Chapter V (6)

“Now, my friend, go to it!” he cried. “Paint, De Vilmarte—paint in your own natural manner! A few strokes of the brush of the great master De Vilmarte, and color and light will vanish from it. Why not—why not? You suffer, too—your face is drawn. You think I do not know how you hate me. I don’t need to look at you to know that. We always hate those who have power over us. Paint—paint! If I can bear it, surely you can. _Paint naturally_, De Vilmarte! Paint into it your own meagerness and banality! Paint into my masterpiece the signature of your own defeat.”

The afternoon was ebbing. It seemed as though the room were full of silent people, all holding Raoul back—his world, the critics, his fiancée, his mother. Besides, he had no right to destroy this beautiful thing to save his honor.

“You are not yourself,” he said.

“Aha! I know what you think of me. Ha! De Vilmarte, but I am a master, a great painter. Paint, and betray yourself. Ha! _sale voyou_, you will not? You are waiting to steal from me my final beautiful expression. You stand there— How is it that you permit me to call the Vicomte de la Tour de Vilmarte names? Why do you not strike me?”

“Oh, call me what you like,” Raoul cried. “Only finish the picture. There is very little more to do.”

“I tell you what I shall call you,” Hazelton jeered at him. “I will call you nothing worse than Raoul—Ra-oul—Ra—o—u—l!” He meowed it like a tom-cat. “How can I be so vile when I paint like an angel, Ra—o—u—l ... Ra—o—u—l!”

Sweat stood on Raoul’s forehead. He stood quiet. The picture was finished.

“Sign, my little Raoul, sign!” cried Hazelton. And with murder in his heart, a bitter tide of dark and sluggish blood mounting, ever mounting, Raoul signed and then fled into the lovely spring evening.

“This is the end,” he thought. “There shall be no more of this. Not for any one—not for any one, can I be so defiled!” For he felt the mystic identity between himself and his mother—that he was flesh of her flesh, and that in some vicarious way she was being insulted through him.

But it was not the end. It was with horror that Raoul learned that the picture had been bought by the state, that he was to receive the Legion of Honor. His mother was wild with joy.

“Now,” she cried, embracing him—“now I can depart in peace.” She looked so fragile that it seemed as if indeed her spirit had lingered only for this joy. She looked at him narrowly. “But you have been working too hard—you look ill. A long rest is what you need.”

“A very long rest,” Raoul agreed. He left the house, and, as if it was a magnet, the great exhibition drew him to it, and in front of his picture stood the thick, familiar figure of Hazelton, his nose jutting out truculently from his face, which was red and black like a poster. He broke through his attitude of devoted contemplation to turn upon Raoul.

“Bought by the state!” he cried. “To be hung in the Luxembourg!” He pointed menacingly with his cane at De Vilmarte’s neat little signature. “Why, I ask, should I go to my grave unknown, poor, a pensioner of your bounty? Why should you be happy—fêted?”

The irony of being accused of happiness was too much for De Vilmarte. He laughed aloud.

“Wouldn’t it be better for you to be an honest man?” croaked Hazelton.

“Only death can make an honest man of me,” answered De Vilmarte.

“_My_ death could make an honest man of you,” Hazelton said slowly. It was as if he had read the dark and nameless secret that was lurking in the bottom of De Vilmarte’s heart.

For a moment they two seemed alone in all the earth, the only living beings. They stood alone, their secret in their hands.

Then Hazelton’s lips began to move. “My God!” he said. “Bought by the state and hung in the Luxembourg! Bought by the state and hung in the Luxembourg!” He repeated it as if trying to familiarize himself with some inexplicable fact. “I will not have it!” he went on. “I will not have it! If I’m not bought by the state I shall not go on!”

Raoul looked at him with entreaty. Hazelton came up to the surface of consciousness and his eyes followed Raoul’s. A very frail little old lady was being pushed in a wheel-chair near them.

“My mother,” Raoul whispered.

“I wish to meet her,” said Hazelton.

She bowed graciously and then sat in her chair gazing at the picture bought by the state. Pride was in every line of her old face. She seemed returned from the shadows only to gaze at this picture. Then, in a voice which was cracked with age, she said, turning to Hazelton:

“I know your work, too. Monsieur—the opposite of my son’s. It is as though between you you encompassed all of nature’s moods. To me there has always been—you will laugh I know—a strange similarity, as though you were two halves of a whole, as day and night.”

A cold wave flowed over Hazelton, a feeling as though his hair were lifting on the back of his head. It was as though this frail old lady was linking him irrevocably to Raoul. He was powerless now to take his own.

“Madame,” he said, “I feel as if no one had understood my work before.”

But she had turned to gaze upon her son’s painting. A sort of senility enveloped her, and his drunkenness reached out to it. His gaze had in it respect and tenderness and abnegation. His manner, more eloquent than words, said: “I give up; I resign. Take it.”

He went to the end of the gallery, and Raoul saw him sit down in the attitude of one who waits. When Mme. de Vilmarte left, Raoul joined him.

Hazelton’s head sank deeply between his shoulders; his pugnacity had oozed away. After a time he spoke with an effort. “I understand,” he said. “I understand—”

A curious sense of liberation seized De Vilmarte. His old liking for Hazelton returned. “I am sorry for all of us,” he said.

“My poor friend, there is no way out,” said Hazelton. “I am vile—a beast. But trust me—believe in me.”

“I will,” cried De Vilmarte, deeply touched.

Hazelton’s little jewel-like eyes were blurred with unwonted sentiment. “I am a king in exile,” he muttered over and over. “A king in exile,” he repeated. This sentimental simile seemed to be a well of bitter comfort for him.

This story should end here, for stories should end like this, on the high note; but life is different. Hazelton was a man with a bad liver, and he got no joy from his sacrifice. Moreover, in real life one seldom fights a decisive battle with one’s lower nature. One goes on fighting; it dies hard when it dies at all. There are the high moments when one thinks the battle won, and the next day the enemy attacks again, with the battle to be fought over.

Hazelton had formed the habit of cursing fate and De Vilmarte, and, to revenge himself, of threatening De Vilmarte’s exposure, and he continued to do these things. And De Vilmarte let his mind stray far in contemplating Hazelton’s possible vileness, and in doing this he himself became vile. What he could not recognize was the definite place where Hazelton’s vileness stopped. His life was like a fair fruit rotten within.

