The Editor Accepts: How to Write Short Stories That Magazines Buy [Reprint 2022 ed.] 9781978812567

Table of contents :
Contents
Introduction
I Adventures in Writing
1 Luncheon with Mr. McGuire
2 Stars Shine on an Island
II Adventures in Teaching
3 English 75, 76
III The Technique of Short Story Writing
4 If in Years to Come
5 Writing of Things We Know
6 College Dances Are No Different
7 Writing Is Hard Work
8 To a Brown-eyed Girl
9 We Must Use Restraint
10 Forever Tours
11 Characters Must Be Natural
12 Stars in the Sky
13 Rules of the Game
14 If We Are Strong Enough
15 Short Circuit
IV Juvenile Stories: A Testing Ground
16 Writing and Selling Juvenile Stories
17 You Know What a Boob I Am, Uncle
18 Postscript

Citation preview

The Editor Accepts

THE EDITOR ACCEPTS BY EARL REED SILVERS WH

1»

HOW TO WRITE SHORT STORIES THAT MAGAZINES BUY WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY EARL SCHENCK MIERS

N E W BRUNSWICK

RUTGERS UNIVERSITY PRESS 1943

COPYRIGHT

I943

BY T H E TRUSTEES O F

RUTGERS COLLEGE IN N E W

JERSEY

P R I N T E D IN T H E U N I T E D STATES O F 3-43

AMERICA

THIS

BOOK

IS DEDICATED

TO

EDA, SAM AND FLIV WITH AND

DEEP ENDURING

AFFECTION FAITH

Contents Introduction—earl

schenck miers

ix

I. Adventures in Writing 1. Luncheon with Mr. McGuire 2. Stars Shine on an Island

3 24

II. Adventures in Teaching 3.

English 75, 76

47

III. T h e T e c h n i q u e of Short Story Writing 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. ix. 12. 13. 14. 15.

If in Years to Come Writing of Things We Know College Dances Are No Different Writing Is Hard Work To a Brown-eyed Girl We Must Use Restraint Forever Yours Characters Must Be Natural Stars in the Sky Rules of the Game If We Are Strong Enough Short Circuit IV. Juvenile Stories: A Testing

16. Writing and Selling Juvenile Stories 17. You Know What a Boob I Am, Uncle 18. Postscript vii

73 97 121 136 144 168 176 192 204 219 227 242 Ground 251 271 290

Introduction

A

who ended his years in a madhouse and an intensely introspective Russian of such lowly birth that he often said he had known no childhood must be ranked as the principal progenitors of the modern short story. Somerset Maugham, one of the ablest of contemporary authors of the short story and a keen critic as well as an imaginative writer, has acknowledged his indebtedness to Guy de Maupassant and Anton Chekhov for the models they provided, and every youngster who sooner or later acquires the good sense to go back and study the work of these masters comes to understand not only the influence which they had upon the craft of the writing of fiction, but also the astonishing dissimilarity in their techniques. For Maupassant, always the materialist, was interested primarily in his story and subordinated every detail to keep his action moving; whereas Chekhov, the individualist and philanthropist who established rural schools, worked for the improvement of the penal system, and rendered notable medical assistance during the cholera epidemic of 1892, was far more concerned with the hearts and minds of his characters than with the mechanics of his plots. Chekhov once asked, "Why write about a man getting into a submarine and going to the North Pole to reconcile himself to the world, while his beloved at that moment throws herself with a hysterical shriek from the belfry? All this is untrue and does not happen in real life. One must write about simple things: how Peter Semionevitch married Maria Ivanovna. That is all." FRENCH RASCAL

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Always an astute observer of his fellow men, Maugham is more closely drawn to Chekhov than to Maupassant, although he has said, "I have little doubt that Chekhov would have written stories with an ingenious, original and striking plot if he had been able to think of them." T h e basic differences between the techniques of Maupassant and Chekhov are well summarized by Maugham: "It is easier to write stories like Chekhov's than stories like Maupassant's. T o invent a story interesting in itself apart from the telling is a difficult thing, the power to do it is a gift of nature, it cannot be acquired by taking thought, and it is a gift that very few people have. Chekhov had many gifts, but not this one. If you try to tell one of his stories you will find that there is nothing to tell. T h e anecdote, stripped of its trimmings, is insignificant and often inane. It was grand for people who wanted to write a story and couldn't think of a plot to discover that you could very well manage without one. If you could take two or three persons, describe their mutual relations and leave it at that, why then it wasn't so hard to write a story; and if you could flatter yourself that this really was art, what could be more charming?" * T h e chief pertinence in these observations by Maugham is the kind suggestion that except in rare cases—say, one in a thousand—the short story as published and read among the English-speaking people scarcely approaches being an art. T r u e , the story-telling gift must be in evidence; although if you will try to recall some of the short stories you read a year ago, you may be more than a little amazed to discover to what a slight degree even this ability must be present. In a very realistic sense, short story writing has become a craft which may be mastered with patience, intelligence, and understanding of what the editors wish to buy. T o say that the writing of a short story must be reduced within certain limits to a * From East and West by W. Somerset Maugham (New York: Doubleday, Doran and Company, Inc., 1921, 1935).

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formula is not an altogether agreeable statement, so we say instead that the tale must t>e "properly slanted" and mean the same thing. Of course there must be incident in today's salable stories. There must be proper selection of detail, strong characterization, verisimilitude in action and conversation, and a plot form. Learning to blend all these parts into a pleasing whole is not quite so easy as it sounds, and not everyone has the temperament to make a writer. There are more sweat and tears in fiction writing than the neophyte ever imagines; one successful author when asked if he enjoyed writing stories replied, rather aptly, "Yes, I do, aside from the fact that putting down every word is like giving birth to a baby grand piano." And so it is. More than one writer, I suspect, began to write because it pleased him to express himself on paper, and continued doing so because he hated to give up the money he could make (or thought he could make). The tremendous popularity of the short story among a nation of people who have been largely conditioned to read while they run is understandable. Thousands of markets actually exist for the writer who can meet editorial requirements, and many dollars await those who can hit the top markets. Tonight or tomorrow evening you are almost certain to read in one of the nationally circulated magazines a story so simply plotted, so easily put together that you are going to think, "If that fellow can make good money writing this stuff, so can II" And perhaps you can. But do not be too quickly deluded by surface appearances. After all, a doctor's skill at performing an appendectomy seldom is measured by the size and number of the blood stains on the operating table. When you hear a magazine like The Saturday Evening Post referred to as a "slick," forget for the moment that the technical origin of the term is the coated, smooth-finished surface of the paper on which this periodical is published.

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Remember instead that the stories themselves must be "slick" —easy to read, entertaining and stimulating, and so skillfully constructed that the reader's only effort must be turning the pages. Perhaps the writing of such stories reduces itself to a pattern which can be easily analyzed, but then the simple act of taking apart a watch offers no guaranty that you can reassemble the parts so that the timepiece ever will run again. Let us concede that the writing of a salable short story is, artistically speaking, something of a "trick." Necromancy, properly performed, demands a dexterous operator. As Henry Adams said, "Simplicity is the most deceitful mistress that ever betrayed a man." Can you write salable short stories? Heaven only knows! One thing is certain, however: if you feel you must write, you can try, and if you have decided in your mind to be a writer because you have something to say (fine motivation), or are lured by the money to be made (not reprehensible), or have been told you write such interesting letters (completely inconclusive), you will stick at it as long as there is a shred of hope. And before you have advanced very far into your apprenticeship, you will be flabbergasted by the number of parties eager to assist you to fame and fortune—for a modest remuneration. You will be offered "plot cards" at ten cents a pack and all you will have to do is deal yourself hand after hand to devise situations for countless stories. Or for a few cents more you may buy (by the page) love phrases devised "to put fine finishing touches to your manuscripts" with greatly reduced rates if you buy eight pages at a clip (presumably just the thing you will need for your first novel). Again, for only ten cents, you may secure the secret of the theory, technique, and practice of successful writing "told in seven words"; and there is a lonely heart club in Seattle, Washington, which caters exclusively to aspiring writers. Self-

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styled critics of the short story will offer to read your manuscripts at a dollar a thousand words and tell you what is wrong with them (kindly enclose return postage, however), and another enterprising lassie will tell you that your story "is only as good as its weakest sentence" and will offer you "sentence patterns" for one dollar, "paragraph patterns" for fifty cents, and "short story patterns" for four bits. All of these services are seriously advertised and must be supported, for the advertisements appear month after month in the various writers' magazines. It is frightening to reflect how desperate the yearning to break into print can become; in a sense, the creative urge is a dangerous narcotic which, if sufficiently imbibed, can lead one to some thoroughly foolish contretemps (and, as someone already has observed, even world history might be different had not Corporal Hitler failed as an artist and Signor Mussolini proved equally ineffectual as a poet). The first great lesson to be learned in writing is that there are no satisfactory substitutes for hard work and straight thinking. In the final analysis you can speak only for your own mind and from your own experience; thus, if you feel a need for someone else's love phrases "to put fine finishing touches to your manuscripts," or if you are certain that you are lost without "paragraph patterns" or similar short-cuts, it will be wise to dwell upon these obvious deficiencies within yourself. Unhappily, an unimaginative man may be eating out his heart to become a successful writer, but yearning and even ambition cannot atone for the bitter fact that he has nothing to create. Perhaps, in the long run, it is better to have him victimized out of his loose change than to have him plot a revolution and discover that he has the devilish talent to carry it through. On the other hand there are good and even great teachers in the world—men who would never compromise with op-

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portunity to weaken the dignity of their high calling; men who respond to the challenge of education with their hearts as well as their minds, and who give what they can to those who would listen and who are sincerely humble before God because they cannot give more. During the past decade I have been privileged to know one such teacher and his name is Earl Reed Silvers. I remember quite clearly the first time I became acquainted with Dr. Silvers. I was then a lad in knickerbockers who had discovered that my textbook in history was exactly the right size to shield a copy of Ropeco Magazine. My downfall came one day when I became so absorbed in a story that I failed to hear the dismissal bell, for any instructor knows that no eighth grade boy reads history as avidly as that. The story, as you must have guessed, was by Earl Reed Silvers, and it was a tale of men in World War I who winged through the clouds in fighting DeHavilands. Years later, when I came to know Dr. Silvers, I soon learned that he possessed at best a sketchy knowledge of airplanes but even this disillusionment did not linger. For I studied under this man and in a class such as ours—five students who tipped back their chairs and braced their feet against the desk—we came to know our professor. I think it significant that the five of us that year never skipped a meeting of the class. The thousands of persons who know Dr. Silvers through his books and his short stories would enjoy meeting him in a college classroom. They would encounter a medium sized man with gray hair and bright, sensitive eyes who likes to wear odd coats and pants and who diligently begins each session by placing his watch on the desk. They would meet a man who starts dutifully to lecture as all the good textbooks in education prescribe, but who, being at heart a sentimentalist and a philosopher, gradually drifts off into dreams which have an earthy soundness—dreams of living courageously and

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honestly, and of seeking happiness through a respect for the dignity and the decency of the underdog. They would soon discover that here is a man who eagerly sees in every student an opportunity for comradeship, and who talks about his students in private, fretting over their small disappointments, and spreading cheerfully and sometimes gleefully the news of their minor triumphs. Elsewhere in this book Dr. Silvers will tell you of a resolution he made on the night his younger son died and because of this pledge the lives of hundreds of boys have been richer. In the past quarter of a century he has published more than a thousand stories—some of them mighty good—but his own life is still his most appealing story: the quiet, happy years of a man who had the heart to seek for a lost son in the eyes of others, of a man unafraid to look and to respond. Do you wonder that this man can teach? This book is so filled with the charm of the man himself that his former students who read it are going to be homesick for those afternoons in Old Queen's when a fall wind rustled the leaves on the campus and the rattle of the Florida-bound express left no choice but to wait until the train had passed. It is characteristically a Silvers product—no frills, no theorizing, but an honest, straight-from-the-heart, unaffected confession of how over the years he has learned to write the kind of short stories that magazines buy. It is a book about writing that any writer will recognize at once as having a true ring. It is as down to earth as a rejection slip—except, of course, that it is headed in the other direction. EARL SCHENCK

Rutgers University New Brunswick New Jersey

MIERS

I

Adventures in Writing

1 Luncheon with Mr. McGuire r | IHE HAPPY ADVENTURE began officially on a mellow morning

-L in June. Packing our belongings in a fender-dented car, we said good-bye to Grandma, Grandpa, and the shaggy Rags, and awakened the neighborhood of our home in Rahway, New Jersey, in a noisy departure for Sunset Island at South Casco, Maine. There were four of us; Edith Terrill Silvers (Eda), who has been married to a college professor for twenty-five years and so deserves a diadem; Earl Reed, Jr. (Sam), then a junior at Rutgers but now an ensign in the Naval Reserve, somewhere in the Atlantic; Evelyn (Fliv), now a senior at Connecticut College; and the author, a gray-haired man who is nominally head of the house but a very poor bridge player. T h e trustees of Rutgers University had granted me a year's leave of absence, and we had borrowed twenty-five hundred dollars from a wealthy alumnus endowed with generosity and faith. So we rolled north, deeply in debt but optimistic, and facing the fulfillment of a life-long dream. T h e dream had been with us through full years. I had written twenty-seven books for boys and girls, and so many juvenile short stories that we had lost count at the thousand mark, but the adult field was something new, something different, and we were eager to explore it. W e cherished the belief then, as we do now, that clean stories of clean people could find space in the leading magazines, and we agreed, the four of us, that 3

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whatever talent I might have should be devoted to writing stories of this type. We sold some manuscripts during the year and wrote others which could find no market. We knew the glory of October in Maine, the blue of the Gulf Stream off the Florida keys, and the barren beauty of the sand dunes of Cape Cod. We looked across a calm lake into the sunset, and on quiet nights we reached toward the stars. We found the adventure stimulating and worth while; and we learned that this one free year was not an entity in itself but rather an integral part of other years, an accumulation of experiences which had potent influence upon our stories, their nature, their character and their ideals. We discovered that all manuscripts which we sold had as their background a small town, a college campus or a preparatory school, three settings with which we were intimately familiar. The characters were in their 'teens or early twenties, the type of person in whom we were most deeply interested. Each story was written around an incident in which we had had a part or had been a personal observer; some of the incidents had happened as long as forty years ago, had been forgotten and recalled suddenly as plot germs or story themes. We found that persons who had had strong influence upon our lives also were influencing our stories. Home, school, church and college all played a part in the philosophy of our writing. It occurred to us that others, not only the aspiring author but the average reader of books and magazines, might care to share with us our discovery and our adventures in authorship. As time went on, we found that people were interested in our writing; they wanted to know how long it took to write a story, where the plots came from, how much we were paid, were the characters real, what about literary agents, are editors human, is it true that a beginner doesn't have a chance, does

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a person have to study and work hard to become an author? "Pretty soft," they said in substance. "Tell us how to do it, will you?" This book is the answer. It is an attempt to tell persons who are interested how short stories are written and sold, how the mind of an author works, what are the factors which influence him, and what are the basic rules of story writing. It is an attempt also to express a philosophy of writing, and a philosophy of life of a man who has lived a little over half a century and who has played with words for the greater part of that period. It is not a scholarly treatise; it contains no fine writing; but I venture to express the hope that it may be of some help and of some interest to those who have the temerity to read it. T h e adventure really began a long time ago when a very small boy had visions of becoming a great poet. Vague yearnings stirred within him which could find expression only in verse, and before he was ten he had filled a notebook with his "poems." His Aunt Emma—Auntie, of blessed memory—considered him another Wordsworth. She had a friend, a printer, whom she somehow persuaded to publish a booklet, The Rill and Other Poems. Somewhere in the archives of the Rutgers Library a copy still exists; it has a red cover with the title in silver lettering, and a single glance at its contents will convince the most tolerant reader of the fallacy of my aunt's belief. There was one "poem" which I considered at the time another "Thanatopsis." It was entitled "Life," and it read: Like the distant waters, Roars the coming of immortal life, Standing there in the midst of the Eternal City, Thinking ne'er of weary strife.

