Chapter XI: Part 11

Her mother motioned me into the wide hall. “Daphne and her husband were spending his leave, and their honeymoon, in London; they were just coming out of a theatre when a German air raid started. George was killed ... and Daphne struck on the head ... by some falling masonry. For days we thought we couldn’t pull her through--then the up-turn came.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “_Oh!_”

“She doesn’t remember. ‘Never will remember,’ the doctors say,” repeated my friend, and laid a comforting hand on my arm. “Of course you couldn’t know,” she said; very earnestly she added: “You see how completely life has finished with me? Well, let me tell you something: If the Huns, and their ideas, had been allowed to dominate the world, it wouldn’t have been a tolerable place for any right-thinking, self-respecting, _decent_ man to live in. And since the only way to remove that menace was through the sacrifice of thousands of boys like our sons ... I, who stand bereft, to-day, tell you that I am glad that things are as they are.”

I could not speak.

At the doorway she bade me an affectionate good-by. “My husband will be very sorry to have missed you. Don’t forget that you’ll always find us here, with a welcome for you,” she said. With a wave of her hand she indicated the wide landscape sloping away into far blue hills. “At least we have saved this, _untouched_,” she added bleakly.

“I’ll be back,” I promised, and turned away to hide the blurring tears.

* * * * *

Saved, untouched; clean hands; a clear conscience; the right to look any man, or woman, in the eyes. A green country with violet-shadowed valleys dreaming in the sunshine; the fairylike chime of cuckoo’s notes calling--calling--calling; woods, and tree tops outlined against the wide sky; lazy cows knee deep in the reeds bordering a silvery brook; homeward-faring pigeons on gleaming wings; the drowsy note of distant church bells; the hum of bees; pearly mists of rain; the ripple of wind over wheat; the blackbirds’ flutelike call; wide-eyed daisies; darting swallows, and the scent of meadow-sweet: England.

And yet--and yet (oh, broken hopes and dreams) the lonely days that stretch ahead! _The quiet years._

_Young’s Magazine_

THE CRYSTAL FLASK

BY

PAUL ROSENWEY

THE CRYSTAL FLASK[13]

By PAUL ROSENWEY

Young Gwilliam, fresh and brown from his two years in the wilds, and with two inches added to his chest measure, hurried to the club and searched for Drysdale. He found his Petronius sitting just as he had left him, in the accustomed well-cushioned chair, in the accustomed corner, on his face the accustomed quiet, faintly amused smile. Gwillam drew up a chair opposite; the necessary ceremonies were performed, and then they plunged into one of those long garrulous gossips, which they both liked so well.

“I saw Craig, to-day,” said young Gwillam, after a time. He paused.

“Yes,” said Drysdale, non-committally.

“He looked badly,” added Gwillam suggestively. Drysdale made no answer.

Gwillam leaned forward. “Tell me what has happened,” he urged. “I liked Craig; he was always a good sort of fellow. And he is young too--not much older than myself; but to-day he looked like an old man--thin, gray, stooped--a wreck.”

“He has discovered the virtues of his uncle’s wedding gift,” said Drysdale.

“His uncle’s wedding gift?” echoed Gwillam wonderingly.

“Did you never hear of it?” asked Drysdale. “It was quite a subject of conversation at one time. Everyone knew of it and laughed. It was a very strange gift and it was given by a very strange old gentleman. He is dead now, but I can imagine him, if he has any knowledge of what has taken place, grinning with the keenest delight. It is just the sort of thing he would have enjoyed.

“It really began,” said Drysdale, “at Craig’s wedding breakfast. You see, old Forsythe--Craig’s uncle--was delighted at Craig’s marriage. He--Forsythe--was old even then; he had a great deal more money than anyone needs; and he used to worry dreadfully about what would become of it when he was gone. To be sure he could leave it all to Craig, as he intended to do; but life is short, Craig would die, and then who would get the money? He often wished that Craig had a family of youngsters, upon whom he might settle it, so that for fifty or sixty years at least it would be safe. And when Craig became engaged to marry the old gentleman immediately made a new will and from that time on displayed a joy so open and unrestrained that it was scarcely decent. At the wedding breakfast his glee was almost childish; he became quite garrulous, and it needed constant effort to restrain him from telling stories, which, however humorous they might prove to be, were, even in their beginnings, quite evidently improper. Still, though with some difficulty, he was kept within bounds until he insisted on making a speech. As he rose from his seat, a glass of wine held unsteadily in his trembling old hand, a wicked smile on his thin old lips, a feeling of uneasiness pervaded the company, and it was very generally felt that whatever he might say, it could be very well dispensed with. But no one remonstrated. When one has a relative who is at once very wealthy and very old, it is astonishing how lenient one becomes to his little failings.

“‘My dear Robert--my dear Amy,’ began old Forsythe, glancing first at Craig and then at his wife; ‘I have already given you your wedding gift as you know.’ This was quite true; the old reprobate had given them an extremely substantial check, to which he found it impossible not to make allusion. ‘But that was more or less formal--the gift dictated by convention. And I wanted to give you something intimate--something, trifling perhaps, but personal--something so appropriate that it should become part of your lives. For a long time I racked my poor old brains in vain; and then, only yesterday, I had an inspiration--quite an inspiration!’ he added fondly.