It was the summer of 1914, and Hazelton, whose drunkenness before had been occasional, now drank always, and forever in the background of De Vilmarte’s mind was this powerful figure with its red face and black hair and truculent bearing, drunken and obscene, who carried in his careless hand the honor of the De Vilmartes. At any moment Hazelton could rob Raoul of his pride, embitter his mother’s last hours, and make him the laughing stock of his world. Raoul became like an entrapped animal running around and around the implacable barriers of a cage. It is a terrible thing to have one’s honor in the hands of another.

He thought of everything that might end this torment, and he found no answer. Madness grew in him. Wherever Raoul de la Tour de Vilmarte went, there followed him unseen a shadow, swart, dark, and red-faced. It followed him, mouthing, “Ra-o-u-l—Ra-o-u-l!” like a cat. “Ra-o-u-l! Ra-o-u-l!” from morning till night. When De Vilmarte was at a table in a café a huge and mocking shadow sat beside him, and it said, wagging its head in a horrid fashion, “There’s death in our little drama, _hein, mon vieux_?”

The fate that had made their interests one, bound them together. They sought each other out to spend strange and tortured hours in each other’s company, while in the depths of Raoul’s heart a plan to end the torture was coming to its own slow maturity, and grew large and dark during the hot days of July. He could not continue to live. The burden of his secret weighed him down. Nor could he leave Hazelton behind him, the honor of the De Vilmartes in his hands.

The bloody answer to the riddle leaped out at him. Hazelton’s death—that was the answer. Then De Vilmarte could depart in peace. For two mad, happy days he saw life simply. First Hazelton, then himself.

One day he stopped short, for he realized he could not go until his mother—went. He must stay a while—until she died.

He had to wait until she died. He watched her, wondering if his endurance would outlast her life. He tried not to let her see him watching—for he knew there was madness in his eyes—and he would go out to find his dark shadow, for often it was less painful to be with him than away from him—he knew then what Hazelton was up to. He spent days in retracing the steps which had brought him to this desperate _impasse_. They had been easy, but he knew that weakness was at the bottom of it—perhaps, unless he did it now, he would never do it—perhaps an unworthy desire for life—and love—might hold back his hand.

So De Vilmarte lived his days and nights bound on the torturing pendulum of conflict.

――――

Suddenly Europe was aflame. France stood still and waited. And as he waited, with Europe, Raoul for a moment forgot his torment. War is a great destroyer, but among other things it destroys the smaller emotions. Its licking flame shrivels up personal loves and hates. When war was declared, old hates were blotted out, and hopeless lovers trembling on the brink of suicide were cured overnight. Small human atoms were drowned in the larger hate and the larger love. Men ceased to have power over their own lives since their lives belonged to France.

So when war was declared, choice was taken from Raoul’s hands. A high feeling of liberation possessed him. He walked along the street, and suddenly he realized that instead of going toward his home he was seeking his other half, the dark shadow to whom he had been so bound.

On Hazelton’s door a note was pinned, addressed to him.

“My friend,” it said, “you have luck! You will have your regiment, while nothing better than the ambulance, like a _sale embusque_, for me. If harm comes to you, don’t fear for your mother.”

This letter made him feel as though Hazelton had clasped his hand. He no longer felt toward Hazelton as an enemy, since France had also claimed him.

Madness had brushed him with its dark wings. By so slender a thread his life and Hazelton’s had hung! Yes—and his honor!

“Thank God!” he said, “for an honorable death!” It was the last personal thought that was his for a long time. War engulfed him. Instead of an individual he was a soldier of France, and his life was broken away from the old life which now seemed illusion, the days which streamed past him like pennants torn in the wind.

Later, in the monotony of trench warfare, he had time to think of Hazelton. He desired two things—to serve France, and to see Hazelton. Raoul wanted a word of friendship to pass between them, and especially he wanted to tell Hazelton that he need not worry about his wife. He wrote to him, but got no answer. Life went on; war had become the normal thing. The complexities of his former life receded further and further from him, and became more phantasmal, but the desire to see Hazelton before either of them should die remained with Raoul.

When he was wounded it was his last conscious thought before oblivion engulfed him. There followed a half-waking—pain—a penumbral land through which shapes moved vaguely; the smell of an anesthetic, an awakening, and again sleep. When he wakened fully he was in a white hospital ward with a sister bending over him.

“In the next bed,” she said, “there is a _grand blessé_.” She looked at him significantly. “He wishes to speak to you—he is a friend of yours.”

In the next bed lay Hazelton, the startling black of his shaggy hair framing the pallor of his face.

With difficulty Raoul raised his head. They smiled at each other. From the communion of their silence came Hazelton’s deep voice.

“Why the devil,” he said, “did we ever hate each other?”

Raoul shook his head. He didn’t know. He, too, had wanted to ask Hazelton this.

“It has bothered me,” said Hazelton. “I wanted to see you—” His voice trailed off. “I’ve wanted to ask you why we have needed this war—death—to make us know we don’t hate each other.”

“I don’t know,” said De Vilmarte. It was an effort for him to speak; his voice sounded frail and broken.

“Raoul,” Hazelton asked, tenderly, “where are you wounded? Is it bad?”

“I don’t know,” Raoul answered again.

“It’s his head,” the sister answered for him, “and his right hand.”

Hazelton raised his great head; a red mounted to his face; his old sardonic laughter boomed out through the ward. With a sharply indrawn breath of pain: “Oh, la—la!” he shouted. “_’Cré nom! ’Cré nom!_ What luck—imperishable! I’m dying—your right hand—your _right_ hand!” He sank back, his ironic laughter drowned in a swift crimson tide.

The nurse beckoned to an orderly to bring a screen....

Tears of grief and weakness streamed down Raoul’s face. To the last his ill luck had held. He hadn’t been able to make his friend understand, or to make amends. His right hand was wounded, and he could no longer serve France.

The sister looked at him with pity. She tried to console him.

“Death is not always so mercifully quick with these strong men,” she said.

THE WHITE BATTALION

_By_ FRANCES GILCHRIST WOOD From _The Bookman_ _Copyright, 1918, by Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc._ _Copyright, 1919, by Frances Gilchrist Wood._

An orderly ushered two officers of the Foreign Legion, young men in mud-stained khaki, through the door of a dugout back of the fighting line in France. As they entered the hut a French officer in horizon blue, equally muddy, rose and returned the American’s salute.

“You will be seated?” He pushed camp chairs toward them.

A guttering candle, stuck in a bottle neck, veiled rather than revealed the sordid interior. The light flickered across the young Frenchman’s face, threw gaunt shadows under his eyes emphasized the look of utter weariness and—there was something more.

The senior officer of the Legion, Captain Hailes, looked at him keenly.