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I remember that at the time the booklet was delivered I was vaguely resentful because the title was not Life and Other Poems. The Rill, which "ran its peaceful way never stopping through the long hot day," seemed to me innocuous and uninspiring. But the book brought me fame. An ambitious reporter, probably a space writer, learned of it, and in a subsequent edition of the old New York World appeared a story, "Early Gains Name as Poetry Writer," quoting, of all things, "The Rill." Accompanying the article was a picture of a rather sappy looking boy in white knickers and blue coat, and under it the caption, "Boy Poet of Rahway." My classmates at school regarded me with dubious eyes but among adults I became a celebrity. T h e Rahway Democrat reprinted the article, although not the picture; and my grandfather, Dr. E. B. Silvers, known to his political opponents as "the bald-headed eagle of Seminary Avenue," carried the clipping in his pocket to display to his admiring patients. T h e story and picture appeared later in other papers, among them the New York Herald, but I experienced no elation and saw no merit in poetic distinction. My chief ambition at the moment was to be captain of the Grand Street baseball team. That honor, however, was denied me. Lou Rubin was elected captain. His father owned the neighborhood candy store. From this incident, thirty-odd years later, developed the story, " T o a Brown-eyed Girl." My Aunt Emma Reed was my mother's oldest sister. She lived with us from the time I was very young until her death in 1912, and many of the memories of my childhood are centered around her. She was a "maiden lady" and it was my impression that the young man to whom she was engaged was killed in the Civil War. All her instincts of motherhood were

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centered in me, and she worshipped me with a love so complete that I could do no wrong. If I failed in school, it was due to the teacher's ignorance; if I tore my Sunday pants, she mended them, holding me blameless. In the evenings before bedtime, she read aloud the Bible and sang in gentle alto hymns I shall never forget—"All Hail the Power of Jesus' Name" and "Rock of Ages." Sometimes of a summer night we sat at the open window watching the stars blossom in the sky, and from the far distance would come the weird whistle of a locomotive and I would cuddle close to her, knowing security. Years later, when moments of lost faith threatened, I remembered Auntie and was reassured. Once, when I was eight or nine and vain, as children are, she promised to make me a white vest to wear to Sunday School. Apparently, the work upon it did not go well, for on Saturday afternoon she asked me hesitantly, "Reed, if I give you ten cents would you mind waiting until next Sunday for the vest?" I answered peevishly that I wanted it the next day and she sat late into the night to finish it. Strange I should remember that after all these years. But it is of such little things that stories are made. T h e "boy poet" reached the eighth grade in the old Franklin School, and Mr. Irving Story, the principal, offered a prize for the best Thanksgiving yarn. I had shown no propensity for fiction but I entered the contest with gusto and wrote " T h e Tough Stocking," a supposedly humorous yarn about a youngster who dreamed he ate an entire turkey at one sitting and awoke to find himself chewing laboriously upon an old sock. It was pretty good, I thought, but not to be compared with the story I wrote for Elsie Morse, who sat across the aisle. Elsie had brown eyes and a way with her, and for a smile and fifteen cents I became a ghost writer. I produced " T h e Last Minute Touchdown" and Elsie handed it in as her own. But

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"The Tough Stocking" won the prize and Elsie considered herself the victim of a great injustice. T h e award convinced me that I was another Ralph Henry Barbour, and I proceeded to write a book, For the Honor of the Team. Lessons were neglected and the poetic instinct went into a decline. Elsie copied the manuscript in her round, clear hand and two schoolmates, Bill Marbach and Russell Tandy, the latter now a successful artist, illustrated it with pen and ink drawings. Thus my first book was born. I have it now, tucked away in a desk at home, and the drawings are good. T h e urge to write continued through high school but poetry again became the medium of expression. A thick book filled with beauteous thoughts of love is still extant, and I note with interest, having married an Edith, that the verses are mostly directed " T o Dorothy." But poetry was not the whole of high school writing. As a freshman I entered the field of commerce and wrote "High School Notes" for the Rahway Democrat. The remuneration was fifty cents a week, and occasionally, when the exchequer was especially low, I would persuade the harassed editor to accept a column of "social notes" for an additional half dollar. Thus I became a professional writer at the age of fourteen. High school commencement was held in the Auditorium on Irving Street, and after I had given the Class Oration— " 'Fire, fire!' screamed the throng, and pointed with excited gestures toward the window"—and received a diploma, we faced the problem of college. My father had died in my seventh year and money was not plentiful. My sister was attending Ethical Culture School in New York, and tuition at Rutgers, which I hoped to attend, was then one hundred dollars a year.

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We did not have one hundred dollars but I took the State competitive examinations and won a scholarship. For the first two years I commuted to New Brunswick, and my courageous mother, whose income was barely sufficient to meet home expenses, set aside each month the cost of my commutation ticket. But they were happy years. I continued to write high school notes for the local paper and was elected class poet as a freshman. I earned letters on the track and gymnasium teams and "made" the staff of The Targum, undergraduate paper. I sat in the classrooms of two professors who were great men, and of some others who were not, and I wanted very much to live on the campus. One morning I took an early train and, reaching the house of the fraternity which had been good enough to elect me to membership, I heard a young man singing beneath the showers upstairs. He was singing, "Hail, Mother": O, Mother of ancient men, How rich thy storied past has been . . . That song touched something deep within me and brought a realization of how much I was missing by not being a resident student. So in the summer following sophomore year— I worked then for the Rahway News Herald, successor to the Democrat, at five dollars a week—I wrote to a score of newspapers asking for the position of Rutgers correspondent. Three replied favorably, the New York Times among them, and in September I went to New Brunswick and persuaded the editor of the New Brunswick Times to let me cover the college for his paper. Before the term opened a stroke of good fortune enabled me to become a teacher of junior and senior English at Miss Anable's School for Girls. My class schedule was arranged so

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that I could teach from eleven to twelve o'clock five mornings a week, and I moved down to college, meeting all expenses as teacher and reporter. T h e year was a hard one and a good one, too. I was elected editor of the Scarlet Letter, student year book, not because of any special qualifications or popularity but because I happened to be on the winning side of a fraternity "deal," and very often I would stay up until three in the morning, editing, writing, and preparing the next day's lessons for Miss Anable's. In English IV, we read Milton and I was in utter ignorance of the virtues of Lycidas. But I learned as I taught, which is what all teachers should do, and on each Friday afternoon Miss Anable gave me a five dollar bill and a one dollar bill as a reward of effort. In senior year I did not teach and there was more time for thinking. I attended college dances and met many girls but the home town girls seemed best. I ran and was beaten in track and tumbled and was beaten in gym, and the finest man I have ever known—Dr. W . H. S. Demarest, then President of the college—became a lasting friend. As editor of The Targum I wrote editorials of doubtful merit and submitted an epic poem, which proved not epochal, as a senior thesis. T h e ivy on Old Queen's grew greener with the spring, Commencement came, and the bright college years were ended. T h e y formed the basis of the first five books I was to write, the "Dick Arnold" series, and two volumes about a freshman commuter who heard a boy singing beneath the showers and moved to the campus to work his way through the last two years. My mother attended Class Day where the "boy poet" delivered the Class Poem. She came to Commencement and heard her son, as one of the two student speakers, offer solution to many of the world's most pressing problems. She was

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the one person in the audience who considered both efforts of high degree of excellence. She wore a new dress for Commencement and a made-over old one for Class Day, for the completion of my college course was an Event. I can see her now against a background of campus trees, holding her head high, her black eyes shining, just a tiny person whose courageous heart made her a personage. My father had died when she was twenty-nine, and she had travelled the long way alone. On this day she had come to Commencement to see her son honored and it should have been one of the happiest days of her life. But I am not sure that it was. The exercises were concluded at noon, and the subsequent events were the Alumni Luncheon in the gymnasium and the President's Reception on Queen's Campus. I know now that I should have taken her to the Reception but it did not occur to me then, for nothing is more thoughtless than triumphant youth. She would have liked to meet the President and some of my classmates and professors. But I said to her, when she joined me outside the church after Commencement, "There isn't anything more to do now and you'll just have time to catch the 12:27 train." The shining light in her eyes grew dim but she smiled her acquiescence. I put her on the train, in her new dress and on her big day, and she went back home to eat the kind of luncheon mothers eat when they are left alone. She did not know, nor did I, that on that day the plot of "Stars in the Sky" was subconsciously conceived. Twenty-five years later, Good Housekeeping published the story. Two days after graduation from college, I became editor of the Rahway Record, a semi-weekly newspaper, and, although I held the position less than three months, the newspaper

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work proved beneficial. I learned to write rapidly and accurately, and frequent contacts with politicians, policemen, social leaders and undertakers increased my understanding of the human race. Looking back, experience convinces me that a period of active newspaper work is valuable training in the craft of fiction writing, but too much reportorial routine may deaden a man's creative instincts, and I was happy to return to the campus in September. T h e small college has since become a large university, and many things have changed. But our college boys are just as they were thirty years ago, loyal and confident and unafraid, needing only the guidance of wise and sympathetic teachers to grow into productive manhood. Within a year after returning, I wrote a play for Queen's Players, the student dramatic club. T h e faculty adviser approved it with reservations, and "Drifting" went into rehearsal. It was produced in the Opera House on Sophomore Hop Week-end and the actors did well, but no one called "Author, Author" at its conclusion. Later, we gave it at Red Bank, Rahway, Hackensack and Newark but it never reached Broadway. It was sold eventually for twenty-five dollars in advanced royalties, which were all that ever materialized, and six free copies, most of which have been lost. But we had fun writing and producing it, and, although the financial returns were small, it turned out to be the most profitable piece of writing I ever did. When we gave it at the Ilderan Club in Rahway, a blueeyed girl with a happy outlook on life was among the audience. She liked the play very much and told me so. " I think you're wonderful," she said. There have been times since when she has not thought so but she was very young then. Her name was Edith Terrill, and she is now my wife. Eda encouraged me in writing, and the urge for expression both in verse and prose returned. In 1 9 1 5 I wrote a short

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poem called "Tribute" which was purchased by The Youth's Companion for nine dollars. It was my first sale to a magazine of national circulation, and the thrill of it is with me yet. Undoubtedly, it would have been wise to put the money in the bank as the start of a savings account. But, happily, we have never been wise so far as money is concerned. Eda and I cashed the check and spent double its amount for dinner and the theatre in New York. We have been doing that kind of thing ever since. A few months later a letter was received from the editor of Boys' Life announcing the acceptance of a football story, "For the Team." T h e rate of payment was one-half cent a word, fourteen dollars and sixty-five cents in all. T h e editor, Walter P. McGuire, invited me to have lunch with him in New York. I went, my young heart singing. We ate in a Turkish restaurant on Twenty-third Street. Mr. McGuire, who later became editor of The A merican Boy and wrote me the most beautiful letter I have ever received when our younger son, Terrill, died, pointed out some established writers and introduced me to two or three whose names are now forgotten. Finally, he pushed back his chair and sketched the path I was to follow in creative writing for the next twenty years. He said that only a few college trained men were writing stories for boys and that the field was wide open to an author who was willing to consider the good he could do more important than the money he could make. "Your readers will be youngsters of the most impressionable age," he continued. "The stories they read are very real to them. You can teach them to play the game, not by sermonizing but simply by telling stories of boy heroes who did the square thing. For they themselves become the main character in each yarn, and when the boy hero faces temptation and overcomes it, or is afraid and proves himself courageous,

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then the reader, facing a similar situation, remembers that Jim Smith or Budd Todd did not cheat, and does the right thing himself." He mentioned the ministry. "You could be a minister and reach a few hundred people," he said, "but as an author of juveniles, you could reach hundreds of thousands of boys. Most of them live in small towns and on farms; they do not have a great many outside interests, and reading plays a large part in their lives. If you can provide them with the right kind of reading matter, you may play a big part in the development of their character. T o only one man in thousands comes an opportunity sufch as this. It is yours for the taking." That was twenty-five years ago. The motion picture industry was new, and there was no radio. I visioned farm boys in overalls reading in warm kitchens on winter nights, and small town boys whistling on the way to the library for books. At twenty-five, my own youth was not far distant; I remembered The Halfback and For the Honor of the School, by Ralph Henry Barbour, and what they had meant to me. I know now that what Walter McGuire said was true. Other writers must know it, too, for some of our best authors of adult stories are also writing stories and books for boys. Perhaps there is a financial consideration, for each juvenile book is like a bond, paying dividends through royalties over a succession of years; perhaps they never think of their writing as teaching, but the fact remains that they are among the great educators of America. Mr. McGuire made only casual mention of financial dividends. He said frankly: "Probably you won't make so much money as you would in the adult field, but you'll do a bigger service. I'd like to see you try." We shook hands, and for the next two decades, I was an author, not distinguished but well meaning, of stories and books for youth.

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Boys' Life bought a second story, and in the summer of 1916 I wrote a ten-part serial, "Dick Arnold of Raritan College," and sent it to Forward, a young people's magazine published by the Presbyterian Board in Philadelphia. While its fate was being decided, Eda and I were married, and when we returned from our wedding trip a check for one hundred dollars awaited us. That was big money in those days, as it is now to most of us, and we cherished visions of grandeur. Another ten-part story was written about Dick Arnold and sold to Forward. The first serial took Dick through football season, the second continued his adventures in baseball and track. It occurred to us, although we knew nothing about the publishing field, that here was the nucleus for a book, so I wrote a connecting chapter and sent the carbon copy of the book to D. Appleton and Company of New York. Much to our joy and somewhat to our surprise, for we knew it was not a literary masterpiece, it was accepted for publication. Eda and I took a train to Newark and invested in a chow mein dinner in a Chinese restaurant. That was the first of twenty-seven books, five for girls and twenty-one for boys. All except six were published by Appleton; the others constituted the "Yank Brown" series of which Barse and Hopkins was the publisher. This series was written on order on an outright purchase basis. The price was two hundred dollars a volume and they were produced during spare time over a period of five months. Yank Brown was a super-athlete, a halfback, forward, cross country runner, miler and pitcher. In the last volume he was an honor man but we ran out of words descriptive of his classroom adventures and, later, were requested to produce two additional chapters for which the publisher paid twenty dollars. The books broke no sales records but I understand that they may still be purchased in one volume, The Yank Brown

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Anthology. They were written under the name of David Stone, an arrangement which Appleton insisted upon because of the danger of glutting the market with the books of one author. With Yank Brown out of the way, I again turned to short stories and serials, pounding out on an Oliver typewriter which is now thirty years old and still in working order, a voluminous amount of copy. Saturday and Sunday mornings were devoted to writing, and over a period of two or three years I produced regularly four chapters of a book or four short stories each week-end. Some were sold to the "slick" juveniles: Boys' Life,

The

American Boy, The Youth's Companion, St. Nicholas, The American Girl and Open Road for Boys. But the majority were slanted for the Sunday School magazines, denominational papers distributed to all school attendants. The payments ranged from ten to twenty dollars a story, depending upon the wealth of the denominations publishing the papers. But some fifteen or twenty years ago, through the fertile mind of Alfred D. Moore, now editor of Classmate, a syndicate of denominational magazines was established. T h e central office was in Cincinnati, where manuscripts were submitted. If accepted, they were put in type and illustrated, and sent to other magazines for purchase at a pro rata charge depending upon their circulation. The syndicate was a happy development for writers of juvenile fiction, for the rates were higher than individual papers could afford to pay, from twenty-five to fifty dollars per story. We doffed our hats to Alfred Moore and enjoyed a period of prosperity. Writing became a routine. In the good days of the 1920's, the syndicate used two pages of reviews of boys' and girls' books, "In the Book Corner with Earl Reed Silvers," for which it paid fifty dollars a month. Ropeco Magazine, a trade

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publication of the Rogers Peet Company, used one page of "With the Preparatory Schools," five hundred words, at a flat rate of twenty-five dollars a month. Both features were discontinued when the depression came, and we used the old car for another year. T h e method of producing books became standardized. A juvenile consists of from twenty to twenty-five chapters of approximately three thousand words a chapter. We would devise a set of characters either of high school or college age and work out a plot. Then we would place the time of the story in September and write either two ten-chapter or three eight-chapter serials, continuing the action through the year. We would sell the serials either to the syndicate or to the independent group, the Cook Publishing Company of Elgin, Illinois, and after they were published would write the connecting link or links and submit the carbon to the book publisher. T h e royalties were what we called "gravy." We would receive ten per cent of the list price—twenty cents for each copy of a two dollar book—but in my case the royalties were never very high. Approximately one thousand dollars was the top for a year; the last semi-annual royalty check amounted to twelve dollars and sixty cents. Incidentally, I have written boys' stories for as little as three dollars a story; the top payment in juvenile writing was three hundred dollars for a two-part story in Boys' Life. We might have kept on indefinitely in the juvenile writing field, but the work at college became more exacting and the responsibilities heavier. I had not forgotten my promise to Walter McGuire but down on the campus were hundreds of boys, each with his problems, each with his hopes, offering a challenging opportunity for service; and ten years ago I wrote my last juvenile book. And what a title—For the Glory of Glenwood. Perhaps it was well that I stopped.