“Craig and his wife exchanged glances of relief. The speech would probably pass off without disaster after all.

“‘You may remember,’ resumed the old gentleman, ‘that when I was younger I traveled extensively, but it has probably escaped your minds that I spent much time in Arabia. Nevertheless that is so. I traveled, not with any thought of exploring or attaining scientific results, but for my own pleasure only. In spite of that, or perhaps because of it, I avoided the main routes of travel, and always, so far as was possible, sought remote and primitive regions. It was in such a place that late one afternoon I came upon a romantic little glade, hidden between two ridges of the mountains I was traversing. All around, the country was bleak and barren, but here the grass was of the greenest and the foliage of the freshest; and it needed only a slight investigation to discover that this desirable state of affairs was due to the waters of a little spring which rose from the ground at one end of the glade. The water was remarkably clear and transparent, and over the spring itself was a small structure of stone, which, though half ruined by the passage of time, still bore a very evident resemblance to a miniature temple. My interest was strongly aroused; I scented a story, and I had my guide make inquiry of the villagers. I was right; there was a story and one which interested me greatly. For at that time I was still young and, though it is I who say it, not without attraction for the ladies; and I still entertained hopes that some day I would know those joys and delights that have come to my lucky young nephew. So I got from my baggage an old crystal flask, which I had picked up in Bassorah, and filled it from the spring; my guide produced an aromatic gum which he was in the habit of burning for the enjoyment of its odor, and we hermetically sealed the flask, which from that day to this I have always preserved most carefully. The day is long past, however, when it can be of use to me, whereas the time has only just begun, my dear Robert and my dear Amy, when it can be of use to you. So it is this flask, my dears, which I have chosen as my real gift to you.’

“He fumbled beneath the flowers and ferns which covered the table before him, and from its hiding-place produced something which he held high in his hand that all might see. It was a flask of crystal, long, slender and delicately fashioned, and filled to the very stopper with a liquid which, though colorless and transparent, seemed in the blazing light to sparkle and give forth faint iridescent gleams. It was a beautiful thing, and Craig’s wife gave a little exclamation of delight as the old gentleman bowed courteously and handed it to her.

“‘But Uncle Robert,’ she reminded him, as she took it, ‘the story? You said there was a story.’

“‘Oh, yes, my dear,’ replied Uncle Robert, ‘you shall have the story, which is most important. For you must know that the spring is a magic spring, and the water in the flask is magic too, with most magical properties. The spring had its origin in the tears of an unfortunate young maiden named Zubaydah, who, on the very spot where it now flows, found the body of her lover Ghanim, cruelly slain. She fell on his breast, lamenting wildly, and when they tore him away from her embracing arms, she would not stir, but remained there, refusing drink and food alike, and weeping, weeping constantly, until in the end she too died. Their story is most pathetic and some day you shall hear it; but now it is of no further importance, save for the fact that when they bore her tenderly away, a spring was flowing from the ground she had so plentifully watered with her tears. And the water of that spring had this remarkable quality: that when a flask of it is jointly possessed by true lovers, so long as neither commits a crime against their mutual love, the water remains as you saw it, clear, sparkling, translucent; but should either of the lovers prove false to the other, the water becomes dark, thick, muddy--an ugly symbol of the wrong that has been done.

“‘Always, even when I was quite young,’ concluded old Forsythe, ‘there was in my nature a strong materialistic strain--a strain of cynicism some said; but to me it seemed rather a strain of common sense, which enabled me to see things as they were, quite uninfluenced by the emotional disturbances which impaired the calm judgments of my fellows. So, though at this time I expected to marry and, of course, expected that my wife would be in love with me when we married, yet I was quite aware that there could be no guarantee that she would remain so. The value of a flask of this water to a person so able as myself to gaze without blinking upon the realities of life, was very evident. I should present it to my wife on our wedding day and tell her its story; and though I knew it could avail no more than anything else on this earth to keep me her love, yet I hoped that it might serve to guard me against those unpleasant little eccentricities of conduct which sometimes follow the death of conjugal affection. It was with this hope that I always preserved it, and it is with a similar hope on your behalf, my dear Robert, that I have presented you and Amy with the flask.’

“The old gentleman sat down in the midst of a stunned silence. It was, of course, an atrocious thing that he had done. On their very wedding day to suggest that the love of the bridal pair might not last forever! Craig’s face was pale and his lips were tightly compressed; on Amy’s cheeks burned two angry red spots. But, as I have said before, when one has a relative who is very old and also very wealthy, it is astonishing how lenient one becomes toward his lapses from what one believes to be the correct standards of taste and conduct. Neither Craig nor his wife spoke; the silence lasted yet another moment, then some one made a remark, which, however pointless, at least had the merit of provoking a general conversation, in the course of which old Forsythe and his crudeness were ignored by general consent.

“A little later Craig found his wife upstairs, just as she had donned her traveling dress. Uncle Robert, of course, was not there; and Craig permitted himself to become quite angry. The flask stood sparkling in the sunlight, on a little table where Amy had placed it on coming into the room. Craig would have smashed it to pieces, but Amy stayed his hand.

“‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘your uncle may ask for it when he comes to see us, and we could not afford to offend him by telling him we had destroyed it.’