“Major Fouquet, we report at headquarters in an hour, sir. Lieutenant Agor, commanding platoon at extreme right—contact platoon with your battalion, sir, reports we lost touch with the French forces between the advance and the first trench. Thought it might have been his watch, but the timepiece checks up to a second.”

The captain hesitated uneasily, “We are not presuming to question, sir, but Lieutenant Agor says he saw—we felt there might have been some cause, some reason that did not appear, so we came—”

The Frenchman lifted his head in a stupid way altogether foreign to his usual manner.

“Merci, Captain Hailes. We were—forty seconds slow in attacking the first trench, sir.” He went on mechanically as if delivering a rehearsed report. “Caught up and reached the second trench on time. Few prisoners besides the children. Enemy practically wiped out.”

He concluded heavily, a dazed look blotting all expression.

“There was a cause for the forty seconds delay, Major?”

Fouquet struggled up out of the curious apathy. He cleared his throat, made several attempts to speak and finally blurted out.

“You won’t believe it—I saw it and I cannot! But there are the children—and a first-line trench full of dead Huns—without a mark on them! Barres was flying over us—he saw the Battalion—knew them for old comrades. The women—all of them saw the faces of their dead! I don’t believe it, sir,—but how did we do it? The women never thrust once in the first trench—the children haven’t a wound—that’s got to prove it!”

He stopped abruptly—looking from one to the other with a gesture of hopeless protest. The Americans regarded him with puzzled eyes.

“Was it some new trick of the Huns? God knows they’ve given them to us in plenty! Can you tell us—it might—?”

Fouquet pulled himself forward, his knuckles whitening with his grip of the table edge.

“You know the history of the section of the Front the Avengers retook to-day?”

“No, Major Fouquet. We came in later, with the Canadians.”

“It began with the great retreat of 1914, sir, when the Germans were driving us back toward Paris. They had crowded our army against the river. Between the slow crossing and their terrible artillery fire, new to us then, we faced annihilation!”

There was a rustle at the door of the dugout and a whispered password. Fouquet did not pause.

“To the —nth Battalion was given the honor of acting as rear guard. Ah, sir,—” his voice steadied—guttural with pride and emotion, “our men stood like a barricade of rock against which the waves of German infantry dashed themselves, only to break and be withdrawn for re-formation. Each receding wave showed where it had bit into the red and blue barrier, for we were wearing the old uniform then, but the bits slid together, closing up the gaps to stand against the next flood. When the eroded wall went down, undermined and over-whelmed at last, the main army of France was across the river and safe.

“Only two of us lived to rejoin our army, Lieutenant Barres and myself. Barres’s leg was shattered, hopelessly crippling him for the infantry, but when the wounds healed—France could not spare so brave a man, so they strapped him to the seat of a plane in the winged section of the army, where he is still fighting!”

The sharp click, click of crutches tapped across the floor as Barres of the Aviation Squad came into the fringe of light. He saluted, then broke in upon Fouquet’s story.

“But you do not tell them, mon camarade, but for you I would have died with the rest! He does not tell you, sir, that he put his own chance of escape into peril by dragging me—a helpless burden—with him!”

He looked at Fouquet with an anxious frown, “I thought there might be enquiry about to-day. You are—?”

A look flashed between them, the love of men who have faced death together.

“Yes, Barres, I shall need you. It is the history of the Avengers I am telling—to explain—”

He turned to the Americans.

“In the years of struggle that came after the retreat, our women of France have taken the places of men behind the lines, while our soldiers held the Front. But when Russia freed herself the news filtered through the provinces that the women of Russia when the revolution needed them formed themselves into the Battalion of Death. We also heard that German women were in the army.

“Then the flame of a common inspiration touched the widows of the —nth. They sought and found each other and petitioned as their right that they be entered and drilled as the —nth Battalion of Avengers.

“Military objections refused them again and again, but the women stood as firm in their purpose as their men who had held the post of rear guard. Always they asked, Why should France be left a nation of sorrowful women only? Let the widowed women of the —nth take the place of men in the chance of death—they would welcome it—and so save men to France.

“At last they were accepted and trained. Each added to her equipment a small packet of cyanide of potassium as her Russian sisters had taught her. One further request they made, that the position assigned to them might be in the course of the advance to retake the ground held to the death by their men. To me was given the great honor to be their commander.”

He drew himself up with pride. “They have justified their petition for enlistment, sir, they wear the strap of a battalion commended for bravery. We have been fully trusted to hold our share of the Front in safety.”

As if at the significance of his own words his head dropped, then lifted again grimly.

“It was for to-day’s work that this battalion was assembled and trained to invincibility. We need no one to interpret the meaning of the Front to us, but to the women—to retake this strip of ground sodden with the blood of the rear guard barricade built of their men, meant being given the denied rite of closing glazed eyes, the crossing of arms on rigid breasts, the lighting of candles at head and feet and the last kiss on frozen lips. They were mad for it—not in revenge but to right a wrong.”

Fouquet’s voice thrilled, “That is the history, sir, and the temper of the Battalion of Avengers who held the trench at your right!

“When the order came for attack to-day, they waited, taut as arrows in held bowstrings, at the foot of the ladders for the signal to go over the top. Like shafts released they sprang up the sides of the ditch. There was sure death to the Hun in every gripped bayonet as they bent to follow the barrage of fire across the craters and snarled wire of No Man’s Land.

“No human sound comes through the hell of battle artillery and yet we knew the strangling gasp that ran the length of the line as the protective barrage made its final jump, lifted and showed us the trench we were to take. The women stood as motionless as the corpses of the old —nth!

“Thrust shield-wise above the heads of the Huns, crowning the ditch as with protective spikes, frightened and sobbing, cowering before us were hundreds of little children!”

Fouquet’s chair went spinning back as he leaned across the table.

“God! men—they knew! The devil tells them! They knew this section was held by women! For us to hold the Front—our share of the Front—these mothers must bayonet their way through crying, helpless babies!”

His groan found gasping echo.

“They were children of the French villages held by the Germans—we could tell! Some of them had been shot by the last of our barrage fire after the Huns had shoved them over the top. It was hell to see the children’s torn bodies writhing—we’re used to it with men! The smallest—babies—were clinging to the older ones—children of five or six—trying to hide—between the Huns and—us!

“If we went on—took the ditch—these mothers must cut through a barricade of children! If we did not go on, we betrayed our trust, lost our share of the Front—let the Huns behind the lines through a gap made by the failure of the women of the —nth!

“We seemed to stand there for hours, but it was only a second. The Huns had thrust their guns between the children, and were holding their fire—the devilish cat and mouse game!