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W e did, of course, make money—much more than we expected—but there was a deeper satisfaction in the thousands of letters received from boys and girls and, strangely, from elderly ladies, in all parts of the world. Boys wrote with courage that they had cheated in tests and were sorry, that they had played "dirty" in games, that they had not been fair. They asked if such-and-such a story was true, if Dick Arnold or "Plug" Kelley was a real boy. Once I was umpire of a baseball game a thousand miles away. His team was playing another team in his back yard, a youngster explained, and they had agreed that a ball knocked over the fence would go as a two-bagger. A member of his team had knocked the ball over the fence but a fielder on the other team had retrieved it in time to retire the batter at second. One team declared the runner safe, the other out. They had decided finally to leave it to me. Would I please make the decision. I wrote that the batter was safe because ground rules should always be observed, and they replied with courteous acknowledgment. Another time a high school principal telephoned me at college. One of his potentially best boys had been arrogant to a teacher, he said, and had refused to apologize. The boy would be expelled from school unless he did so, and would I mind talking with him. I went out to the school and talked with the boy, who was at first unresponsive. "What do you think Dick Arnold would do?" I asked. He looked up and grinned wryly. " I guess I gotta apologize," he said. Later, he went to college and is now a school teacher himself. My own two youngsters were probably the most enthusiastic of all my readers. Sam, who was later to graduate from college with high honors in English and Phi Beta Kappa, gave no indication of such an achievement as a small boy, confining his reading exclusively to Sears, Roebuck catalogues and

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his father's books. H e became an authority on the prices of many commodities, especially in the hardware line, and a proof reader par excellence. So familiar was he with even the minor characters in the books that he discovered at least a score of inconsistencies which had escaped the attention of both author and editor. "Dad," he would say, "on page six the tackle on the Hillsdale team is Bill Perkins, but on page eighty-five you call him Jim." H e read each book a half-dozen times or more, and after Fliv had perused them two or three times, they were very much the worse for wear. Many of the volumes which we once regarded with pride and tenderness have been lost or fallen apart, and those which we still have are torn and faded, with youth's finger-marks on their rumpled pages. With the general public, the college stories were most effective. There is in the "writing file" at my office a letter from Olive G , a sophomore at Defiance College, Ohio, which reads in part: My brother and I have read your stories for several years, and we like them very much because they are so clean and fine. I chose Barry Goes to College as my Christmas book, and it is my biggest favorite. But this is what I really wanted to tell you. In all sincerity, I can say that your stories have been one of the greatest helps in putting me through college. They gave me a clear idea of what it means to be the right kind of college girl, and I am still trying to be that kind. . . . Sometimes things go wrong here, but my motto is "Keep plugging." When I am offered a job washing walls, windows or the clothes of some of the dorm's "ladies," I gladly accept, for "I'm working my way through college. . . ." Tomorrow is Washington's and your birthday. Great men are usually praised most after death, but I thought you would like to know what a help you have been to your young friends.

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So please keep on writing and putting the right values on things so that we may choose rightly and get the best out of life. I do not think that George Washington would have been especially flattered, but I shall always be grateful to Olive G and to other young men and women who have written letters in similar vein. I shall be grateful, too, to the Alex K's of the world. His first letter explained that he was in the throes of writing a book, and when I suggested that possibly he should try a short story first, he answered as follows: Maybe it is hard for a boy to write books so I took your advice and am now writing short stories. The titles are: "The Adventures of Tommy Baxter," "Tommy Goes to Greenland," "Chief Loud Thunder," "Tommy Baxter and His Fleet Wings" and many others. Please, Mr. Silvers, I know you could help me publish them. Please send me a couple addresses of publishers who you think would accept them. We'll split the profits. Here's part of "The Adventures of Tommy Baxter": "Farmville was a town out west where the teachers were in school and the boys out hunting or in the swimming pond. It was not a big town but to tell the truth it had some modern touches. It consisted of some 448 farmers, 1200 horses and 18 automobiles." Well, how do you like it. Please send me your answer and tell me if you would like to have my picture. Yours for success, Alex K My reply was that I enjoyed the story immensely and would appreciate Alex's picture, and the correspondence continued: My dear friend Silvers, I am very glad to know that you are interested in my work. When my first story is finished I will send it to you for criticism. If you think the story is g-o-o-d you will send it to the

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Pictorial Review magazine (I will furnish the address), where I am working for a prize of $2,500 for a story of 2,500 words. I am sending you my picture taken in the 7th grade in the Parochial School of St. Peters and Pauls. I would like to have your picture also. I T H I N K T H E N O U R FRIENDSHIP W O U L D BE C O M P L E T E . Your friend for success, Alex K T h e announcement of the prize winners in the Pictorial Review contest did not contain Alex's name, nor did A l e x write me again. B u t he has my picture and I have his, and I am wondering if Farmville still has 1200 horses and 18 automobiles. D u r i n g the years of juvenile writing, many contacts were made which have meant much to both Eda and me. A l f r e d D. Moore of the Methodist Board and Park Hays Miller of the Presbyterian Board have both visited our home, and we have made friends with other editors, many of w h o m still write us, although they have left the editorial field. I have always found them cooperative, courteous and considerate. In the spring of 1924, the headmaster of M e n l o School at M e n l o Park, California, invited us to spend several weeks as the guests of his school and camp, Menlo, in the H i g h Sierras, with the thought that we might write a book or books about them after our return. So we went to California, w i t h my personal expenses guaranteed, and took Sam and Fliv along. T h e y were six and three respectively, and their chief interests in life were chewing g u m and crayons, b u t somehow we survived the journey. W e enjoyed the visit immensely and, returning, were committed to write a book about the school. B u t months passed and we had not even begun it when, early in June, we received an unexpected letter from the headmaster stating that he was coming East in a couple of weeks and w o u l d appreciate reading the manuscript.

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T h e r e was consternation in the Silvers domain. T h e family held a conference and decided that something had to be done about it. " T h e only thing to do," the practical Eda said, "is to write the book." I went upstairs reluctantly and started writing. T h r o u g h the hottest spell of the summer, with perspiration pouring from a wrinkled brow, I wrote. I took the hero from a golf club in New Jersey to the balmy atmosphere of California and wished him in a hotter place. For a time he had a hard row to hoe but he hoed it and, eventually winning a golf match for the school, emerged in triumph. As did his creator, for the manuscript was waiting when the headmaster arrived. H e read the sixty thousand words which had been written in two weeks and liked them. T h e book was published under the title The Spirit of Menlo, and later issued in special trade edition as approved reading for secondary schools. T w o years later, when our publisher suggested that we write a book about a camp for girls, we spent the summer as guests of Highland Nature Camp, at Naples, Maine. It was there that Eda learned to swim all over again and became a R e d Cross examiner, where we met counsellors who are now among our closest friends, and where Fliv won the best allround camper medal for five successive years. For, after we had written Carol of Highland Camp and Carol of Cranford High, we returned to H . N . C . for the nine ensuing summers, leaving, finally, for the Island on the same Sebago Lake because we wanted to be alone and try adult fiction. I remember that one summer, when Eda and I were on a mountain trip, a big swimming meet was scheduled at camp. Fliv had hoped to break camp records in both the freestyle and backstroke events and, lying on the hard ground on the last night of the trip, sleepless and ill at ease, I wondered if

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she had done so. She was captain of her team, and its best swimmer. When we returned, she met us at the gate, and I asked eagerly, "How did you make out?" "The team won," she answered. She did not say she had broken both records. She said, " T h e team won." A long time later, I wrote a story called "Teamwork." It was published in The Torchbearer. About Fliv. Memories of those years are fading now. We had devoted two decades to the writing of juvenile fiction, and while the financial returns permitted us to do things and have things which would not have been possible otherwise, we believe that other and deeper satisfactions were derived from the experience. We learned to tell a story in simple and understandable words, to make our characters natural, to write honestly, for no one is more susceptible to insincerity than the average boy, and to have each story say something and mean something to the reader. We found that in writing for boys and girls we assumed a responsibility which we have tried to meet in full measure. We learned to appreciate the problems of youth, and to have sympathy and tolerance. In rare moments, we touched the heart of a responsive boy, and there has been no greater satisfaction through all the years than that.

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of juvenile writing, we ventured occasionally into the adult field. Sometime in the early twenties I sent a story to Top Notch Magazine which the editor thought might be acceptable if proper revision were made. But the revised copy did not appeal to him and was rejected, whereupon, being young and foolish, I suggested that it was barely possible he did not recognize a good story when he saw one. Unappreciative of the advice, he ushered me firmly from his office, and subsequent attempts to renew personal contact with him were futile. It was thus that I learned a basic truth which every author should recognize: The editor is always right. URING THE YEARS

Records which are available show that two stories were sold to Sport Story for and $125 respectively; poems to Top Notch (with a new editor) and The New York Times, and articles to The Literary Digest and The New Republic. For a period of a few months, sometime before 1920, I wrote a dozen or more love stories for T h e McClure Newspaper Syndicate for three dollars a story. T h e y were fun and good practice, and each took less than an hour to write. Youngs Magazine bought "Birds of a Feather" which had been written in college and resurrected, and some verses were sold anonymously to Breezy Stories. Eda said, when I showed her the first check received from that source after our marriage, "Let's always write under our own name, Reed, and have that name 24

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stand for something." There have been no more checks from Breezy Stories. A n article, "Working Their Way Through College," with accompanying pictures for which a professional photographer charged twenty-five dollars, was sold to Grit for three dollars less than that amount, the only time I have actually lost money by writing. But all these ventures were spasmodic forays into an unfamiliar field and it was not until a long time later that an idea we had cherished for many years began to crystallize. One Sunday evening when we were alone in the living room, Eda laid aside her magazine. "I have just read a lovely story," she said. "I think you could write one like that." " T h e r e isn't time," I answered. But we could make time, she argued. Perhaps I could get a leave of absence from college; perhaps we could go away and write. She mentioned Maine and Florida, and steep hillsides and white sand. T h e idea was intriguing. W e had long wondered if I could write stories good enough to be accepted by the big magazines but we had never had the leisure to find out. W e had dreamed about it—what writer hasn't?—but had been content to drift along. Eda thought we should try. She knew about the Olive G's of the world and the small boys who wrote me about baseball games and their school problems. She knew about the young men at college who groped toward the light and needed guidance. She knew my faith in youth. She said: "You can write stories of young love and keep them clean. There are more readers of the big magazines. You can still help young people." "I'd like to try," I said. But the dream's fulfillment was still more than a year away.

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W e decided to leave Highland Nature and find a summer place of our own where we could be free to write. T h e kindly gods watched over us and found us Sunset Island. It was only a little island; an acre or so of rocky ground and some pine trees. T h e house where we lived and wrote was gray and weather-beaten, and there was a garage and a one-room guest cabin. A causeway connected us with the shore, and the sun porch faced the west. Evenings we saw high hills, bluegray against the sunsets. Fliv was with us; Earl was a swimming counsellor at Camp Sokokis a few miles away. As usual, we were short of funds, and so I spent the first month writing enough juveniles to cover the summer expenses. In August, I wrote two adult stories, one " p u l p " and one "slick." Why we tried the pulp we do not remember; just to see if it could be done, I think. It was called " A Thousand Dollars a Point" and was a college basketball story of six thousand words. Leo Margolius, editor of Thrilling Sports Stories, to whom it was sent, said that it lacked sufficient action. It was not submitted to any other magazine, and now lies buried deeply in the graveyard of forgotten "pulps." T h e "slick" was "If in Years to Come." Eda liked it and Fliv said it made her cry. A year later, a literary agent told me that if an author can write a story which makes a woman cry, the story has a ninety per cent chance of acceptance. Sam read it, also, and was dubious of the ending. And so, curiously, was "Flash" Miers. Flash's full name is Earl Schenck Miers, and he is a fine author in his own right. His first book, Backfield Feud, which he generously dedicated to me, was published by AppletonCentury. His Career Coach, published by Westminster Press, has gone into second printing, and his novel Big Ben, based upon the life of Paul Robeson, a Rutgers alumnus, has been widely acclaimed as a work of distinction and lasting value.

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Flash is one of my assistants at college; associate editor of university publications and manager of the Rutgers University Press. Sometimes, when the pressure of college work is not too strong, we smoke our pipes together and tell of the stories we might write if we had the time. We look back to a September day in 1929 when a hard-boiled college professor suggested to an ardent but not too rugged freshman that he stay out of the class tug-of-war. The freshman indignantly refused but the next day he dropped in at the professor's office for a talk, and that was the beginning of a friendship which has grown stronger with the years. We decided, during that first talk together, that Flash should be an author. He had the urge and the talent and the willingness to work, and in his sophomore year at college he sold his first story. He has written for the syndicate, for the Cook Publishing Company and for Boys' Life. He has become, too, an authority on book design and on printing. His book, Composing Sticks and Mortar Boards, was listed among " T h e Fifty Books of the Year," and he is the co-editor with Richard Ellis, of Bookmaking and Kindred Amenities, outstanding in its field. He said, when he had read "If in Years to Come": " I think that the first twenty-seven pages are delightful but the story falls to pieces in the end." It was the first of many criticisms Flash has offered of my work, and one of the few times he has not hit the nail on the head. As a rule, he picks a story apart accurately, skillfully and with relentless honesty. If both he and Eda approve of a manuscript, the chances are all in favor of its selling; if they turn thumbs down, I might just as well throw it in the waste basket. I am mentioning Flash here and shall mention him on other occasions because I think that an author is doubly fortunate if he can count another author among his friends. There is inspiration and value in frequent talks about writ-

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ing, in the exchange of experiences, in the sharing of good fortune and bad. Flash and I have fought many a hard fight together, and I like to think that we are better writers, and perhaps better men, because of our mutual love of clean writing and all that it stands for. But he was wrong in the case of "If in Years to Come," for the story was sent to my literary agent in New York, and in October was accepted by Good Housekeeping. I remember clearly the day the letter of acceptance came. My first impulse was to telephone Eda so that we might celebrate in fitting manner but I decided to leave the office early and break the news in person. My return home, however, was anti-climactic. Eda, like most women I know, is a goer-outer. When I dashed breathlessly into the house, she was playing bridge elsewhere with some of the "girls." But the next day we celebrated with a lobster dinner at the Brielle Inn on the Jersey shore. Toward the end of the evening, Eda laid aside her lobster fork. "Now we'll have to take our year off," she said. But another nine months passed before the dream became reality. T h e college schedule was full and there was no time for writing. T h e young men who shared responsibilities with me in the Department of Alumni and Public Relations knew something of my aspirations and maintained that they would be able to carry on if I could arrange a leave. They practically bullied me into asking the trustees of the University for a year's leave of absence. This request was granted, and the latter part of J u n e found us established on the Island. Among our possessions were a motorboat and a rowboat, a portable typewriter, enough copy paper to supply an army, and a sizable debt which did not worry us at all. We rigged up a curtain which shut off one corner of the sun porch, and into this corner I was chased each morning for a

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session with the portable. When we opened the windows, a breeze from the lake swept the papers off a rickety card table which served as a desk and distributed them under the couch and other places difficult of access; when we closed the windows, it was too hot. At about eleven each day, Eda and Fliv appeared in bathing suits and plunged into the clear waters of Sebago. "You mustn't let us disturb you," they said. Sometimes a dozen or more youngsters from boys' camps would paddle happily by in green canoes, and a half mile away the white sails of skiffs from a famous girls' camp would gleam in the sunshine. Fat men with wide-brimmed straw hats fished endlessly. It was an ideal spot—for everything but writing. Still, I wrote, not daring to emerge from the sun porch until the noon hour rolled around, and after a time I learned to ignore the temptation of the blue sky and the bluer water and concentrate on the task at hand. Different authors, of course, have different methods of writing. There are no set rules. David Garth, whose first serial, "Four Men and a Prayer," appeared in Cosmopolitan, wrote in pencil on a large board which he carried around from chair to chair and from room to room. I have known him to write fifteen hours at a stretch and far into the night. A few years ago, when he was just beginning his career, he spent a couple of weeks at Camp Sokokis, Bridgton, Maine, where I was associate director. He was then doing both long and short stories for Sport Story Magazine, and I have seen him bent over a table at eleven at night writing wearily beneath the light of a kerosene lamp. Dave would work intensively over a period of weeks, then, his job done, go off to Bermuda or the West Indies and forget that such a thing as a popular magazine ever existed. I know personally the writing methods of only three other authors. Herbert Dalmas, whose stories have appeared in The

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a certain number of hours each day for writing, but he worked under a disadvantage. T h e first story he sold was a humorous yarn; editors liked it and insisted that he confine himself to funny stories. So he tried to write that type, even when there was no humor in his heart, and the manuscripts thus manufactured were not consistently successful. Later, he went to Hollywood and wrote movie serials, but here again his talents were limited by his material. Finally, he broke away from the serials and let himself go, writing the kind of copy he had long wanted to write. He was almost immediately successful and is now a highly paid script writer for the motion picture industry. Philip Van Doren Stern, author of The Man Who Killed Lincoln and The Drums of Morning, among other books, writes meticulously and slowly. Sometimes, he shuts himself in a small outbuilding on his farm near Readington, New Jersey, and labors for hours on the production of a few hundred words of copy. He composes on a typewriter, triplespaced, and revises his material time and again. Before writing The Drums of Morning, he travelled seven thousand miles, covering every foot of the actual ground where the events of his novel were to take place. Flash Miers composes entirely on typewriter. When he is engaged on a book or serial, he will work from seven to eleven each night, and sometimes will arise at six in the morning for an extra hour of writing. He completed Big Ben in approximately three months, carrying on his tasks at college at the same time. My own method is to work mornings, usually about three hours at a sitting. I have always found it hard to get started, as have most other writers, and welcome any excuse to postpone the beginning of actual work. I compose on a typewriter, always using a carbon, and write from three to six pages a day,