“The fact that it was she who saved the flask from destruction, afterwards seemed to Craig a rare bit of irony; but at the time he saw only an early proof of the wise, semi-maternal interest every good wife takes in her husband’s affairs, and he found it so inexpressibly touching that, instead of smashing the flask, he kissed his wife.

“Nevertheless, they did not exhibit old Forsythe’s wedding gift conspicuously in their drawing-room, though it was there that they found it greeting them upon returning from their trip. What to do with it was quite a problem until Mrs. Craig found a vacant space behind a row of books in the library, and there it was promptly bestowed. You see, as a hiding-place, this spot had two great virtues: it hid, which is a requisite of all hiding-places, and it allowed the flask to be quickly produced in case of Uncle Robert’s visits, which was a requisite of this particular hiding-place.

“After about two years had passed, however, they found that they had lost all sensitiveness upon the subject, and they even, at times, with a decided feeling of being an old married couple, treated the episode humorously for the benefit of their friends. ‘Dear Uncle Robert and his quaint idea of an appropriate wedding gift!’ They were able to adopt this attitude the more easily, perhaps, because there seemed so little probability that the event, to guard against which Uncle Robert had given them the flask, would ever occur. They were a model couple--Darby and Joan in all respects save that of age, and neither had ever shown the slightest inclination to stray beyond the strictest limits imposed by the matrimonial tether. This in spite of the fact that for two years they had not been separated for twenty-four hours at a time. Or should I say because of it? One can never tell. At any rate, when Uncle Robert died, about this time, he had been entirely forgiven, and they grieved for him quite sincerely.

“Now it happened that the bulk of the estate which the old gentleman had left to Craig and any possible children, was stock in a rubber concession in two of the smaller South American states; and it also happened that just after Forsythe’s death, acute trouble began to develop between the two countries. After several weeks of great anxiety, Craig felt that he had no choice, but must go and defend his interests in person. Accordingly, he immediately began his preparations for the trip. Mrs. Craig desired earnestly to go with him, but of this he would not hear.

“‘I shall not be gone over two months at the most,’ he said, ‘and that is not really such a long time. Besides, there will be danger for you if it comes to hostilities; and there is always fever.’

“In the end Mrs. Craig was persuaded to stay at home, and Craig went alone. On the night before he sailed he had an inspiration. He was in the library, disposing of some odds and ends of his affairs, when the inspiration came to him. He went to the bookshelves, pushed aside some books and took out the crystal flask. For a moment he held it in the light of the reading lamp, admiring the lustre of the delicate glass and the clear transparency of the liquid it contained. A smile curved his lips, and he held the neck of the flask over the flame of the lamp until the sealing gum was softened, then removed the stopper, poured out part of the contents and refilled the flask with ink. When he had replaced the stopper, he again held the flask to the light, but now the liquid it contained was a dirty, muddy gray--the color he wished. He smiled again in satisfaction, and returned the flask to its old place on the bookshelf.

“You see, he had conceived the idea of an excellent joke upon his wife. She would in all probability discover the flask at some time during his absence; she would realize immediately what he had done; and he could imagine her laughing with him across the thousand miles that separated them. And what a finish it would make to their story! Perhaps, too, she would play up to the situation by pretending to take her discovery seriously. The affair was full of humorous possibilities, and he amused himself greatly in anticipating them.

“But the absence which was to have extended over not more than two months, as a matter of fact, lasted for a little more than a year. During all this time it was never certain that Craig would not be able to return almost immediately; there was therefore no reason for his wife to join him, and she remained at home--alone.

“Upon what must have happened I can only touch lightly, because I cannot understand it. Mrs. Craig was alone, it is true, but her husband loved her; and when he left, she had undoubtedly cared for him. Of course, with the sudden increase in Craig’s income, she was thrown with a set she had never met before; she and Craig had not been poor, but this change meant wealth, really great wealth, and perhaps it turned her head. Perhaps, being as strangely illogical and as strongly resentful of fancied slights as women always are in matters which concern their affections, she had convinced herself that Craig need never have stayed from her so long, if his inclination and his duty had not traveled along the same road, and in her anger sought for revenge. Perhaps ... but I do not know. One can never tell.

“When at last Craig returned home, however, she greeted him with manifestations of greatest pleasure; and Craig himself, when I met him on the street two days after his arrival, seemed radiantly happy. He had reason to be; he had wealth, occupation, strength and the love of the woman whom he loved. He probably thought himself, and he certainly seemed to me, one of the favored ones of the world.

“It was in all probability on the evening of this day that he first thought of the flask, and then it dawned on him quite suddenly that his wife had not spoken of it. His joke, of course, had failed, because if she had seen the flask during his absence, he would long since have heard something of it. Still, he would get it out and make what he could of the change that had come over it.

“‘Amy,’ he said, ‘we have forgotten to look at the flask.’ He watched her closely, but her face did not change. She did not even show the slight surprise that might have been expected at his sudden introduction of the subject.

“‘So we have,’ she answered. She smiled slightly. ‘If you think an inspection necessary, will you get it?’ She was so ready that it seemed almost as if she had been waiting for his suggestion; but he did not notice this--at the time.

“He walked across the room, already smiling as he thought of the surprise in store for her. Still smiling he reached down into the vacant space behind the books until he found the flask, then turned and held it to the light....