“Then one of the women captains stumbled forward and made the sign of the cross. It is the voiceless battle cry of the Avengers and signs supreme sacrifice for all the Front means. She lifted her right hand in the sweep of victory—on her wrist was bound the packet of death they carry in case of capture by the kultur beasts—and fell, for the Huns opened fire the instant they saw her gesture.

“But the message had gotten over! They could charge—they must—and the cyanide would erase the intolerable memory forever! I looked at those nearest and saw they would go through with it, but men—their faces were set with the look of the face of Christ on the cross!”

He stopped, breathing heavily, and looked from one American to the other.

“You won’t believe it—I saw it and I cannot—but the proof is there! As the women gripped to thrust, leaning forward as if to force rebellious bodies toward that barricade, there swept down upon us from the rear or above, a sudden striding mist—a battalion of marching shadows in a blur of the old red and blue that outstripped the Avengers’ advance. There was a flash of charging steel and the waving colors of the old —nth as they swept over the untouched children into the trench.

“It’s all a blur, sir, I can’t tell you clearly, but they turned their faces as they passed and—we knew our dead. You could see the women cry out and lift their arms, each to her own man as he halted an instant beside her.

“Madame Arouet was sobbing as if caught by a bullet, ‘Jean—Jean!—to have seen you again! Ah, my God!’ The tall corporal, just beyond, threw herself with high piercing scream—arms outstretched—toward the smiling shadow that was passing.

“The bravest man in the old —nth, where all were brave, dropped behind as he bent over the fallen captain. There was a quivering smile of recognition just as the jerking heap settled into quiet; then, as if he waited for it, a slender blur in horizon blue sprang to his side and swept forward with the Battalion—though the captain still lay where she had fallen!”

Fouquet gripped his comrade, arm and crutch together, with a cry.

“Did you see our brave captain salute as he passed? Joyously I shouted as I fell into step beside him, but—I dropped back—I could not keep that pace! Barres—Barres—you saw them? You must have seen them? It was the old —nth come back to save their women from the last hellish trap set by fiends! We know they had the right. This was their battleground where once before they had saved an army of France!”

Lieutenant Agor was leaning across the table with staring eyes: “Then—that was what I—saw, sir?” He turned to his commander, “I told you it was like the fog blowing in off Frisco bay, and—”

Captain Hailes half rose, “My lieutenant said he lost you when a mist obscured the contact platoon. He said he saw—I—thought it was shell shock—I meant to send him behind the lines—”

Barres shook his head slowly as he caught Fouquet about the shoulder.

“_Mon ami_—I saw—I know! Very low I flew over the gap to-day when it broke and widened. I felt the White Battalion first, rushing through the planes—then I saw them—a mist of the old red and blue with wondrous swords!” His voice sank low, “From above I saw one who led them—a shining one who, even as we have read, smote the camp of the Assyrians”.

“It was the old —nth that followed. I knew them!” His voice caught. “Did you see the rascals in the third squad goose-stepping as they closed in on the Hun?” With a break of unsteady laughter, “It was always their final joke with the German, sir, before they got him. No one could break them of it! Fouquet—we know! It was the old —nth, our White Battalion!”

“A White Battalion!” Agor repeated the words slowly, still staring.

The aviator shifted his crutch and drew himself erect. “_Mes amis_, the Huns fling the taunt that France has been bled white! To us it means a White Army—a crowding host killed in battle—the red life of gallant youth given so gloriously that it cannot die!

“And France bled white!... We know,” the words halted, “the country for which we went to war is maimed—scarred—she can never again be the same France, but—” his lifted face gleamed through the dim light, “our battle cry has changed! We no longer fight ‘_Pour la Patrie!_’ but ‘_Pour le Droit!_’—the right that is greater than country!”

With a sharp intake of breath he turned to his comrade. Fouquet’s protesting look was gone. With the sure touch of reality he picked up the story.

“It was all over in a breath, sir—like a mist swirling along the trenches shot through with phantom steel, and we knew our work was being done. When it lifted—the ditch lay motionless!

“The women had dropped on their knees with their arms about the children. We passed the poor little ones through to the rear in charge of the wounded.

“The first trench was piled with dead—unmarked dead! The communicating tunnels were cleared or quiet; that was how we made up the forty seconds and followed the barrage on time to the second ditch.

“I looked down the line as we made ready for the second charge. Not a Hun cried ‘Kamarad!’ or tried to surrender when they saw the faces of the Avengers. The second ditch was piled with nearly as many dead as the first—marked dead! The Avengers and the White Battalion had retaken the ground for which the —nth had given their lives.

“That is all, sir,” the gaunt figure in mud-stained blue straightened, “excepting that the fouling Beast is going in the end—we know! He cannot stand against the unconquerable dead. And when we march through Berlin, the White Armies will march at the head of the column—” he lifted his hand in salute, “_Pour le Droit!_”

The crippled aviator balanced on crutches as he brought up his hand.

“_Pour le Droit!_”

Noiselessly the men of the Foreign Legion pushed back their chairs and stood at salute. Silently they faced each other in a long moment of understanding. The major in blue dropped his arm and with smiling eyes gripped the hand of the man in khaki.

He flung open the door of the dugout, humming the Song of France in marching time. The young officers, French and American, fell into step together.

“Gentlemen—to Headquarters!”

The lilting voices filled the low room to the accent of marching feet.

“_Allons, enfants de la patrie,_
_Le jour de gloire est arrivé!_”

THE YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY, JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918

ADDRESSES OF AMERICAN MAGAZINES PUBLISHING SHORT STORIES

_Note._ _This address list does not aim to be complete, but is based simply on the magazines which I have considered for this volume._