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which means from nine hundred to eighteen hundred words. Sometimes a story just writes itself; at other times, the words simply will not come. When completed, "College Dances Are N o Different" was a story of twenty pages, but the rejected sheets numbered forty-five. Some people think that it is an easy matter to write a short story; that an author simply sits down at his typewriter and pounds it out. Holders of this opinion should consult with Eda. She would tell them that while in the throes of composition, her husband is a very difficult person to live with, that when he finally completes his manuscript, he is tired, touchy, cranky and, until he gets a good night's sleep, entirely different from the pleasant young men he writes about. That, however, is not always the case. It was not so with "Postscript at Midnight," the first story attempted during our second summer on the Island. For months I had intended to write a small town story, "I Shall Come Back to You," but early in July another story suddenly cried out to be written. It had as its background Deerfield Academy, where Sam had spent three of the happiest years of his life, was completed within a week and mailed to my literary agent. A few days later we received a letter approving the story and suggesting a change in the ending, which I am convinced materially strengthened it. Sometime in August, word reached us that the manuscript had been accepted by Good Housekeeping. W e were happier about it, I think, than we were about the acceptance of "If in Years to Come," for the latter had been just an experiment, the former was a part of a long conceived plan. W e needed encouragement at the start of this big year; we needed assurance that I was not a "one story man." Every author who has sold his first story to a magazine has a deep rooted fear, I think, that perhaps he has shot his bolt and can never again equal his initial effort. In many cases the

32 THE EDITOR ACCEPTS fear has proved well founded, and some promising writers have not been able to repeat. When word arrived of the acceptance of "Postscript at Midnight," this fear was banished from my mind. We stopped work the morning the letter came and decided to celebrate at Old Orchard. Fliv's roommate was our guest at the time, and the four of us drove out to the coast for an ocean swim. After thirty seconds in the freezing surf, I retreated precipitately, wondering, as I still do, how Eda can be comfortably warm in water of sixty degrees and yet howl to the high heavens if the temperature of the house in winter is below seventy-eight. While the others swam, I stood on the hard beach, feeling more confident and happier than I had felt in many a moon. That August afternoon, with an unexpressed fear dissolved, marked one of the high spots in this fascinating adventure in fiction writing. Perhaps it is just as well that my head was in the clouds just then, for the next few weeks were not especially productive. "I Shall Come Back to You" was completed, rejected several times and sold eventually to The Woman's World. We struggled with "We'll Tread the Path," an old-fashioned story about the same town and some of the same people in "If in Years to Come" but, although my agent approved it and both Eda and Flash thought it was a good story, it never sold. We did not know then, as we do now, that the stories of even the best known authors are occasionally rejected, and that in the highly competitive field of magazine fiction a professional writer may consider himself doing well if he sells fifty per cent of his output. There are a few top authors who at the height of their popularity find markets for all their wares, but they are exceptions. Not so long ago, a magazine rejecting a story of mine, rejected in the same letter stories by

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Ben Ames Williams and Horatio Winslow. Some of our own disappointment was alleviated. Early in September, we drove back to Rahway to get Fliv ready for school and Sam for college. I had finished another story, "The Pure in Heart," and had conferred with my agent about it. It was written around church activities, with a scandal involved, and we knew we were on dangerous ground. But we decided to make some revisions and put it on the market, which was a mistake, for several magazines, although they liked it, were afraid of the reaction of church members. But we were learning all the time, and when we returned to the Island in mid-September, dropping Fliv off at school on the way to Maine, we faced a few weeks of productive writing and of pleasurable loneliness. I wrote without effort, "Nothing Ever Happens Here," a college story which is really three stories in one. Eda suggested a radical change, which I made with reluctance. Both versions of the story were sent to my agent, who agreed with Eda, and Good Housekeeping bought the manuscript within two weeks. We had time for one more story before leaving again for home in late October. The trees on all shores of the lake blazed with color, the wind roared and ice formed in shallow pools, but our little pot-bellied stove kept even Eda warm. The late summer residents packed their trunks and departed, and during our last nights on the Island our own light was the only light, except the stars, in a darkened world. But it was a perfect environment for writing. T h e rickety card table had been moved to one corner of the dining room where I pounded away each morning behind the curtain. What Eda did is still something of a mystery. She says she "puttered." In the afternoons we took long walks through the woods, talked with the "natives" at the village store, or paddled a borrowed canoe, since the outboard motor had failed us. In

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the evenings we watched the early sunsets and then retired to the cozy living room, with books and the radio and our thoughts to sustain us. In such environment, I wrote " T o a Brown-eyed Girl," finishing it the night before we packed our belongings and started home. When we were home again, we paused for the taking of stock. We had written six stories during the summer, four of which sold, and we had had a grand time. A l l work on the manuscripts had been done in the mornings, except in one instance. In a burst of inspiration I had written from eleven at night until four in the morning to finish "We'll Tread the Path," and had awakened Eda from a sound sleep to have her read it. I should have known better, but sometimes an author becomes overenthusiastic. I had written approximately three hours a day five days a week, and had rested a few days after each story. Sometimes when guests came, the writing suffered but, all in all, we had worked steadily. Our batting average was .666, which was good. If we had maintained it throughout the year we could have paid back the money we borrowed without borrowing from another source to pay it back. W e made friends, and Eda became a literary critic, a much better authority on short story writing than her husband. W e learned that an author, in order to do his best work, should be relieved of other responsibilities. He should have time to think and leisure to read. During our free year, we wrote most effectively on the Island and at a cottage at Centerville, Cape Cod, where we spent several weeks in the spring. Only one of the stories written at home in the interim proved successful. There were too many diversions of a social nature, and too many interesting developments at college, from which I did not have the good sense to stay away. From November through January I wrote two stories, neither of which are worth the reading. Sam and Fliv came

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home for the holidays, and we used their presence as an excuse for a period of unproductivity. When I did go upstairs to my room on the third floor I made the mistake of writing stories which had not been carefully thought out, which were basically unsound, and which lacked depth and sincerity. Moreover, they were too long, from six to eight thousand words, and Mr. William F. Bigelow, then editor of Good Housekeeping, suggested to my agent, " T e l l Mr. Silvers to put less words in his typewriter." There was no denying the fact that we were on the wrong track. I did not at that time know anything about the technique of short story writing, and I made the mistake of thinking in terms of quantity rather than quality production. I wrote stories which were not ready to be written, failed to construct them carefully and created characters which were not real people but only puppets. W e realized that something was wrong, although we did not know what, and decided to take a trip to Florida. W e should have stayed home and settled down to business, but we went South instead. W e argued (1) that we needed a rest, (2) that we would undergo experiences about which stories could be written in future years, and (3) that this would probably be our only chance to get to Florida, anyhow. So we started off one raw windy morning, and are glad now that we did, for even though we spent more than we could afford and have not as yet written a single story about Florida, we knew a succession of happy days. W e swam on the beach at Miami and saw the then dying city of Key West. W e talked with natives of Matacombe Key who had survived the hurricane of 1936 and sensed greater tragedy than we had ever known. W e caught a sailfish in the Gulf Stream and watched young people dancing at Sloppy Joe's. W e stopped in the heart of the Everglades and saw white birds flying. O n the way home we stood at twilight beneath the Natural Bridge

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in Virginia and heard the swelling sound of organ music, while an unseen organist played "The Rosary." But when we were home again, the writing still did not go well. I spent too much time at college, became interested in the beginnings of the Rutgers University Press and other campus developments, and Eda expressed concern. "We'll have to get away," she said. T w o friends suggested that we spend a few weeks at their summer home on Cape Cod. So we packed the car and on a clear spring afternoon arrived at the lovely white house where we were again to know quiet days and starlit nights. Regaining our balance, we wrote "Forever Yours," and had word a short time after its conclusion that it had been accepted by The American Magazine at higher payment than we had so far received. We tried for the first time a "light" love story, just a pleasant little thing which people read and forget, and sold it to Country Home. It marked the beginning of a pleasant association with this magazine under the editorship of Hubert Kelley, now managing editor of The American. The literary editor was Helen Ann Vaughan, with whom it was a delight to work. These editors accepted at least a half dozen of my stories before the magazine was discontinued about two years ago. I was in Miss Vaughan's office one day when she brought up the matter of short short stories, and I outlined a plot in which she seemed interested. It was suggested that I go ahead with the story but we never got around to it until on a Thursday morning Miss Vaughan telephoned and asked if I could send the manuscript to her office by Saturday. Eda chased me upstairs, the story was completed in two hours, copied that afternoon and mailed in the evening. Miss Vaughan 'phoned on Saturday that it had been accepted, and a check for two hundred dollars arrived in Monday's mail. That proved to be one of our happiest adventures in writing.

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We returned from the Cape in time for Commencement and before leaving for the summer in Maine, I had lunch with my agent and Max Wilkinson, literary editor of Collier's, to talk over a proposed football story. Arrayed in a new suit, bought hastily over Eda's protest, I joined them in a swanky restaurant near Radio City, the atmosphere of which was highly cultural. Urged to eat heartily, I ordered a substantial meal, and found to my embarrassment that the literati are apparently light eaters, for the editor confined himself to cornflakes and milk and the agent to a green salad and coffee. We talked shop. Mr. Wilkinson was younger than I and knew more about editing than I did about writing. He rejected two ideas for short shorts on the ground that they were based upon coincidence, and outlined some of Collier's fiction needs. He could use a winter sports story, he said, and might find a place for a love story with a summer hotel as the locale. Approving the plot of a football story I sketched roughly, he suggested that I send the manuscript to him before July fifteenth. My agent beamed happily and I ascended to the clouds. I have learned since that if an editor suggests a story or approves an outline, it does not mean that the finished product is certain to be sold. For, while the plot may be good, the characterization may be poor, the story's development illogical and the entire treatment unsatisfactory. In the field of writing, it is wise not to count our chickens before they are hatched and not to spend proceeds of an ordered story until the money is deposited in the bank. But, cherishing visions of my name in Collier's, I finished an expensive dessert with gusto and thanked Mr. Wilkinson for his courtesy. The agent paid the check. Once again on the Island, we wrote the football story, which was rejected as "too unsophisticated." Naturally we were dis-

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appointed but the creative urge had returned and we were eager to write stories and more stories. W e regretted the wasted weeks and the mistakes we had made, and wrote "One Vote for Harlow," a college story about a twenty-fifth class reunion. It was sold to Macleans Magazine, in Canada, opening possibilities of a new audience, but these were destined never to be cultivated, for before we finished another manuscript the summer ended. W e then faced an important decision—important, at least, to us. Should we resign from college and devote all our time to writing, or should we go back to Rutgers and carry on as we had done for the past quarter century? W e had made a fair start in the field of adult fiction and had just begun to learn something about short stories. A few editors had been generous enough to predict success if I would keep at it and we felt that we could make more money than at college. W e visioned winters in Florida and summers in Maine and wider recognition as a creative writer. W e wanted to try a book. W e were sorely tempted. But college had been home to me for a long, long time. I had made a thousand friends among Rutgers alumni, and had spent many happy years, and perhaps fruitful years, on the campus. College represented security and an opportunity of active service to youth. If we went back, we could still write an occasional story, both juvenile and adult. W e talked it over, Eda and I, remembering another talk we had had almost sixteen years ago when we had lost our younger son. He was Terrill Silvers—we called him "Brother" then—and Fliv's twin. When he had gone, we decided, two young parents knowing deep sorrow, that we would do whatever we could to keep his spirit alive, to make his brief span of life count for something. W e would try to be kind to people and love children always, and help boys and young men.

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T h e campus seemed to oiler the best opportunity for this, so we went back to college. Harold Ober became my literary agent but I have been a liability rather than an asset, for few stories have been written in the past three years. Only during Christmas and summer vacations has there been leisure for the careful building up of plots, for the development of proper characterization, for the weighing of words until the right words have been found. It is not my contention that a man cannot write and carry a full-time job at the same time, but I believe that if the job is too exacting, it takes so much out of him that he is mentally and physically exhausted at the end of the day and has lost the power of creative effort. So it was with us during the year following our leave of absence. T h e spark of creative writing glowed dully and only once burst into flame. A mother wrote me about her son who was away at school and homesick, and I remembered Sam at fourteen, when he had entered Deerfield Academy. We drove him to Old Deerfield and Eda, as mothers will, insisted upon unpacking his trunk and arranging his dormitory room. Other boys were around, old timers who did not have their parents with them, and Sam was embarrassed. "I can do these things myself," he protested. But his protests were in vain. He was too young then to bow graciously to the inevitable, and he waited in painful apprehension of being labeled a "sissy" in his new school while Eda completed her lengthy and self-imposed task. When finally the room was in order and it was time for us to leave, he walked with us across the campus, self-conscious and ill at ease. "There's a meeting at four o'clock," he announced, "and I gotta go."

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It was still twenty minutes to the hour, but when we reached our car, a shabby Dodge beside a gleaming Rolls Royce, he said again, "I gotta go," and hurried to the meeting place, not seeing the tears in his mother's eyes because he had neglected to kiss her good-bye. Recalling that first day at school, I wrote the story "If T h e y Are Strong Enough" which was published in The American. About Sam. During our next summer on the Island, although we were there only for a month, "College Dances Are N o Different" was written and sold. When the academic year began, I found that I was scheduled to teach a course in short story writing for the University Extension Division in Newark, and I recalled that in an unguarded moment I had made commitment to do so. T h e teaching proved to be an enlightening and valuable experience but it took so much time I was able to write only one story during the year. Sometime in June a letter arrived from The Reader's Digest, stating that "If in Years to Come" would appear in condensed form in the July issue of that magazine under the title "Do You Remember," and a few days later a half-dozen friends telephoned me that Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt had mentioned the story in her column "My Day." In October we were advised that Orson Welles had purchased the radio rights for broadcast over the national network of the Columbia System, and for the first time in many years some of my colleagues on the faculty regarded me with respect. Since then, I have written other stories as time permitted; an occasional juvenile, just three or four in the adult field. Now, Eda and I are again at the cottage on Cape Cod hoping to finish this book before another college term begins. T h e r e are many changes in the village since our first visit four years ago, but the wind still sweeps across the dunes, and last night we saw the silver crescent of a new moon.

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It is five years since this second phase, the adult phase, of OUT adventures in writing began. T h e financial returns have been larger than in the juvenile field, although by no means as large as most people think. The highest payment I have received for an adult story is twenty cents a word, the lowest, two and one-half cents. The average return has been more than fair, for the stories are not distinguished in any way, magazines do not try to outbid each other for them, and many manuscripts for which we had hopes have been rejected. The best that can be said for them is that they are written from the heart and that their author has tried to be honest and sincere. That their sincerity, at least, is appreciated is indicated by hundreds of letters received, mostly from mothers and fathers of children of college age, from young girls, and, strangely, from men. For the past two years I have carried on correspondence with an inmate of San Quentin Prison. When his last letter reached me, just a month ago, he was a cadet in the United States Air Corps. Sometimes high school and college students ask permission to reprint the stories in their school magazines. Young girls write with enthusiasm, asking for a picture, and lose interest when they learn I am a white-haired professor. Elderly women offer plots for sale, and young men have asked for money to enable them to finish their college course. A number of soldiers have written about stories in Good Housekeeping. I had not known that soldiers read women's magazines. After the short short, "One Man Miracle," appeared in Country Home, a woman accused me of plagiarism, maintaining the story had been copied from True Confessions, which I have never read. A church member in Florida suggested that kissing is wrong, that I should not permit a girl to kiss a boy in a story. One woman condemned me for racial prejudice because a minor character of radical tendencies in "Nothing Ever Happens Here" was named Abe Goldstein. A

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sophomore at the University of Hawaii sent the imprint of her rouged lips in a letter. Poor child, she had never seen me or my picture. A score or more agents offered their services, and several publishers requested book manuscripts. And numbers without end of amateur writers sent manuscripts for criticism, offering half profits if I would sell their stories, requesting letters of introduction to editors whom I did not know and who had never heard of me. Almost invariably, the manuscripts were not accompanied by return postage. But I tried to answer them and to give fair criticism, remembering my own younger days when an author was a semi-god. Usually, when I told the budding authors that their stories were not salable, they wrote back in varying degrees of resentment. Once in a great while, someone expressed appreciation. But it is all part of the game, as is the general impression that authors live a life of ease and make a great deal of money. Some do, to be sure, but most do not. Harold Ober has told me that in a very few cases short stories have been sold for $5,000 and one author has received $6,000. Some few authors who have built up followings and whose names are household words receive $2,500 to $3,000 a story, but the great majority receive no such amounts. Well known writers may be paid as much as $1,000 or $1,200; beginners or authors of occasional stories do well if they are paid $400 or $500; for an established author $750 is a good price. So, most of us are not rich, nor do we, as some people imagine, have beards or wear flowing ties. We are just every-day people, and a few of us are endowed with a sense of humor, and even placidity. During my long years of authorship, such as they were, I have learned something of the fundamental rules of story

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writing, something about editors and agents, and about people who read magazines. These matters will be discussed in the following chapters, for we are concerned here chiefly with our adventures in the writing field. I have dwelt at some length upon my own background, because I feel that an author's family, associations and friends, and his philosophy of life, have a direct influence upon the stories and books he produces. There are many authors who write objectively, to whom writing is exclusively a business, who have the ability to divorce themselves from their work and "blueprint" their stories as they would the design of an engine. But the majority of authors, I think, write subjectively, and their stories are reflections of themselves, mirrors of their experiences and their thoughts. It is for this reason I have mentioned my mother and my Aunt Emma and have made frequent reference to the three persons who constitute our family unit—Eda, Sam and Fliv. They have had a profound influence both upon my life and my writings and have moulded in large degree my character as a man and as an author. I am hoping that in the years to come they will share with me still further adventures in writing.