“That was a year ago.

“The next day Craig went to Canada. He did not return until his wife had sailed for Europe. She is still there, and Craig is--as you saw him.”

Drysdale stopped.

“But what was the matter? What was wrong?” exclaimed young Gwillam. “What--”

Drysdale interrupted him.

“You see,” he said, “when he looked at the flask that night, it had once more been filled with a perfectly clear and transparent liquid.”

WHY THE EDITORS BUY

ADVENTURE

As _Adventure_ readers include the cultured and critical as well as those of simple tastes, we seek the kind of workmanship that will stand the difficult test of meeting the approval of both groups. But in selecting our fiction it always seems to us that only that part of the story is effective that reaches the reader’s mind and the highest literary attainment is likely to go hand in hand with simplicity and clearness.

We regard it as vitally important that the illusion should be kept up. We want the reader to leave his own world and to live entirely in the world of the story. For this reason we dislike too pronounced mannerisms of style, too unusual names for characters, misstatements in local color, improbability in plot details. We also wish that the author would avoid the obtrusion of his own personality into the story, too much surface cleverness, the specific call upon the reader to philosophize (thus making him think, rather than keeping him in the receptive mood), a too cynical or sophisticated attitude on the author’s part. In general the two points--clearness and keeping the illusion--are probably those which we emphasize most particularly. We have in addition certain types of story that we try to avoid:--those that involve international or political questions; we dislike stories of opium smuggling; stories in which _all_ of the main characters are “natives”; stories which feature intermarriage. Generally speaking, we do not care much for a villain in the rôle of central character; nor for much high society atmosphere; millionaire circles; prisons; slums; lost wills; psychopathic cases; gangsters. Of course exceptions to all of the above sometimes force themselves upon us by sheer merit.

We do not insist upon the accepted idea of the “happy ending” but we prefer stories that uplift rather than depress. We consider only the net effect of the story on the reader for the man or woman who is reading a magazine, is doing so, primarily with the idea of enjoying or relaxing, not to be made uncomfortable or unhappy. However, a story to sell to _Adventure_ need not be artificially shaped. We are looking for stories that will please our readers and the range of selection is wide indeed.

ARTHUR S. HOFFMAN.

_Adventure._
THE RIDGEWAY COMPANY, Publishers,
Spring and Macdougal Streets,
New York City.

THE AMERICAN MAGAZINE

In buying a story for _The American Magazine_ I have four leading questions in mind:

1. Is it interesting?
2. Is it true?
3. Does it add to our store of knowledge of human nature?
4. Is there a lift to it?

Not all four requirements are always met in the stories I take but they are the main guide-posts. Let me take these questions in their order and be more detailed and explicit concerning each one.

If a story isn’t interesting, or has a very limited field of interest, no matter how well written it is, I cannot use it in _The American Magazine_. And the interest must not be sporadic, it must be cumulative in its effect. A story should grip the reader’s attention at the beginning and hold it steadily all the way through. Good progressive writing is far more effective than that which contains a number of thrills linked together by long, arid paragraphs.

In asking myself--is it true?--I do not intend to convey the meaning that I am looking for stories of real happenings. As a matter of fact, I am of the opinion that fiction doesn’t dare be as wild and exciting as real life. As Byron wisely said, “Truth is always strange--stranger than fiction.” Consequently I look for stories that _ring_ true, the characters in which have their counterparts in everyday life or are so vividly created by the writer that they are accepted by the reader as natural, even if unusual, human beings. In the making of a plot I want sanity enthroned, the believable things of life depicted; not cock and bull fakes, which although they may create momentary excitement will cause the reader to lay the story down and say, “It’s all right, but it’s highly colored and far-fetched.” I would infinitely rather have less excitement, fewer dramatic pyrotechnics and have the reader slap his knee and exclaim, “Can you beat that for the real thing!” I want him to corroborate and testify to the convincingness and obvious truth of the story out of his own experiences and observations or through the instinctive acceptance of it by his imagination.

I hope, however, from the foregoing words writers will not run away with the idea that so long as the characters are lifelike a story will get across. The ideal story for this magazine is one that has a convincing plot as well as convincing characters. But I would rather sacrifice plot to characterization any day of the week. If a story comes into the office slender of plot but brimful of human wisdom and accurate character work, I buy it. As a matter of fact, some of the most successful stories I have published have been of this type. I do not, however, buy a story that is strong on plot if the characters are overdrawn or unnatural and it has an atmosphere of unreality.

This brings me to my third question: “Does it add to our store of knowledge of human nature?” If the people in a story are natural, if they meet problems with sense of humor, if their actions are interestingly sane and normal, and the story presents news of human nature wisely and accurately, the reader can scarcely avoid learning something to his advantage. His sympathy and imagination are going to be aroused and quickened only by stories that are probable in both character and plot, because they alone will give him a true slant on human nature and add to his understanding of it.