Adventure, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City.
Ainslee’s Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City.
All−Story Weekly, 280 Broadway, New York City.
American Magazine, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Argosy, 280 Broadway, New York City.
Atlantic Monthly, 41 Mt. Vernon Street, Boston, Mass.
Bellman, 118 South 6th Street, Minneapolis, Minn.
Black Cat, Salem, Mass.
Boston Evening Transcript, 324 Washington Street, Boston, Mass.
Catholic World, 120 West 60th Street, New York City.
Century Magazine, 353 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Collier’s Weekly, 416 West 13th Street, New York City.
Cosmopolitan Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.
Country Gentleman, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa.
Delineator, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City.
Detective Story Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City.
Everybody’s Magazine, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City.
Forum, 118 East 28th Street, New York City.
Good Housekeeping, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.
Harper’s Bazar, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.
Harper’s Magazine, Franklin Square, New York City.
Hearst’s Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.
Illustrated Sunday Magazine, 193 Main Street, Buffalo, N. Y.
Independent, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.
Ladies’ Home Journal, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa.
Liberator, 34 Union Square, East, New York City.
Little Review, 24 West 16th Street, New York City.
Live Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City.
McCall’s Magazine 236 West 37th Street, New York City.
McClure’s Magazine, 251 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Magnificat, Manchester, N. H.
Metropolitan Magazine, 432 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Midland, Moorhead, Minn.
Modern School, Stelton, N. J.
Munsey’s Magazine, 280 Broadway, New York City.
Outlook, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Pagan, 7 East 15th Street, New York City.
Parisienne, Printing Crafts Building, 461 Eighth Avenue, New York City.
Pictorial Review, 216 West 39th Street, New York City.
Popular Magazine, 79th Seventh Avenue, New York City.
Queen’s Work, 3200 Russell Avenue, St. Louis, Mo.
Reedy’s Mirror, Syndicate Trust Building, St. Louis, Mo.
Saturday Evening Post, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa.
Scribner’s Magazine, 597 Fifth Avenue, New York City.
Short Stories, Garden City, Long Island, N. Y.
Smart Set, Printing Crafts Building, New York City.
Snappy Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City.
Southern Woman’s Magazine, American Building, Nashville, Tenn.
Stratford Journal, 32 Oliver Street, Boston, Mass.
Sunset Magazine, 460 Fourth Street, San Francisco, Cal.
Today’s Housewife, 461 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Touchstone, 118 East 30th Street, New York City.
University Magazine, Montreal, P. Q., Canada.
Woman’s Home Companion, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
Woman’s World, 107 So. Clinton Street, Chicago, Ill.
Youth’s Companion, 881 Commonwealth Avenue, Boston, Mass.

THE BIOGRAPHICAL ROLL OF HONOR OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES

JANUARY TO OCTOBER, 1918

_Note._ _Only stories by American authors are listed. The best sixty stories are indicated by an asterisk before the title of the story. The index figures 1, 2, 3, and 4 prefixed to the name of the author indicate that his work has been included in the Rolls of Honor for 1914, 1915, 1916, and 1917 respectively. The list excludes reprints._

*ABDULLAH, ACHMED.* Born at Kabul, Afghanistan, May 12, 1881, of Arab and Tartar stock. Educated in India, England, France, and Germany. Bachelor of Letters, Sorbonne, Paris. Served in British-Indian and Ottoman armies. Writer of short stories, novels, and plays. Expert linguist. Chief interests, outside his profession, music, international politics, society. First story published, “The Strength of the Little Thin Thread,” Collier’s Weekly, Oct. 5, 1912. Author of “The Red Stain,” 1915; “Bucking the Tiger,” 1917; “The Blue-Eyed Manchu,” 1917; “The Last Manchu,” 1918; “The Trail of the Beast,” 1918; “The Web,” 1919. Lives in New York City.

Cobbler’s Wax.
Light.
*Simple Act of Piety.
Two-Handed Sword.

(34) *ANDERSON, SHERWOOD* (_for biography, see 1917_).

*Man of Ideas.
Senility.

(34) *ANDREWS, MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN* (_for biography, see 1917_).

Ditch.

(34) *BABCOCK, EDWINA STANTON* (_for biography, see 1917_).

*Cruelties.
*“Goddess Size.”

*BEEDE, RALPH G.* Born in Redfield, S. D., June 3, 1895. Educated in public schools, Rolla, N. D., and Shattuck Military School, Faribault, Minn. Three years at University of North Dakota. Managed newspapers in Winnebago, Neb., and Makoti, N. D. Has taught school and was superintendent of schools at Goodrich, N. D., for two years. Chief interests, writing and music. First story published, “Cera,” Harper’s Magazine, May, 1918.

Cera

(4) *BEER, THOMAS* (_for biography, see 1917_).

Beneficiary.

“*BRANGWYN, JOHN.*” First story published, “Bell-Tower of P’an-Ku.” His first book will be published soon. He lives in Washington, D. C.

*Bell-Tower of P’an-Ku.

*BROWN, HEARTY EARL.* Born 1886, Schoolcraft, Mich. Degrees A.B. and M.A. from University of Michigan. Member of the English Faculty, University of Kansas. First published story, “The Marrying Time,” Atlantic Monthly, October, 1918. Lives in Lawrence, Kansas.

Marrying Time.

(23) *BROWN, KATHARINE HOLLAND.* Born in Alton, Ill. Educated in Washington, D. C., and at University of Michigan. Profession, writer of fiction. Chief interest, writing. First published stories: “2620 Oxford Place,” Lippincott’s Magazine, August, 1900, “The Mathematics Man,” Woman’s Home Companion, August, 1900. Books published: “Diane,” 1904; “Dawn,” 1907; “The Messenger,” 1910; “White Roses,” 1910; “Philippa at Halcyon,” 1910; “Uncertain Irene,” 1911; “The Hallowell Partnership,” 1912; “Wages of Honor,” 1917. Lives at Long Beach, Cal.

*Buster.

*BROWNELL, AGNES MARY.* Born at Concordia, Kans. Educated in Concordia public and high schools, supplemented by four years in a western school of music. Music teacher. Chief interests, music, an ineradicable habit of prowling around libraries, and out-of-door jaunts. First published story, “The Fifer,” Youth’s Companion, June 28, 1917. Lives at Concordia, Kans.

Sanctuary.

(14) *BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS.* (_for biography, see 1917_).

Wings of the Morning.

*BUTLER, ELLIS PARKER.* Born at Muscatine, Iowa, Dec. 5, 1869. One year in Muscatine high school. Bill clerk, bookkeeper, salesman, editor, and now acting Cashier of Flushing National Bank, of which he is Vice-President. Chief interest, letting himself know he is alive. First published story, “Shorty and Frank’s Adventure,” in a deceased publication whose name is forgotten. Author of “Pigs is Pigs,” 1906; “French Decorative Styles,” 1906; “The Incubator Baby,” 1906; “Mr. Perkins of Portland,” 1906; “The Great American Pie Co.,” 1907; “Confessions of a Daddy,” 1907; “Kilo,” 1907; “The Cheerful Smugglers,” 1908; “That Pup,” 1908; “The Thin Santa Claus,” 1909; “Mike Flannery on Duty and Off,” 1909; “Water Goats and Other Troubles,” 1910; “Adventures of a Suburbanite,” 1911; “The Jack Knife Man,” 1913; “Red Head and Whistle Breeches,” 1916; “Dominie Dean,” 1917; and “Philo Gubb,” 1918. Lives in Flushing, N. Y.