II

Adventures in Teaching

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was listed as English 75,76, Short Story Writing in the catalogue of University College of Rutgers University, as queer a name as anyone could devise but guaranteed by the Dean to be technically correct. It was given at Newark in the gray stone building of the College of Pharmacy, another division of the University, and offered three credit hours per semester. It was described as "a practical course in the writing of the short story; its plot, structure and development; a study of markets and a critical analysis of current fiction," and was scheduled to be held from 6:15 to 7:40 on Monday and Thursday evenings. But we seldom began until 6:30, due chiefly to the fact that approximately fifty per cent of the class did not arrive until that time—nor did the instructor. T h e fee was $24.00 a term and some of the class paid it on the installment plan. HE COURSE

There were twenty-seven students at the beginning; seven less at the end of the year. One boy was inducted into the army, one girl married, three pupils were unable to continue because of the pressure of business, and two others, like the Arabs, folded their tents and silently stole away. T h e students ranged in age from nineteen to forty-two and included housewives, stenographers, insurance agents, clerks, office managers, a personnel manager, an English teacher, an advertising executive, a supervising principal, a bank exam47

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iner, a painter and decorator, a glazer, a chemist, a production tabulator, and a farmer-mechanic. All were high school graduates and seven had received their bachelor degrees. They worked during the day, even the housewives, and some of them were very tired when night came. A half-dozen members entered the class because they needed credits for graduation from University College, and the course looked easy. The others elected it because they were honestly interested in writing, and some cherished dreams of seeing their names in bold letters on the covers of magazines. The class was as fine a group of men and women as ever an instructor was privileged to teach. They looked with tolerance upon my deficiencies, and even laughed at my jokes. They did not know when the first session began that they were facing an inexperienced teacher. I had taught, long years ago, at Miss Anable's School Tor Girls, and for a time after college had been teacher of a Sunday School class, where we interpreted Biblical lessons in terms of football. In 1932-1933, in order to justify the title of professor, I had given a senior course in creative writing at Rutgers, but that was all. So we started from scratch in this class at Newark, knowing very little of the technique of short story writing but hoping to learn what made stories click and how we could write them successfully. I believe that in order to teach effectively, an instructor should know his students, their backgrounds, their hopes and ambitions, and their objectives. I believe that students should know their instructor; what he stands for, his philosophy of life, and his ideals. For the first few sessions, therefore, we tried to get to know one another. I told them about myself, wanting them to believe in my desire to help them; and by means of a questionnaire, they told me about themselves. I found that the large majority had long had the urge to

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write. T h e y wanted to express their thoughts in written form, if possible through the medium of fiction. Many of them had been encouraged by teachers and friends, and they wanted to know whether or not they could become authors. In order to find out, they were willing to attend class at night after a hard day's work; some of them drove as far as two hundred miles a week, and others came directly from business by train or bus, without time for supper. A teacher simply had to keep faith with a class like that. One of the first assignments was the writing of a short story of not more than twelve hundred words. After these had been submitted, each student read aloud his own story and the class made critical analysis. W e knew then that we had a long way to go toward successful authorship, but the stories were of value in disclosing some of the pitfalls in the path of the beginning writer. W e learned that he is inclined to write about things with which he is not familiar. T h e farmer wrote a story of city life, an insurance man selected Alaska as the background of his tale, and a brown-eyed girl just out of high school did a triangle story of marriage. W e decided that in our next effort, we would stay closer to home. W e learned that the beginner overwrites; that he includes in his story matters entirely foreign to the plot, introduces too many characters and wanders away from the main theme. W e found, too, that the majority of the class could not write dialogue. T h e characters spoke unnaturally and said the wrong thing at the wrong time. T h e dialogue did not quicken the action or contribute to the development of the plot. From these findings we arrived at certain definite conclusions in connection with the craft, or profession, or whatever you may call it, of short story writing. W e agreed that in order to be a successful writer of fiction:

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A person must be a natural story teller; He must have the gift of apt expression; He must have an understanding of human nature; and He must master the technique of the short story.

T h e instructor knew, after those first assignments had been handed in, that the names of most of the members of the class would never be found on the pages of magazines of national circulation. Any number of people can write on a fairly high level, can express themselves clearly and learn the basic rules of writing, but unless they have a certain "touch," their manuscripts will not find their way into print. In this class of ours, the "touch" was discernible in no more than five or six. And they could reach the heights only by hard work and patience, and the taking of infinite pains. But there was still the opportunity for the others to train themselves to write well enough to have their efforts accepted by the juvenile magazines, by religious papers and trade publications. So we proceeded in the study of the short story. We also found that, roughly speaking, stories may be grouped into three classes: (l) the juveniles, (2) the pulps, and (3) the slicks. We studied the juvenile field. Flash Miers drove down from college and lectured on " T h e Formula for the Juvenile Story," which will be discussed in a later chapter. That was the night before my mother died, a few hours after I had read to her the Twenty-third Psalm—"He leadeth me beside the still waters." Most of the class was not particularly interested in juveniles but Jimmie Graves proved to be an exception. Jimmie was one of our most promising students. He took the course, as he explained in his questionnaire, "because I want to find out whether or not I'm fooling myself when I think I can do something in the writing field. I am curious to see just what you and a group of students similarly interested in writing have

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to offer me for my time and my twenty-four dollars. I want to write and I can't." But J i m m i e had the right idea. H e said, after we had studied juveniles: " I ' m wondering, sir, if it would be wise for me to try to make a start in the young people's papers. I know I'm not u p to adult stories yet, and I've been thinking of your own experiences and Mr. Miers'. If I stuck to juveniles, it would give me training and experience and perhaps lead u p to something else." I agreed with Jimmie, mentioning T . S. Stribling, Pulitzer prize winner, Zane Grey and Clarence Budington Kelland, all of whom began as juvenile writers. So, J i m m i e wrote a girl and boy story, and even though it was rejected, I am confident that with a little more training, he could have been a selling author. T h r e e other members of the class followed his example. Elizabeth Casey, teacher of English at Jamestown High School, who was with us only for the first term, wrote a delightful girls' story which barely failed of acceptance; and Dick Scheer, who holds an engineering degree from Michigan and a bachelor of business administration degree from Rutgers, did a football yarn which was twice revised and failed of acceptance only because Dick is not a natural story teller. Sam Rogers, chemist, wrote a boating story which was technically correct and interesting; Boys' World asked him to revise it but the revision was not successful. Sam was the only member of the class to sell any manuscripts; one long article and two short articles to Forward. When last I heard from him, he was with the American Field Service as an ambulance driver in East Africa. I think that it would have been beneficial to other members of the class if they had attempted juvenile stories, for in my opinion no other field of writing offers as great an opportunity for beginners.

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We studied tKe pulp story. Jack Birss, then instructor in English at Rutgers and a former pulp editor, told us how and why pulp magazines are published. Their readers, we learned, are persons in ordinary walks of life, in average financial circumstances and unimaginative rather than unintelligent. They have preferences for certain types of stories which only the pulps can give them to the exclusion of other types. A man who enjoys Western tales may find one in a slick magazine, but in Ranch Romances, for instance, he will find nothing else. And so the pulps have become specialized, each catering to a specific group of readers, giving them what they want in the way of adventure, romance, detective, aviation, Western, sport and war stories. Each type of story in the pulp field has its formula and an author failing to conform to it simply does not sell. A love story, for example, is simply a glorified Cinderella yarn; a stenographer in an office is in love with the boss's son but considers him far beyond her reach. Then, drifting in one morning, he notices how pretty she is, something happens which discloses to him her sterling worth, and he realizes how superior she is to Nancy Van Astorbilt with whom he has been contemplating marriage. As a rule, the standard of writing in pulp stories is lower than that in the slicks. The rate of payment is lower, also, ranging from one-half cent to three cents a word. The pulps, some of which are published weekly, use a vast amount of material, and the authors who write for them have not the time to polish their offerings. What the editors demand is quick action and good plots based upon the formulae. Characterization, setting and description are minor matters. Some members of the class were inclined to belittle the pulps and to dismiss them with a gesture. Yet, they offer relaxation and entertainment to millions of persons and are as much a part of our American way of life as are hot dogs and

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ice cream sodas. Some of our best known smooth-paper writers have graduated from the pulps, Erie Stanley Gardner and Leonard Nason among them, and they offer a stepping stone to the beginning writer which may lead eventually to wider recognition. Having considered the juveniles and the pulps, we turned to the slicks. W e read " T h e Killers" by Ernest Hemingway and "Haircut" by Ring Lardner, and considered them masterpieces of craftsmanship. W e read a few selected stories from current magazines, and finally two manuscripts which the instructor had recently completed. T h e first of these was a story of Greenwich Village. I had spent an evening in the Village the preceding spring, was impressed, and had written a story about it. It was a mistake, of course, for I was woefully ignorant of the environment. When the manuscript was submitted to Harold Ober, he wrote that he would try to place it but suggested that in the future I confine myself to college or small town stories. When it was read to the class, they were not especially attentive but later, when the second story, with college setting, was presented to them, their interest was obvious. T h e college story was sold while we were still discussing it; the Village yarn has never found a market. Again, we were impressed by the necessity of writing about things with which we are familiar. Through the years, I have found it of greatest value to read stories to groups of persons. While at the Island I read aloud each completed story to the girls of Highland Nature Camp, making mental note when their interest lagged, discovering flaws in the manuscripts which would have passed unnoticed if it had not been presented in verbal form. Almost without exception, the stories receiving the approval of this young audience were eventually sold. T h e class agreed that both the author and his student listen-

THE EDITOR ACCEPTS 54 ers were benefited by the presentation and discussion of original manuscripts, and we turned to the study of the technique of short story writing. We learned that there are four main types of stories, based upon: Setting Action

Theme Character

But Arthur Judd, supervising principal of schools at North Brunswick Township, pointed out in one of our tests: "Very rarely, however, do we find any story predominantly one type; as a theme story will have some action to carry it along, so too will a story portraying character. Therefore, we generally find a combination of two, three or even four types with one dominating the others." We discussed points of view, the first, second and third, and decided that the first person story is easiest to write. But it has its dangers and its limitations. The too frequent use of the word " I " will serve to alienate the reader's sympathy and cast suspicion of conceit upon the teller of the tale. Moreover, the action is limited to those events in which the narrator takes part or witnesses, unless artifices are resorted to through which other characters tell him of what has happened. T h e danger of conceit is eliminated if the story is told by a minor character, but here, too, there are limitations. Still, the first person story is written frequently and usually with effectiveness. The second person story is more difficult to write and is attempted only occasionally. In it, one person addresses another directly—"Do you remember, dear"—"you said"—"your eyes were like the stars." It is an interesting medium of expression but like the first person story has its limitations. The third person story is used more generally than the others. It is written either through the mind—the stream of consciousness, we call it—of a main character, and occasionally a minor one; or from the omniscient point of view whereby

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the writer is able to know the thoughts of all characters concerned. W e found in studying point of view that many established writers do not adhere strictly to the rules, but we decided that a beginner should not attempt variations, and that he should in his first story, if possible, write a straight third person yarn through the stream of consciousness of a main character. T h e class became more interested and wanted to know how stories were constructed. W e used no single text book, although I had read a number of texts which publishers had sent me. We learned that there are three methods of constructing short stories: Fluent construction Piecemeal construction Blueprint construction A "fluent" author sits down at his typewriter, or at his desk with pen and paper, and writes his story from beginning to end. His plot may be outlined in his mind but he uses no notes and sometimes, I suspect, actually develops the plot as he goes along. There is danger in this, of course, for he may easily go off on tangents and introduce matter which is not essential. It is an easy and pleasant way of writing but should be attempted only by the experienced author. "If in Years to Come" was written in this manner; and, although it was my first attempt at this type of adult fiction, nevertheless I did have years of experience in the juvenile field before its conception. Piecemeal writing is just what the name indicates. An author adopting this method writes his story piecemeal; sometimes doing the climax first, next certain difficult scenes, next the introduction, and finally joining all these "pieces" together into a unified whole. T h e danger here is that the writing may be uneven and that when the manuscript is completed

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the several parts do not fit together well and the result is unsatisfactory. I have tried it at times, especially with the endings of stories, but have found that when these last key sentences were reached they were usually inconsistent with what went before. In the blueprint method, an author makes long and detailed outline of his story, sometimes paragraph by paragraph, describing his characters, developing the action, making sure that all extraneous matter is eliminated before the actual writing begins. It is a safe method, one which adheres closely to the technique of story writing, but there is danger that when the manuscript is completed it will lack spontaneity, although it may, technically, be a good piece of work. I have tried the blueprint method and, unhappily, have yet to sell a story so constructed. Somewhere among the books into which we delved we found a chapter on " T h e Unities." W e learned that an ideal story should have unity of time, place and action. T h e story should happen as nearly as possible in one stretch of time, in one place and in one sweep of incident. W e decided that "Stars in the Sky" was a fairly good example of " T h e Unities," and we turned to the short story as a whole and to the people who write them. "Where do authors get their ideas?" someone asked.. "Where do you get yours?" I countered. W e took stock. Some authors derive their plot germs entirely from their own experiences; not necessarily from things that happen to them but from incidents and accidents in the lives of their friends. Some depend entirely upon newspapers for their plot germs, and save clippings of unusual and bizarre happenings, of murder trials, of unsolved mysteries. Some authors get an idea for a story by reading other stories, seeing in a flash of inspiration a new angle in a certain situation. Some depend entirely upon their imagination.

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This was true in the case of Jack Snel, our class humorist. Among our assignments was one in which members of the class were required to hand in a title from which a story might be developed. Jack submitted, "She Sat Not on the Chair." "Intriguing," we said. "You go ahead and write the story, Jack." He worked hard the next week-end, while the class speculated. On Monday, Jack brought in his story. It seemed that a young man broke an engagement with his girl friend because he was required to entertain the boss's niece from Chicago. T h e girl friend was angry but consented the next day to go sailing with the recalcitrant suitor, whereupon she pushed him off the boat, made him swim until he was exhausted, then "hooked him by the seat of his pants" and hauled him aboard. "After a few highballs in the yacht club, they staggered to the car and drove home," where, to summarize, an argument ensued as to whether the young man should spend the evening with his girl or take the boss's niece to the theatre. It was their custom, Jack explained, to sit pleasantly on the couch when things were right between them; otherwise, he sat on the couch and she on an upholstered chair. On this occasion "she dented the upholstery," but finally the young man left the room and telephoned the boss's niece that he could not see her that night. When he returned to the living room, his girl friend, having heard the telephone conversation, greeted him affectionately. "And," ended the story, "after that she sat not on the chair." W e gave Jack an " A " on the assignment and agreed that one of the requisites of successful authorship is imagination. Jack's masterpiece provoked a discussion of the love story, and I gave the class my formula: Take two young people and have them love each other very much. Make them as attractive as you possibly can so that

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they will awaken and hold the reader's sympathy. Create a barrier which apparently bars the way to the fulfillment of their hopes. Have them remove the barrier, not by accident or coincidence, but by their own qualities of character and the strength of their mutual affection. T h a t is the basic formula, but there are many variations, of course. There is always a market for a good love story, especially of young love; for in them older people revive their own romances and young people see themselves in the persons of the characters portrayed. When we finished our discussion of love stories the term was nearing its end, but we still had considerable ground to cover. So we plunged into more technique, and this was what we learned: T h e Introduction should start quickly, attract attention and create interest. It should introduce the main characters and establish the setting. It may be dialogue or description or narration, but it must be interesting. T h e Story Proper should continue in a straight line to the conclusion. A l l material not having to do with the development of the plot should be ruthlessly eliminated. Dialogue and description should be used in proper balance but each should contribute to the action leading to the climax. Superfluous remarks should be omitted and the characters must live. W e should not say, "Mary was a lovely girl." W e should show by her words and actions that she is a lovely girl. W e should write with restraint and yet not so restrainedly that the story will be a mere outline or sketch, and should weigh every word and every sentence for its effectiveness. And when the climax comes, it should be a natural development of all that is contained in the introduction and story proper. And yet, there are some people who still say that story writing is easy.