In commenting on the last question, I feel I cannot too strongly emphasize the need of the quality which I define as “lift.” A story may be surpassingly true, the characterization good, the plot well thought out, but if it does not stir the emotion, if it doesn’t make the reader feel better, I am not keen for it. I want cheerful stories that leave a sense of satisfaction in their wake--stories that are full of warmth, charm, friendliness, and right living. Highly colored, far-fetched or gloomy fiction may interest for a moment, but it will not yield genuine and lasting pleasure. I avoid unpleasantly tragic and morbid stories, no matter how well written, because they usually leave a distinct effect of depression. The reader has to recover from them; climb painfully back to a normal belief in human kind. I must have stories that touch the heart as well as appeal to the intellect. They must satisfy the reader and leave him with the feeling of time well spent.

In dividing my answer to your question into definite heads I see that these overlap each other and that consequently my explanations do the same in a measure. But at least they are not contradictory, and I hope the cumulative effect makes my practice clear. You realize much must be left out of an attempt to set down briefly an editorial policy relating to so wide and varied a literary field as that of fiction.

JOHN M. SIDDALL.

_The American Magazine._
THE CROWELL PUBLISHING CO.,
381 Fourth Avenue,
New York City.

THE AMERICAN BOY

The _American Boy_ aims to interest and help boys between the ages of twelve and twenty, recognizing the fact that to be helpful to the boy it is necessary first to secure his interest and command his attention. Stories and articles should be of such literary quality as will inculcate the best literary standards in the boy reader, as well as interest him and have an effective message. The atmosphere must be wholesome, alive, vigorous, and inspiring, and stories should be a force for good, not repelling the boy reader by too obvious moralizing, but implying the moral by the characters and the action. The magazine endeavors to put before its boys, through the medium of stories, boy heroes who can set them fine examples; in business stories, it endeavors to inculcate the principles of good business; in athletic stories, it sets forth high athletic ideals.

The _American Boy_ is always particularly careful in the presentation of facts. Stories and articles should always teach truth. Fiction stories, of course, need not be true stories--stories of actual facts--but they should give accurate pictures of the phases of life they are representing; they should not misrepresent the facts of geography, natural science, history, business, or human relationships. Writers who get into the _American Boy_ are those who have a story to tell--a point to make--that is worth while; a story of daring which provides a hero (always demanded by boys); a story of adventure that satisfies the boy’s natural longing to roam; a story of an exciting game which, enthralling the boy, makes clear to him what is right and what is wrong; a story of service that will aid the boy to adjust himself to social life; a story of business that will give the boy a true impression of the workaday world he is to enter. Material with a strong feminine element is not used in the _American Boy;_ nor is “little kid” material. The average age of _American Boy_ readers is sixteen; and boys of that age are interested in the doings, not of boys younger than themselves, but of boys their own age, or older, and of men.

Something to be borne in mind by those who essay to write for a boys’ magazine is the distinct difference between stories of boys and stories for boys. The story of boys is particularly popular just now in adult magazines. It tells of a boy from the adult viewpoint. To the adult, what the boy does is often distinctly humorous. To the boy it is serious business, and he would be properly offended should one poke fun at him in his own magazine. The story for boys must be handled from the boy viewpoint, not from the adult viewpoint. This does not mean that the story should be “written down”--quite the reverse. Once having grasped the boy viewpoint and secured the proper angle, the writer should use the same style and diction as in handling the story of similar sort for the ordinary adult publication.

The story for boys need not necessarily be a story of boys. True, a boy is more likely to be interested in a story with a boy hero than in a story of an adult hero. The magazine wishes to place before its readers fictional characters whom the boy may emulate. It is such characters which arouse his enthusiasm.

WALTER P. MCGUIRE.

_The American Boy._
Detroit, Michigan.

ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY

Why _are_ manuscripts rejected? “Why is a mouse when it spins?” Perhaps the reply to the ancient wheeze, “Because the higher the fewer,” is as satisfactory an answer to the first question as any. There are so _many_ reasons, in fact; so many varied and diverse considerations that enter into the acceptance or rejection of a manuscript that a direct and concise answer is impossible. Wholly aside from the merit of the story there is the question of the editorial, business, political, and religious policy of the magazine; the quantity and character of the material on hand; the length of the story which exigencies of make-up may make impossible for that particular magazine, at that particular time, and a dozen other considerations, varying with each publication and of which the author is quite unconscious.

Generally speaking however 90 per cent of manuscripts are rejected because they fail to grip the interest in the first few pages. It might be remembered that the editor in his official capacity is not an analyst or critic. He is first and foremost a _buyer_; and moreover a buyer of comparatively small quantities picked from an enormous mass of material in a limited time. It would be a total impossibility for him to read and weigh in its entirety every manuscript that comes before him. Also it is unnecessary. One doesn’t have to eat the whole of the egg to discover it is passé. He is a buyer and he knows, or is supposed to, the tastes and desires of his principal--that is to say the particular fraction of the general public to which his particular periodical caters--he knows what they want and it is from that point of view that he reads. It is his job and his joy to supply his readers not only with what they want but with the _best_ of what they want, and, if authors would only believe it, there is more rejoicing in the editorial heaven over one new writer of promise than over the ninety and nine who have already arrived.

An editor is not an incompetent ass because he rejects for his adventure magazine a story that later is snapped up by the _Century_ or _Atlantic_, although authors are apt to chortle gleefully over such a contretemps; nor is there any truth in the oft repeated rumors--propagated by the failures--of a cabal to suppress budding genius, and a clique of editors to guard the Olympian heights from all but those bearing the stamp of approval of their masters. As a matter of fact if an author after real and conscientious effort fails to sell it is either because his stuff does not measure up to standard or because he is persistently peddling to the wrong market. You can’t sell the finest line of fancy flower pots to a fish dealer.