*Sorry Tale of Hennery K. Lunk.

(2) *BUTLER, KATHARINE.* Born in Baltimore, Md., Oct 2, 1890, of New England parentage. Has lived in Salem, Mass., and the nearby inland countryside of Essex County since 1896. Education desultory. First published story, “In No Strange Land,” Atlantic Monthly, March, 1915. Lives in Danvers, Mass.

*Black Pearl.

*CABELL, JAMES BRANCH.* Born in Richmond, Va., April 14, 1879. Educated at McGuire’s School in Richmond, and graduated from College of William and Mary, 1898. Professions in order: school teacher, proof reader, newspaper reporter, and coal miner: at present, genealogist and writer. First published stories: “Love Letters of Falstaff,” Harper’s Monthly, March, 1902; and “As Played Before His Highness” (republished as “The Ducal Audience”), Smart Set, 1902. Author of the following volumes: (novels) “The Eagle’s Shadow,” 1904; “The Cords of Vanity,” 1909; “The Soul of Melicent,” 1913; “The Rivet in Grandfather’s Neck,” 1915; “The Cream of the Jest,” 1917; (tales) “The Line of Love,” 1905; “Gallantry,” 1907; “Chivalry,” 1909; “The Certain Hour,” 1916; (essays) “Beyond Life,” 1918; (verse) “From the Hidden Way,” 1916; (genealogy) “Branchiana,” 1906; “Branch of Abingdon,” 1911; “The Majors and Their Marriages,” 1915. Lives at Dumbarton Grange, Dumbarton, Va.

*Some Ladies and Jurgen.

(23) *CANFIELD, DOROTHY (MRS. JOHN R. FISHER).* Born at Lawrence, Kans., Feb. 17, 1879. Graduate of Ohio State University and Columbia University. Secretary Horace Mann School, 1902-05. Married, 1907. Has traveled widely in Europe. Now assisting Miss Winifred Holt in War Relief Work at Paris. Author of “Corneille and Racine in England,” 1904; (with G. R. Carpenter) “English Rhetoric and Composition,” 1906; “What Shall We Do Now?” 1906; “Gunhild,” 1907; “The Squirrel-Cage,” 1912; “The Montessori Mother,” 1913; “Mothers and Children,” 1914; “Hillsboro People,” 1915; “The Bent Twig,” 1915; “The Real Motive,” 1916; (with Sarah Cleghorn) “Fellow Captains,” 1916; “Understood Betsy,” 1917; “Home Fires In France,” 1918. Lives at Arlington, Vt.

Little Kansas Leaven.
On the Edge.
Pharmacienne.

*CARVER, GEORGE.*

In a Moment of Time.

(234) *COBB, IRVIN S.* (_for biography, see 1917_).

*Gallowsmith.

(4) *CRABBE, BERTHA HELEN* (_for biography, see 1917_).

Wild-Wing.

*DICKINSON, ROY.* Born at Newark, N. J., March 14, 1888. Educated at Newark Academy and Princeton University, graduating in 1909. Profession, advertising and manufacturing. Five years with Cosmopolitan Magazine. Chief interests, labor psychology and the other fellow’s viewpoint. First story published, “Playing Hookey,” Delineator, November, 1916. Now Captain in the Ordnance Department at Washington. Engaged in work for stimulating industry in ordnance plants.

Some of Our Folks, and War.

(4) *DOBIE, CHARLES CALDWELL.* (_for biography, see 1917_).

*Open Window.

(134) *DWIGHT, H. G.* (_for biography, see 1917_) _and_ *TAYLOR, JOHN.*

*Emerald of Tamerlane.

*“ELDERLY SPINSTER” (MARGARET WILSON).* Born in Iowa, Jan. 16, 1882. Graduated from University of Chicago, 1904. Lived in India for the most part, 1904 to 1916. Since then she has been resting, gardening, and farming. Chief interest, the Americanization of American children through the school in which she is teaching. First published story, “Taffeta Trousers,” Atlantic Monthly, December, 1917.

God’s Little Joke.

*ELLERBE, ALMA ESTABROOK,* and *ELLERBE, PAUL LEE.* Mrs. Ellerbe was born in Greenfield, Ind., and educated at Oxford College, Ohio. Chief interests, people, writing, and automobiling. First published magazine story, “The Requital,” Harper’s Magazine, September, 1903. Author of “The Rule of Three.” Mr. Ellerbe was born in Montgomery, Ala. Had one year in which he scrupulously refrained from study at the University of the South, Sewanee, Tenn. Now Assistant Chief, Americanization section, Council of National Defense. Chief interests: English poetry, music, writing, automobiling. First published story, “The Vacant Forty,” Lippincott’s Magazine, March, 1913. Has been chief naturalization examiner for the U. S. Department of Labor at Denver. Chautauqua lecturer. Mr. and Mrs. Ellerbe plan to do all their writing in collaboration, preferably in a cabin in the Colorado Rockies.

Citizen Paper.

*FISHER, DOROTHY CANFIELD.*

_See_ *CANFIELD, DOROTHY.*

*FREEDLEY, MARY MITCHELL.* Born in Philadelphia, Feb. 14, 1894. Granddaughter of S. Weir Mitchell. Previous to her marriage she was much interested in the betterment of economic conditions relating to woman’s labor, and at one time organized and managed The Philadelphia Trades School for Girls. She is the wife of an actor, Vinton Freedley, and her interests are mainly of the stage and things theatrical. She has never done any previous writing and is at present chiefly concerned with the business of “being a woman” and the wife of a soldier.

*Blind Vision.

(1234) *FREEMAN, MARY E. WILKINS.* (_for biography, see 1917_).

Jade Bracelet

(4) *GEER, CORNELIA THROOP.* Born in New York City, Feb. 15, 1894. Educated at Brearley School, New York. Graduated from Barnard College, Columbia University, 1917. Instructor in English, Bryn Mawr College, 1918. Interested in Woman’s Land Army of America, and worked as farm hand at its Bedford Unit in summers of 1917 and 1918. First published story, “Pearls Before Swine,” Atlantic Monthly, October, 1917. Lives in New York City.

*Irish of It.