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T h e Climax should be sharp, clear-cut and, in a sense, breath-taking. It should not be overdone or long drawn out. And above all, it should be logical. T h e Conclusion should round out the story, and here again brevity is essential. W h e n the story is ended, stop. There is no need to say, " T h e y lived happily ever after." T h e conclusion should indicate that; the reader isn't greatly concerned, anyhow. So long as the characters have solved their own immediate problem, your story is finished. In lieu of the term examination each member of the class was required to hand in a complete short story of undesignated length. T h e results were interesting and encouraging, for the stories as a whole were of a much higher standard than those submitted at the term's beginning. Bill Neilson, our farmermechanic and the outstanding personality of the group, wrote "Ploughboy," a story verging on distinction which will be discussed later in this volume. Roy Walker, who had had very little to say in classroom discussion, submitted a sports story in dialect which we considered of marketable quality. Frank Backinger handed in a gangster story on which we worked throughout the second term and which was good enough for Harold Ober to attempt to place under the title, "And There Lay the Rider." Dorothy Brandt wrote a story of an Austrian musician which just failed of the mark. Other stories were of lesser merit but, except in a few cases, they gave evidence that the class had benefited by its instruction. " A good man," we used to say on the football field, "takes his coaching." T h e greater part of the second term was devoted to the analysis and revision of these stories. Sometimes we were almost cruel in our criticism, ruthless in our demands, but it was good training. T h e weaker stories became stronger, the good stories better.

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W e considered the preparation of manuscripts and their marketing, deciding that authors who compose on a typewriter should make a carbon copy of the first draft, and at least three copies of the final draft, in case an agent may wish to submit the story to Hollywood, to radio, to book publishers or to foreign markets. I recalled a telephone message received from the editor of Sport Story Magazine some years ago, asking if I could send him immediately a carbon copy of a manuscript he had purchased. He was editing it for publication at his desk on the seventh floor of a building in New York, when a gust of wind swept several sheets out of the window. When he made his way anxiously and hurriedly to the street, the papers had disappeared. T h e carbon copy was sent by return mail, and everybody was happy, especially the editor, who would have been held responsible for the loss. Someone wanted to know if it is true that an unknown author has great difficulty in breaking into the magazines of large circulation. My answer was no, for new writers are being discovered every week and a distinctive manuscript will find a market regardless of the name of its author. I am not familiar with the inner workings of magazine offices, for I have never made it a point to cultivate editors. But it is my understanding that each magazine has a number of readers to whom all manuscripts are first referred. Those submissions which are obviously of no merit are returned with rejection slips; others are reported upon by one, two or sometimes three readers, and submitted to the editor for his decision. Some magazines have editorial boards which meet regularly for the discussion of manuscripts. The American blots out the author's name and judges the story on its merit. At least, that was the practice in the good old days when it occasionally took a story of mine. After "If in Years to Come" had been accepted by Good

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Housekeeping, Mr. Bigelow told me that he didn't think so much of it but that the women of the staff were enthusiastic and "five women can't be wrong." According to report, another of my stories progressed as far as the Post's editorial conference and lost out by a single vote. T h a t was the nearest I ever came to the Post. T h e class enjoyed hearing about these things. It made them think that they belonged, that they were on the inside. So I d u g u p a critical report submitted by an assistant to his editor on a football story, "Second Stringer": SUBJECT,

"Second Stringer."

Earl Reed Silvers.

6,000 words. Rod Hobart, substitute center on the Raritan team, has always had to play second fiddle to dashing Whitey Blaine, first-string center and captain of the team. Rod doesn't mind, because Whitey is really a swell guy, but he feels a little wistful about it when even Jean, his girl, turns to Whitey. In an important game, Rod is sent in during the second and third quarters to do his usual job of wearing down the opposing center so that Whitey can get past him and spectacularly block kicks. This he does, but breaks his shoulder in the process. He plays on grimly and tells no one until afterwards when he is sent to the hospital. And there Jean and Whitey come to tell him he has been awarded the Football Cup for his gallantry, and Jean confesses that she loved him all along. This is a standard football story, written in the standard Silvers style. T h e author knows football, and all his descriptions of it are technically sound. Like most sports stories, however, the plot is weak. Unless we're particularly anxious for a football story, I think we can afford to let this one go. T o tell you the truth, no one who knows football can have a great deal of sympathy for a player who tries to go on when disabled. It sounds heroic but it's really idiotic. Both the team and the individual are bound to suffer, and a good coach will always land on anyone who tries it like a ton of bricks. I know because I broke my shoulder once, and believe me, I came out of the game quickly and willingly.

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We agreed that the criticism was fair and accurate. And I remarked that the assistant editor was right about it being idiotic for a disabled player to remain in a game, for I knew of one young fool who played fifteen minutes with a broken shoulder and collarbone, and then protested weepingly when he was removed. He weighed one hundred and twenty-one pounds, was captain of the Rah way Highway School football team in 1908 and was perfectly willing to die for dear old Railway. His name was Silvers, and now, whenever the weather is damp, a dully aching shoulder reminds him of his youthful idiocy. Ensuing class discussion brought out the fact that sometimes truth is too incredible for fiction; that occasionally things occur in life which cannot be included in a story. We know that as a high school boy I played football with a broken shoulder but when a fiction character does the same thing the story is rejected on the ground of implausibility. It would do no good to tell the editor that the thing actually happened; he would simply answer, "My readers wouldn't believe it." One of the common mistakes of amateur authors is to write to a magazine to which a manuscript is submitted: "This is a true story as told me by a friend." The editor knows at once that in all probability it is not a short story but simply the recital of an incident. T o be sure, all stories are narratives, and narratives are recitals of happenings. But the short story goes beyond this bare recital; it is concerned with causes and effects, integrates the various factors, and selects and arranges them in order to produce a dominant effect upon the reader. In a football story, for instance, a substitute halfback runs fifty yards for a touchdown in the last minute of play. T h e safety man on the opposing team is under some obligation to him and permits him to make the score. But that is not a story. We must know why the safety man did not tackle the runner when he could have done so, why he sacrificed his team for

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what he considered a greater obligation than team loyalty. A short story will tell why, will disclose what happened before the game and the ultimate result of the incident; a recital, which sometimes becomes an anecdote, will simply describe the run for a touchdown, the failure of the safety man to make the tackle, and will let it go at that. From this discussion, the class learned the difference between the description of a happening and a short story. W e learned that short stories must be logical and credible, even though life is not always so, and that "a true story" sent to an editor has practically no chance of acceptance and is really not a short story at all. W e discredited the legend that a new author's manuscripts do not receive fair consideration, but we recognized the fact that an established author has personal contacts in editorial offices which give his stories a quicker and more sympathetic reading. Some authors talk over a proposed story with an editor before writing it, others write only on order, as Flash Miers and I still do with juveniles. And a great many authors work entirely through literary agents. T h e question arose as to the advisability of submitting stories to magazines directly or through a literary agent, and we weighed the pros and cons of each method. A n agent knows the markets and can judge what a magazine should pay for a manuscript. He saves the author the trouble of trying to sell his wares, thus leaving him free for literary production. If he is a good agent, he suggests changes in stories designed to strengthen them, encourages the writer and gives information concerning the needs of magazines. He acts as the intermediary between author and editor, and sometimes arranges conferences. If he does not consider a manuscript good enough to submit to editors, he tells the author so. One of the most valuable services he can render is to find

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markets for subsidiary rights for a manuscript: motion pictures, radio, foreign, second serial, books and reprints. In the case of authors making a great deal of money, he often acts as their business representative. For these services, he receives ten per cent of the price of each manuscript sold. Naturally, he is not in business for his health, and he cannot afford to accept as clients any but established authors or beginning authors who show unusual promise. T h e r e are some people who say that an agent is entirely unnecessary, especially for those writers whose output is not large. T h e y contend that a writer must compete with other writers on the agent's list, and that if he writes infrequently, the agent will favor the more prolific clients. T h e y point out that in some instances agents have proved to be dishonest. After my first story was sold, through a literary agent, other agents addressed letters to me. One of them wrote: A capable literary agent can push your stories with the editors, give you advance market information, usually get you better rates for your stories. Naturally, I work with my clients in these ways, for I know that if I can't make the association a financially profitable one for the author, the relationship of author and agent will not last. I work, I think, a bit differently than most agents. I want a script to be as good as possible before I show it to an editor, and I have proven innumerable times that constructive suggestions for the revision of stories have brought sales to top markets; sales which might have been lost or, at best, sacrificed to smaller paying markets. And of course when working with professional writers I make no charge for this service other than the usual agency commission of 10% on sales. T o repeat, I like your work and would like to handle your copy. I believe I could make the association not only a pleasant but a profitable one for you, helping you to get more money and reach better paying markets. Another agent wrote: "Would you be willing to have me represent you if I could guarantee considerably more money

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65 for your second story than you received for your first story?" Some of those who wrote me represented the very top writers, and I was tempted to change. But before making a decision, I wrote to Richard Thruelsen, an associate editor of The Saturday Evening Post. His answer follows: I should be very glad to advise you on your agent problem if I thought I could be of any real assistance. We have dealt with both A and B, finding them competent and trustworthy in every way, and I don't feel justified in favoring one as against the other. No agent can sell a bad story, and any agent should be able to sell a good one; this leaves, as the most important function of a literary agent, the establishment of an entente cordiale between himself and the writer. Of course, the agent also has the big job of taking care of the business affairs of a successful writer but, as I said, his most important duty is the encouragement and guidance of his clients. This being true, you readily can appreciate that the most outstanding consideration in choosing an agent is a purely personal one. A magazine doesn't care whether the manuscript comes from Jones or Smith, just so long as he is a reputable writers' representative. My suggestion, then, is that you choose someone with whom you can get along. We talked it over, Eda and I, and decided not to make a change at that time, but two years later Harold Ober became our literary agent and has since been consistently helpful and cooperative. I think that if I were to start all over again, I would work with an agent, and I feel that a beginner would profit greatly from such an association. Surely, an author who turns out a great many manuscripts, especially if some of them are of book or novelette length, can achieve better results with a literary agent's advice and help. But just how best a beginner can make the initial contact with an agent who does not offer to read and criticize manuscripts for a stated fee, is a question. In the case of our class,

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Mr. Ober generously criticized without charge manuscripts submitted to him, but that is not his usual practice or that of other established agents. I think that probably the wisest thing for a beginner to do is to send his stories directly to magazines; if they show unusual promise, an editor will tell him so and will assist him in finding the right agent. Aspiring authors may, of course, submit their manuscripts to professional critics, many of whom advertise extensively in trade publications. T h e y charge a reading fee of from one dollar to two dollars a thousand words, with lower rate after the first five thousand. In return, they give general criticism of a manuscript, passing judgment on its marketability and suggesting changes designed to improve it. In some cases, they edit carefully, making marginal notes, deleting superfluous passages, rewriting sentences and even paragraphs, pointing out fallacies in plot and structure. A n honest critic, content to make critical analysis and let it go at that, can be of real help to a beginning writer. Amateur authors have shown me professional criticisms sincerely and skillfully made. Some critics have gone so far as to write: " T h i s story will never sell; put it away and try something else." On the other hand, there are critics who not only offer critical analyses of stories but also attempt to sell textbooks or correspondence courses in short story writing. M y experience leads me to believe that they are best let alone, except in the cases of a few established agencies which have existed for years and have gained a reputation for fair and honest dealing. Critics who guarantee sales within a few months, who flaunt such ridiculous blurbs as, "Mrs. John Smith made $500 in writing last year. W h y not you?," who maintain that "anyone can learn to write," should, in my opinion, be avoided. Perhaps I am unfair in this conclusion, but I have seen too much exploitation of the novice writer to think otherwise. A

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few years ago, one of my friends sent me a story which had no more chance of magazine acceptance than I have of becoming Secretary of the United States Navy. I told him so, but he was unconvinced and sent it to a professional critic who also gave courses in short story writing and sold books. T h e critic encouraged him, suggested one revision, then a second and a third, each at a substantial fee. When eventually the story was as good as it could be made to be, and was still unsalable, the critic tried to sell his course. T h e author finally decided that perhaps he was not a Paul Gallico, after all, but it was an expensive and unpleasant experience. I have known of several other cases in which critics have capitalized upon the enthusiasm of amateurs, and I told the members of our class to try to find someone, an English teacher, a college professor, an advertising man, or, if possible, another writer, to pass judgment upon their manuscripts before they continue their explorations into the fiction field. I told them, then, of some of my own experiences in literary criticism. Of the hundreds of manuscripts which have been sent me by beginning authors over a period of years, not one has found a sale, and less than a dozen have justified further effort. Apparently, hundreds of thousands of persons believe that they can write short stories and have the urge to do so in varying degree, but they do not understand that fiction is a craft which must be learned by the sweat of one's brow and that only hard work, patience and the mastering of infinite detail can make a successful short story writer. And he must, we should remember, be a natural story teller to begin with. T h e class discussed these matters during the last weeks of the second term, and when the course was concluded every member received a passing mark. And if we stretched a point

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here and there, what harm did it do? For these people were real people, and I shall always be grateful to them for their interest and forbearance. It was during our year together that the idea of this book began to take shape. In one of the several texts which I read in order to accumulate a little knowledge, a far greater authority on the short story than I suggested that if a selling author would trace one of his stories from its inception to its conclusion, telling how the plot germ came to him, how it was developed, where it was written and the time it took, its submission to an editor, its acceptance and its ultimate appearance in a magazine, he could be of more help to beginning writers than a half hundred textbooks. Unwisely, perhaps, I passed on the suggestion to Flash Miers, and Flash has been after me ever since. It was our intention at first to select only two or three stories, to trace their development from conception to conclusion, and to issue only a small book. But the idea grew, and finally five accepted stories and one rejected story were included, as well as the biographical material and the chapter on the juvenile field. W e decided that each story should illustrate a basic rule of short story writing, and they were selected as follows with that objective in mind: "If in Years to Come"—we should write of things we know. "College Dances Are No Different"—we must work hard. " T o a Brown-eyed Girl"—we must use restraint and avoid overwriting. "Forever Yours"—we must make our characters natural. "Stars in the Sky"—we must conform to basic rules of the short story. Our class in English 75, 76 no longer exists as a unit except in the records of the college registrar. Each member has gone his way. Several of the young men are with the armed forces,

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two on foreign soil. Some of the class still write me or drop in to say hello when they visit the campus. They have probably forgotten most of the technique we tried so laboriously to emphasize. But they will remember, I think, the big room we occupied in the basement of the building, the noise of basketball practice in the gymnasium directly above us, the crowded corridors and the traffic-jammed streets in which we sometimes risked life and limb in ardent pursuit of knowledge. I venture to express the hope that the class meant something to them and that they will remember, above all else, what we said on the last night of the term about courage and high thinking and tolerance and faith.

III

The Technique of Short Story Writing

Part III has been arranged to assist the reader in studying how to write short stories that magazines buy. Following each of the six short stories here printed is a discussion of how the story was conceived and developed, what revisions were necessary, and the specific technique of short story writing illustrated.