It is this latter point that should be stressed especially. Far too many really able authors fail to understand the value of a thorough knowledge of the market. Most of them haven’t even a general knowledge of it; do not think of it at all. To them a magazine is a magazine. Their attitude is “You publish stories, Why not mine?” and they send a beautifully written and wholly plotless character sketch to a publication using only rapid fire adventure stuff and a charming little New England pastoral to one of the magazines devoted wholly to sex topics, and then wonder why they come back.

Perhaps speaking broadly it is this ignorance of market that accounts for at least a large percentage of the rejections that afflict authors (aside from the vast army of amateurs, novices and hopeless incompetents) whose work is really good.

ELLIOT BALESTIER.

_Argosy-Allstory Weekly._
THE FRANK A. MUNSEY CO.,
280 Broadway,
New York City.

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY

It really would not serve your purpose if I were to write you about my principles of accepting stories. They are too capricious, and would only tend to lower the feelings of respect which you are inculcating in your readers.

Quite seriously, my selection is made according to the whim of one individual.

ELLERY SEDGWICK.

_The Atlantic Monthly._
8 Arlington Street,
Boston, Mass.

THE CENTURY MAGAZINE

When you ask me what kind of stories we want for _The Century_, I am puzzled about answering, for the truth is we like almost all kinds, provided they are done with distinction. I think I may speak for the editorial staff when I say that distinction is the mark at which we are aiming.

_The Century_ is a family magazine, edited for the mature members of the family. Every one who reads the magazine knows that we welcome new writers. Indeed, it is a day of rejoicing when the mail yields a story of real promise by an unknown writer.

We do not want war stories, for the public is tired of war-fiction; nor “machine-made” stories, the cheap clap-trap that has nothing to recommend it but facility.

For myself, I have a confession to make. It is this: “I do not know much about art, but I know what I like!” I am aware that the knowing will look askance upon this avowal of the Philistine, but it is a good creed and wears well. And I believe that the editor who pleases himself in the selection of manuscripts stands a better chance of pleasing others than he who guesses at the tastes of a fickle general public whom he fancies as remote from himself in their likings as a race of Martians.

Simplicity and Sincerity are the true gods in art as in life; of that I am sure.

You ask me to mention several short stories published in _The Century_ within four or five years that we like particularly and to tell you why. I think first of “The Friends,” by Stacy Aumonier, printed in October, 1915. This story is an unplotted, realistic study of two drunkards, friends whose only bond was drink. It is perhaps the most powerful prohibition tract ever published and not a word of prohibition in it! An analysis of Aumonier’s work--any bit of it--will reveal a sureness of touch which is a refreshment to the soul. Some of his stories are finer than others, of course, but like Phyllis Bottome and Anne Douglas Sedgwick, there is always distinction about his work.

Some of the critics were good enough to call “The Friends” the best story published in any magazine that year. To me, besides my admiration for it as an artistic creation, it stands for two things: one, an example of an interesting phenomenon,--Mr. Aumonier was a man in middle life, I am told, when he began writing, and evidently found a beautiful and finished technique in his pocket!--the other, a warning never to judge a story by what it is not. It would be fatally easy to write “no plot” across such a manuscript and lose it forever.

“A Source of Irritation,” also by Stacy Aumonier, published in _The Century_ for January, 1918, is a delicious bit of humor to my way of thinking. It is pleasant to know that Aumonier’s many-sided mind has humor and gaiety, too, in its composition.

“The Wedding Jest” and “Porcelain Cups” by James Branch Cabell, printed in September, 1919, and November, 1919 seem to me very lovely. In the stodge of every-day literary expression, such delicacy and grace are rare indeed. These stories are remarkable for that almost obsolete quality, “style.”

“The Fat of the Land,” by Anzia Yeszierska, a study of the Russian Jew in America and the reaction of the older generation to the loud prosperities of the younger, is excellent work, full of the intangible quality of race and keen in its psychology. It was published in _The Century_ for August, 1919.

One wishes to mention, too, the black magic of “The Black Key,” by Joseph Hergesheimer, the rich embroideries of H. G. Dwight and Achmed Abdullah, the bold portraiture of Harvey O’Higgins, the subtly fine work of Marjory Morten. Also that exquisite study of innocence, “Red and White,” by Roland Pertwee; and Myla Jo Closser’s dog-story, “At the Gate.”

It is impossible for any magazine to sustain regularly the level of its best fiction, for the simple reason that such stories do not happen frequently--would there were more of them! Those I have mentioned are among the best, in my judgment, that _The Century_ has published for several years, and it is towards work of such character that we are aiming.

I take it, dear Miss Wick, that you have asked me to characterize some of our most cherished stories in order to show by concrete examples the kind of fiction _The Century_ wants; and I believe that you are right in thinking this plan the best way of saying it.

Sincerely yours,
ANNE STODDARD.

_The Century Magazine._
353 Fourth Avenue,
New York City.

COLLIER’S, THE NATIONAL WEEKLY

When a writer wants to please an editor, the surest way is to forget all about him. The editor is not reading the story for his own entertainment. He reads with only one idea in mind: “Will this story appeal to all kinds of people? Is it a good story?”