*GEROULD, GORDON HALL.* Born at Goffstown, N. H., Oct. 4, 1877. Graduate of Dartmouth College and Oxford University. Studied also in Paris. On Faculty of Bryn Mawr College, 1901 to 1905, and since that time successively Assistant Professor and Professor of English at Princeton University. Captain Ordnance Department, U. S. A., 1918. Married Katharine Fullerton, 1910. First story published, “Justification,” Scribner’s Magazine, October, 1911. Publications largely the result of studies in mediæval literature, folk lore, and hagiography, appearing in learned journals here and abroad. Books: “Sir Guy of Warwick,” 1905, “Selected Essays of Henry Fielding,” 1905; “The Grateful Dead,” 1908; “Saints’ Lives,” 1916; “Peter Sanders, Retired,” 1917. Lives in Princeton, N. J.

*Imagination.

(1234) *GEROULD, KATHARINE FULLERTON.* (_for biography, see 1917_).

*Marchpane.

*GILBERT, GEORGE.* Born in Binghamton, N. Y., Sept. 27, 1874. Educated in public schools. Became newsboy, messenger, “rambler,” telegrapher, lineman, and press operator before reaching eighteen. Served as editor-in-chief of several important inland newspapers. Confidential clerk to Republican whip, J. W. Dwight, in Congressional sessions 1909-10. An editor again in Binghamton. First published story, “The Encouragement of Reuben,” Pets and Animals, July and August, 1900. Chief interests: Mrs. Gilbert, their son, flower garden, fishing, playing typewriter sonatas. Lives in Binghamton, N. Y.

Ashes of Roses.
*In Maulmain Fever-Ward.

(4) *GLASPELL, SUSAN.* (_for biography, see 1917_).

*“Beloved Husband.”
*“Poor Ed.”

*GOODMAN, HENRY.* Born in Roumania of Jewish parents, May 30, 1893. Came to the United States in 1900. Graduated from the Columbia School of Journalism in 1915. Subsequently journalist on the New York Tribune and New York World. First story published, “Billy’s Mother,” Pearson’s Magazine, June, 1917. Chief interest, writing poetry and short stories. Lives in New York City.

Conquered.

(134) *GORDON, ARMISTEAD C.* (_for biography, see 1917_).

*Sinjinn, Surviving.

*HALDEMAN-JULIUS, EMANUEL.* _See_ _Julius, Emanuel Haldeman-_.

*HALL, MAY EMERY.* Born in Providence, R. I., Sept. 16, 1874. Educated at high and normal schools in Providence, supplemented by special University courses. Taught for five years in Providence public schools. Chief interests, the World War, study and travel. Author of “Dutch Days,” 1914, “Roger Williams,” 1917. Writer of magazine articles. Lives at Douglaston, L. I., N. Y.

Whiteford’s Masterpiece.

(3) *HAWES, CHARLES BOARDMAN.*

*Even So.

(2) *HECHT, BEN.* Born in New York City, Feb. 28, 1896. But left for the Middle West as soon as he learned to walk. Educated in public schools, Racine, Wis. Has always wanted to be an anthropologist. First published story, “Life,” Little Review, November, 1915. Lives in Chicago.

*Decay.

(4) *HEMENWAY, HETTY.* (_for biography, see 1917_).

*Their War.

*“HENRY, ETTA.”* Pseudonym of a woman student at Columbia University, who has published several excellent short stories. Lives in St. Paul, Minnesota.

Kaddish.

*HERGESHEIMER, JOSEPH.* Born in Philadelphia, Feb. 15, 1880. Educated at a Quaker school in Philadelphia and at Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. His first magazine contribution was a set of prose impressions of Atlantic City in The Forum, September, 1913. Author of “The Lay Anthony,” 1914; “Mountain Blood,” 1915; “The Three Black Pennys,” 1917; “Gold and Iron,” 1918; “Java Head,” 1919. Lives in West Chester, Pa.

Black Key.

*HOUGH, EMERSON.* Born at Newton, Ia., June 28, 1857. High school education at Newton, and graduated from State University of Iowa, 1880. Practised law in New Mexico in 1882. Came to Chicago in 1889 and had charge of the Western office of Forest and Stream, 1889 to 1902. Fond of amateur sport. “I have never seen a game of professional baseball and don’t intend to. I care little for the movies, and detest the comic supplements of the Sunday newspapers. I read moderately and like historical fiction of the old type. I don’t care so much for jig-time and jazz-time.” First published story, “Far from the Crowd,” Forest and Stream, about 1881. “My father was a great sportsman, a great mathematician, a great Christian. I myself have always been a sportsman, but as to mathematics and Christianity I do not say so much.” Author of “The Singing Mouse Stories,” 1895; “The Story of the Cowboy,” 1897; “The Girl at the Half-way House,” 1900; “The Mississippi Bubble,” 1902; “The Way to the West,” 1903; “The Law of the Land,” 1904; “Heart’s Desire,” 1905; “The King of Gee Whiz,” 1906; “The Story of the Outlaw,” 1906; “The Way of a Man,” 1907; “Fifty-four Forty or Fight,” 1909; “The Sowing,” 1909; “The Young Alaskans,” 1910; “The Purchase Price,” 1911; “Young Alaskans on the Trail,” 1911; “John Rawn,” 1912; “The Lady and the Pirate,” 1913; “Young Alaskans in the Rockies,” 1913; “The Magnificent Adventure,” 1915; “The Man Next Door,” 1916; “The Broken Gate,” 1917; “Young Alaskans in the Far North,” 1918; “The Way Out,” 1918. President of the Society of Midland Authors. Lives in Chicago.

Clan Gordon.

(2) *HUGHES, RUPERT.* Born in Lancaster, Mo., Jan. 31, 1872. Educated at public schools, Lancaster, Mo., and Keokuk, Ia. Graduate of Western Reserve University, 1892, M.A. (Yale), 1899. Chief interests: literature, military work, music, and history. Married, 1908. Assistant editor Godey’s Magazine, Current Literature, and The Criterion before 1901. With Encyclopedia Britannica, 1902 to 1905. Captain U. S. A. on Mexican border service, 1916. Assistant to Adjutant-General, New York, 1917. Now Major in the U. S. A., stationed at Washington, D. C. First short story published, probably “The Man Who Could Stop His Heart,” The Adelbert, 1889. Books: “The Lake Rim Athletic Club,” 1898; “The Dozen from Lake Rim,” 1899; “American Composers,” 1900; “Gyges’ Ring,” 1901; “The Whirlwind,” 1902; “The Musical Guide,” 1903; “Love Affairs of Great Musicians,” 1903; “Songs by Thirty Americans,” 1904; “Zal,” 1905; “Colonel Crockett’s Coöperative Christmas,” 1906; “The Lake Rim Cruise,” 1910; “The Gift-Wife,” 1910; “Excuse Me,” 1911; “Miss 318,” 1911; “The Old Nest,” 1912; “The Amiable Crimes of Dirk Memling,” 1913; “The Lady Who Smoked Cigars,” 1913; “What Will People Say?” 1914; “The Music Lovers’ Cyclopedia,” 1914; “The Last Rose of Summer,” 1914; “Empty Pockets,” 1915; “Clipped Wings,” 1916; “The Thirteenth Commandment,” 1916; “In a Little Town,” 1917; “We Can’t Have Everything,” 1917; “Long Ever Ago,” 1918; “The Unpardonable Sin,” 1918; and many successful plays. Lives at Bedford Hills, N. Y.