4 If in Years to Come

D

o YOU REMEMBER, dear, those old days back in 1909 when we were very young? Do you remember the blond-haired boy who saw you first on Radcliffe Avenue? You were coming to high school with Margaret Blue, and I was football captain and president of the senior class. I was with Buck Cooper and Carl Klein, and I stopped in my tracks and said to Buck, " W h o is that?" And Buck, who carried papers and knew all the town news, said that you were Ruth Randolph, a new girl in town, whose family had just moved from Philadelphia. " T h e y live in the Redmond House on Franklin Avenue," Buck said. "They've got a lot of money, and their ancestors came over in Noah's Ark." Buck looked at me. "What's eating you, Jimmy?" he asked. "Nothing," I said. But I waited for you to come nearer, and Buck Cooper and Carl Klein waited with me, for I was captain of the football team, and they were just the two halfbacks. You came, walking into the sunshine with Margaret Blue; and there was an aura around your head. There were specks of gold in your eyes as you glanced at me. You didn't speak, of course, but Margaret Blue looked up and said, "Hello!" From Good Housekeeping. Copyright, 1937, by Hearst Magazines, Inc. 73

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And I looked at you and said, "Hello, Margaret"; and Buck Cooper said, "We ought to score against Eastwood this afternoon with that new Triple-A formation." You were walking away from me, and I wanted to reach out my arms to you and call you back. I said to Buck, "Yes, we ought to." But I was thinking of the golden specks in your eyes and the aura around your head. And I knew that I loved you, would always love you. There never would be any one else. Do you remember, dear, the Oakland High School in 1909? There were only a few of us, less than one hundred in all. We went to classes on the top floor of the Jefferson School, and one of the rooms up there was the chemistry laboratory where you and I worked out experiments together and stained our fingers and grew to know each other. We were both eighteen and members of the senior class. I found out after a while that your father was a man of affairs. And my father was dead, and I lived with my mother in a double house on Hancock Street. The rent we received for the other half of the house was thirty dollars a month; and my mother did fancy sewing for the rich people in town. She did it proudly, with her head held high, but you did not know that. All you knew was that I was a dressmaker's son. But you took me into your crowd, the Franklin Avenue crowd, dominated by Margaret Blue, whose father was general manager of the steel works. Margaret herself was beautiful and arrogant; then there were June Thomas, a tall, gawky girl destined for celibacy, whose mother was president of the Home Reading Club; Red Hotchkiss, blessed with freckles and a friendly grin, with the accolade of family wealth upon him; and Leon Marvin, timid and stumbling of speech. There were others, but I am mentioning only these four;

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Margaret, because she tried in a subtly persistent way to poison your mind against me; June Thomas, because, of all the group, she was willing to accept me without qualification; Red Hotchkiss, because I was slightly jealous of him and envious of his ease of manner; and Leon, because he had shown me once a poem he had written to you, which was very beautiful. It was Leon, you remember, who invited you to the highschool dance; but you told him that you were going with me, although I had not as yet asked you. And you said to him that he shouldn't mind so much, that you would give him some dances; and you knew that Leon sought only for the privilege of loving you and being kind to you. But he was just an awkward boy with a poet's heart; and I was Jimmy Fiske, the football captain, and a "big man" in school. I told my mother that Leon had asked you, but that you were going to the high-school dance with me; and across the table in the shabby kitchen where we ate our meals her tired eyes clouded. She knew, of course, that you were my girl, that my waking thoughts were mostly of you. But she knew also —having done sewing for Mrs. Hotchkiss and June T h o m a s — that the gulf between Franklin Avenue and Hancock Street was not easily bridged. But she did not tell me then; she said, more gently than was her wont, that she was sorry I did not have a blue suit to wear; and I assured her, with youth's sustaining confidence, that the gray one I had bought from Abe Grossman in the Main Street Emporium would be perfectly all right. W e affected high collars in those days, and narrow ties; our coats were long and our trousers baggy. I dressed hurriedly, wanting to be with you before others of the crowd arrived. It was always that way; it seemed as if I could never get downtown quickly enough. I used to run sometimes, begrudging the minutes away from you.

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But when I arrived for the dance, you were still upstairs. Red Hotchkiss was in the living room with your two younger brothers, Peter and Paul; and when Elizabeth, your smallgirl sister, saw me take off my coat and stand resplendent in A b e Grossman's conception of a "tricky" suit, she whistled through openings where two front teeth should have been. " W h e w ! " she said. "Don't we look sporty, thoughl" A smile flickered across Red Hotchkiss' lips. Red wore a blue serge suit and a dark blue tie, and his collar was not so high as mine. He recognized my lack of taste, and I was conscious of his recognition; but Peter and Paul grinned pleasantly, and I bet them five cents that they could not sit on the steam radiator for five minutes. Accepting the challenge, they squirmed unhappily, scorching the seats of their trousers before admitting defeat. They would pay me the five cents later, Paul promised gravely. You came downstairs finally, in a new blue dress which was all frilly net around your shoulders. Your face was like a dark flower, and pink roses were in your cheeks, and God had painted a few golden strands in your hair. You stood at the bottom step and looked at me, unmindful of my glittering raiment. You must have seen something in my eyes which a man reserves for sacred moments. You held out your hand, and I said, "Hello, Ruth!" W e stood there, forgetting the others, and Elizabeth chuckled. " W h y don't you kiss her and get it over with?" she said. I had never kissed you. T o do so would have been a sacrilege, although I had kissed other girls in my time. But I was a man now, eighteen, and I had discovered something rare and precious, to be cherished always. Your mother came downstairs, and I was painfully aware not so much of disapproval as of tolerance.

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"Good evening, James," she said. I was Jimmy to my friends and to the people in town; Jimmy Fiske, the big towheaded boy who scored baskets from one corner of the court and kicked field goals from the thirtyyard line. But your mother called me James, always with dignity, and in her presence I was awkward and inarticulate. "Good evening, ma'am," I answered, and Elizabeth giggled as if I had said something funny. The crowd came stamping up the porch, and your mother greeted them graciously. There was subtle difference in her attitude toward them; they were of her own kind, and I was an outsider, an alien. We walked down to Brower's Hall on Barrett Street, and I carried your blue velvet slipper bag, which bumped companionably against my knee. There were few cars then, if you remember, and no garages on Franklin Avenue—just wide expanses of green lawns, and flower gardens and spacious porches. We walked along sidewalks which were broad flagstones, and stars smiled down upon us through the branches of trees which creaked in the winter air. You remember Brower's Hall, don't you? We climbed three flights of narrow stairs, and when we reached the top hallway, the girls went into one dressing room and the boys into another. Buck Cooper was there, with a suit as conspicuous as my own. He wore brown shoes, but mine were of patent leather with gray tops. The boys waited around, and a few of them rolled cigarettes. "Got the makin's?" Buck asked, and Carl Klein handed him a bag of Bull Durham, and he rolled his own skillfully. "How about a dance?" he said to me, but I pretended that I did not hear, and went out to the hallway to wait for you. We had dance cards then; there were twelve dances in all, and I gave one to Diogenes T . Larson, the school principal,

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which was the proper thing to do; and two to Leon Marvin, who wanted more, and one to Red Hotchkiss, whose father was president of the bank. T h e rest I kept for myself, and when I showed you the card, you flashed a look at me which caused my heart to miss a beat, and I knew that everything was all right. W e went inside to the dance floor, which was decorated with high-school pennants; and we shook hands with the reception committee headed by Miss Smith, the Latin teacher. There was no orchestra—just Lydia Lunt at the piano and Old Jake Snyder with his violin. Have you forgotten Lydia Lunt? She was an old maid—a maiden lady, Miss Smith called her—whose mother kept a boarding house in the Lunt Mansion on Bushwick Street. But it was a mansion no longer—just a big house, unpainted, with a sagging porch upon which men sat during the summer months in red suspenders and frayed shirts open at the neck. T h e Lunts had been wealthy once, but evil times had fallen upon them, and they had nothing left except their dignity and an intense pride. Miss Lydia played at dances in Brower's Hall, needing the money to supplement the uncertain payments of her mother's boarders. But she did it resentfully, with austere expression, her bony back straight as a ramrod, her thin fingers moving mechanically over yellowed keys. Do you remember, dear, that you told me after we had started our first dance, that you were sorry for Lydia Lunt? "She seems so unhappy," you said. But this was no night for unhappiness. T h e music was a w a l t z — " T h e Blue Danube"—and we went round and round, one arm outstretched, dipping and gliding, with your face very close to mine. Just before the dance's ending, we circled too near the piano, and as I swung you around, my thumb, held stiffly as was the vogue then, hooked accurately into

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Lydia Lunt's pompadour. There was a shrill cry, and Lydia's "rat" fell to the floor, and her switch came down, and the thin graying hair which was her own streamed out pathetically in all directions. T h e music ceased with startling suddenness, and a hundred young eyes twinkled, and Buck Cooper's loud guffaw punctuated the silence. Lydia turned upon us a look of mingled anger and tragic reproach. And you said in that quiet voice of yours, "We're so sorry, Miss Lunt." You picked up her rat and followed her into the dressing room, leaving me alone. Old Jake Snyder was grinning behind his violin, enjoying his colleague's discomfiture. Jake had only two interests in life: his fiddle and what he could buy over the bar of Carney's saloon. He and Lydia Lunt were not the best of friends. You waited until Miss Lunt had readjusted her damaged coiffure, and you came back with her, making small talk, smiling into her disillusioned eyes. "You are very good," Miss Lunt said, unbending a bit because she had learned in the dressing room that you lived in the big Redmond Place on Franklin Avenue, and that your father was a Randolph of Philadelphia, and that, although you were only eighteen, you were old enough to be kind to a faded woman to whom youth was just a vague memory. But she could not reconcile my having the first dance with you. I was Jimmy Fiske, whose mother did fancy sewing. Austerity returned to her face, and she glared at me. " T r y not to be so awkward next time, young man," she snapped. "Yes, ma'am," I said, and we walked away; and she looked after us, not understanding. She could not understand, of course, that one of the reasons I loved you so was that you could be kind to people like Lydia Lunt.

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I was reluctant to let you go when Leon Marvin claimed you for the next dance; but you came back again, and Lydia Lunt played "Somewhere." I have forgotten most of the words, for that was a long time ago. But these I remember:

If in years to come you should recall me, Would you love me then and hold me dear? W e were dancing in Brower's Hall, with Lydia Lunt, an old maid, and Jake Snyder, a drunkard, providing the sweetest music I had ever heard. T h e high-school pennants on the walls became flaming banners of glory, chattering young voices were the echoes of trumpets from a far distance, and your hair was a garden of roses, and your eyes liquid pools with golden sunbeams in their depths. Do you remember, dear?

Sometimes I think you know I'm longing, Know that you could ease my aching heart. . . . My arm was around you, and your lips were near. Our hands were touching. And from Jake Snyder's violin came the haunting melody of broken hearts and remembered happiness. Such things would never happen to us, I thought. W e would be together always. T h e years would go on, and you would teach me things, and I would watch over you and be kind to you. And we would recall this moment when Margaret Blue and Leon Marvin and all the others were in Brower's Hall, but we were somewhere far off, just the two of us, in a world which began and ended in the specks of gold in your eyes. W e did not know exactly when the music stopped. Do you remember, dear? W e found ourselves in the center of the dance floor, and most of the other people had returned to their seats. But the spell was still upon us. With your hand in mine, I said to you,

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"This will always be our song." And you said, very gently, "It will always be our song, Jimmy." And we went over to Red Hotchkiss, who did not know that the world had just stood still. Through the open door I saw Buck Cooper in the men's dressing room smoking a cigarette, and reality descended upon us. But the specks of gold were still in your eyes, as if you were remembering that we had heard the music of the stars. Do you remember Pointer's Beach? Where it stood twentyodd years ago on the shore of the Sound is now just a row of oil tanks; the clear water in which we sometimes swam is oilcoated; and the beauty of the hills on the farther shore, a mile across from the beach, is marred with the smoke of many factories. But in those days when we were young, Pointer's Beach was a place where the sons of dressmakers and the daughters of clerks congregated for an hour or two of dancing. It was the only place we could go, we children of the poor. Twenty-five cents would give us a pass to the dance hall for the entire evening, the trolley ride cost only a nickel, and there was a long pier on which we could walk in the moonlight. But to girls like you and Margaret Blue the Beach was just a name. You heard about it in high-school from a group of seniors you hardly knew, who had attended the Grand Opening on Memorial Day. You read posters advertising its pavilion in the store windows on Main Street and placards extolling its charms were attached to the fronts of the queer yellow trolleys which rattled through town at half-hour intervals. It was just a name to you until that day in June when the Franklin Avenue crowd decided to do a bit of slumming. I do not know which one of us suggested Pointer's Beach; I cared only that we were to go together and that we might, perhaps,

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slip away from the others before the night was ended for a brief good-bye. For you were going away; you were leaving the next morning for your island in Maine. I did not know its name; I do not know it now. It was just "the island," a mythical spot four hundred miles from Oakland, which was taking you from me for long summer months. And when you came back again, you were to go to college, and I could see you only for short vacation periods. Margaret Blue had been invited to Maine, and Leon Marvin and Red Hotchkiss. They talked about it evenings when we were all together; and you would reach over then and hold my hand tightly. I was one of the crowd, but I had not been invited to Maine. But we never mentioned it, you and I. W e sat together on the bumping trolley to Pointer's Beach. Young men stood on the rear platform, smoking and talking too loudly. The conductor, collecting fares, pulled a cord which rang a tinkling bell and a contraption which looked like a clock recorded the number of passengers. W e came to a railroad crossing, and the conductor ran out and pulled a switch at the far side; and we waited for a minute or two while he puffed hurriedly at a cigarette. It was against the rules for him to smoke in the car, Red Hotchkiss said. Life seemed to be going on as usual. The conductor collected two fares and rang up only one, and Red whispered across the aisle that he was pocketing the difference. If an inspector happened to catch him at it, he would lose his job, Red explained. People smiled around us. At Highbridge a half dozen girls came in. The conductor engaged in repartee with two of them. He rang up four fares. "He's fifteen cents to the good now," Red whispered. The men on the back platform burst into lusty song:

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In the shade of the old apple tree, When the love in your eyes I could see. . . . It seemed unbelievable that people could sing. T h a t Margaret Blue could give expression to her disgust, as she did. T h a t Red Hotchkiss could be interested in so trivial a matter as a conductor pocketing a few extra fares. They didn't know that I was standing face to face with tragedy. Margaret sensed it, perhaps, but Margaret's father was general manager of the steel works. And my mother did fancy sewing. Margaret didn't know her; even you had never met her. She didn't go out, except to church and Sunday school. She didn't have money to spend on dancing at Pointer's Beach. T h e trolley stopped, and the conductor called, " A l l out!" A plank walk led across an open field to the Beach. W e passed a whirling merry-go-round, half empty; we heard two girls giggling on the Ferris Wheel. It was early, too early for the crowds, but the music had started in the pavilion. A wide balcony extended from the dance floor, overhanging the water. W e could see trees on the opposite shore, and a long pier below us, jutting out into the Sound. T h a t was where the excursion boats landed. W e used to watch them, Buck Cooper and I, emitting their burden of human freight —before I met you. Tired women with drawn faces, children with expectant eyes, eager young girls, and jaunty men. T h e y were poor, most of them, sketching a day of happiness on a canvas of drab existence. There was no excursion boat on the pier that night. W e watched rippling waves lap against its piling. A June sunset tinted the water red. T h e sunset faded, and darkness blotted out the farther shore. "Let's dance," Red Hotchkiss said. I did not want to dance, but there were obligations then, as there are now. I waltzed with Margaret Blue and did the

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two-step with June Thomas; and I was free to be with you. W e left the pavilion and walked out to the end of the pier. W e had only a little time together, for we were to leave on the nine-thirty trolley. Fifteen minutes, perhaps. Fifteen minutes, to make up for a whole summer. There was no railing on the pier. W e moved to one corner and looked out upon the quiet water. In the garden of the sky stars blossomed. " T h i s time tomorrow night you will be on your way to Maine," I said to you. "I don't want to go," you said. "I want to be here with you, Jimmy." "I've got a job," I said. "I start next week. It isn't much at first, but there's a chance to work up. And I'll make good. I've got to." "Yes," you said. "You'll make good. I know that." "I want you to meet my mother sometime," I said. You nodded. "You'll write me, Jimmy, every day, won't you?" "Yes," I said. You moved closer. "I wish you could have come with us. But now, with your j o b — " You were trying to make things easier. But you didn't invite me. Your mother had told you not to. I knew that. You were just being kind to me. "Jimmy," you said, "I want you to come to the Sophomore Hop with me at college next year. This is an invitation. W i l l you come?" "Yes," I said. You were asking me before people had a chance to forbid you to. Gratitude swelled in my heart, and I reached down and took your two hands. T h e specks of gold were in your eyes again, matching the stars. T h e orchestra in the pavilion started playing. W e heard it, faintly at first and then more clearly. It was playing "Some-

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where"—our song. Six gum-chewing young men in spotted flannels were doing for us what Lydia Lunt and Old Jake Snyder had done. W e stood, the clasp of our hands tightening, and one of the musicians began to sing. His voice came to us—a high tenor voice, but beautiful. Maybe it wasn't beautiful, but we thought it so. T h e words floated down to us: Sometimes I think you know I'm longing, Know that you could ease my aching heart. . . . You let go of my hands and reached up and put your arms around me. You raised your face in the starlight, and your lips, which I had never touched, brushed against my cheek. T h e stars came down and enveloped us. You said, a long time later, "I shall always remember tonight, my dear." T h e stars went back to God's garden, and we were on the pier at Pointer's Beach. But you had told me you would always remember. Have you remembered, dear? Many things have happened since that star-lit night on the beach. Our town has changed. Queer trolleys no longer rattle at half-hour intervals down Barrett Street; the fare-snatching conductor has gone to his reward. T h e green lawns on Franklin Avenue are marred now with gravel driveways, and ugly garages cast shadows over flower beds. Horns honk in the darkness, and racing engines shatter the quiet of the night. T h e six rooms in Jefferson School, where we discolored our fingers in chemistry lab, lie untenanted, their dust-stained windows staring vacantly at the new million-dollar school across the way. Occasionally a ghost rattles a doorknob, listening for youth's responding voices. Peg-top trousers and padded shoulders have given way to flannel slacks and sports jackets. Bags of Bull Durham are

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but a memory. Girls do not wait at home for escorts to a highschool dance; they trip, with crimson lips and mascara-bordered eyelashes, to curbstones embedded in concrete, where lounging boys wait impatiently to greet them with a studied arrogance, "Why the delay, Beautiful?" They would not understand, these modern young men, that when you said "my dear" on the dock at Pointer's Beach, you had given me all that was needed to make bearable the ache of your absence. Days dragged along. I did not see the Franklin Avenue crowd; all that I knew of them was what you wrote in your letters. Leon was visiting you, and you had gone sailing together. Red Hotchkiss was teaching you tennis. " I wish you were here," you wrote. "You know that, don't you, Jimmy?" You told me, at the end of July, that your mother thought that we should not write each other so often. I sent you two letters a week after that; but I wrote to you every night, while my mother sewed endlessly beneath the flickering gas jet in the dining room. We talked of my job, she and I. In another year, I said, she could stop sewing. I wasn't earning much, but there were possibilities of advancement. Men spoke in the office of developments in electricity. There was talk of music which could be wafted long distances. It fascinated me, and I worked hard, thinking always of you. You wrote that your father was at the island, that all visitors had left. Elizabeth had told him, with the cruel thoughtlessness of the very young, that you were in love with me; that you mooned around all day; that you wouldn't go swimming one time with Red Hotchkiss because you had a letter to write. Your father didn't say anything, you added. But you wrote me a week later, when I was counting the hours until you

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should be home again, that you weren't coming back to Oakland, that you were going directly to college from Maine. W e had only the Sophomore Hop, then. I imagine that your mother protested, but you had definitely committed yourself. I wrote you at college every day, but you did not answer so often. Lessons took a great deal of time, you explained. But you added, "I want to see you, dear." And you recalled in your letters all the little things we had done. You remembered our song, which was very real to me. It was my main source of comfort during those days when doubts assailed me. Nights, when the house was still, I would sing to you in the seclusion of my room, Somewhere my heart is pining, For you, but all in vain. . . .