An editor of a magazine of general circulation seldom seeks one particular kind of story. He wants the best stories written. The quickest way to his favor is to write them.

There are no set rules for accomplishing this. Only a few landmarks are on the road. Know your subject. Have something to tell. Be sure that something happens in the story.

If nothing happens, if there is no action, you have perhaps written a very good essay or a very convincing argument--but you will not be able to sell it as a short story.

Remember that you are writing a short story, not a condensed novel. A short story, once started, has only one object--to end as quickly as possible.

There are only two people who can infallibly detect padding in a story. One is yourself. The other is the reader.

It pays, always, to be clean. A questionable story will attract many people--but it will repel more.

Few writers succeed in being convincing when they wander into fields they don’t know. Every man collects a mass of information concerning the road over which he has traveled, and the people he met on the way. Use this information. It will furnish all the short stories you can ever write.

Just as people strive for “happy endings” in their own affairs, so they like them in stories which they read for entertainment.

The enduring themes for short stories are the enduring themes in life itself; the old copybook virtues, like self-sacrifice, courage, generosity, resourcefulness and faith.

The writer succeeds in proportion as he makes his reader eager for another story by him. Editors have ways to judge this reaction. Forget the editor, and what you think he wants. Write directly to the man or woman who is going to buy the magazine and read your story.

HARFORD POWELL, JR.

_Collier’s, The National Weekly._
416 West 13th Street,
New York City.

AINSLEE’S MAGAZINE

_Ainslee’s_ publishes yearly a total of approximately a hundred and twenty short stories (from 5,000 to 8,000 words in length), twelve novelettes (from 20,000 to 30,000) and, in monthly installments, about four serials (from 50,000 to 70,000). And, to cull this relatively small amount of fiction, innumerable manuscripts are painstakingly gone over. At a rough estimate, erring on the side of too few rather than too many, ten thousand manuscripts are submitted yearly from various sources for consideration by _Ainslee’s Magazine_. Of these, eight thousand, I should say, are absolutely unsuited to publication anywhere, while the remaining number are perhaps creditable enough, but have been sent by their authors or the authors’ agents to the wrong magazine--which brings me to the registering of a simple, but curiously disregarded, bit of advice to those whose goal is writing for magazine publication. _Study the magazine to which you contemplate submitting material._ After all, each issue of a magazine, whatsoever its character, represents the nearest approach to their ideal for the publication, which the editors have been able, at the time to achieve, and should therefore constitute a fairly good working pattern for those whose stuff is to be “aimed at” that magazine. A rejection slip from a given publication is just as apt to mean that the story, albeit distinctive, does not fit the special needs of the magazine as to indicate total unfittedness for publication anywhere.

_Ainslee’s Magazine_ aims to be a high-class, clean, distinctive fiction magazine. It has no room for, nor time for, the frankly salacious, or “sexy.” It is looking always for the proverbial good story, well told. That story may move around any clean, healthy, up-to-date theme, but it should have in it, preferably, woman and love interest. The people of the story should be human, not wooden. They should talk like you and I talk, not like Maria Edgeworth’s people “conversed.” And the tale itself must be colorful. If a story is to have any holding quality whatever, it must transfer its readers to the scene of the action. And to do this, the thing must have in it real atmosphere. Plot basis, then, along with good characterization, atmosphere, and love and woman interest are essentials for the typical _Ainslee’s_ story.

We like to think that stories in _Ainslee’s Magazine_, though varied in character, are uniformly good. We hesitate, therefore, to talk of “better and best.” But, by way of illustration of the points we have sought to make, we call attention to Marie Van Vorst’s “The Week-End Guest” in the December issue of _Ainslee’s_--a good story on all counts, and well suited to _Ainslee’s_.

HELEN L. LIEDER.

_Ainslee’s Magazine._
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION,
Seventh Avenue and Fifteenth Street,
New York City.

COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE

The first essential for editing a popular magazine for Americans is that the editor be a sane, normal, every-day American. No mystical genius is required.

He is merchandising a commodity to the American public. If his taste is the taste of the average American, and he puts within the covers of a magazine stories which he has enjoyed reading, other Americans of similar taste in reading will buy his magazine in quantities sufficient to make it a success.

At least, that is the theory I have followed. I know quite well that I am no genius, yet I have seen magazines grow under my direction. And I have no rule for buying a story except that it must be sufficiently interesting and sufficiently well told to interest me.

All sorts of stories interest me. Some time ago, for the satisfaction of a friend of mine, I named the ten short stories which I had liked best of all those I had published. It was interesting even to me to see how they varied. The ten stories were: BACK PAY by Fannie Hurst; HASSAYAMPA JIM by Peter B. Kyne; KAZAN by James Oliver Curwood; THE STORY I CAN’T WRITE by Rupert Hughes; THE LAST ADVENTURE by Frank R. Adams; BOSTON BLACKIE’S MARY by Jack Boyle; THE JUGGLER by Arthur Springer; THE SNIDE by Harris Merton Lyon; THE GHOST’S STORY by Basil King; THE DUMMY CHUCKER by Arthur Somers Roche. That’s about as catholic a list as I can imagine.