*At the Back of God Speed.

*HUMPHREY, GEORGE.* Born at Boughton, Eng., July 17, 1889. Educated at Faversham School, England; Oxford and Leipsig Universities. Professor of ancient history at Saint Francis Xavier’s University, Antigonish, Nova Scotia. Now at Harvard University.

*Father’s Hand.

(234) *HURST, FANNIE.* (_for biography, see 1917_).

*Hers _Not_ to Reason Why.

(2) *JOHNSON, ARTHUR.* Born in Boston, 1881. Graduate of Harvard University. Practised law since 1905. Chief interests: his profession, poetry, human nature, literature, art. Cares more for poetry than anything else. First story published, “Frankie and Jenny,” American Magazine, December, 1913. Now engaged in war work at Washington. Home, Cambridge, Mass.

His New Mortal Coil.
*Little Family.
*Visit of the Master.

(4) *JONES, (E.) CLEMENT.* (_for biography, see 1917_).

Mongrel.

*JULIUS, EMANUEL HALDEMAN-.* Born in Philadelphia, July 30, 1888. Self educated. “I left home as a kid and meandered around doing odd jobs—from being a bell boy in a school for polite young ladies to holding copy in a newspaper proof room. At twenty I became a reporter in New York. Later I did newspaper work in Chicago, Milwaukee, and Los Angeles. I have edited and contributed to many labor and radical periodicals. I am managing editor of The New Appeal, which is the largest Socialist paper in the world. I am also director of a thoroughly capitalistic bank. Married in 1916. My chief interest right now is in getting the baby weaned.” Books: “The Color of Life,” 1916; “Somewhere in Europe,” 1917; “The Pest,” 1916. Lives in Girard, Kans.

Ring.

(3) *KING, BASIL.* Born in Charlottetown, P. E. I., Canada, Feb. 26, 1859. Educated at St. Peter’s School, Charlottetown, and King’s College, Windsor, N. S. Married, 1893. First story published, “The Eleventh Hour,” Atlantic Monthly, February, 1901. Books: “Griselda,” 1901; “Let Not Man Put Asunder,” 1902; “In the Garden of Charity,” 1903; “Steps of Honor,” 1905; “The Giant’s Strength,” 1906; “The Inner Shrine,” 1909; “The Wild Olive,” 1910; “The Street Called Straight,” 1912; “The Way Home,” 1913; “The Letter of the Contract,” 1914; “The Side of the Angels,” 1915; “The Lifted Veil,” 1917; “The High Heart,” 1917; “Abraham’s Bosom,” 1918. Lives in Boston.

Going West.

(4) *KLINE, BURTON* (_for biography, see 1917_).

*In the Open Code.
Singular Smile.

(4) *KRYSTO, CHRISTINA* (_for biography, see 1917_).

Mother of Stasya.

*LEWIS, SINCLAIR.* Born at Sauk Centre, Minn., Feb. 7, 1885. Educated at local schools, and graduate of Yale University. Newspaper reporter, assistant editor of Adventure and of Transatlantic Tales, editor of the Publishers’ Newspaper Syndicate, editor for George H. Doran Company and Frederick A. Stokes Company. First published story appeared in Pacific Monthly about 1905. Books: “Our Mr. Wrenn,” 1914; “The Trail of the Hawk,” 1915; “Job,” 1917; “The Innocents,” 1917. Lives at Port Washington, L. I., N. Y.

*Willow Walk.

*LIEBERMAN, ELIAS.* Born in Petrograd, Russia, Oct. 30, 1883. His parents emigrated with him to New York in 1891. Graduate of the College of the City of New York and New York University. Head of the English Department, Bushwick High School, Brooklyn, N. Y. Aside from life itself, magazine and newspaper work has always been his chief interest. First published story, “The Open Door,” Lippincott’s Magazine, September, 1913. Books: “The American Short Story,” 1912; “Paved Streets,” 1918. Lives in Brooklyn, N. Y.

Tower of Confusion.

(3) *MARKS, JEANNETTE.* Born in Chattanooga, Tenn., 1875. Educated in Philadelphia, Dresden, and Wellesley College. Has travelled much in England and Wales. Fond of outdoor sports. Lecturer in English literature at Mt. Holyoke College. Member of the Committee on Habit Forming Drugs, American Public Health Association. First story published, “Mors Triumphans,” Outlook, May 20, 1905. Books: “The Cheerful Cricket,” 1907; “The English Pastoral Drama,” 1908; “Through Welsh Doorways,” 1909; “The End of a Song,” 1911; “A Girl’s School Days and After,” 1911; “Gallant Little Wales,” 1912; “Vacation Camping for Girls,” 1913; “Leviathan,” 1913; “Early English Hero Tales,” 1915; “Three Welsh Plays,” 1917. Winner of the Welsh National Theatre Prize, 1911. Lives at South Hadley, Mass.

*Haymakers.
*Old Lady Hudson.

(1) *MORRIS, GOUVERNEUR.* Born in New York City, Feb. 7, 1876. Graduated from Yale University, 1898. Books: “A Bunch of Grapes,” 1897; “Tom Beauling,” 1901; “Aladdin O’Brien,” 1902; “The Pagan’s Progress,” 1904; “Ellen and Mr. Man,” 1904; “The Footprint,” 1908; “Putting on the Screws,” 1909; “Spread Eagle,” 1910; “The Voice in the Rice,” 1910; “It,” 1912; “If You Touch Them They Vanish,” 1913; “The Penalty,” 1915; “When My Ship Comes In,” 1915; “The Goddess,” 1915; “The Seven Darlings,” 1915; “We Three,” 1916. Lives in New York City.

Unsent Letter.

*MORTEN, MARJORY.* Born in New York City. Educated in boarding schools, studied art in Paris and New York. Married Alexander Morten, 1909. First story published, “Sophy So-and-So,” Harper’s Magazine, August, 1915. Lives in New York City.

*Nettle and Foxglove.