am. Apr. (48.) + + HULL, HELEN R. (_See 1924._) + Overstuffed. Col. May 2. (7.) + Summer Storms. Col. Aug. 22. (19.) + + HUMASON, SALLY. (_See 1924._) + Friends. Col. Jan. 10. (22.) + + HUME, CYRIL. + Street of the Malcontents. Red Bk. Feb. (23.) + + HURST, FANNIE. (1889– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Gold in Fish. Cos. Aug. (28.) + **House of Men. Cos. Sept. (56.) + + HURSTON, ZORA NEALE. + *Drenched in Light. Opp. Dec., ’24. (2:371.) + *Spunk. Opp. June. (3:171.) + + HUSSEY, L. M. (_See 1924._) + ***Conclusion. A. Merc. Dec., ’24. (3:451.) + *Recompense. Mun. Mar. (84:289.) + ***Reunion. Guar. Jan. (4.) + + HUSTON, MCCREADY. (_See 1924._) + Dottie. Scr. Aug. (78:115.) + **Immune. Scr. Dec., ’24. (76:598.) + “Mr. Silverthorne, Please.” Red Bk. Jul. (95.) + Shingle Bob. Red Bk. Jun. (70.) + Wrath. Scr. May. (77:516.) + + HYDE, J. AMOND. + *Toward Carcassonne. Cath. W. Oct., ’24. (120:52.) + + + I + + IRWIN, INEZ HAYNES. (INEZ HAYNES GILLMORE.) (1873– .) (_See 1924._) + (_See “H” under_ GILLMORE.) + Irish Language. Ev. Jul. (42.) + *Queens. McCall. May. (5.) + + IRWIN, WALLACE. (1875– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Shah’s Silver. Col. Sept. 26. (5.) + + IRWIN, WILL(IAM HENRY). (1873– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + Cloudburst. Col. Mar. 14. (5.) + Where the Treasure Lies. Cos. Feb. (78.) + + + J + + JACKSON, CHARLES TENNEY. (1874– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Silk. Sh. St. Apr. 25. (99.) + + JAMES, HENRY. (1843–1916.) (_See 1921._) (_H._) + ***Miss Gunton of Poughkeepsie. (_R._) Gol. Apr. (1:519.) + + JAMES, WILL. + *Filling in the Cracks. S. W. Jul. (3.) + *His Waterloo. Red Bk. Sept. (93.) + *Ride ’Im, Cowboy! Red Bk. Aug. (84.) + + JAMESON, HAUTE TARKINGTON. (_See 1924._) + *Pennsylvania Street Car, G. H. Dec., ’24. (52.) + + JANVIER, THOMAS ALLIBONE. (1849–1913.) (_See 1921._) (_H._) + **Passing of Thomas. (_R._) Gol. Apr. (1:561.) + ***Poodle of Mr. Gaillard. (_R._) Gol. Jul. (2:68.) + + JAVITZ, ALEXANDER. + *Sholem. Am. H. Jan. 23. (116:339.) + + JAY, MAE FOSTER. (_See 1922._) + Husbands and Wives. Des. Apr. (8.) + + JENKINS, WILL F. + Kid. Ly. Sept. 26. (51.) + + JEWELL, EDWARD ALDEN. (1888– .) (_See 1923._) + Poet Passes. Chic. Trib. Aug. 2. + + JITRO, WILLIAM C. G. (1890– .) (_See 1923._) + ***Holiday. Lit. R. Spring. (37.) + + JOHNSON, AGNES C. _See_ WOLFF, WILLIAM ALMON, _and_ JOHNSON, AGNES C. + + JOHNSON, ARTHUR. (1881– .) (_See 1922._) (_H._) + **Mrs. Eben Paul. Harp. M. Jan. (150:196.) + + JOHNSON, NUNNALLY. + Death of an Infinitive Splitter. S. E. P. Sept. 5. (24.) + Hearse Horse. S. E. P. Apr. 11. (16.) + Hero. S. E. P. Mar. 14. (28.) + Laughing Death. S. E. P. Apr. 25. (49.) + Lovelorn. S. E. P. Mar. 28. (24.) + Rollicking God. S. E. P. Oct. 11, ’24. (8.) + + JOHNSON, OWEN MCMAHON. (1878– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Collector. Del. Nov., ’24. (7.) + For Benefit of Clergy. Red Bk. Nov., ’24. (38.) + Girl Who Was Misunderstood. Del. Oct., ’24. (9.) + + JOHNSTON, CALVIN. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Agent at Showdown. Pop. Dec. 7, ’24. (154.) + *Blood of the Brave. Pop. Feb. 20. (95.) + *Boomer Outlaw. Col. Dec. 20, ’24. (15.) + *Desperado Born. Col. Nov. 29, ’24. (15.) + *Mail for Roaring River. Pop. Feb. 7. (146.) + *Marty McCall’s Monument. Col. Mar. 28. (11.) + *Stocking of Snow. Pop. Dec. 20, ’24. (129.) + *Traveler’s Choice. Pop. Oct. 7, ’24. (105.) + *Valentine Moon. Col. Feb. 14. (7.) + + JONES, EUGENE. (_See 1924._) + Captain Jed’s Golden Rule. Col. Mar. 21. (10.) + Rattler. Ly. Jan. 24. (40.) + Seaworthy. Am. Feb. (21.) + + JORDAN, ELIZABETH GARVER. (1867– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Audacity Wins ‘Em. Ly. Feb. 28. (28.) + Aurelia Cultivates Charm. Ly. Jun. 28, ’24. (14.) + Dellingham’s Little Comedy. Chic. Trib. Jun. 21. + John Arthur’s Number. Hol. May. (8.) + Sally and Her Black Knight. Chic. Trib. Feb. 22. + + JORGENSEN, NELS LEROY. + Clown Who Forgot to be Funny. Am. Jan. (42.) + + JORGENSON, R. K. + Law of Nature. Ev. Apr. (154.) + + JOSSLYN, TALBERT. (_See 1924._) + Emory in High. McC. Sept. (1:683.) + + + K + + KAHLER, HUGH MACNAIR. (1883– .) (_See 1924._) + Alive and Single. S. E. P. Dec. 13, ’24. (16.) + Anachronism. S. E. P. Dec. 20, ’24. (14.) + Bottom of the Well. S. E. P. Sept. 12. (18.) + Exile. S. E. P. Oct. 11, ’24. (20.) + Houses. S. E. P. Aug. 22. (8.) + Jasmine. S. E. P. Jun. 13. (20.) + Roman Law. S. E. P. Mar. 21. (22.) + Stargazer. S. E. P. May 23. (12.) + Stillburn Fashion. S. E. P. Feb. 28. (18.) + Tether. S. E. P. Apr. 18. (24.) + Unhappy End. S. E. P. Nov. 15, ’24. (16.) + Vacation. S. E. P. May 9. (22.) + + KANDEL, ABRAHAM. (_See 1923._) + *Grimace. Am. H. Apr. 3. (116:621.) + *Pity. Men. J. Aug. (11:342.) + + KAY, GERTRUDE ALICE. (1884– .) + Bunny Face and The Spirit of Christmas. L. H. J. Dec., ’24. (22.) + + KELLAND, CLARENCE BUDINGTON. (1881– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Also-Ran. Ly. May 24, ’24. (12.) + Applied Germicide. S. E. P. Sept. 26. (16.) + Breakfast. L. H. J. Jan. (8.) + Call Boy. Ly. Jun. 6. (5.) + Dinner. L. H. J. Mar. (24.) + Luncheon. L. H. J. Feb. (20.) + Not in the Scenario. Ly. Jan. 24. (8.) + Scattergood Sums Up the Evidence. Am. Jul. (30.) + Scattergood Takes a Flier in Human Nature. Am. Aug. (28.) + Stage Carpenter. Ly. May 9. (11.) + + KELLEY, ELLSWORTH E. (_H._) + Little Boy and His Pa. (_R._) McC. May. (1:109.) + + KEMPTON, KENNETH PAYSON. (1891– .) (_See 1923._) + Bale. Chic. Trib. Mar. 29. + Clear Havana. Col. Aug. 1. (15.) + + KERR, SOPHIE. (1880– .) (_See “H” under_ UNDERWOOD, SOPHIE KERR.) + And on the Other Hand--. Pict. R. Oct., ’24. (14.) + Featherheads. S. E. P. Jan. 10. (42.) + Jeanne and Louise Were Friends. W. H. C. Jul. (14.) + Mary Could Cook. L. H. J. Jun. (32.) + No Man’s Gift. Del. Apr. (6.) + Puddle Duck. S. E. P. Oct. 25, ’24. (12.) + Tears. S. E. P. Mar. 21. (18.) + Tempered Peace. W. H. C. Oct., ’24. (18.) + Something Good. S. E. P. Aug. 15. (18.) + + KIELAR, WILLIAM J. + Getting Rid of Macklin. McC. Sept. (1:720.) + + KILBOURNE, FANNIE. (“MARY ALEXANDER.”) (_See 1924._) + *Battle of the Honeymoon. Am. Nov., ’24. (39.) + Clinging Vine. Red Bk. Dec., ’24. (68.) + Cynthia Comes Out. S. E. P. Apr. 4. (12.). + Dulcie Gets into the Rough. Am. Jan. (8.) + Education of Sally May. Col. May 23. (7.) + Gossip. Am. Mar. (13.) + Nancy Goes Romance Hunting. Am. Feb. (38.) + Kathleen’s Mother. L. H. J. Aug. (8.). + Twins! Am. Dec., ’24. (21.) + Will Deals With the Trouble-Maker. Am. Sept. (21.) + Will Keeps His Eye on the Ball. Am. Jul. (39.) + Woman’s Place Is in the Home. S. E. P. Nov. 15, ’24. (28.) + + KILMAN, JULIAN. (1878– .) (_See 1923._) + Fetters of Youth. Echo. Jul. (1.) + Old Fumble Fingers. Echo. Mar. (1.) + + KING, WILLIAM BENJAMIN BASIL. (1850– .) (_See 1918._) (_H._) + *Heaven. Cos. Dec., ’24. (82.) + + KIRK, R. G. (_See 1924._) + Air Hose. S. E. P. May 9. (16.) + Twenty-Third Degree. S. E. P. Oct. 18, ’24. (14.) + + KNAPP, ETHEL MARJORIE. + Temptation. Strat. Jan. (4:12.) + + KNOWLTON, CLARKE. (_See 1924._) + ***Bridegroom. Scr. Jun. (77:629.) + ***Lost Story. Scr. Aug. (78:173.) + + KOMROFF, MANUEL. (1890– .) (_See 1924._) + ***Beating of the Reeds. Guar. May-Jun. (1:314.) + ***Grace of Lambs. Atl. Mar. (135:376.) + ***How Does It Feel to Be Free. Atl. Sept. (136:329.) + + KREBS, ROLAND. + Airy Adrienne Takes the Air. S. E. P. Sept. 5. (12.) + Go West, Young Woman. S. E. P. Sept. 26. (52.) + + KUMMER, FREDERICK ARNOLD. (1873– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Diamond Cut Diamond. Ly. Dec. 13, ’24. (40.) + Transaction in Pearls. Ly. Nov. 22, ’24. + + KYNE, PETER BERNARD. (1880– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Bluebird. Cos. Feb. (16.) + Cappy Ricks and the Mystic Isles. Cos. Mar. (36.) + Lonely Man of Pahang. Cos. May. (50.) + Thoroughbreds. Cos. Sept. (50.) + + + L + + LADD, FREDERIC P. + Mr. Bulltaker’s Ladder. Hol. Apr. (15.) + + LANE, D. R. (_See 1924._) + Illegal Attachment. Sun. Nov., ’24. (30.) + + LANE, ROSE WILDER. (1877– .) (_See 1924._) + *The Blue Bead. Harp. M. Jun. (150:34.) + + LAPE, FREDERICK H. + Mrs. McCumber. Col. May 9. (22.) + + LARDNER, RING. W. (1885– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + ***Haircut. Ly. Mar. 28. (5.) + **Love Nest. Cos. Aug. (52.) + *Mr. and Mrs. Fix-It. Ly. May 9. (5.) + *Women. Ly. Jun. 20. (5.) + ***Zone of Quiet. Cos. Jun. (44.) + + LARSSON, GENEVIEVE. (_See 1924._) + *Astrid and the Hill Folk. Pict. R. Dec., ’24. (12.) + + LATHROP, HARLEY P. (_See 1923._) + Fightin’ Heart of a Mick. Ly. Nov. 22, ’24. + + LATIMER, MARGERY. (_See 1924._) + *Possession. Echo. Feb. (5.) + + LAURISTON, VICTOR. + Not Black, nor White, but Gray. Hol. Apr. (22.) + + LAWLOR, MARGRETTA SCOTT. + *John O’Keefe, the Blacksmith. D. D. Apr. (7:123.) + + LAZARUS, SIDNEY F. (_See 1924._) + Me and Hercules. S. E. P. Jul. 4. (18.) + That Patterson Girl. S. E. P. May 23. (24.) + + LEA, FANNIE HEASLIP. (MRS. H. P. AGEE.) (1884– .) (_See 1924._) + (_H._) + Bon Voyage. G. H. Oct., ’24. (26.) + Dusk to Dawn. G. H. Jan. (26.) + Mr. Conway’s Femme. S. E. P. May 16. (8.) + + LEACH, A. R. + **Captain Out of Etruria. Harp. M. Apr. (150:532.) + + LEE, ALICE LOUISE. (1868– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Ching Wing Adds Works to Faith. Hol. Jan. (26.) + Ching Wing Diagnoses a Case. Hol. Nov., ’24 (23.) + + LEE, JENNETTE BARBOUR PERRY. (1860– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Loneliness of Peter Parrot. G. H. Jan. (36.) + + LEECH, MARGARET KERNOCHAN. (1893– .) (_See 1923._) + Little White Village. Cen. Jul. (110:272.) + + LEFEVRE, EDWIN. (1871– .) (_See 1916._) (_H._) + Brick. S. E. P. Jul. 18. (9.) + + LEFEVRE, FRANCES. + **Victor--Who? Atl. Jul. (136:89.) + + LEHMAN, B. H. (1889– .) + ***Sons. Harp. M. Jan. (150:169.) + + LEMMON, ROBERT S. (_See 1924._) + Terry from Tenth. Hol. Apr. (7.) + + LENGEL, WILLIAM CHARLES. (1888– .) (_See 1924._) + Pure Sentiment. McCall. Jan. (20.) + + LEON, WALTER DE. _See_ DE LEON, WALTER. + + “LESSING, BRUNO.” (RUDOLPH BLOCK.) (1870– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + “Contigo” Means “I’m Yours.” Cos. Feb. (100.) + Dumplings for Two. Cos. Oct., ’24. (98.) + Husband for Rosie. Cos. May. (104.) + Jolly Good Fellow. Cos. Jul. (112.) + Lapidowitz Spills the Beans. Cos. Aug. (112.) + Peach of a Stenographer. Cos. Jun. (110.) + Sadie Sows a Wild Oat. Cos. Mar. (110.) + Who’s Boss Now! Cos. Nov., ’24. (69.) + Wooing of Lindl. Cos. Jan. (100.) + + LEVIEN, SONYA. + Gunwoman. Ev. Apr. (65.) + + LEVITAN, MORTIMER. + Legerdemain. McC. May. (1:39.) + + LEWIS, ALFRED HENRY. (“DAN QUINN.”) (1842–1914.) (_H._) + **Man from Red Dog. (_R._) Gol. Apr. (1:495.) + + LEWIS, MILDRED ALEXANDER. _See_ “ALEXANDER, SANDRA.” + + LHEVINNE, I. + **Idyll of the Steppe. Am. H. Jan. 16. (116:309.) + + LIEBERMAN, ELIAS. (1883– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Semi-Nordic. Am. H. Apr. 10. (116:678.) + + LIGGETT, WALTER W. + Guardian of the Virgin Gold. Col. Sept. 12. (11.) + + LINNELL, GERTRUDE. + Transplanted. McC. Jul. (1:354.) + + LITSEY, EDWIN CARLISLE. (1874– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + *James Parkway Comes Home. Ind. Feb. 14. (114:183.) + + LIVINGSTON, FLORENCE BINGHAM. + Boy Who Jumped the Fence. Am. Sept. (43.) + + LOEB, ELENE D. + *Empty Days. Am. H. Sept. 25. (117:635.) + + LONDON, JACK. (1876–1916.) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***House of Mapuhi. (_R._) Gol. Jun. (1:832.) + ***Love of Life. (_R._) Gol. Feb. (1:165.) + + LONG, HANIEL. (_See 1923._) + *Garden of Rosemonde. Mid. Jan. 15. (11:38.) + *Highroad to the West. Mid. Jan. 15. (11:33.) + *Introduction to a Revery. Mid. Jan. 15. (11:44.) + + LORING, EMILIE. + Glycerine Tears. Del. Mar. (8.) + + LOVELACE, DELOS W. _See also_ LOVELACE, MAUD HART, _and_ LOVELACE, + DELOS W. (_See 1924._) + *Boot. C. G. May 2. (1.) + *Country Queer. C. G. May 2. (8.) + *Cutting Edge. C. G. Apr. 11. (6.) + *Danny. C. G. Jul. 11. (6.) + *Fiddlefoot. S. E. P. Jul. 18. (5.) + *Pull-Away. C. G. Mar. 28. (10.) + *Lucky Year. C. G. Feb. 7. (3.) + *Inheritance. C. G. Dec. 20, ’24. (4.) + *Sold. C. G. Aug. 1. (10.) + *Swap. C. G. May 23. (10.) + *Whip Hand. C. G. Jun. 13. (10.) + + LOVELACE, MAUD HART. (_See 1924._) + *Carcassonne Flyer. Sun. Apr. (34.) + Love’s Daily Dozen. Del. Aug. (3.) + + LOVELACE, MAUD HART, _and_ LOVELACE, DELOS W. (_See 1924._) + *Carmelita, Widow. Cath. W. Oct., ’24. (120:12.) + + LOVEWELL, REINETTE. (_See 1923._) + Hiram Turns Twenty-One. Hol. Apr. (11.) + + LOW, EMERSON. + *Man Who Had Been Away. Scr. May. (77:503.) + + LOWELL, AMY. (1874–1925.) (_See 1924._) + ***Conversion of a Saint. Book. (N. Y.) Oct., ’24. (60:139.) + + LUTHER, MARK LEE. (1872– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + Incomplete Angler. W. H. C. Jul. (25.) + Liberal Reward. W. H. C. Mar. (19.) + Under New Management. Ly. Sept. 5. (51.) + + LYLE, EUGENE P., JR. (1873– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Holder of the Note. Chic. Trib. Nov. 2, ’24. + + + M + + MABIE, LOUISE KENNEDY. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Prairie’s Double Chin. L. H. J. Feb. (16.) + + MACALARNEY, ROBERT EMMET. (1873– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Gone to Glory. Col. Feb. 28. (5.) + Gunman’s Widow. Ly. June 7, ’24. (12.) + + MCBLAIR, ROBERT. (_See 1922._) + Miss DeGraff’s Geranium. Pict. R. May. (10.) + + MCCARDELL, ROY LARCOM. (1870– .) + Highboy and His Hannah. S. E. P. Dec. 6, ’24. (30.) + + MCCARTER, MARGARET HILL. + Candle in the Window. McCall. Dec., ’24. (10.) + + MCCLELLAND, MARION. + Not on the Bill. Col. Oct. 4, ’24. (14.) + + MCCLUNG, NELLIE LETITIA MOONEY. (1873– .) (_H._) + *Neutral Fuse. MacL. Dec. 1, ’24. (28.) + + MCCLURE, JOHN. (_See 1924._) + *Grammarian. A. Merc. Dec., ’24. (3:399.) + + MCCOY, SAMUEL DUFF. (1882– .) (_H._) + Prudence. Col. Oct. 18, ’24. (10.) + + MCCULLUM, MELLA RUSSELL. (_See 1924._) + Another Day. Col. Nov. 8, ’24. (18.) + Roots. Col. Aug. 29. (28.) + + MACDONALD, EDWINA LEVIN. (_See 1924._) + Black and White Magic. Ev. May. (14.) + + MACDONALD, HAZEL CHRISTIE. + Husband for George-Anne. S. E. P. Feb. 7. (16.) + Jo-Jo and the Marvelous Prince. Hol. Dec., ’24. (7.) + + MCDONALD, ROBERTA. + In the Tennessee Hills. McC. Jun. (1:37.) + + MCFADDEN, MARION. + *Pescecani. Ind. May 9. (114:521.) + + MCGEEHAN, W. O. (1879– .) (_See 1924._) + Barber of Broadway. Col. Nov. 1, ’24. (14.) + Nerve. Ly. Aug. 29. (12.) + Slide Trombone. Ly. May 23. (33.) + This Sporting Life. Col. Dec. 13, ’24. (5.) + Those Fearful Fillies. Ly. Jul. 4. (44.) + + MACGILL, CAROLINE E. (_See 1924._) + Downfall of Sister Winefride. Cath. W. Oct., ’24. (120:81.) + Old Path. Cath. W. Jun. (121:334.) + Soul at the Crossroads. Cath. W. Jan. (120:504.) + Way of Ethel Holroyd. Cath. W. Jul. (121:503.) + + MACGRATH, HAROLD. (1871– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Cellini Plaque. S. E. P. Jan. 17. (5.) + Two Faces. Ly. Jan. 10. (32.) + Sporting Spinster. S. E. P. Feb. 7. (8.) + + MCINTYRE, O.O. + That Glee-or-ious Fourth. Cos. Jul. (60.) + + MACKENDRICK, MARDA. (_See 1919._) + Sunlight. Hol. Dec., ’24. (18.) + + MCMORROW, THOMAS. (_See 1924._) + All in the Family. S. E. P. Oct. 11, ’24. (12.) + And All Things Else. S. E. P. Jan. 3. (20.) + Anything to Oblige. S. E. P. Feb. 21, (30.). + Appointed Task. S. E. P. May 30. (12.) + As It Was in the Beginning. S. E. P. May 23. (40.) + Candidate. S. E. P. Oct. 25, ’24. (14.) + Counselor Ambrose Hinkle. S. E. P. Jun. 6. (5). + Found Money. S. E. P. Mar. 14. (14.) + Give a Man Luck. S. E. P. Feb. 7. (18.) + In Re Dollar-a-Step Company. S. E. P. Jul. 18. (12.) + Joe Yorick Strives to Please. S. E. P. Dec. 13, ’24. (22.) + Mr. Pethick Meets the Check-Grabbers. S. E. P. Feb. 28. (10.) + People Against Foleron. S. E. P. Aug. 1. (12.) + People Against Hylebut. S. E. P. Jun. 27. (12.) + People Against Joynes. S. E. P. Sept. 26, ’24. (22.) + Those Were the Happy Days. S. E. P. Jan. 10. (14.) + Votes for Women. S. E. P. Nov. 8, ’24. (16.) + + MCNARY, HERBERT L. + Hail! Hail! the Gang’s All Here. Col. Jan. 17. (10.) + + MCNUTT, WILLIAM SLAVENS. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Boy from the Patch. Col. Nov. 29, ’24. (10.) + Buddy’s One Idea. Ev. Aug. (75.) + Course of Blue Love. Col. Oct. 25, ’24. (10.) + Harbor Luck. Col. Aug. 22. (7.) + In Business for Himself. Col. Feb. 7. (7.) + It’s a Great Game. Ly. Apr. 11. (35.) + Money Ain’t Everything. Ly. Jul. 18. (15.) + Strong. Ly. Feb. 7. (16.) + Temporarily Out of Order. Ly. May 17, ’24. (7.) + Jazz Justice. Col. Dec. 27, ’24. (5.) + + MARKEY, CORINNE HARRIS. (_See 1923._) + *Mystery of Room 513. Am. Dec., ’24. (9.) + + MARKS, PERCY. + **Hail, Friend! Book. (N. Y.). Dec., ’24. (60:449.) + + MARQUAND, JOHN PHILLIPS. (1893– .) (_See 1924._) + Big Guys. S. E. P. Feb. 21. (42.) + **Educated Money. S. E. P. Feb. 14. (10.) + *Foot of the Class. S. E. P. Mar. 21. (3.) + Friend of the Family. S. E. P. Dec. 13, ’24. (8.) + Much Too Clever. S. E. P. Apr. 25. (8.). + Jamaica Road. S. E. P. Jul. 4. (5.) + ***Old Man. S. E. P. Jun. 6. (10.) + + MARQUIS, DON. (1878– .) (_See 1921._) (_H._) + **Carter. (_R._) Gol. Feb. (1:235.) + + MARSH, GEORGE T. (1876– .) (_See 1922._) (_H._) + Outlaw. Red Bk. May. (42.) + Vengeance of Black Fox. Red Bk. Sept. (42.) + + MARSH, HOWARD R. (1893– .) + ***Rebellion. Inc. Jan. 17. (114:65.) + + MARTYN, WYNDHAM. (1875– .) (_See 1924._) + Love Rides Up in a Flivver. Cos. Apr. (85.) + Wisdom of Eve. Hear. Dec., ’24. (27.) + Youth Is Stranger Than Fiction. Ly. Jun. 21, ’24. (38.) + + MASON, ARTHUR. (1876– .) (_See 1924._) + *Aboard the Lazy Wave. Blue Bk. Aug. (125.) + **Cuckoo Clock. Red Bk. Dec., ’24. (85.) + *Rescue. Red Bk. Nov., ’24. (86.) + *Sea’s Sam. Sea. Dec., ’24. (87.) + *Syncopated Sailor. Blue Bk. Sept. (110.) + *True Love and the Widow Fay. Book. (N. Y.). Jul. (61:524.) + + MASON, GRACE SARTWELL. (1877– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Cinderella Steps Out. S. E. P. Nov. 8, ’24. (29.) + *Excess Baggage. Red Bk. Jan. (42.) + ***Gray Spell. S. E. P. Mar. 28. (18.) + Indian Summer. S. E. P. Aug. 1. (16.) + + MASON, GREGORY. (1889– .) (_See 1924._) + Lemon Pie. A. Merc. Jul. (5:314.) + + MASTERS, HELEN GENEVA. + *Cynthia: A Silhouette. Mid. Dec., ’24. (10:446.) + + MATHES, C. HODGE. (_See 1924._) + As We Forgive. Ev. Aug. (143.) + **Linkster. Ev. Oct., ’24. (176.) + + MATHEUS, JOHN F. (1887– .) + ***Fog. Opp. May. (3:144.) + + MATHEY, FABYAN. (1903– .) + ***Sunday. Book. (N. Y.) Apr. (61:139.) + + MAY, STELLA BURKE. + Theodora Sees Her World. Hol. Nov., ’24. (14.) + + MELLETT, BERTHE KNATVOLD. (_See 1924._) + Anna Martin. McCall. Apr. (10.) + + MELVILLE, HERMAN. (1819–1891.) + ***Fight with the White Whale. (_R._) Gol. Aug. (2:183.) + + “MELVIN, P.” + *Pogrom. J. T. Dec. 26, ’24. (2.) + + MERWIN, SAMUEL. (1874– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Babes in Hollywood. Ly. Nov. 8, ’24. (12.) + Baby Spot. Ly. May 31, ’24. (3.) + More Stately Mansions. Red Bk. Oct., ’24. (27.) + Staccato. Ev. Jul. (26.) + What’ll I Do? Red Bk. Jun. (56.) + + MEZQUIDA, ANNA BLAKE. (_See 1924._) + Unwritten Book. Hol. Jan. (20.) + + MICHENER, CARROLL K. (_See 1924._) + Eye of Precious Mountain. Hol. Mar. (12.) + Green Jaguar. Asia. Dec., ’24. (24:970.) + Pig Calypso. Col. Jun. 20. (18.) + *Pigweed. Chic. Trib. Mar. 22. + Skyscraper in Spain. Chic. Trib. Apr. 12. + Wren’s Nest. Hol. Sept. (22.) + + MILLER, ALICE DUER. (1874– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Action. Des. Feb. (5.) + Great City. Pict. R. Sept. (5.) + Juliet and Mercutio. W. H. C. Dec., ’24. (22.) + Three Ladies. W. H. C. Jun. (9.) + Two Poets and a Burglar. Des. Mar. (10.) + + MILLER, EVELYN DEWEY. + *Who Sit and Wait. S. W. Jul. (78.) + + MILLER, HELEN TOPPING. (1884– .) (_See 1924._) + Buoy off Thunderhead. Hol. Sept. (18.) + Channel Water. Am. Jan. (21.) + Long Knife and a Merry One. Hol. Jan. (16.) + Quitters. Hol. May. (19.) + They Speak Only to God. G. H. Apr. (46.) + + MILLER, JEWELL. + World in a Nutshell. Cath. W. Feb. (120:589.) + + MILLIS, WALTER. (1899– .) (_See 1924._) + *Jason. Harp. M. May. (150:713.) + + MILLS, DOROTHY CULVER. (_See 1924._) + Bits of Wood. Hol. Feb. (7.) + Matter of Luck. Hol. Nov., ’24. (18.) + + MINNIGERODE, MEADE. (1887– .) (_See 1924._) + *Pop-Eyed Cow. Ev. Oct., ’24. (53.) + + MITCHELL, ELEANOR EARLY. (_See 1924_.) + Ghost of Yesterday. Macf. Dec., ’24. (22.) + + MITCHELL, RUTH COMFORT. (MRS. SANBORN YOUNG.) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Blood and Tears. Red Bk. Feb. (43.) + Contempt of Families. W. H. C. Jul. (9.) + Crossroads. Red Bk. May. (84.) + Into Her Kingdom. Red Bk. Mar. (71.) + I Saw Three Ships Go Sailing By! W. H. C. Jan. (17.) + Little Sister. Red Bk. Jun. (80.) + + MONTAGUE, MARGARET PRESCOTT. (1878– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Great Theme. N. A. Rev. Mar. (221:522.) + ***Roots. Atl. Aug. (136:230.) + + MONTGOMERY, LUCY MAUD. (MRS. EWEN MACDONALD.) (1874– .) (_H._) + *Enter, Emily. Del. Jan. (10.) + *Her Dog Day. Del. Apr. (10.) + *Night Watch. Del. Mar. (10.) + *Too Few Cooks. Del. Feb. (10.) + + MONTROSS, LOIS SEYSTER. (_See 1924._) + Almost a Giant. G. H. Apr. (30.) + Boys in the House. Pict. R. May. (28.) + *Clever Accomplice. S. E. P. Apr. 18. (12.) + Georgy and the Dragon. Pict. R. Jul. (10.) + *Georgy Porgy, Prodigy. Pict. R. Jun. (12.) + Miss Ferry and Mr. Barge. Pict. R. Mar. (10.) + + MOON, LORNA. (_See 1924._) + ***Wantin’ a Hand. Cen. Nov., ’24. (109:15.) + + MOROSO, JOHN ANTONIO. (1874– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Ladders McLaughlin. Hol. Mar. (8.) + + MORRIS, GOUVERNEUR. (1876– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Wooing Without Words. Cos. Oct., ’24. (52.) + + MORRIS, HILDA. (_See 1924._) + House That Waited. Hol. Jun. (17.) + + MORRIS, LAWRENCE S. (1894– .) (_See 1924._) + ***Apples of Gold or Pictures of Silver. Scr. Jun. (77:619.) + + MORROW, HONORE MCCUE WILLSIE. (_See 1924 and “H” under_ WILLSIE, + HONORE.) + *Lost Speech. Del. Feb. (5.) + + MORSE, STEARNS. + *Last House. Mid. Oct., ’24. (10:359.) + + MORTON, LEIGH. (_See 1924._) + Three Moments. Scr. Mar. (77:290.) + + MOSLEY, JEFFERSON. + ***Secret at the Crossroads. For. Nov., ’24. (72:577.) + + MULLEN, KATE. (_See 1924._) + ***Interval. For. Jan. (73:79.) + + MUNSTERBERG, MARGARETE. + *Aunt Minna. Strat. Nov., ’24. (3:171.) + + MYGATT, GERALD. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + First Requisite. Col. Mar. 28. (15.) + Marjorie’s Mirage. W. H. C. May. (23.) + Minus Romance. Col. Jan. 3. (15.) + + + N + + NASON, LEONARD H. + Reward of Valor. Ly. Jul. 18. (5.) + Tank and the Doctor. Ly. Sept. 5. (21.) + + NEALL, NOAH WEBSTER. + Innocent Husband. Hear. Nov., ’24. (80.) + + NEIDIG, WILLIAM JONATHAN. (1870– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + Blue Diamonds. S. E. P. Aug. 15. (8.) + Go to the Fire Ant. S. E. P. Mar. 7. (14.) + Walled Out. Red Bk. Jan. (85.) + + NEWMAN, OLIVER PECK. (_See 1922._) + Girl in the Cabinet. McCall. Apr. (14.) + + “NEYO, BELLA.” _See_ COHEN, BELLA. + + NICHOLL, LOUISE TOWNSEND. (_See 1923._) + *Enchanted Kingdom. Cen. Nov., ’24. (109:41.) + ***Green Ice. Cen. Mar. (109:666.) + + NORDHOFF, CHARLES B. (1887– .) (_See 1922._) + *Man Who Was Laid on the Shelf. Hear. Feb. (16.) + *Thin Skin of Civilization. Hear. Oct., ’24. (58.) + + NORRIS, (BENJAMIN) FRANK(LIN). (1870–1902.) (_H._) + ***Grettir at Drangey. (_R._) Gol. Jul. (2:25.) + + NORRIS, KATHLEEN. (1880– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + June Week. Cos. Dec., ’24. (48.) + *Landslide. G. H. Jun. (22.) + ***Masterpiece. Cos. Feb. (32.) + + + O + + O’BRIEN, FITZJAMES. (1828–1862.) + ***What Was It? (_R._) Gol. Sept. (2:365.) + + O’BRIEN, JEAN. + Letters to Imaginary Mothers. Hol. Jun. (26.) + + O’HAGAN, ANNE. (ANNE O’HAGAN SHINN.) (1869– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + Fire! Fire! Del. Jun. (14.) + Morey Wins His Heart’s Desire. + Chic. Trib. Feb. 15. + + O’HARA, FRANK HURBURT. (_See 1917._) + Story the Editor Didn’t Want. W. H. C. Apr. (27.) + + O’HIGGINS, HARVEY JERROLD. (1876– .) (_See 1920._) (_H._) + Burton Murder. Red Bk. Mar. (27.) + Forged Letter. Red Bk. Apr. (42.) + James Illinois Bell. Red Bk. Jun. (85.) + ***Love Story of a Silent Man. MacL. Jan. 15. (8.) Hear. Feb. (88.) + Stop Thief! Red Bk. Sept. (61.) + + OLIVER, OWEN. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Alibi. Ly. May 2. (16.) + Fear. Hol. Mar. (7.) + Rope. Hol. Jul. (11.) + Tattooed Mermaid. Ly. Apr. 25. (47.) + Touching Up the Portrait. Hol. Sept. (11.) + + OLMSTED, STANLEY. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Homer Hunterfield. Ev. May. (62.) + + OPPENHEIM, JAMES. (1882– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + Lady in Blue Boots. Col. Aug. 15. (12.) + ***Last Man. Col. Apr. 18, ’25. (18.) + *Nothing Else Matters. Col. Mar. 21, ’25. (20.) + *Rose Lee. Col. Jul. 11. (7.) + + O’REILLY, EDWARD SINNOTT. (1880– .) (_See 1924._) + His Perfect Wife. Pict. R. Sept. (11.) + Like a White Man. Ly. Apr. 4. (40.) + + ORR, EDITH. (_See 1916._) (_H._) + Revenge. S. E. P. Jan. 3. (16.) + + OSKISON, JOHN MILTON. (1874– .) (_See 1916._) (_H._) + Other Partner. Col. Dec. 6, ’24. (14.) + *Singing Bird. Sun. Mar. (5.) + + OSTENSO, MARTHA. (_See 1924._) + *Storm. MacL. Apr. 15. (17.) + + OWEN, FRANK. (_See 1918._) + *Glamour. Gal. Summer. (2:65.) + + “OXFORD, JOHN BARTON.” _See_ SHELTON, RICHARD BARKER. + + + P + + PACKARD, FRANK LUCIUS. (1877– .) (_H._) + Pirates. Hear. Dec., ’24. (87.) + + PANGBORN, GEORGIA WOOD. (1872– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Six O’Clock Train. Chic. Trib. Dec. 21, ’24. + + PARADISE, VIOLA L. (_See 1923._) + **Calabrian Goes Home. Harp. M. Oct., ’24. (149:598.) + Little Speed. McC. Jun. (14.) + + PARKER, AUSTIN. (_See 1924._) + Five Thousand Clankers. Col. Dec. 6, ’24. (7.) + Inspired Liar. S. E. P. Aug. 22. (16.) + Rowdy Element. Col. Oct. 25, ’24. (15.) + Terror of Bascom Hills. S. E. P. Apr. 25. (22.) + P. Toddhunter, Clk. S. E. P. May 16. (12.) + + PARKER, DOROTHY ROTHSCHILD. (1893– .) (_See 1923._) + **Mr. Durrant. A. Merc. Sept., ’24. (3:81.) + + PARMENTER, CHRISTINE WHITING. (1877– .) (_See 1924._) + Good Sports. Del. Apr. (15.) + *Hero’s Blood. Cath. W. Sept. (121:737.) + *His Own Country. Cath. W. Feb. (120:636.) + Majesty of the Law. Cath. W. Jun. (121:370.) + + PARSONS, ALICE BELL. + Love at 42 Altgeld Avenue. Dial. Sept. (79:221.) + + PATRICK, ARNOLD. + Kite that Wouldn’t Fly. Book. (N. Y.) Nov., ’24. (60:315.) + + PATTULLO, GEORGE. (1879– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Blind Goddess. S. E. P. Apr. 11. (8.) + Galloping Donkeys No Good. S. E. P. Jan. 24. (18.) + Home-Coming. S. E. P. May 30. (8.) + Home Folks. S. E. P. Mar. 7. (3.) + Lovers’ Time. S. E. P. Oct. 4, ’24. (16.) + Tweeties. S. E. P. Nov. 1, ’24. (18.) + + PAYNE, WILL. (1855– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Genial Crook. Col. May 16. (11.) + Paradise Island. S. E. P. Oct. 4, ’24. (38.) + Perfect State. S. E. P. Dec. 27, ’24. (12.) + White Heron. S. E. P. Jul. 4. (33.) + + PEAKE, ELMORE ELLIOTT. (1871– .) (_See 1917._) (_H._) + Night Run of the Overland. McC. Aug. (1:626.) + + PEGLER, WESTBROOK. + Palooka. Ly. Jan. 17. (12.) + + PELLEY, WILLIAM DUDLEY. (1885– .) (_See 1924._) + *Behind the Moonglade. Mun. Aug. (85:413.) + *Father Who Dared. Red Bk. July. (90.) + *Happier, Far-Off Things. Mun. Jun. (85:39.) + *Last Galley. Red Bk. May. (56.) + *Left-Legged Man. Hear. Feb. (74.) + *Right Miss Wright. Pict. R. Aug. (26.) + *Woman Who Married the Wrong + Man. Cos. Jun. (58.) + + PERRY, ARMSTRONG. + *Peeler. Cath. W. Sept. (121:804.) + + PERRY, LAWRENCE. (1875– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Give Way. Col. Jul. 4. (5.) + Incognito. Hol. Mar. (24.) + *Soul Kiss. Ly. Sept. 26. (8.) + Vamp Capper. Red Bk. Nov., ’24. (34.) + + PERRY, MONTANYE. (_See 1924._) + Dawn. Del. Apr. (5.) + + PETERKIN, JULIA M. (_See 1924._) + **Manners. Rev. Jul. (71.) + ***Maum Lou. Rev. Jan. (5:17.) + ***Sorcerer. A. Merc. Apr. (4:441.) + + PETO, FLORENCE M. (_See 1924._) + When Knights Are Cold. Hol. Aug. (26.) + + “PHAYRE, IGNATIUS.” (W. G. FITZGERALD.) + Diabolo. Ly. Oct. 18, ’24. (9.) + + PHILLIPS, DOROTHY SANBURN. (_See 1924._) + Helen Goes A-Hunting. G. H. Jun. (34.) + Sisters. G. H. Feb. (66.) + That Troublesome Thing Called Charm. Am. Oct., ’24. (38.) + Woman Who Wanted To Be a Martyr. Am. Apr. (40.) + + PHILLIPS, HENRY WALLACE. (1869– .) (_See 1916._) (_H._) + ***Golden Ford. (_R._) Gol. Jun. (1:883.) + + PICKTHALL, MARJORIE LOWRY CHRISTIE. (?–1922.) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Leaving Verrall. Del. Oct., ’24. (5.) + *Pulse of Life. W. H. C. Mar. (7.) + *Thirty Below. Blue Bk. Mar. (135.) + + POE, EDGAR ALLAN. (1809–1849.) (_See 1921._) (_H._) + ***Purloined Letter. (_R._) Gol. Apr. (1:528.) + + POOLE, ERNEST. (1880– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Critic on the Hearth. Ev. Apr. (9.) + *Detour. W. H. C. Apr. (17.) + **Devil’s Finger. Ind. Nov. 1, ’24. (113:333.) + *Double-Barreled Romance. Am. H. Apr. 10. (116:676.) + Gasoline Gypsies. Ly. Aug. 1. (40.) + *Girl in China. Cos. Jun. (86.) + *Lady With the Icy Kiss. Cos. Jun. (94.) + **Last of the Giants. Cos. Mar. (90.) + *Man Who Believed in Devils. Cos. Aug. (104.) + **Mighty First One. Ind. Jan. 10. (114:36.) + **Mother Volga. Ind. Dec. 20, ’24. (113:537.) + *Shadow in the Dark. Cos. Jul. (108.) + *Ships that Pass. Red Bk. Dec., ’24. (60.) + + PORTER, HAROLD EVERETT. _See_ “HALL, HOLWORTHY.” + + PORTER, KATHERINE ANNE. (1894– .) (_See 1923._) + **Virgin Violeta. Cen. Dec., ’24. (109:261.) + + PORTER, WILLIAM SYDNEY. _See_ “HENRY, O.” + + PORTOR, LAURA SPENCER. (MRS. POPE.) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *“Savoir Faire.” Harp. M. Aug. (151:293.) + + POST, MELVILLE DAVISSON. (1871– .) (_See 1924_) (_H._) + **Miracle. Pict. R. Dec., ’24. (6.) + + POWELL, HARFORD W., JR. (1887– .) (_See 1924._) + Citizen of the World. Col. Nov. 1, ’24. (10.) + Gilded Heights. Col. Oct. 11, ’24. (10.) + + PRATT, LUCY. (1874– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Dark Gate. G. H. Oct., ’24. (76.) + *Grown Folks Astray. G. H. Aug. (42.) + + PRICE, HELEN F. + Transferred Sunshine. Ind. Jan. 24. (114:95.) + + PRIDE, JANE. + Between Trains. Des. Jun. (8.) + Salad Days. G. H. Mar. (46.) + + PRUETTE, LORINE. (1896– .) + ***Smile of Victory. Cath. W. Apr. (121:9.) + + PULVER, MARY BRECHT. (1883– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Beyond the Pale. W. H. C. Apr. (14.) + Big Bertha in the Lion’s Den. S. E. P. Nov. 15, ’24. (18.) + Ella May’s Golliwog. S. E. P. Apr. 11. (30.) + Fourth Grace. S. E. P. Dec. 20, ’24. (12.) + House in the Laurels. S. E. P. Apr. 25. (30.) + Mitigating Strain. S. E. P. May 23. (18.) + So This is Love! Ly. Apr. 18. (26.) + *Sunken Garden. S. E. P. Nov. 29, ’24. (10.) + Who Are the Cultured? S. E. P. Nov. 1, ’24. (36.) + + PUTNAM, NINA WILCOX. (1888– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + “Apple Sauce!” Cos. Mar. (69.) + Doubling for Cupid. S. E. P. Dec. 13, ’24. (18.) + Dumb Luck. Cos. Jul. (72.) + Gossip Insurance. S. E. P. Jan. 10. (20.) + “Oh! I Have Lived!” Hear. Feb. (10.) + Snake’s Hips. Red Bk. Jan. (55.) + Some Boloney! Cos. May. (59.) + Travel at Your Own Risk. S. E. P. Oct. 25, ’24. (37.) + Vamping Till Ready. S. E. P. Jan. 31. (18.) + Where the Road to Mandy Lay. S. E. P. Dec. 6, ’24. (46.) + + + Q + + QUINN, ARTHUR HOBSON. (1875– .) (_H._) + *Last Appeal. Scr. Jun. (77:653.) + + + R + + RAFFELOCK, DAVID. + Gone to Seed. Echo. Apr. (1.) + + RAMSAY, R. + Secret. Hol. Jun. (7.) + + RAY, MARIE BEYNON. (_See 1924._) + Secret Prisoner. Harp. B. Apr. (174.) + *White Wings of Moths. G. H. Feb. (31.) + + RAYMOND, CHARLES H. (_H._) + **His Last Story. Macf. Oct., ’24. (34.) + + RAYMOND, CLIFFORD SAMUEL. (1875– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Agnes. Ly. Mar. 21. (14.) + Baptism of Fire. Ly. Feb. 21. (28.) + Claude. Chic. Trib. Jul. 12. + Mad Anthony: The Flight from Eden. Ly. Jan. 31. (28.) + Man Proposes. Ly. Oct. 18, ’24. (51.) + Rosie. Ly. Dec. 27, ’24. (22.) + Wilder Flowers. Chic. Trib. May 10. + + READ, OPIE. (“ARKANSAS TRAVELLER.”) (1852– .) (_H._) + *Sampson and Socrates. Cos. Feb. (44.) + + REDINGTON, HELEN. _See_ WALKER, ISABEL _and_ REDINGTON, HELEN. + + REED, EARL H. + *Gray Canoe. (_R._) Pear. (Am.) Apr. (31.) + + REESE, LOWELL OTUS. (1866– .) (_See 1924._) + “I Got Honolulu.” S. E. P. Sept. 5. (18.) + Teeter-Snipe Brains. S.E.P. Dec. 6, ’24. (16.) + + REEVE, ARTHUR BENJAMIN. (1880– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Dead Beats. C. G. Aug. 1. (6.) + + RETNER, BETH A. + Little Comedian. G. H. Aug. (52.) + + RICE, ALICE CALDWELL HEGAN. (1870– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + Miss Gee. Red. Bk. Jan. (38.) + + RICE, CALE YOUNG. (1872– .) + Environment. Red. Bk. Feb. (76.) + + RICHART, MARY. + Sea Girl. Hol. Jul. (7.) + + RICHTER, CONRAD. (1890– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Derickson’s Gagoo. Am. May. (20.) + + RIDEOUT, HENRY MILNER. (1877– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Old Things. S. E. P. Apr. 18. (18.) + **Powers of Darkness. S. E. P. Jul. 4. (12.) + *Seeds of Time. S. E. P. Jan. 10. (16.) + + RINEHART, ALAN. (_See 1924._) + *Full Honors. Blue Bk. May. (39.) + + RINEHART, MARY ROBERTS. (1876– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Hijack and the Game. S. E. P. Jan. 31. (3.) + Surgeon Explodes a Bomb. S. E. P. Feb. 7. (3.) + + RIPLEY, CLEMENTS. + Harrison Teagle and the Law. Col. Nov. 8, ’24. (13.) + + ROBBINS, TOD. (_See 1920._) + ***Bit of a Banshee. For. Dec., ’24. (72:767.) + + ROBERTS, CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS. (1860– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Blue Destroyer. Mun. Apr. (84:422.) + *Challenge to the Chief. Mun. Jan. (83:641.) + Guardian of the Care. Red Bk. Mar. (48.) + + ROBERTS, ISABEL J. (_See 1922._) + Jointed-Animal Shop. Cath. W. Apr. (121:59.) + + ROBIN, MAX. (_See 1924._) + *Childhood. B’nai B’rith Magazine. Jan. (39:129.) + *Far Away and Long Ago. The Day. Apr. 5. (1.) + *Geese. Y. I. Aug. (5.) + *“Good Purim.” The Day. Mar. 8. (1.) + ***Itzikil. Men. J. Apr. (11:145.) + *Litvakis-Wise Men. J. T. Dec. 5, ’24. (18.) + *Rain. Y. I. Jun. (4.) + *Tashlich. Y. I. Sept. (5.) + + ROBINSON, ELSIE. (_See 1924._) + ***Misunderstood Husband. Hear. Oct., ’24. (18.) + + ROBINSON, GERTRUDE. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Arianna. W. H. C. Apr. (25.) + + ROBINSON, ROBERT. (1899– .) + ***Ill Wind. Col. Aug. 29. (18.) + + ROCHE, ARTHUR SOMERS. (1883– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Girl Who Lost Her Job. Cos. Jul. (48.) + Mad Tony Sark. Harp. B. June. (54.) + Man With a Shady Past. Cos. Apr. (36.) + Only Woman in the World. McCall. Apr. (8.) + Overlapping Grip. Harp. B. Aug. (56.) + $21,000 Cash. Cos. Sept. (40.) + + ROE, VINGIE E. (MRS. LAWTON.) (1879– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Mad Moon. McCall. May. (12.) + Splendid Road. McCall. Mar. (17.) + Vengeance Is Mine. McCall. Oct. ’24. (20.) + + ROMAN, FRANCIS VINCI. + **Hunt. Leonardo, 1925. (34.) + + ROSE, NONIE. + *Buffers. Strat. Oct., ’24. (3:56.) + + ROSENBLATT, BENJAMIN. (1880– .) (_See 1922._) (_H._) + *Boarding House Poet. J. T. June 19. (3.) + *Race. J. T. Jul. 24. (4.) + + ROSS, DAVID. + Beggar’s Choice. L. H. J. May. (6.) + + ROTHMAN, MAURICE. + *“Barneh Haboh.” J. F. Aug. (8:374.) + + ROUSE, WILLIAM MERRIAM. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Girl from the Night. Ly. Feb. 28. (38.) + Hickory Pete. Col. Apr. 4. (11.) + Time to Every Purpose. Col. Nov. 22, ’24. (15.) + + ROWLAND, HENRY COTTRELL. (1874– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + Arbiter. Chic. Trib. Sept. 20. + Bell Glasses. Chic. Trib. May 31. + Child’s Play. Chic. Trib. Aug. 23. + Three Liars. Chic. Trib. Jun. 28. + Wait and See. S. E. P. Mar. 14. (49.) + When You Stop to Think. Chic. Trib. Jul. 26. + + ROWLAND, JOHN T. (1885– .) (_See 1920._) + Full Speed Ahead. Ly. May 2. (52.) + Tale of Rorie McLeish. Outl. (N. Y.) Jan. 14. (139:64.) + + RUMFORD, JULIA. + Elise. Opp. Feb. (3:56.) + + RUSSELL, ALICE DYAR. (_See 1919._) + Her Own Money. Hol. Jun. (20.) + + RUSSELL, JOHN. (1885– .) (_See 1924._) + *Knife. S. E. P. Feb. 7. (12.) + *Primitive. S. E. P. Feb. 14. (12.) + + RUSSELL, MALCOLM MALLORY. + Flower of Fauquembergues. Pear. (Am.) Mar. (47.) + Institutrice of Florent. Pear. (Am.) Apr. (18.) + + RUTLEDGE, JOSEPH LISTER. (_See 1924._) + Ear to the Ground. S. E. P. Jan. 10. (47.) + One Way Out. Hol. Mar. (16.) + + “RUTLEDGE, MARYSE.” (1884– .) (_See 1924_) _and “H” under_ + GOETSCHIUS, MARIE LOUISE. + *His Birthday. Ev. Apr. (54.) + **Home. Chic. Trib. Nov. 16, ’24. + + RYAN, STELLA. + *Postponed. W. H. C. Aug. (15.) + + RYDER, MARGARET. + Hunting Weather. Col. Nov. 15, ’24. (19.) + + RYERSON, FLORENCE. (_See 1923._) + Apricot, with Blue Windows. L. H. J. Jul. (10.) + Green Bench. Hol. Feb. (11.) + Three a Day. Hol. Dec., ’24. (15.) + + + S + + SACHS, EMANIE N. (_See 1914._) + *Crusaders. Am. H. Sept. 18. (117:546.) + + ST. JOHNS, ADELA ROGERS. (_See 1924._) + Haunted Lady. Cos. May. (38.) + Heart of a Follie’s Evil. Cos. Dec., ’24. (55.). + Last Affair of Lalum Chang. Cos. Jul. (62.) + + SALTUS, EDGAR EVERSTON. (1858–1923.) (_See 1915._) (_H._) + **Bouquet of Illusions. Pear. (Am.) Mar. (13.) + + SAMSON, ERIC. + L’Ankou. Cath. W. Aug. (121:617.) + + SANBORN, RUTH BURR. (_See 1924._) + Say It With Words. S. E. P. Jun. 20. (8.) + Opportunity Telegraphs. Chic. Trib. Dec. 7, ’24. + + SANFORD, WINIFRED. + *Allie. A. Merc. Jul. (5:280.) + **Forest Fire. A. Merc. Sept. (6:20.) + **Wreck. A. Merc. Jan. (4:14.) + + SANGSTER, MARGARET ELIZABETH. (1894– .) (_See 1924._) + Lost. G. H. Apr. (72.) + Love-Story of Giovanni MacKee. G. H. Feb. (24.) + Song in the Valley. G. H. Aug. (58.) + + SASS, HERBERT RAVENEL. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Bachelors of Devilhead. S. E. P. Dec. 6, ’24. (28.) + Golden Wanderer. S. E. P. Jan. 31. (43.) + Lotor the Lucky. S. E. P. Dec. 13, ’24. (42.) + Northwind. Col. Jun. 13. (11.) + Peregrine. S. E. P. Apr. 25. (32.) + Prisoners of Half-Acre. S. E. P. Apr. 4. (22.) + Rusty Roustabout. S. E. P. Nov. 1, ’24. (20.) + + SAUNDERS, W. O. (_See 1923._) + Buttercup. Col. Nov. 29, ’24. (18.) + + SAWHILL, MYRA. (_See 1924._) + Fool’s Gold. Am. Apr. (31.) + + SAXBY, CHARLES. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Basket of Snakes. Chic. Trib. Oct. 19. + + SCARRY, JOHN. (_See 1924._) + Plantation. Col. Feb. 7. (12.) + + SCHOONMAKER, FRANK. + *Poon. H. C. Summer. (31.) + + SCOGGINS, CHARLES ELBERT. (_See 1924._) + Proud Old Name. S. E. P. Nov. 15, ’24. (3.) + + SCOTT, EVELYN. + Old Lady. Dial. May. (78:369.) + + SCOTT, LEROY. (1875– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Drayton Case. McCall. Jun. (11.) + Summer Widow. McCall. May. (18.) + + SCOVILLE, SAMUEL, JR. (1872– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + Cave of the Bear. Col. May 30. (20.) + Death-Dodger. Col. Jan. 10. (10.) + Devil of Doomsday. Red Bk. Jul. (60.) + Honey Badger. Col. Aug. 15. (7.) + *Three Who Met Again. Col. Oct. 25, ’24. (25.) + When Red Rooi Was King. Col. Oct. 4, ’24. (21.) + + SEIFERT, SHIRLEY L. (_See 1924._) + Late Mrs. Carr. Del. Nov., ’24. (5.) + Open Wider, Please! Del. Jul. (12.) + + SHANNON, MARY. (_See 1923._) + *Leader of the Twilight Band. Pop. Mar. 7. (186.) + + SHAW, BILLIE. + Broadway Rose. Ly. Aug. 22. (40.) + + SHAWE, VICTOR. (_See 1924._) + Cleaning of the Craig Clan. S. E. P. Sept. 12. (12.) + McElvaney’s Third One. S. E. P. Mar. 14. (9.) + That Law of Later Concessions. S. E. P. Jul. 25. (10.) + + SHEEHAN, PERLEY POORE. (1875– .) (_See 1918._) (_H._) + Hands of Kilian. Ly. Jul. 11. (42.) + Heart and Claw. Ly. Sept. 12. (44.) + + SHELTON, RICHARD BARKER. (“JOHN BARTON OXFORD.”) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Not in the Contract. Col. Jan. 24. (10.) + + SHIELDS, GERTRUDE M. (1890– .) (_See 1918._) + West Meets East. Col. June 27. (9.) + + SHIFFRIN, A. B. (1902– .) (_See 1924._) + **Five Flights Up. Am. H. Apr. 10. (116:782.) + ***Other Cheek. Am. H. Feb. 6. (116:383.) + *Rudolph and the Scarecrow. Am. H. Jul. 17. (117:317.) + ***Trickle of Red. Am. H. Jan. 9. (116:291.) + *Wake Me Up Early. J. T. Jun. 26. (3.) + + SHINN, ANNE O’HAGAN. _See_ O’HAGAN, ANNE. + + SHOLL, ANNA MCCLURE. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Pennyroyal. W. H. C. Nov., ’24. (32.) + + SHORE, VIOLA BROTHERS. (_See 1924._) + Deputy Husband. W. H. C. Feb. (30.) + Reddy Rolls Her Own. Red Bk. Aug. (88.) + *There’s Rosemary. Col. Mar. 7. (7.) + In Clover. Chic. Trib. Apr. 26. + + SHUSTER, GEORGE N. + **Aveduke and Ames. Com. Feb. 18. (1:406.) + + SHUTE, HENRY AUGUSTUS. (1856– .) (_See 1919._) (_H._) + Assmer or Tizzick. S. E. P. May 2. (21.) + Corporosity Ketch, Pack and Sell Elwifes. S. E. P. Aug. 29. (14.) + Improving the Cemetery. S. E. P. Aug. 8. (19.) + My Novil and Why Did I Get Licked. S. E. P. Aug. 1. (10.) + Rooster Five for the Benefit of the Divine Implore. S. E. P. Sept. + 19. (25.) + Xpecting to be Arrested. S. E. P. Aug. 15. (13.) + + SIGMUND, JAY G. + *Bonded Stuff. C. R. R. Nov. 17, ’24. + **Blinkers. Mid. Nov., ’24. (10:403.) + *Checkers and Potatoes. C. R. R. May 11. + *Colleague of Ajax. C. R. R. Jan. 12. + *Moth Proof. C. R. R. Dec. 1, ’24. + *Discord. C. R. R. Aug. 31. + *His Own Doorstep. C. R. R. Jan. 5. (3.) + *Panacea. C. R. R. May 18. + *“Rah! Rah! Correspondence School!” C. R. R. Dec. 29, ’24. + + SILER, RODERICK W. (_See 1924._) + Story in the Bottle. Ev. Apr. (20.) + + SILVER, DOUGLAS DE Y. + Signals. Ly. Nov. 15, ’24. + + SINGMASTER, ELSIE. (MRS. LEWARS.) (1879– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + **Amishman. L. H. J. Apr. (18.) + *Crucifix. W. H. C. Jun. (19.) + *Easy Day. L. H. J. Mar. (20.) + **Elfie. Col. Aug. 15. (16.) + **End of the World. Col. Aug. 1. (10.) + *Jilted. Hol. Sept. (12.) + **Little and Unknown. L. H. J. Dec., ’24. (16.) + **Salt of the Earth. L. H. J. May (8.) + *Trapped. Outl. (N. Y.) Nov. 26, ’24. (138:501.) + + SMITH, EDGAR VALENTINE. (1875– .) (_See 1924._) + **Cameo. Harp. M. Dec., ’24. (150:30.) + **Pardoned. Harp. M. Jul. (151:213.) + + SMITH, F. WINFIELD. (_See 1924._) + *Chalk Box. Col. Nov. 1, ’24. (17.) + + SMITH, GORDON ARTHUR. (1886– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Square Wheel. Red Bk. Oct., ’24. (71.) + + SMITH, HARRY BACHE. (1860– .) (_See 1923._) + **Gypsy Blood. Atl. Apr. (135:507.) + + SMITH, W. EDSON. (_See 1922._) (_H._) + Finding Is Keeping. Scr. Nov., ’24. (76:500.) + + SMITH, WALLACE. (_See 1924._) + Cow Callahan. Ind. Sept. 19. (115:327.) + Good Trouper. Ly. Mar. 7. (50.) + *“Laughing House.” Am. Jun. (21.) + Pants. Ly. Jun. 27. (40.) + *Rejected Gun-Fighter. Blue Bk. Feb. (55.) + + SNEDDON, ROBERT W. (1880– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Woman They Both Knew. Macf. Oct., ’24. (30.) + + SOLIS-COHEN, JUDITH. (_See 1922_), _and_ ELMALEH, LEON H. + *Desdemona of the Ghetto. Des. Jan. (8.) + + SOLOMON, DAVID R. (_See 1924._) + In Between. Des. Nov., ’24. (8.) + Candle-Light. Des. Jul. (14.) + Dirt Cheap. Des. Sept. (8.) + Perpetual Emotion. Cos. May. (77.) + Personally Abducted. Des. Feb. (8.) + Sweet War. Cos. Feb. (88.) + + SOLOMONS, THEODORE SEIXAS. (_See 1924._) + Shadowed. Del. Dec., ’24. (5.) + + SPEWACK, SAMUEL. + Boris Buys a Rose. Ly. May 30. (40.) + + SPRINGER, FLETA CAMPBELL. (1886– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Legend. Harp. M. Nov., ’24. (149:721.) + + SQUIER, EDYTHE. + Flame Unseen, D.D. Oct., ’24. (7:12.) + + SQUIER, EMMA-LINDSAY. (1893– .) (_See 1924._) + Children of the Twilight. G. H. Nov., ’24. (14.) + Great Rushing of Wings. McCall. Dec., ’24. (5.) + Land of the Red Gods. G. H. Mar. (38.) + Legend of the Chaup Nua. G. H. Jan. (50.) + Revenge and What Comes After. G. H. Aug. (24.) + Soul of Caliban. Ev., Dec., ’24. (45.) + Trembling God. G. H. Feb. (48.) + Ungrateful Gate. G. H. May. (38.) + Voice of the Silver Bells. Asia. Aug. (25:665.) + White Totem. G. H. Jun. (72.) + Why We Dance the Eagle Dance. G. H. Apr. (24.) + + STANLEY, MAY. (MRS. ELMER BROWN MASON.) + **New Ways. Pict. R. Nov., ’24. (10.) + ***Old Man Ledge. Pict. R. Jun. (10.) + + STEELE, ALICE GARLAND. (MRS. AUSTIN-BALL.) (1880– .) (_See 1924._) + (_H._) + Blue Hyacinths. Am. Jul. (46.) + “That’s What Homes are For!” Am. Jun. (52.) + + STEELE, WILBUR DANIEL. (1886– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Man Who Saw Through Heaven. Harp. M. Sept. (151:428.) + ***Sauce for the Goose. Pict. R. Jan. (12.) + ***Six Dollars. Pict. R. Mar. (12.) + ***Thinker. Pict. R. Dec., ’24. (16.) + ***When Hell Froze. Harp. M. May. (150:658.) + + STERRETT, FRANCES ROBERTA. (1869– .) (_H._) + Rich Man’s Son. Ev. Nov., ’24. (107.) + + STEVENSON, PHILIP E. (_See 1922._) + *Smithy, Goggles _and_ Co. Mid. Jul. 1. (11:237.) + + STEWART, DONALD OGDEN. (1894– .) (_See 1924._) + **Morning of Mrs. Gordon Smythe. Tr. Dec., ’24. (2:602.) + *Robert. Lit. R. Autumn-Winter. (28.) + + STONE, ELINORE COWAN. (_See 1924._) + *Alibi of Salvador. Col. Aug. 8. (18.) + *Angela and the Fierce Cally Hope. W. H. C. Sept. (15.) + *Jose the Unlucky. W. H. C. May. (12.) + *One Uses the Handkerchief. W. H. C. Nov., ’24. (19.) + *Question of Precedence. W. H. C. Mar. (30.) + *Leetla Dog. W. H. C. Jul. (27.) + *Somewhere in Russia. W. H. C. Jan. (25.) + + STORM, MARIAN. + Babes in the Wood. Col. Oct. 18,’24. (18.) + Old Adamant. Col. Feb. 14. (10.) + + STREET, JULIAN LEONARD. (1879– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + **Mr. Bisbee’s Princess. Red. Bk. May. (35.) + Syringas. S. E. P. Nov. 8, ’24. (12.) + + STRIBLING, T. S. (_See 1924._) + *Mating of Pompalone. Ev. Feb. (9.) + *Native Stock. Pict. R. Jul. (12.) + + STRINGER, ARTHUR JOHN ARBUTHNOT. (1874– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Ancient Feud. S. E. P. Apr. 11. (10.) + Cat. Cos. Nov., ’24. (54.) + Fifth Avenue. Sept. 19. (12.) + *Killer’s Daughter. S. E. P. Apr. 4. (5.) + Squaw Man. Red Bk. Feb. (65.) + Woman-Handled. S. E. P. May 2. (10.) + + SUCKOW, RUTH. (1892– .) (_See 1924._) + ***Golden Wedding. A. Merc. Feb. (4:221.) + ***Start in Life. A. Merc. Sept., ’24. (3:15.) + + SULLIVAN, ALAN. (1868– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Discovery. Mun. Jan. (83:677.) + Trade. Ev. Jan. (53.) + White Mulberry. Ev. Sept. (62.) + + SUTTON, WILLIAM MELVILLE. + Alas for Lika! Oracle. Mar. (1:19.) + + SWAIN, JOHN D. (_See 1922._) (_H._) + *Ponto de Leon. Mun. Dec., ’24. (83:495.) + + SWAN, MARK E. + Cuthbert’s Desert Island. Ly. Jan. 3. (26.) + + SWEENEY, ASAPH. + These People Are the Class. Col. Sept. 5. (12.) + + SWEETLAND, REGINALD. (_See 1924._) + Mr. Hammer Beards His Lion. Hol. Jul. (12.) + + SYNON, MARY. (1881– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Battle Blood. Des. Jul. (5.) + Fifty-Fifty. Chic. Trib. Oct. 26, ’24. + Found on the Doorstep. Red Bk. Dec. ’24. (73.) + Her Father’s Daughter. Red Bk. Apr. (56.) + *Mex. Chic. Trib. Aug. 9. + Promise to Chariot. Des. Sept. (14.) + *Queen o’ the May. Red Bk. Jul. (75.) + + + T + + TARKINGTON, NEWTON BOOTH. (1869– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Cornelia’s Mountain. L. J. H. Mar. (6.) + *Damsel Dark, Damsel Fair. L. H. J. Feb. (6.) + *Desert Sand. L. H. J. Jun. (8.) + *Julietta. L. H. J. Aug. (6.) + *Lily. Chic. Trib. Feb. 8. + **Mrs. Leslie Braithwaite’s Husband. Chic. Trib. May 3. + **My Heart. L. H. J. Oct., ’24. (6.) + ***One-Hundred Dollar Bill. (R.) Gol. Jul. (2:117.) + **Rabble Rouser. McCall. Nov., ’24. (9.) + ***Shanty. Chic. Trib. Nov. 9, ’24. + ***Thea Zell. Red Bk. Apr. (31.) + + TARLETON, FISWOODE. (_See 1924._) + *Price of Salvation. Echo. Jun. (4.) + + TAYLOR, ELLEN DU POIS. + ***Calico. Tr. Dec., ’24. (2:623.) + + TAYLOR, JACK. + Misfit. Ev. Jul. (95.) + + TAYLOR, KATHARINE HAVILAND. (_See 1924._) + Compensation. Hol. Sept. (20.) + Little Matter of Adjustment. Hol. Dec., ’24. (20.) + + TERHUNE, ALBERT PAYSON. (1872– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Fox! Ly. May 10, ’24. (17.) + Ghost that Haunted Sunnybank. Cos. Dec., ’24. (100.) + In the Rough. Col. Apr. 4. (7.) + Macduff. L. H. J. Nov., ’24. (25.) + Talisman. S. E. P. Aug. 8. (6.) + Parsifal, Unlimited. Col. Aug. 22. (14.) + Penance. Ly. May 30. (13.) + + TERRILL, LUCY STONE. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + For What Shall it Profit. S. E. P. Sept. 5. (14.) + Red Hair. S. E. P. Mar. 7. (10.) + + THOMAS, LUKE. + Young Man’s Fancy. Scr. Mar. (77:257.) + + THOMAS, MARTHA BANNING. + Birthday Party. Hol. Oct., ’24. (11.) + + THOMPSON, ELOISE BIBB. + *Mademoiselle ‘Tasie. Opp. Sept. (3:272.) + + THOMPSON, MARY WOLFE. (_See 1923._) + *“Cross My Heart.” Mid. Mar. 1. (111:101.) + *“In My Day.” Mid. Mar. 1. (111:112.) + *Turtle. Mid. Dec., ’24. (10:428.) + + TILDEN, FREEMAN. (1883– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + American, Very Rich. S. E. P. Mar. 21. (16.) + Bad Huckaby. S. E. P. Mar. 14. (24.) + Bigger Idea. W. H. C. Apr. (23.) + Dog Eat Dog. L. H. J. Sept. (6.) + Green Tights. S. E. P. May 9. (12.) + Parleyvoo. S. E. P. Feb. 28. (15.) + To Please the Ladies. S. E. P. Mar. 28. (8.) + + TITUS, HAROLD. (1888– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Aphorisms of Rodney Russell. Ev. Dec., ’24. (169.) + Family Matter. Red Bk. Jun. (99.) + Iron Jaw. Am. Nov., ’24. (23.) + Laugh that Off! Red Bk. Aug. (99.) + Pioneers. Ly. Aug. 29. (48.) + To Look ‘Em in the Eye. Hol. Apr. (12.) + + TOMPKINS, JULIET WILBOR. (MRS. POTTLE.) (1871– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Dope. W. H. C. Sept. (12.) + For Charley. S. E. P. Jan. 3. (10.) + Key House. G. H. Jan. (76.) + Safe Harbor. Del. Dec., ’24. (6.) + + TOOHEY, JOHN PETER. (1880– .) (_See 1924._) + Little Old Boat. Pict. R. Feb. (26.) + New Act. S. E. P. Aug. 15. (52.) + Nothing Half So Sweet. Chic. Trib. Sept. 13. + On the Back Seat. Col. Sept. 12. (13.) + Primrose Path. Pict. R. Mar. (21.) + Red Peril. Pict. R. Jan. (8.) + + TOOKER, LEWIS FRANK. (1855– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Boys they Used to Be. Col. Jan. 10. (14.) + + TOOMER, JEAN. + ***Easter. Lit. R. Spring. (3.) + + TORGERSON, EDWIN DIAL. + *Letters of a Bourgeois Father to His Bolshevik Son. Secr. Jan. + (27:43.) + Treed! Scr. Jul. (78:80.) + + TORREY, GRACE. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Pinch of Something. Col. Apr. 4. (15.) + Said Alleged Accident. W. H. C. Apr. (21.) + Tragic Buskin. W. H. C. Oct., ’24. (7.) + + TRAIN, ARTHUR CHENEY. (1875– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Blind Goddess. Des. Sept. (10.) + + TRAIN, ETHEL KISSAM. (1875– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + Somebody Wants Me. Des. Oct., ’24. (12.) + + TURNBULL, AGNES SLIGH. (_See 1924._) + *False Barriers. Am. Feb. (8.) + Jessica Revives a Faded Petunia. Am. Apr. (13.) + “So This is Life!” Am. Aug. (51.) + + TURNBULL, ARCHIBALD DOUGLAS. (_See 1924._) + Standing By. Hol. Nov., ’24. (11.) + + TURNER, GEORGE KIBBE. (1869– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + At the Murderer’s Ball. Ly. May 16. (5.) + Hen on Wheels. S. E. P. Feb. 14. (24.) + No Questions Asked. Ly. Aug. 15. (8.) + Street of the Forgotten Men. Ly. Feb. 14. (17.) + + TUTTLE, WORTH. (_See 1924._) + *Color. Pear. (Am.) Oct., ’24. (30.) + Yellow Seal. Ly. Jan. 10. (20.) + + “TWAIN, MARK.” (SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS.) (1835–1910.) (_See 1921._) + (_H._) + ***Mrs. McWilliams and the Lightning. (_R._) Gol. July. (2:61.) + ***Notorious Jumping Frog of Calaveras County. (_R._) Gol. Jan. + (1:105.) + + + U + + UPSON, WILLIAM HAZLETT. (_See 1924._) + Buzz Saw. Col. Jul. 11. (12.) + Charlie the Gloom Hound. S. E. P. Jun. 13. (12.) + *Croix de Guerre. Col. Feb. 28. (11.) + Elephant. S. E. P. Apr. 25. (20.) + I’m in a Hurry. Col. May 2. (18.) + I Got a Swell Job, I Got a Peach of a Girl. S. E. P. Aug. 29. (5.) + November 11, 1918. Col. Nov. 15, ’24. (10.) + Sun at St. Mihiel. S. E. P. May 2. (28.) + + + V + + VAN DE WATER, FREDERICK F. (_See 1924._) + Dope. S. E. P. Feb. 14. (5.) + Faker. S. E. P. Apr. 11. (14.) + Horse Marine. S. E. P. Jan. 17. (10.) + Three Minutes of Silent Prayer. Scr. Dec., ’24. (76:615.) + + VAN DINE, WARREN L. (1902– .) (_See 1924._) + *Prophet. I. L. M. Mar. (32.) + + VAN DOREN, CARL. + **Boy on a Horse. Cen. Feb. (109:561.) + + VAN HISE, ALICE. + “’Tis Better to Have Loved and Lost--.” Pict. R. Nov., ’24. (30.) + + VAN VORST, MARIE. (MRS. GAETANO GAGIATI.) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Who Follows--? Pict. R. May. (14.) + + VANCE, LOUIS JOSEPH. (1879– .) (_H._) + Grey Flannels. McCall. Jan. (5.) + Gulp Stream. McCall. Oct., ’24. (5.) + White Fire. Col. Aug. 1. (5.) + + VANCE, LOUIS JOSEPH, _and_ VERNEY, FRANK E. + Base Methods. S. E. P. Jun. 6. (16.) + Mad Dogs and the Minnow. S. E. P. May 16. (20.) + + VENABLE, EDWARD CARRINGTON. (1884– .) (_See 1924._) + ***Lines on the Portrait of a Lady. Scr. Jun. (77:593.) + **Spur of the Moment. Atl. Jun. (135:808.) + + VERNEY, FRANK E. _See also_ VANCE, LOUIS JOSEPH _and_ VERNEY, FRANK E. + **Man Between. Pict. R. Jun. (14.) + + VITEZ, MIKLOS. + *Flunked. Am. H. Nov. 7, ’24. (808.) + + VORSE, MARY HEATON. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + **Big Fish. L. H. J. Dec., ’24. (20.) + *Family. Col. Dec. 20, ’24. (10.) + *First Stone. Red. Bk. Dec., ’24. (56.) + ***Sand. Pict. R. Jul. (14.) + + VOTO, BERNARD DE. _See_ DE VOTO, BERNARD. + + + W + + WALDMAN, MILTON. (1895– .) + ***Home Town. L. Merc. Dec., ’24. (11:132.) + + WALKER, HELEN. (_See 1924._) + **Forbidden Disciple. Com. Apr. 8. (1:601.) + + WALKER, ISABEL, _and_ REDINGTON, HELEN. + Silver Shoon. Del. Jun. (10.) + + WALMSLEY, STEPHEN M. + Reconstruction. Ev. Jan. (82.) + + WALROND, ERIC. + Voodoo’s Revenge. Opp. Jun. (3:209.) + + WARD, FLORENCE BAIER. + Where the Road Forked. L. H. J. Mar. (18.) + + WATER, FREDERICK F. VAN DE. _See_ VAN DE WATER, FREDERICK F. + + WATTS, CLAUDE SAMUEL. (1877– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Deviled Crabs. McC. Sept. (1:760.) + Good Bad Actor. S. E. P. Aug. 15. (49.) + + WEEKS, RAYMOND. (1863– .) (_See 1924._) + **On the Road to the Big Blue. Mid. Jan. 1. (11:19.) + *Fat Women of Boone. Mid. Jan. 1. (11:1.) + *Snakes of Boone. Mid. Jan. 1. (11:12.) + *Thou Canst Not Say I Didn’t. Mid. Jan. 1. (11:27.) + **Two Gentlemen from Indiany. Mid. Jan. 1. (11:23.) + + WEIMAN, RITA. (1889– .) (_See 1924._) + *Laughing Legacy. S. E. P. Aug. 15. (5.) + One Venetian Night. Red Bk. Dec., ’24. (27.) + Yours Truly, Paris. Harp. B. May (102.) + + WELLES, HARRIET OGDEN DEEN. (_See 1924._) + *Uncharted Course. Scr. Aug. (78:158.) + + WELLS, CORINNE UPDEGRAFF. + Bobbie’s Roof. Des. Mar. (14.) + + WELLS, MERRICK. + Sonnobeech. Strat. Dec., ’24. (3:262.) + + WELLS, WILLIAM HOWELLS. (_See 1923._) + *Monsieur Toppy. O. R. Nov., ’24. (21.) + + WESCOTT, GLENWAY. (1901– .) (_See 1924._) + ***This Way Out. Col. Jul. 4. (18.) + + WEST, ANN. (_See 1924._) + Lady Disdain. Hol. Oct., ’24. (20.) + Legacies. Hol. Jan. (11.) + Orchids and Iron. Hol. Aug. (16.) + + WESTON, GEORGE T. (1880– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + All Dressed Up. S. E. P. Dec. 13, ’24. (10.) + Blue Sky. S. E. P. Aug. 22. (3.) + Cameo Brooch. S. E. P. Sept. 26. (12.) + *Devil Among the Women. Hear. Nov., ’24. (64.) + $86,000. Hear. Dec., ’24. (58.) + First Choose the Girl. L. H. J. Apr. (6.) + Girl Who Advertised. Red Bk. Dec., ’24. (78.) + How to be Happy Though Rich. Cos. Mar. (46.) + Just a Big-Hearted Rascal. Hear. Jan. (80.) + Old Bird. L. H. J. Jan. (6.) + Tweed Coat. S. E. P. Sept. 12. (8.) + + WHARTON, EDITH NEWBOLD JONES. (1862– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Bewitched. Pict. R. Mar. (14.) + ***Miss Mary Pask. Pict. R. Apr. (8.) + ***Velvet Ear-Muffs. Red Bk. Aug. (39.) + + WHITE, ARTHUR CORNING. + Russet Gold. Echo. Jun. (1.) + + WHITE, FREDERICK. (_See 1924._) + He Could Catch Trout. Scr. Oct., ’24. (76:386.) + Professor and the Pink Lady. Scr. Jul. (78:61.) + + WHITE, K. J. + *Of Thyself, Master. Int. Arts. Jun. (1:5.) + + WHITE, NELIA GARDNER. (_See 1924._) + Eight Years Too Late. L. H. J. Jun. (15.) + “Flint” Miller’s Boy Comes Home. Am. Dec., ’24. (47.) + Jen Starts All Over Again. Am. May. (62.) + Minister Who Thought He Was a Failure. Am. Jun. (38.) + Separation. Am. Feb. (52.) + Jen’s Girl. Am. Mar. (44.) + + WHITE, STEWART EDWARD. (1873– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Corner in Horses. (_R._) Gol. Jul. (2:20.) + Hold-Up. S. E. P. Jan. 31. (10.) + Milky Way. Col. Jun. 6. (11.) + **Rawhide. (_R._) Gol. Apr. (1:581.) + + WHITLOCK, BRAND. (1869– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + **Sofa. S. E. P. Apr. 18. (7.) + + WHITMAN, STEPHEN FRENCH. (1880– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***One of Those Nice Little Evenings. (_R._) Gol. Aug. (2:183.) + ***That Famous Love Affair. Col. Apr. 18. (11.) + + WICKHAM, HARVEY. (_See 1916._) (_H._) + Grilled Cupid. S. E. P. Mar. 7. (56.) + + WILBUR, HARRIETTE. + Beebe’s Biennial. Cath. W. May. (121:172.) + + WILDER, CHARLOTTE E. + City Bred. W. Tom. Jul. (8:203.) + + WILEY, HUGH. (1894– .) (_See 1924._) + *Chow Joss. S. E. P. Apr. 4. (26.) + Darker Horse. S. E. P. Jun. 27. (24.) + *Foiled Again. Red Bk. Jun. (75.) + Held for Rancid. S. E. P. Nov. 15, ’24. (44.) + Jailbird of Paradise. Red Bk. Nov., ’24. (77.) + Minted Gold. S. E. P. Mar. 7. (38.) + Spoils of War. S. E. P. May 9. (26.) + + WILGUS, JACK + *Consequences. W. M. Jan. (4:126.) + + WILLIAMS, BEN AMES. (1889– .) (_See 1924._) + *Abandoned Farm. S. E. P. Feb. 14. (18.) + *Accident. S. E. P. Mar. 28. (12.) + *Ancient Landmark. S. E. P. Dec. 27, ’24. (3.) + *Artist. S. E. P. Nov. 22, ’24. (13.) + ***Finished Story. G. H. Oct., ’24. (14.) + *Foreheads Villainous. S. E. P. Dec. 13, ’24. (12.) + *Free Camping. S. E. P. Nov. 15, ’24. (10.) + Little Foxes. Ev. Jun. (79.) + *Man Who Killed the Moose. Ly. Dec. 13, ’24. (15.) + Missing Attribute. S. E. P. Oct. 18, ’24. (8.) + **One Fair Daughter. G. H. Nov., ’24. (26.) + *Palsied Eld. S. E. P. Feb. 21. (20.) + *Pod-Anger Man. S. E. P. Apr. 18. (20.) + *Thunderstroke. S. E. P. Oct. 4, ’24. (5.) + Windy Side of the Law. S. E. P. Feb. 28. (20.) + + WILLIAMS, JESSE LYNCH. (1871– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Actress and the Lady. Cos. Oct., ’24. (24.) + + WILLIAMS, MICHAEL. (1877– .) (_H._) + *Coca Dope. Blue Bk. Apr. (47.) + *False Face. Com. Dec. 3, ’24. (1:98.) + + WILLIAMS, URSULA TRAINOR. + Will Turner’s Wife. For. Jul. (74:92.) (_H._) + + WILLIAMS, WILLIAM D. (_H._) + Last Choice of Crusty Dick. McC. Aug. (1:568.) + + WILLIAMS, WYTHE. (1881– .) + Splendid with Swords. S. E. P. Sept. 19. (26.) + + WILLIS, WINIFRED. + Clothes--or the Man. Col. Dec. 20, ’24. (22.) + + WILLOUGHBY, BARRETT. (_See 1924._) + ***Devil-Drum. Cen. Jan. (109:393.) + + WILLSIE, HONORE. _See_ MORROW, HONORE WILLSIE. + + WILSON, EDMUND. + **Dandy Day. N. Rep. Aug. 19. (43:348.) + + WILSON, JOHN FLEMING. (1887– .) (_See 1920._) (_H._) + *Desert. Sh. St. Oct. 10, ’24. (40.) + + WILSON, MARY BADGER. + Personal and Private. L. H. J. Nov., ’24. (12.) + + WINSLOW, HORATIO. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Art Line. S. E. P. Aug. 29. (10.) + Bimbo the Blood. S. E. P. Aug. 1. (8.) + Cockatoo. S. E. P. Jul. 11. (8.) + Confidential: Please Destroy. S. E. P. Oct. 18, ’24. (18.) + Didos: Official Report. S. E. P. Nov. 22, ’24. (8.) + Grudge Fight. S. E. P. Sept. 26. (18.) + Please Excuse Me. S. E. P. Apr. 4. (10.) + Told to the Sporting Editor. S. E. P. Nov. 1, ’24. (12.) + + WINSMORE, ROBERT S. (_See 1924._) + Blind Spots. S. E. P. Mar. 14. (18.) + Conover Crowd. S. E. P. Nov. 1, ’24. (14.) + Major’s Monument. S. E. P. Jan. 3. (6.) + + WISTER, OWEN. (1860– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***La Tinaja Bonita. (_R._) Gol. Jun. (1:781.) + ***Second Missouri Compromise. (_R._) Gol. Feb. (1:178.) + ***Specimen Jones. (_R._) Gol. Jan. (1:109.) + + WITWER, HARRY CHARLES. (1890– .) (_See 1924._) + Charlotte’s Ruse. Col. Nov. 15, ’24. (5.) + Chin He Loved to Touch. Cos. Aug. (93.) + 5th Horseman of the Apocalypse. Cos. Feb. (59.) + Food for Scandal. Cos. Oct., ’24. (46.) + Hood Riding Little Red. Cos. Apr. (94.) + Lady of Lyons, N. Y. Col. Jul. 18. (5.) + Love at First Fight. Cos. Jan. (54.) + Not So Big. Cos. Jim. (76.) + Pigskin He Loved to Touch. Cos. Dec., ’24. (67.) + Scrambled Yeggs. Col Oct. 4, ’24. (5.) + So This is New York. Col. Aug. 8. (5.) + Survival of the Fattest. Cos. Nov., ’24. (339.) + Two Gentlemen of Verona, N. J. Cos. Sept. (85.) + + WOLFF, WILLIAM ALMON. (1885– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Dead Fall. Des. Dec., ’24. (12.) + Goddess of Chance. Des. Oct., ’24. (14.) + Little Upstart Brook. Ev. Aug. (60.) + Rope That Wasn’t Long Enough. Ly. May 10, ’24. (37.) + Thrift. Ly. Oct. 18, ’24. (35.) + Town Talk. Des. Jan. (14.) + Tremper’s Folly. Des. Nov., ’24. (14.) + + WOLFF, WILLIAM ALMON, _and_ JOHNSON, AGNES C. + Two Left Feet. Ly. Sept. 19. (48.) + + WOOD, CLEMENT. (1888– .) (_See 1924._) + ***Blue Circle. Int. Arts. Jun. (1:17.) + ***Mother. Opp. Jul. (214.) + ***Trazan. Pict. R. Apr. (10.) + + WOOD, JULIA FRANCES. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + According to Code. Chic. Trib. Aug. 30. + + WOODFORD, JACK. + Kid’s Old Lady. Echo. Aug. (12.) + Only Beautiful Thing Left. Echo. May. (1.) + + WOODROW, MRS. WILSON. (NANCY MANN WADDEL WOODROW.) (_See 1924._) + (_H._) + Heavy Sugar. Ly. Aug. 8. (17.) + + WORCESTER, LUCY. + Two Peters. Des. Aug. (14.) + + WORTS, GEORGE FRANK. (1892– .) (_See 1923._) + Message to the Maharajah. Col. Dec. 13, ’24. (10.) + When the Red Star Rises. Ev. Jul. (9.) + + WYCKOFF, ELIZABETH PORTER. (_See 1923._) + Now Consider Theresa. W. H. C. Dec., ’24. (32.) + + WYLIE, ELINOR. (_See 1924._) + ***Gideon’s Revenge. Cen. Jan. (109:305.) + + + Y + + YORE, CLEM. + Mile High Monte of the Bell Bar Bell. Ev. Sept. (44.) + Tinker and Tick. C. G. Jul. 11. (10.) + + YOUNG, EVERETT. + Diana and the House of Hate. Del. Jul. (7.) + Exiles. W. H. C. Jun. (7.) + + + II. BRITISH AND IRISH AUTHORS + + A + + ANONYMOUS + Great Boar of Birkatheli (_R._) Liv. A. Mar. 7. (324:547.) + + “ARLEN, MICHAEL.” (DIKRAN KUYUMJIAN.) (_See 1923._) + ***Ace of Thirteens. Cen. Oct., ’24. (108:733.) + **Battle of Berkeley Square. Red Bk. Apr. (60.) + **Duke of Ladies. Red Bk. Jan. (34.) + **Hand and Flower. Red Bk. May. (46.) + **Knife Thrower. Red Bk. Jul. (46.) + **Legend of Isolda. Red Bk. Mar. (38.) + **Man from America. Red Bk. Jun. (66.) + ***One Gold Coin. Book. (N. Y.) Jan. (60:556.) Feb. (60:699.) + *Owl on the Fountain. Harp. B. Mar. (70.) + **Salute Mr. Lancelot. Red Bk. Dec., ’24. (42.) + + ATKEY, BERTRAM. (1880– .) (_See 1924._) + Dimity Gay, Daddy’s Good Girl. S. E. P. Apr. 18. (3.) + Winnie and the Shark. S. E. P. Nov. 8, ’24. (18.) + + AUMONIER, STACY. (1887– .) (_See 1924._) + **Baby Grand. Mun. Dec., ’24. (83:428.) + ***Dark Red Roses. Ev. Oct., ’24. (29.) + **Juxtapositions. Pict. R. Nov., ’24. (12.) + ***Source of Irritation. (_R._) Gol. Sept. (2:293.) + + AUSTIN, FREDERICK BRITTEN. (1885– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + **Battle Piece: New Style. S. E. P. Jul. 25. (8.) + ***Battle Piece: Old Style. S. E. P. Jul. 18. (3.) + Diamond Cut Diamond. Red Bk. Feb. (80.) + Fourth Degree. Red Bk. Oct., ’24. (62.) + Great Mallett Case. Red Bk. Jan. (78.) + ***On the Flagship. S. E. P. Jun. 13. (10.) + One-Eyed Moor. Red Bk. Nov., ’24. (57.) + Paris Frock. Red Bk. Dec., ’24. (50.) + *When the War God Walks Again. S. E. P. Jan. 17. (3.) + + + B + + BAILY, FRANCIS EVANS. (1887– .) (_See 1924._) + Blessed Are the Shingled. S. E. P. Aug. 1. (46.) + Thy Neighbor’s Wife. Hear. Nov., ’24. (58.) + + BARRIE, SIR JAMES MATTHEW. (1860– .) + ***Courting of T’nowhead’s Bell. (_R._) Gol. Mar. (1:445.) + + BENNETT, ENOCH ARNOLD. (1867– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Claribel. S. E. P. Aug. 22. (12.) + **Perfect Husband. Cos. Jan. (60.) + *Toreador. Col. Jan. 24. (7.) + ***Umbrella. Col. Nov. 24, ’24. (5.) + + BENNETT, ROLF. (_See 1922._) + ***Bird of Fortune. Adv. Jul. 30. (150.) + ***Cask. Adv. Nov. 20, ’24. (63.) + *Teeth of McClure. Adv. July 20. (72.) + + BENSON, EDWARD FREDERIC. (1867– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + **Corstophine. Mun. Jan. (83:623.) + + BERESFORD, JOHN DAVYS. (1873– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Meeting Place. W. H. C. Feb. (12.) + *Three Cases. W. H. C. Nov., ’24. (7.) + + BIBESCO, PRINCESS ELIZABETH. (_See 1924._) + ***“La Peronnière Letters.” Chic. Trib. Dec. 28, ’24. + + BOTTOME, PHYLLIS. (MRS. FORBES DENNIS.) (_See 1919._) (_H._) + ***Wonder-Child. Atl. Jan. (135:48.) + + BOWEN, ELIZABETH. (_See 1924._) + *Parrot. Ev. Apr. (135.) + + “BOWEN, MARJORIE.” (GABRIEL MARGARET VERE CAMPBELL COSTANZO LONG.) + (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Comfortable. Col. Mar. 14. (18.) + *Lady Who Lived in a Dream. MacL. Oct. 15, ’24. (19.) + Where Your Treasure Is. Chic. Trib. Apr. 5. + + BURDETT, OSBERT. + Perfect Host. (_R._) Liv. A. Mar. 14. (324:614.) + + BURKE, THOMAS. (1887– .) (_See 1924._) + ***Spleen. (_R._) Liv. A. Feb. 28. (324:474.) + + + C + + CHESTERTON, GILBERT KEITH. (1874– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Arrow of Heaven. Col. Jul. 25. (12.) + ***Asylum of Adventure. MacL. Nov. 1, ’24. (27.) + **Chief Mourner of Marne. Harp. M. May. (150:690.) + ***Curse of the Golden Cross. Col. Jul. 11. (20.) + ***Man with Two Beards. Harp. M. Apr. (150:595.) + ***Mirror of Death. Harp. M. Mar. (150:394.) + ***Oracle of the Dog. (_R._) Gol. Sept. (2:372.) + ***Song of the Flying Fish. Harp. M. Jun. (150:82.) + + CHRISTIE, AGATHA. + Mystery of the Spanish Shawl. Macf. Dec., ’24. (38.) + + CLIFFORD, SIR HUGH. (1866– .) (_See 1917._) + ***Further Side of Silence. (_R._) Gol. Aug. (2:159.) + ***Lone-Hand Raid of Kûlop Sûmbing. Gol. Apr. (1:485.) + + COLLINS, DALE. (_See 1924._) + *God from Pennsylvania. Fron. Jun. (51.) + **Good that is in the Worst of Us. Hear. Nov., ’24. (32.) + *Service to Science. Sun. Jan. (25.) + *Surprise Island. Sun. Dec., ’24. (20.) + + COLUM, PADRAIC. (1881– .) (_See 1924._) + ***John Griggins--A Day in His Life. Com. Apr. 22, ’25. (1:657.) + **Legend of Ys. Com. Sept. 23. (2:478.) + **St. Martin and the Honest Man. Cen. Jun. (110:238.) + **Servitor. Com. Sept. 30. (2:563.) + + COPPARD, ALFRED EDGAR. (1878– .) (_See 1924._) + ***Field of Mustard. Dial. Jul. (79:47.) + + COULDREY, OSWALD. + ***Nandi in Pound. Atl. May. (135:602.) + + COUTLER, GEOFFREY. + ***Decoy. Tr. Oct., ’24. (2:365.) + + COULTER, JOHN W. + **Catholic Walks. (_R._) Liv. A. Nov. 22, ’24. (323:433.) + + CUNNINGHAME GRAHAM, ROBERT BONTINE. (1852– .) (_See 1920._) + ***Convert. (_R._) A. W. Aug.–Sept. (9.) + + + D + + DATALLER, ROGER. + **After-Meeting. (_R._) Liv. A. Feb. 21. (324:431.) + + DAWSON, CONINGSBY (WILLIAM). (1883– .) (_See 1922._) (_H._) + *Don’s Garden. McCall. Mar. (11.) + + DE LA MARE, WALTER JOHN. (1873– .) (_See 1922._) + ***Connoisseur. Yale. Jul. (14:645.) + ***Pigtails, Ltd. Atl. Aug. (136:175.) + + DELL, ETHEL M. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Full Measure. McCall. Jun. (5.) + Master Key. McCall. Mar. (5.) + Unknown Quantity. McCall. Oct. ’24. (22.) + + DOUGLAS, NORMAN. + **Queer! V. F. Jan. (46.) + + DOYLE, SIR ARTHUR CONAN. (1859– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Billy Bones. G. H. Jun. (40.) + *Adventure of the Three Garridebs. Col. Oct. 25, ’24. (5.) + *Adventure of the Illustrious Client. Col. Nov. 8, ’24. (5.) + + DUFFY, P. J. O’CONNOR. (_See 1924._) + *Boy from Gorthacaurnon. Cath. W. Jul. (121:479.) + *Colga MacCaffrey’s Inheritance. Cath. W. Jan. (120:477.) + *Riches of the Poor Man. Cath. W. Nov., ’24. (120:203.) + *Trenmore Jerningham. Cath. W. Mar. (120:760.) + *Woman of the Sea. Cath. W. May. (121:208.) + + DUKES, ASHLEY. + *Listener. (_R._) Liv. A. Oct. 11, ’24. (323:111.) + + DUNSANY, EDWARD JOHN MORETON Drax Plunkett, 18th Baron. (1878– .) + (_See 1920._) + ***Moral Little Tale. (_R._) Gol. Sept. (2:339.) + + + E + + EDGINTON, MAY. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Love Reigneth Still. Pict. R. Aug. (10.) + *This Happens Every Day. Pict. R. Feb. (12.) + What Handsome People. S. E. P. Sept. 26. (24.) + Why? Harp. B. Dec., ’24. (76.) + + EDWARDS, ETHEL ASHTON. + *Clever Mr. Delavel. (_R._) Liv. A. Mar. 28. (324:708.) + + ERTZ, SUSAN. (_See 1924._) + *Henry and the Muse. Pict. R. Aug. (15.) + + ERVINE, ST. JOHN GREET. (1883– .) (_See 1915._) (_H._) + ***Mr. Peden Keeps His Cook. Cen. Dec., ’24. (109:195.) + + + F + + FLETCHER, J. S. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Diamond Cut Diamond. Cos. Feb. (71.) + Green Ink. Cos. Jan. (96.) + + + G + + GALSWORTHY, JOHN. (1867– .) (_See 1923._) (_H._) + ***Last Card. Red Bk. Feb. (48.) + ***Mummy. Red Bk. Nov., ’24. (68.) + ***Water. Red Bk. Oct., ’24. (43.) + + GEORGE, WALTER LIONEL. (1882– .) (_See 1922._) + *Case of Olga Pennard. Ain. Dec., ’24. (129.) + *Hand of Gladys Cockley. Pict. R. Sept. (7.) + Last of His Line. Col. Oct. 11, ’24. (15.) + *Test. Charm. May. (11.) + *Wedding of Ailie Fern. Col. Nov. 22, ’24. (5.) + + GERHARDI, WILLIAM. + ***Big Drum. Harp. M. Apr. (150:571.) + + GIBBON, PERCEVAL. (1879– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Crossed Wires. S. E. P. Aug. 29. (15.) + **Jackass. S. E. P. Jan. 17. (16.) + *Man of Science. S. E. P. Jun. 20. (5.) + *Out of the Shadow. W. H. C. Sept. (9.) + ***Second-Class Passenger. (_R._) Gol. Aug. (2:261.) + + GIBBS, SIR PHILIP. (_See 1924._) + *Harmonious Child. Cos. Apr. (50.) + *School of Courage. MacL. Sept. 15. (9.) + *Shock of Success. Cos. Jan. (42.) + *Out of the Ruins. Cos. Dec., ’24. (36.) + + GILBERT, RODNEY. + *Brass Bowl. (_R._) Liv. A. Oct. 4, ’24. (323:49.) + + GOLDING, LOUIS. (1895– .) (_See 1924._) + *Great Poet! Am. H. Dec. 26, ’24. (116:219.) + *Youth Flaunts a Feather. Am. H. Apr. 10. (116:692.) + + GORDON, DOUGLAS. (_See 1924._) + *Silent Highway. Sh. St. Jan. 10. (167.) + + GORDON, JANET L. (_See 1924._) + “To-morrow.” Cath. W. Jan. (120:453.) + + GRAHAM, HELEN. + *Highbrows. (_R._) Liv. A. Feb. 7. (324:331.) + + GRAHAM, ROBERT BONTINE CUNNINGHAME. _See_ CUNNINGHAME GRAHAM, ROBERT + BONTINE. + + GRIFFIN, W. + **Contact. (_R._) Liv. A. Nov. 8, ’24. (323:333.) + + GRIMSHAW, BEATRICE. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Coconut Pearl. Cos. Aug. (34.) + Eyes in the Corner. Ly. Jun. 27. (8.) + Prisoner of the Reef. Ly. May 17, ’24. (43.) + Safe of the Shalimar. S. E. P. Jul. 11. (22.) + Under the Shive-Dagon. Red Bk. Oct., ’24. (80.) + Yapanee. Col. Jan. 17, ’25. (15.) + + + H + + HAMILTON, COSMO. (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Prodigal Father. S. E. P. Nov. 15, ’24. (14.) + Remember Lot’s Wife. S. E. P. Nov. 22, ’24. (12.) + + HARDY, THOMAS. (1840– .) (_See 1920._) (_H._) + ***Squire Patrick’s Lady. (_R._) Gol. Feb. (1:195.) + + HICHENS, ROBERT SMYTHE. (1864– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + For the Sake of the Leading Lady. Cos. May. (20.) + Husband Doubler. Harp. B. Nov., ’24. (72.) + Watch-Dog. Cos. Jul. (82.) + + HINKSON, KATHARINE TYNAN. _See_ TYNAN, KATHARINE. + + HOLDSWORTH, GEOFFREY, _and_ STERN, G. B. _See_ STERN, G. B., _and_ + HOLDSWORTH, GEOFFREY. + + HORN, HOLLOWAY. (1886– .) (_See 1924._) + Convention. Harp. B. Oct., ’24. (112.) + Loss. Harp. B. Apr. (200.) + + HUGHES, RICHARD. + ***Locomotive. H. C. Summer. (9.) + ***Poor Man’s Inn. For. Feb. (73:220.) + + HUXLEY, ALDOUS LEONARD. (_See 1924._) + ***Half Holiday. Harp. M. Sept. (151:457.) + + + J + + “JABB.” + Stolen Camera. (_R._) Liv. A. Jan. 3. (324:51.) + + JACOBS, WILLIAM WYMARK. (1863– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Fickle Woman. Hear. Feb. (84.) + ***Interruption. Ly. Jul. 4. (11.) + ***Something for Nothing. Hear. Jan. (89.) + + JEPSON, EDGAR. (1864– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Chalcedony Horse. Col. Apr. 25. (12.) + Jade Spirit Gong. S. E. P. Oct. 18, ’24. (28.) + Mystic Fan. S. E. P. May 9. (30.) + Peter Intervenes. McC. May. (1:85.) + Prince Sarrazin’s Frogs. S. E. P. Sept. 12. (22.) + + JOHNSTON, SIR HARRY HAMILTON. (1858– .) + **In the Lion’s Mouth. (_R._) Gol. Jan. (1:146.) + + JOPE-SLADE, CHRISTINE. (_See 1924._) + Cleopatra Was a Blonde. L. H. J. Jan. (10.) + Her Royal Highness Hoblin. L. H. J. May. (16.) + Little Lost Church. L. H. J. Apr. (10.) + + + K + + KAYE-SMITH, SHEILA. (_See 1924._) + ***Working Man’s Wife. W. H. C. Mar. (12.) + + KENNEDY, MARGARET. + *Long Week End. Cos. Sept. (36.) + + KENT, MICHAEL. (_See 1924_.) + Missing Miss Fortescue. Hol. May. (11.) + + KIPLING, RUDYARD. (1865– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Bull That Thought, Cos. Dec., ’24. (44.) MacL. Nov. 15, ’24. + (16.) + ***Prophet and the Country. Hear. Oct., ’24. (81.) + ***Wish House. Hear. Nov., ’24. (88.) MacL. Oct. 15, ’24. (15.) + ***With the Main Guard. (_R._) Gol. Jan. (1:97.) + + + L + + “LANCASTER, G. B.” (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Sons. Hol. Jul. (18.) + + LAWRENCE, DAVID HERBERT. (1885– .) (_See 1917._) (_H._) + ***Woman Who Rode Away. Dial. Jul. (79:1.) Aug. (79:121.) + + LOCKE, WILLIAM JOHN. (1863– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + ***Princess’s Kingdom. (_R._) Gol. Jun. (1:773.) + + LONG, GABRIEL MARGARET VERE CAMPBELL COSTANZO. _See_ “BOWEN, + MARJORIE.” + + LOWNDES, MRS. BELLOC. (1868– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + **Day He Forgot. Macf. Dec., ’24. (25.) + *Final Sentence. Am. May. (101.) + *“One Little Minute.” McC. Aug. (1:525.) + + LYSTER, M. + **Tortoise. (_R._) Liv. A. Dec. 27, ’24. (323:707). + + + M + + MCFEE, WILLIAM. (1881– .) (_See 1924._) + **Washout. Chic. Trib. Sept. 27. + + “MACLAREN, IAN.” (WATSON, JOHN.) (1850–1907.) (_H._) + *Afterwards. (_R._) McC. May. (1:95.) + + MACMANUS, SEUMAS. (1870– .) (_See 1919._) (_H._) + *Haste to the Weddin’. Com. Feb. 4. (1:344.) + + MCNEILE, MAJOR H. CYRIL. (“SAPPER.”) (1888– .) (_See 1923._) + *Blackmail. McC. May. (1:28.) + Ducking of Herbert Polton. McC. Aug. (1:596.) + Man with a Scar on His Face. McC. Jun. (1:57.) + + MAUGHAM, W. SOMERSET. (1874– .) (_See 1924._) + *Ant and the Grasshopper. Cos. Oct., ’24. (88.) + ***Man Who Wouldn’t Hurt a Fly. Cos. Apr. (54.) + *Most Selfish Woman I Knew. Cos. Sept. (90.) + ***Mr. Know-All. Cos. Jan. (48.) + *Widow’s Might. Cos. Feb. (30.) + **Yellow Streak. Cos. Aug. (106.) + + MAXWELL, WILLIAM BABINGTON. (_See 1922._) (_H._) + **Long Distance Train. Col. May 30. (6.) + + MERRICK, LEONARD. (1864– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Cure for Dyspepsia. Harp. B. Sept. (72.) + + METCALFE, JOHN. + ***Mole. D. D. Jun. (7:181.) + + MEYNELL, VIOLA. + ***Letter. (_R._) Books. Dec. 28, ’24. (8.) + ***Ten Minutes. Cen. Apr. (109:794.) + + MILLS, ARTHUR. (1887– .) (_See 1924._) + Hair of the Dog. Ev. May. (133.) + *King o’ the Plain. Ev. Dec., ’24. (119.) + Lame. Ev. Oct., ’24. (93.) + *Their Island. Ev. Nov., ’24. (77.) + + MILNE, ALAN ALEXANDER. (1882– .) (_See 1919._) + Miss Waterlow in Bed. W. H. C. Aug. (17.) + Sparrow Tree Square. W. H. C. Sept. (25.) + + MONTAGUE, CHARLES EDWARD. (1867– .) + ***All for Peace and Quiet. (_R._) Gol. Aug. (2:221.) + + MUNDY, TALBOT. (1879– .) (_See 1916._) (_H._) + *Drop or Two of White. (_R._) Gol. Sept. (2:330.) + + + N + + NEVINSON, HENRY WOODD. (1852– .) + ***Catfish. (_R._) Gol. Aug. (2:255.) + + NIVEN, FREDERICK JOHN. (1878– .) (_See 1924._) + *Conscience. Pop. Dec. 7, ’24. (165.) + *Faith Cure. Pop. Oct. 20, ’24. (60.) + *House on the Bluff. Pop. Aug. 7. (116.) + *MacPherson’s Luck. Pop. Dec. 20, ’24. (171.) + *Man to Man. Pop. Jul. 7. (143.) + + + O + + O’FLAHERTY, LIAM. + ***Conger Eel. Dial. Jan. (78:5.) + Wild Goat’s Kid. Dial. Aug. (79:137.) + + OPPENHEIM, EDWARD PHILLIPS. (1866– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Astute Deal. Harp. B. Oct., ’24. (98.) + Bamboozling of Mrs. Gascoigne. Col. Apr. 25. (5.) + Black Virgin. Harp. B. Dec., ’24. (88.) + Blood Money. Col. May 30. (13.) + Cafe of Terror. Col. May 16. (7.) + Channay the Deliverer. S. E. P. May 16. (43.) + Christian the Concierge. Col. Jun. 27. (15.) + Drama of the Marshes. S. E. P. May 2. (40.) + Eric Rhodes Has His Chance. S. E. P. May 23. (30.) + Gamble in Franks Oils. Harp. B. Nov., ’24. (68.) + Gilbert Channay Takes the Air. S. E. P. Apr. 11. (22.) + Great Abduction. S. E. P. May 9. (36.) + Hidden Symbol. Col. Jun. 6. (18.) + Last of the Virgins. Harp. B. Apr. (108.) + Madame Seeks a Prince. Harp. B. Mar. (98.) + Mark Levy Pays. S. E. P. Apr. 18. (34.) + Martin Fog Persists. S. E. P. Apr. 25. (28.) + Monte Carlo Pays a Gas Bill. Col. Jun. 20. (11.) + Mrs. Block Contributes. Col. May 9. (7.) + Numbers of Death. Col. May 2. (12.) + Royal Game. Col. May 23. (13.) + Salvation of Mr. Morton. Col. Jun. 13. (50.) + Small Tragedy of Mr. Tidd. Chic. Trib. Sept. 6. + Worthy Quittance. Harp. B. Feb. (90.) + Wrung Heart. Harp. B. Jan. (80.) + + + P + + PANTER-DOWNES, MOLLIE. + Misfit Wife. Cos. Mar. (87.) + Morning Like This. Cos. Nov., ’24. (45.) + + PERTWEE, ROLAND. (_See 1924._) + All’s Fair. S. E. P. Sept. 26. (8.) + Finger Dipped In Gold. S. E. P. Oct. 4, ’24. (14.) + Life Policy. Ev. May. (9.) + Salvation of Boobs. S. E. P. Nov. 15, ’24. (22.) + **Vanishing Point. L. H. J. Apr. (14.) + Wonderful Man. S. E. P. Sept. 19. (24.) + + POWYS, LLEWELLYN. (_See 1924._) + *Trapper. Cen. Aug. (110:415.) + + POWYS, THEODORE FRANCIS. (_See 1924._) + ***Painted Wagon. Dial. Feb. (78:91.) + + PRYCE, RICHARD. (1864– .) (_See 1923._) + *Storm. W. H. C. Jul. (7.) + + + Q + + QUIRK, VIOLET. + Sleeping Secrets. Pict. R. Apr. (28.) + + + R + + RENIERS, PERCEVAL. + Tropics Do Queer Things. Ind. May 16. (114:557.) + + RICHARDSON, ANTHONY. + ***Old Mossy Face. For. Apr. (73:513.) + + + S + + SABATINI, RAFAEL. (1875– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + **Forbidden Fruit. G. H. Sept. (30.) + + “SAPPER.” _See_ MCNEILE, MAJOR H. CYRIL. + + SOMERVILLE, EDITH Œ., _and_ “ROSS, MARTIN.” (VIOLET MARTIN.) + **Philippa’s Fox-Hunt. (_R._) Gol. Sept. (2:317.) + + STACPOOLE, HENRY DE VERE. (1865– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Story of Kanoa and the Jinni. Pop. Nov. 7, ’24. (92.) + + STERN, G. B. (MRS. GEOFFREY LISLE HOLDSWORTH.) (1890– .) (_See 1922._) + *Barcarolle. W. H. C. Jan. (22.) + *Empty Tables. W. H. C. Nov., ’24. (9.) + *Goblet of the Carradore. W. H. C. May. (7.) + + STERN, G. B., _and_ HOLDSWORTH, GEOFFREY. + Brocade Shoes. Harp. B. Jan. (64.) + + STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS. (1850–1894.) (_See 1915._) (_H._) + ***Lodging for the Night. (_R._) Gol. May. (1:661.) + ***Sire de Malétroit’s Door. (_R._) Gol. Mar. (1:348.) + + STUART, ELEANOR. (_H._) + *Perfect Servant. Scr. Jul. (78:18.) + + SWINNERTON, FRANK ARTHUR. (1884– .) (_See 1918._) + *Celebrity. S. E. P. Apr. 4. (24.) + Guest. Chic. Trib. Jun. 14. + *Marriage Arranged. Col. May 9. (12.) + *Miss Jedburys. L. H. J. Oct., ’24. (14.) + + + T + + TERRILL, G. APPLEBY. (_See 1924._) + *Child of the Song-Fo River. MacL. Mar. 1. (13.) + *Don’t Talk to Me of Princesses. Hol. Aug. (11.) + *In St. Martin’s Summer-Land. L. H. J. May. (18.) + + TOWNEND, W. (_See 1923._) (_H._) + *Bolshevik. S. E. P. Jul. 11. (16.) + + TRAILL, PETER. + **His Wife’s Portrait. Macf. Oct., ’24. + + TYNAN, KATHARINE. (KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON.) (_See 1924._) + *Shelling of the Church. Cath. W. Jul. (121:447.) + *Shrine of the Prince-Bishop. Cath. W. Nov., ’24. (120:159.) + + + V + + VANE, SUTTON. + **Fog. Smart Set. Jul., ’24. (39.) + + + W + + WALLACE, EDGAR. (1875– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Little Dragon of Jade. S. E. P. May 16. (22.) + + WALPOLE, HUGH SEYMOUR. (1884– .) (_See 1924._) + *Girl Who was Herself. Hear. Jan. (76.) + **Miss Finchley’s Hour. G. H. Dec., ’24. (14.) + ***Old Elizabeth. G. H. Nov., ’24. (46.) + + WATSON, JOHN. _See_ “MACLAREN, IAN.” + + WELLS, CATHARINE. (MRS. H. G. WELLS.) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + *Dragon Fly. Tr. Nov., ’24. (2:511.) + + WELLS, HERBERT GEORGE. (1866– .) (_H._) + ***Story of the Late Mr. Elvesham. (_R._) Ev. Sept. (102.) + + WETJEN, ALBERT RICHARD. (1900– .) (_See 1924 under American Authors._) + *Admiral Jibbetts. Col. Mar. 14. (13.) + *Glory. Col. Sept. 26. (18.) + Heart of MacLoughlin. Ev. May. (55.) + *Mr. Atkins. Col. Mar. 28. (5.) + *North of the World. Sun. Mar. (22.) + **On the Coast Run. Col. Dec. 6, ’24. (10.) + *’Ome Builder. Col. Feb. 21. (10.) + *Road of Adventure. Sh. St. Oct. 10, ’24. (118.) + *Time. Col. Jan. 24. (14.) + *Tradition. Col. Apr. 18. (7.) + + WHITECHURCH, VICTOR L. (_H._) + *Adventure of Captain Ivan Koravitch. (_R._) Gol. May. (1:641.) + *In the House of the Mandarin. (_R._) Liv. A. Nov. 1, ’24. + (323:292.) + + WILDRIDGE, OSWALD. + **Cotton Lord. Chic. Trib. Jul. 5. + + WILLIAMS, I. A. + **Man Who Stole the Pelican. (_R._) + Liv. A. Dec. 6, ’24. (323:548.) + + WILLIAMS, MARGERY. (MRS. FRANCESCO BIANCO.) (_See 1924._) + *Nightingale Copse. H. C. Summer. (25.) + White Flower. Ev. Nov., ’24. (172.) + + WILLIAMSON, CHARLES NORRIS. (1859–?) _and_ ALICE MURIEL LIVINGSTON. + (1869– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + House of the Sun. Chic. Trib. Jan. 25. + + WILLIAMSON, HENRY. (_See 1924._) + ***No Eel for Nog. Col. Apr. 11. (18.) + + WODEHOUSE, PELHAM GRENVILLE. (1881– .) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + Awful Gladness of the Mater. S. E. P. Mar. 21. (10.) + Clustering Round Young Bingo. S. E. P. Feb. 21. (10.) + Custody of the Pumpkin. S. E. P. Nov. 29, ’24. (5.) + High Stakes. S. E. P. Sept. 19. (8.) + Honeysuckle Cottage. S. E. P. Jan. 24. (8.) + Jane Gets Off the Fairway. S. E. P. Oct. 25, ’24. (5.) + Purification of Rodney Spelvin. S. E. P. Aug. 22. (6.) + Something Squishy. S. E. P. Dec. 20, ’24. (6.) + Without the Option. S. E. P. Jun. 27. (8.) + + WOOLF, VIRGINIA. (_See 1923._) + ***Miss Ormerod. Dial. Dec., ’24. (77:466.) + + WRYNN, ANTHONY. + Equinox. Dial. Sept. (79:203.) + + WYLIE, IDA ALENA ROSS. (1885– .) (_See 1924._) + Exiles in Casserole. S. E. P. Feb. 21. (8.) + Mrs. Margrave Finds Her Children. G. H. Dec., ’24. (70.) + + + Y + + YATES, DORNFORD. (_See 1924._) + Childish Things. S. E. P. Jun. 27. (43.) + Leading Strings. S. E. P. Nov. 22, ’24. (18.) + + + III. Translations + + A + + ACREMANT, ALBERT. (_See 1924._) (_French._) + Assumed Name. N. Y. Trib. Apr. 12. + Sword Dancer of Montmartre. N. Y. Trib. Feb. 15. + + ALARCON, PEDRO ANTONIO DE. (_Spanish._) + ***Captain Veneno’s Proposal of Marriage. (_R._) Gol. Jan. (1:13.) + ***Prophecy. (_R._) Gol. Jun. (1:812.) + + ANDREYEV, LEONID NIKOLAEVICH. (1871–1919.) (_See 1917._) (_H._) + (_Russian._) + ***Giant. Mod. Q. Fall, ’24. (2:119.) + + ANNUNZIO, GABRIELE D’. (_Italian._) _See_ D’ANNUNZIO, GABRIELE. + + ANONYMOUS. (_German._) + *Mysterious Temple. (_R._) Liv. A. Mar. 21. (324:665.) + + ARENNES, J. AD. (_French._) + Purple Sweater. N. Y. Trib. Dec. 21, ’24. + + + B + + BACHELIN, HENRI. (_See 1924._) (_French._) + End of the Picture Auction. N. Y. Trib. Jun. 7. + + BALZAC, HONORE DE. (1799–1850.) (_See 1921._) (_H._) (_French._) + ***El Verdugo. (_R._) Gol. Apr. (1:556.) + + BARILLIER, BERTHE CARIANNE LE. _See_ “BERTHEROY, JEAN.” + + BARJAC, CLAUDE. (_See 1924._) (_French._) + At the Season’s End. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 19, ’24. + + “BERTHEROY, JEAN.” (BERTHE CARIANNE LE BARILLIER.) (1860– .) (_See + 1924._) (_French._) + *Leaning Tower. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 5, ’24. + Love Laughs Last and Best. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 18. + Wing Shot and Wounded Siren. N. Y. Trib. Nov. 3, ’24. + + BINET-VALMER. (1875– .) (_See 1924._) (_French._) + For Those Who Come After Us. N. Y. Trib. Jul. 26. + + BIZET, RENE. (1887– .) (_See 1924._) (_French._) + Stepsister and the Piano. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 25. + + BLAISE, GILBERT. (_French._) + *Convenient Beneditti. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 27. + + BLASCO, IBANEZ, VICENTE. (1867– .) (_See 1924._) (_Spanish._) + Condemned. Ly. May 24, ’24. (27.) + + BOUTET, FREDERIC. (_See 1924._) (_French._) + *Cesar Balbois. Ly. Nov. 8, ’24. (27.) + Imposter. Ly. Nov. 1, ’24. (59.) + Little Cabin in the Clearing. N. Y. Trib. May 10. + Man of Unrecognized Genius. N. Y. Trib. Aug. 16. + Preliminary to a Marriage for Money. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 26, ’24. + *Soldier Duval, Alone, Unaided. N. Y. Trib. Mar. 1. + Tragedy of Appearances. N. Y. Trib. Jul. 5. + *With the Coming of the Avenger. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 4. + + BUCHHOLTZ, JOHANNES. (_Danish._) + *Rhenish. Wave. Oct., ’24. (2:71.) + + + C + + CALDERON, SERAFIN ESTEBANEZ. (_Spanish._) + ***Andalusian Duel. (_R._) Gol. Apr. (1:513.) + + CALSON, PEDRO DE NOVO. (_Spanish._) + ***Terror of the Government. (_R._) Gol. May. (1:718.) + + CAPUANA, LUIGI. (_Italian._) + **Kiss. (_R._) Gol. Feb. (1:204.) + + CASTELLO, LUIS. (_Argentinian._) + *Juan Varela’s Vote. (_R._) Liv. A. Sept. 19. (326:630.) + + CERIO, EDWIN. (_Italian._) + *Danse Macabre. D. D. Jun. (7:163.) + + CHEKHOV, ANTON PAVLOVICH. (1860–1904.) (_See 1924._) (_H._) + (_Russian._) + ***Bet. (_R._) Gol. May. (1:651.) + ***Slanderer. (_R._) Gol. Mar. (1:437.) + + CHIRIKOV, EUGENE. (_See 1917._) (_H._) (_Russian._) + *Brave Sparrow. Strat. Nov., ’24. (3:143.) + + CLEMENCEAU, GEORGES EUGENE ADRIEN. (1841– .) (_See 1923._) (_French._) + How I Became Long-Sighted. (_R._) Liv. A. Sept. 5. (326:499.) + + “COLETTE.” (MME. HENRI DE JOUVENAL.) (_French._) + *Blind Alley. V. F. Apr. (62.) + *Distinguished Housebreaker. V. F. Feb. (43.) + *Habit. V. F. Jul. (59.) + *Hand. V. F. Aug. (51.) + Monsieur Maurice. V. F. Sept. (59.) + *One Evening. V. F. Jan. (43.) + *Other Woman. V. F. May. (61.) + *Portrait. V. F. Dec., ’24. (47.) + *Those By Whom We Are Judged. V. F. Mar. (45.) + *Woman Behind the Mask. V. F. Nov., ’24. (55.) + + COMERT, MARGUERITE. (_See 1924._) (_French._) + “You in Spite of Everything.” N. Y. Trib. Jul. 12. + + + D + + D’ANNUNZIO, GABRIELE (RAPAGNETTA). (1864– .) (_See 1920._) + (_Italian._) + ***Bells. I. A. Jun. (1:25.) + ***Turlendana Returns. (_R._) Gol. Sept. (2:325.) + + DAUDET, ALPHONSE. (1840–1897.) (_See 1921._) (_H._) (_French._) + ***Siege of Berlin. (_R._) Gol. Apr. (1:515.) + ***Sous-Prefet Afield. (_R._) Gol. May. (1:737.) + + DEKOBRA, MAURICE. (1885– .) (_French._) + *Strategy in a Country Courthouse. N. Y. Trib. May 17. + Theft of the Pearl Necklace. N. Y. Trib. Mar. 22. + + DESCAVES, PIERRE. (_French._) + That Persistent Old Woman. N. Y. Trib. June 28. + + DOSTOEVSKY, FYODOR MIKHAILOVICH. (1822–1881.) (_See 1921._) (_H._) + (_Russian._) + ***Christmas Story. Dial. Sept. (79:179.) + + DUMAS, ALEXANDRE, _the elder_. (1806–1870.) (_French._) + ***Solange. (_R._) Gol. Jan. (1:135.) + + + E + + EBERHARDT, ISABELLE. (_French._) + *One Night in Africa. Opp. Apr. (105.) + *Tears of the Almond Tree. Opp. Jan. (3:11.) + + EDES, AIME MARC. (_French._) + Death by the Bite of the Lion. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 11. + + + F + + FERNANDEZ GUARDIA, LEON. (_Costa Rican._) + **No. 13,013. I. A. Oct., ’24. (8:39.) + + FOGAZZARO, ANTONIO. (1842–19--.) (_H._) (_Italian._) + ***Because of a Rose-Leaf. (_R._) G. B. May. (1:681.) + + FONHUS, MIKKJEL. (_See 1923._) (_Norwegian._) + *Nocturnal Visitors. Scan. Jan. (13:40.) + + “FRANCE, ANATOLE.” (JACQUES ANATOLE THIBAULT.) (1844–1925.) (_See + 1921._) (_H._) (_French._) + ***Our Lady’s Juggler. (_R._) G. B. May. (1:766.) + ***Procurator of Judea. (_R._) Gol. Aug. (2:176.) + ***Putois. (_R._) Gol. Feb. (1:189.) + + + G + + GABORIAU, EMILE. (1835–1873.) (_See 1921._) (_French._) + **Accursed House. (_R._) Gol. Mar. (1:332.) + + GARNIER, HUGUETTE. (_See 1924._) (_French._) + Penny Ring. N. Y. Trib. Mar. 8. + + GEIJERSTAM, GUSTAV A. F. (_Swedish._) + **Secret of the Forest. Scan. Oct., ’24. (12:612.) + + GEVEL, CLAUDE. (_French._) + Message of the Wall. N. Y. Trib. Aug. 23. + + GOGOL, NIKOLAI VASILIEVICH. (1809–1852.) (_See 1921._) (_H._) + (_Russian._) + ***Diary of a Madman. Mod. Q. Winter, ’24. (2:177.) + + GOMEZ JAIME, ALFREDO. (_Colombian._) + **I Come for a Soul. I. A. Oct., ’24. (8:55.) + + “GORKY, MAXIM.” (ALEXEI MAXIMOVITCH PYESHKOV.) (1868 or 1869– .) + (_See 1924._) (_H._) (_Russian._) + ***Gipsy: Makar Chudra. (_R._) Gol. May. (1:721.) + ***Hermit. Col. May 16. (16.) + ***Story of a Novel. S. W. Apr. (83.) + ***Strange Murderer. Dial. Oct., ’24. (77:291.) + + GOURMONT, REMY DE. (1858–1915.) (_French._) + Evening Chat. Guar. Mar. (1:157.) + Faun. Guar. Mar. (1:160.) + + + H + + HEIDENSTAMM, VERNER VON. (_Swedish._) + ***Clean White Shirt. (_R._) Gol. Sept. (2:363.) + ***French Mons. (_R._) Gol. Jan. (1:5.) + ***Mazeppa and His Ambassador. (_R._) Gol. Feb. (1:200.) + ***Queen of the Marauders. (_R._) Gol. Mar. (1:430.) + ***Sigrid the Haughty and Her Wooers. Scan. Dec., ’24. (12:722.) + + HERFORT, PAUL. (_French._) + Four Pebbles. N. Y. Trib. Feb. 1. + + + I + + IBANEZ, VICENTE BLASCO. (_Spanish._) _See_ BLASCO IBANEZ, VINCENTE. + + IRETSKI. (_Russian._) + *Elusive Treasure. (_R._) Liv. A. Sept. 12. (326:590.) + + + J + + JACOBSEN, JENS PETER. (1847–1885.) (_See 1919._) (_Danish._) + ***Two Worlds. D. D. Jan.–Feb. (7:86.) + + + K + + KUPRIN, ALEXANDER. (1870– .) (_See 1924._) (_Russian._) + ***Winter Night’s Tale. (_R._) Liv. A. Jan. 24. (324:213.) + + + L + + “LEBLOND, MARIUS-ARY.” (_French._) + **Little Brother of the Underbrush. Harp. M. Oct., ’24. (149:634.) + + LECHE, MIA. (_Swedish._) + *Chiffons. (_R._) Liv. A. Oct. 25, ’24. (323:208.) + + LEMCHE, GYRITHE. (_Danish._) + **For Dear Life. Scan. Aug. (13:467.) + + LEVEL, MAURICE. (_See 1920._) (_French._) + **Debt Collector. (_R._) Gol. Feb. (1:221.) + + + M + + MARTORELLO, NOE S. (_Argentinian._) + ***Pedro. I. A. Apr. (8:323.) + + MAUPASSANT, HENRI-RENE-ALBERT-GUY DE. (1850–1893.) (_See 1922._) + (_H._) (_French._) + ***Experiment in Love. (_R._) Gol. Mar. (1:439.) + ***Night in Spring. (_R._) Gol. May. (1:678.) + ***Sundays of a Parisian. (_R._) Gol. Jan. (1:124.) Feb. (1:294.) + **’Toine. (_R._) Gol. Sept. (2:379.) + + MERIMEE, PROSPER. (1803–1870.) (_H._) (_French._) + ***Carmen. (_R._) Ev. Jun. (97.) + ***Djoumane. (_R._) Gol. Jun. (1:863.) + ***Game of Backgammon. (_R._) Gol. Feb. (1:282.) + ***Lokis. (_R._) Gol. Mar. (1:361.) + ***Tamango. (_R._) Gol. Aug. (2:245.) + + METZGER, MADELEINE. (_French._) + *Hamond and the Horned Viper. N. Y. Trib. Aug. 30. + *Manor-House Wedding. (_R._) Liv. A. Dec. 13, ’24. (323:608.) + + MUSSET, ALFRED DE. (1810–1857.) (_French._) + ***Story of a White Blackbird. (_R._) Gol. Apr. (1:499.) + ***White Blackbird’s Story. (_R._) Pear. (Am.) Feb. (37.) + + + N + + NAZOR, VLADIMIR. (_Croatian._) + **Angelo, the Stonecutter. (_R._) Liv. A. Nov. 29, ’24. (323:483.) + + NIETO, ALEJANDRO. (_Argentinian._) + ***Love’s Labor Lost. (_R._) Gol. June. (1:881.) + + + P + + PAYRO, ROBERTO J. (_Argentine._) + *Integrity. (_R._) Liv. A. Oct. 18, ’24. (323:154.) + + PEREZ, J. L. (_Yiddish._) + *Eighth Division Hell. Guar. Nov., ’24. (6.) + *Miracle on the Sea. J. T. Sept. 18. (38.) + + PINSKI, DAVID. (1872– .) (_See 1919._) (_Yiddish._) + **Zalman the Contractor. Men. J. Jun. (11:253.) + + PIRANDELLO, LUIGI. (1867– .) (_See 1924._) (_Italian._) + ***Mere Formality. (_R._) Gol. Sept. (2:399.) + ***Shoes at the Door. (_R._) Liv. A. Nov. 15, ’24. (323:371.) + + POURCEL, GEORGES. (_See 1924._) (_French._) + Face on the Medallion. N. Y. Trib. Apr. 5. + Protector of the Household. N. Y. Trib. Dec. 28, ’24. + + PUSHKIN, ALEXANDER SERGEYEVICH. (1799–1837.) (_See 1921._) (_H._) + (_Russian._) + ***Pistol Shot. (_R._) Gol. Jun. (1:871.) + + PYESHKOV, ALEXEI MAXIMOVITCH. (_Russian._) _See_ “GORKY, MAXIM.” + + + R + + RAMEAU, JEAN. (_See 1923._) (_French._) + Claudette’s Admirer. N. Y. Trib. Nov. 30, ’24. + *Pardon Direct from Heaven. N. Y. Trib. Jun. 21. + + RASMUSSEN, KNUD. (_Danish._) + *Exploits of Pukitsulik. (_R._) Liv. A. Apr. 11. (325:117.) + + REGIS, ROGER. (_See 1923._) (_H._) (_French._) + *My Neighbour Invisible. N. Y. Trib. Nov. 9, ’24. + + REISBACH, JEAN. (_French._) + Play of Destiny. N. Y. Trib. Nov. 16, ’24. + + RENARD, MAURICE. (_French._) + *When April Returned Too Late. N. Y. Trib. Aug. 2. + + REUZE, ANDRE. (_French._) + *Adventure in the Fog. N. Y. Trib. Apr. 26. + + RICCI, CORRADO. (_Italian._) + *Cross of the Mother. Leonardo. 1925. (18.) + + RODRIGUEZ-ALCALA, TERESA LAMAS CARISIMO DE. (_Paraguay._) + **Py-Chay. I. A. Feb. (8:236.) + + “ROSNY, J. H., _aine_.” (J. _and_ H. BOEX.) (1856–.) (_See 1924._) + (_French._) + Man-Eater Outwitted. N. Y. Trib. May 24. + Monsieur Labouze’s Adventure. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 6. + Mystery of the Licking Stone. N. Y. Trib. Jul. 19. + Opportune Burglary. N. Y. Trib. Dec. 14, ’24. + Pivoine, the Unappreciated One. N. Y. Trib. Nov. 23, ’24. + *That Good Cigar. N. Y. Trib. Mar. 29. + + RUMANIA, MARIE, QUEEN OF. (_Rumanian._) + *Lulaloo. G. H. Mar. (20.) + + RUNG, OTTO. (_Danish.)_ + **Light-Fingered Philanthropist. (_R._) Liv. A. Sept. 5. (326:533.) + + + S + + SACHER-MASOCH, LEOPOLD DE. (_German._) + *Haman and Esther. J. T. Mar. 6. (22.) + + SANDY, ISABELLE. (_See 1924._) (_French._) + Brass Bedstead. N. Y. Trib. Feb. 22. + *Dancing Jack of the Belfry. N. Y. Trib. Jun. 14. + **Legend of the Ash Tree. N. Y. Trib. Dec. 7, ’24. + + SCHNITZLER, ARTHUR. (1862– .) (_See 1924._) (_Austrian._) + Lieutenant Gerstl. Dial. Aug. (79:89.) + + SCOTT, GABRIEL. (_Norwegian._) + **How Our Lord and St. Peter Came to Visit the Earth. Scan. Dec., + ’24. (12:743.) + + SEGREDA, LUIS DOBLES. (_Costa Rican._) + *Saddlebags. (_R._) Liv. A. Dec. 20, ’24. (323:669.) + + SHKURKIN, P. (_Russian._) + *Temple of Dutiful Widowhood. (_R._) Liv. A. Feb. 14. (324:382.) + + SILLEN, MARTA AF. (_Swedish._) + ***Two Sibyls. Scan. Sept. (13:546.) + + SOLARI, EMILE. (_French._) + Patriarch Rabbit. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 12, ’24. + + SONOLET, LOUIS. (_French._) + Household a Little Too Parisian. N. Y. Trib. Feb. 8. + + SWEDEN, PRINCE WILLIAM OF. (_Swedish._) + *Jungle Love. Cos. Jul. (76.) + *Phantom Lover. Cos. May. (26.) + + + T + + TENEVILLE, ALBERT DE. (_French._) + Experiment in Hypnotism. N. Y. Trib. Apr. 19. + + THIBAULT, JACQUES ANATOLE. _See_ “FRANCE, ANATOLE.” + + TOLSTOY, LYOF NIKOLAIEVICH, COUNT. (1828–1910.) (_See 1921._) (_H._) + (_Russian._) + ***Too Dear. (_R._) Gol. Jan. (1:55.) + + + U + + UGARTE, MANUEL. (_See 1924._) (_Argentine._) + **Totota. (_R._) Liv. A. Apr. 4. (325:57.) + + + V + + VELIKANOVICH, ISO. (_Yugo-Slav._) + **Old Fogies’ Club. (_R._) Liv. A. Jan. 31. (324:260.) + + + Z + + ZETTERSTROM, HASSE. (_Swedish._) + Anna Clara’s Dance. (_R._) Liv. A. Jan. 10. (324:121.) + + + + +Transcriber’s Note: + +Jargon, dialect, obsolete and alternative spellings were left +unchanged. Thirteen misspelled words in the short stories were +corrected. In the various appendices, spelling of names of people and +magazines were corrected. + +Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like +this_. Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the end +of each chapter. Obvious printing errors, such as reversed or partially +printed letters and punctuation, were corrected. Missing letters were +added. Final stops missing at the end of sentences and abbreviations +were added. + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77328 *** |