“Back Pay,” “The Snide” and “The Last Adventure” might be classified as “sex” stories, although I dislike that term. “The Story I Can’t Write” was a trick story; “Boston Blackie’s Mary” was a prison story; “Hassayampa Jim” was a Western story; “The Dummy Chucker” was an O’Henry-ish bit of writing; “Kazan” was a dog story; “The Ghost’s Story” was a story of the supernatural (it was the story from which Mr. King later built his photoplay “Earthbound”); “The Juggler” was a character study with an extraordinary twist in the ending.

No two of these stories in any way resembled each other. I suppose that’s because I believe in variety, not because of any rule that variety makes a good magazine, but because my taste in reading varies. I am likely this evening to read Cellini for relaxation; tomorrow evening to read Mark Twain, the following evening to read De Maupassant. I like each one of them while I am reading him, but I don’t want too much of any one of them.

That probably is true of the average reader of American magazines. He has his favorite authors but he doesn’t want too much of any of them. I think Peter B. Kyne, James Oliver Curwood, Fannie Hurst, Ben Ames Williams, and Frank R. Adams are doing the best work of any magazine writers of to-day, but I feel quite sure that a magazine filled with their work and only their work, month after month, would become a bore.

Each one of these writers is a friend of mine; yet, I am quite sure, neither they nor I would enjoy talking together every evening for a year. I find that I am the average American in virtually everything; that I like what he likes without stopping to find out why; and I believe, too, that there is no reading too good for the American public--that there is nothing real and worth while that is “over his head.”

RAY LONG.

_Cosmopolitan._
_Good Housekeeping._
_Harper’s Bazar._
_Hearst’s Magazine._
119 West 40th Street,
New York City.

THE COUNTRY GENTLEMAN

The _Country Gentleman_ addresses a class of readers whose interests are keyed to country life and the industry of agriculture. This field is big enough to include more than half of the nation’s population. Our editorial problem is not one of tying in narrowly to scientific discussions of only the growing phases of farming but ranges throughout the innumerable business and social problems of the American country-side. It is our aim to discuss everything that should help to broaden the farmer’s vision of his own problems and also of all interrelated problems that help to make him a vital factor as a citizen of the United States.

In presenting fiction, we aim, so far as possible, to confine the themes to country life and the open spaces of the world outdoors. We eschew jazzily up-to-date urbanized fiction, sex novels, the eternal triangle and the purely psychologic story. Naturally we will always give a preference to fiction related to farming by first-class writers who are thoroughly familiar with farming.

It is our feeling that the American farmer is interested in everything that has any contact with country life. Hunting and fishing and outdoor adventure are his life-long sports. He has a deep and genuine affection for animals that serve him. He manifests a very live interest in stories that deal with his marketing problems, and his ever-pressing problem of financing his business. He has an alert interest in his schools, his newspapers, in local, state and national government. He enjoys character studies and has a vastly sharper sense of humor than he is commonly credited with. Likewise he is a shrewd critic and quickly resents the sort of attempted slurs that are so frequently made upon rural folk by those who are wholly ignorant of farming.

We feel justified in being guided by several successful experiments we have made with our fiction. We persuaded Mr. Freeman Tilden, who is a farmer himself and thoroughly familiar with all phases of agriculture, to create a character in Old Man Crabtree who might be defined as “a Wallingford baiter.” Mr. Crabtree is a shrewd retired country banker. His experience had taught him all the tricks of “high finance” and he was always on the lookout for the specialists in shoddy and sham when they came to town. In the climax the skinners were invariably neatly flayed by Old Man Crabtree. These stories of Mr. Tilden were real and drew in a continuous flow of favorable comment.

Zane Grey has always been able to strike a responsive chord with the lovers of outdoor life, of whom the American farmer is undoubtedly in the majority. They like his descriptions of the frontier as it was in the 70’s and they seem to be keen for his vigorous characters, notwithstanding how strenuous.

We like good dog stories of the sort Albert Payson Terhune has been writing for us. And we like small town stories when they are as good as those Tom P. Morgan is writing; but then, Tom Morgan lived these stories for fifty years before he began to write them.

The great majority of our contributors have specialized in some agricultural pursuit. Many of them are living on their farms and conducting them as successful business enterprises. We number among our most valued contributors the heads of leading agricultural colleges, federal and state government experts, graduates of agricultural colleges who are now devoting all their time to writing, county agricultural agents, engineers who are specializing in agricultural mechanics and so on. Among them are such well-known men as Eugene Davenport, Dean of the Illinois College of Agriculture, Herbert Quick, until recently a member of the Federal Farm Loan Board, Frank A. Waugh, Professor of Horticulture, Massachusetts College of Agriculture, E. V. Wilcox and J. Sidney Cates, for many years employed as farm management experts by the United States Department of Agriculture, and P. S. Lovejoy, Professor of Forestry, University of Michigan.

Such writers as I have described above supply the bulk of the contents of _The Country Gentleman_ and consequently to preserve a balanced ration, as a livestock feeder would say, we try our utmost to obtain the sort of fiction that will round out the ensemble.

BARTON W. CURRIE.

_The Country Gentleman._
CURTIS PUBLISHING CO.,
Independence Square,
Philadelphia, Pa.

THE DELINEATOR