People would have laughed if they had heard me. People had forgotten the song. It didn't entirely make sense, if you analyzed it. But I was nineteen then, and my heart was heavy with nameless foreboding. When I saw you, I thought, everything would be all right again. I bought a new suit—not a very good suit, but it was the best I could afford. I talked with my mother about a new overcoat, but that was beyond us. Our little remaining surplus was to be used for the renting of a T u x e d o — a " T u c k , " I called it. Abe Grossman, of the Main Street Emporium, generously granted me a two weeks' stay in the payment of other essential purchases—a dress shirt and black tie. I was a working man, he said, and ought to be good for two dollars. O n Thursday night I carried home the rented suit in a cardboard box from New York, where I was working. T h e charge was two dollars and fifty cents, and I left another five dollar deposit at a dim store on Cortland Street; there was no Hudson Terminal then.

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After supper I donned the new—and rented—outfit. I could not manage the tie, so my mother tied it with nervous fingers. The suit looked good, we decided. It fitted well. I thought that you would be proud of me. We had agreed excitedly, by letter, that I would take the four o'clock train, which arrived at your college town shortly before six. There would be other men on the train, you wrote; perhaps I would meet some of them. I would register first at the hotel and dress, and at eight o'clock dinner was to be served at your sorority house. We would go to the dance afterward, and I would catch the two o'clock train back to New York. Events were scheduled for Saturday, but I could not attend; my boss had said I was needed at the office. Pullman cars were attached to the train, but I did not engage a chair; I could not afford to. In the day coach, where I had a double seat to myself, there were no young men with suitcases. You must have been wrong about that, I thought. The engine jerked forward, and I lost myself in dreams of you. The train stopped, after two hours, at the station where you were waiting. You would meet me, you had written, and we could drive to the hotel together. But I did not see you at first, and I stood indecisively, gripping an imitation leather bag and feeling very much alone. And then voices drifted to me from the far end of the platform, and I saw men descending the steps of Pullman cars and girls greeting them. I saw you, standing slightly apart from the others, your face framed in a collar of gray fur; and I knew suddenly that I had done wrong in taking a day coach. If I had been resourceful, if I had not been a small-town boy without social experience, I would have reentered the train, walking hurriedly through the day coaches until I reached a Pullman lobby; and I would have come down to

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you then, with the others, and you would have been spared embarrassment. Instead I picked up my bag and hastened along the platform; and when you saw me finally, I was the late arrival, and the other guests were already coming toward me on the way to the exit. You ran forward, holding out your hand, but we were the cynosure of all eyes. "Jimmy," you said, " I — I thought you had missed the train." "I'm sorry," I said, and we shook hands casually, for curious faces encompassed us. A girl in a red hat and a man wearing a voluminous raccoon coat stopped beside you. You looked at the girl. "This is my roommate, Mildred Dean," you said. I held out my hand, forgetting to remove my hat; and you said that the man's name was Bill Fisher and that he was a sophomore at Yale. "What's your college?" he asked. " I — I ' m working now," I answered. W e walked from the platform, your hand light as a feather upon my arm; and when we reached the street, a cab drew up — a horse-drawn cab, a hack, I think we called it. There was room for four people, and Bill Fisher invited us to drive to the hotel with him and Mildred Dean, but you shook your head. "Jimmy and I are following," you said. W e took another cab. It smelled of old leather and stale tobacco. T h e driver wore a high hat. "Jimmy!" you said. "I'm glad to see you." "I'm sorry about the day coach," I said. "As if that mattered!" You picked up my hand and closed it over yours, and I found myself trembling. "I would like very much to kiss you," I said.

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Specks of gold appeared in your eyes. "Just this once," you said. I kissed you, and we were back again in Oakland; at the high-school dance, before the fireplace in your home, on the pier at Pointer's Beach. " I shall always remember," you whispered. The horse stumbled to a halt, and I said stupidly, "This is the hotel, I guess." I got out and asked the man in the high hat how much it was. "Fifty cents, if you're sending your lady back to the campus," he answered. I looked at you, not knowing quite what to do, and you nodded, and I paid the driver fifty cents, and he drove you off. Bill Fisher's raccoon coat barred the way to the registration desk. I waited until he had gone into the elevator, a bellhop carrying his bag, and then I stepped forward and asked the clerk what was the cost of his cheapest room. "Three dollars," he said. I couldn't afford three dollars. There were only five dollars in the inside pocket of my new suit. I turned away and said to him that I would be back. A group of young men with suitcases came into the lobby; they were going to the Hop, I knew, but I looked around them. I walked down the street for three or four blocks until I saw a frame house with a sign "Rooms for Rent" in the front window. I rang the bell, and a fat woman in a faded wrapper opened the door. "I would like to have a room to dress in. I won't need it after eight o'clock," I said. "How much would that be?" "Fifty cents," she answered. I followed her upstairs into a small room looking out upon a clothesline from which were suspended red underwear and an array of cotton stockings.

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"There's a bathtub at the end of the hall," she said. It was twenty-five minutes after six. I half-filled a tin bathtub with lukewarm water and bathed unhurriedly. A knock sounded on the door, and a voice demanded to know if I was going to stay in there all night. I went back to my room and dressed, soiling my shirt slightly in adjusting pearl studs which had once belonged to my father. My mother had given them to me the night before. They were valuable, she said. I put on my shoes of patent leather with gray tops, but could not tie my tie, and after futile effort I went downstairs. T h e fat woman in the faded wrapper tied it. I was ready for the Sophomore Hop. I walked toward the campus, first stopping at the railroad station to check my bag; and as I turned in at your sorority house—I knew it was yours by your description of it although I could not read the Greek letters on the doorpost—a cab drew up, and Bill Fisher got out with two other men. T h e y wore top hats—high hats like the cab driver's—and carried canes. I rang the bell while they were wrangling as to who would pay the bill. You must have been watching for me, for you opened the door yourself. You had on a dark velvet evening gown, looking beautiful and remote. My breath caught at the sight of you. I remembered the frilly net at your throat at the high-school dance. You presented me to people, but I could not think of appropriate things to say. W e went into the dining room, a long table lighted by candles, and Bill Fisher was opposite me. "Didn't see you at the hotel," he said. "What room have you?" "One hundred six," I told him. He looked at me curiously. " T o m Walker and I are in one hundred seven. Strange we didn't bump into you."

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" I don't remember exactly what my number is," I said. "Maybe I am wrong." You were very quiet. You sat next to me, but you didn't talk much. I listened, learning things; knowing that my T u x e d o was outmoded, with the wrong kind of lapels; knowing that gray-topped shoes were not worn with evening clothes; knowing that my pearl studs—my only paternal heritage—were not of the proper fashioning. I suffered the hour through, and the girls went upstairs for their wraps, and the men donned black coats, double-breasted, and pulled white gloves from their pockets. My own brown plaid coat was pathetically conspicuous. I stood apart, sensing my proletarianism. You came downstairs, wearing a white evening wrap embroidered in silver. You came across the room and stood beside me, more beautiful than I had ever seen you. "Some of the girls are taking cabs, but I would rather walk," you said. "Is that all right, Jimmy?" I should have ordered a cab in advance; some one in the hotel would have told me, but I had not been at the hotel. "Yes," I said. T h e gymnasium was less than two blocks away. W e walked through the moonlight, your hand beneath my arm. "Jimmy," you said, "I want you to have a good time. You are having a good time, aren't you, Jimmy?" "Yes," I said. I noticed, during the first dance, that all the other girls were wearing flowers. I hadn't bought any flowers for you; I hadn't known that I was expected to do so. "I'm sorry about the flowers," I said. It seemed as if I was always being sorry about something. You leaned back, slightly away from me, so that you could look up into my face. There was the hint of tears in your eyes.

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"Jimmy," you said, "the flowers don't matter. Nothing matters now. I — " You dropped your head against my chest, and your arm tightened on my shoulder. I held you close for a moment, knowing that this was the beginning of the end. But I like to think, dear, that I carried on through the evening. I tried, as best I could, to talk to your friends in their own language; and if I failed, it was not for lack of trying. Most of the girls I danced with asked me what was my college or my fraternity; they spoke casually of plays they had seen, of places they had been, and I was at a loss how to answer them. I was a working man, I said, trying to be facetious, and my fraternity was Eta Bita Pi. W e ate pie every night before we went to bed, I said. T h e Tuxedo I had rented in the dim store on Cortland Street became baggy at the knees, and the left shoulder of the coat developed a remarkable tendency to sag. My dress shirt, guaranteed by Abe Grossman to maintain its flatness under any conditions, bulged from beneath my vest. T h e orchestra did not play "Somewhere"; the song was out of date, and we could not ask the orchestra to play it, as we would have asked Lydia Lunt and Old Jake Snyder at a highschool dance. W e were a far distance from Brower's Hall and a tin-pan piano and a squeaking violin. We danced together, but not to the music of the stars; and when it was all over, I wanted to say good-bye to you at the gymnasium, and let Bill Fisher and Mildred Dean take you home in their cab. But you said no, you were coming down to the station with me; and you told Bill Fisher to call for you there in a cab at two-fifteen. We found a hack outside, and you asked me if I did not have to stop at the hotel for my bag. And I explained that I had checked it at the station before coming to the dance.

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" I thought it would give me a few more minutes with you," I said. And I told you, wanting you to know the worst, that I had not registered at the hotel but had dressed in a rooming house. I told you, too, that I was wearing a rented Tuxedo, and that a fat woman in a faded wrapper had tied my tie. When I had finished, you didn't say anything about rented clothes or rooming houses. You said: "Jimmy, I wanted you to have a good time tonight. You didn't have a good time, did you?" "No," I said. "It was a mistake having me here. I — I just don't belong, I guess." T h e cab stopped at the station, and we got out. There were a few other guests on the platform; working men, like me, who had to get back to New York. But they wore fur coats and derbies; they had gone back to the hotel to dress. I looked at my watch—an Ingersoll—and it was four minutes after two. In five minutes the train would come in. W e aroused a sleepy baggageman and retrieved my suitcase. And I said to you, "You have been very good to me, dear, and I shall always remember." A mist of tears dimmed the specks of gold in your eyes. I thought you were sorry for me; and I did not want your sympathy. I wanted only to get away and be alone in my misery. My pride was hurt, and youth's pride is a precious thing. You were seeing me for the first time for what I was, I thought. T h e glamour of the blond-haired Jimmy Fiske was gone; and there remained only a small-town boy in ill-fitting clothes who had ridden to the Sophomore Hop in a day coach and who had forgotten to send you flowers. T h e headlight of the approaching train gleamed faintly far down the track. I put my hands on your shoulders, and I said very softly,

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"If in years to come you should recall me, dear, will you remember that I love you very much?" And you closed your eyes, swaying toward me, and said sobbingly: "Oh, Jimmy, don't! Don't say that!" I thought you meant that I should not say that I loved you; but I opened my arms, for this was our last minute together; and you came into them, your silver-embroidered coat against my worn brown one. I kissed you, and you smiled up at me through your tears, and you said, "Good-bye, dear." T h e train came in, and I climbed aboard. And when I looked out, you were standing beside Bill Fisher, one of your own kind. A bell clanged, and the train moved on, taking me back to Oakland and away from you. T h e next day was Sunday, and I went to church with my mother. In the afternoon I wrote you a restrained letter, thanking you for inviting me to the Hop, and explaining that I would understand if you did not care to reply. I was grievously hurt, dear, and because I was young and there was only an aching void where my heart had been, I wrote things which should not have been written. All week I waited for your answer, but it did not come. I know now, after years have passed, that you could not have answered that letter. I had been the one at fault; I had failed to keep the faith. But I did not know that then; and one week followed another, and I had only my memories of you. In February my firm sent me to Chicago; we were expanding, and the talk of wafting music through the air became a possibility. My mother laid away her thimble for the last time, and the Ladies' Aid Society of the church feted her, and we shook the dust of Oakland from our feet. I read later in the Oakland Advocate, to which we had subscribed, that you had invited Red Hotchkiss to your Junior Prom.

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Do you remember, dear? T h e years have gone by—twentysix in all—and tomorrow we shall celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary. For I came back to you when you had finished college; and we met on Barrett Street, and the golden specks were in your eyes again. And I said, standing in front of Flathmann's Delicatessen Store, "If in years to come . . ." And you reached out your arms, interrupting me—half the town stood still to watch—and you said, changing the words a little, "I do recall you, and I do love you, dear." And we kissed each other on Barrett Street, which had been paved since I left; and a hurdy-gurdy on a near corner ground out some impossible music which was sweeter even than Old Jake Snyder's squeaking violin. You are worried now, dear—as your mother was once worried over you—about Betty Lou. She is eighteen years old, and she thinks she is in love with Bill McKim. But she is your daughter, dearest, and there are specks of gold in her eyes. I am asking you to let Bill have his chance. You can decide about B i l l — w h o was All-State tackle last fall—after you have read this clumsy attempt to recreate our own romance. It is my anniversary present to you; I shall leave it, unsigned, in the room where you are sleeping. Perhaps we can ask Bill McKim to our dinner at the Country Club. Leon Marvin, the great poet, will be there; and Congresswoman June Thomas; and Margaret Blue Dunning, the well-known divorcee, with her latest satellite. Bill will probably be ill at ease in such distinguished company. He will probably wear rented evening clothes and a bulging shirt. He will not know the appropriate things to say. But a long time ago you invited a poor boy to a Sophomore Hop. Do you remember?

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IN YEARS TO COME is a biographical story based upon my high school days; and at the time of writing, it was so real that I used the actual names of the characters involved. Ruth Randolph was the Dorothy to whom I once wrote many verses; I was Jimmy Fiske, the football captain. I lived uptown, the "Franklin Avenue crowd" downtown; and, although my mother did not do fancy sewing and I did not rent a tuxedo and attend a Sophomore Hop at Dorothy's college, many parts of the story were taken directly from high school life as I knew it. Our school dances were held at Bauer's (Brower's) Hall, swaying trolley cars clanged through town and conductors sometimes cheated on fares, and occasionally we went to Boynton (Pointer's) Beach. Some of the incidents are true; for instance, the five cent bet with Dorothy's younger brothers —which, by the way, was never paid—and the disintegration of Lydia's pompadour. But Dorothy was not with me when "the stars came down and enveloped us" on the pier at the Beach, that was another girl; and the part of the story having to do with the Sophomore Hop was based upon my observations on the college campus.

"If in Years to Come," therefore, is part fiction and part truth. But to make it a short story, the truth had to be Actionized and some non-truths added. If the story had been simply a recital of the youthful romance with Dorothy, it would not have been a short story, for Dorothy married another man and 97

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I married another girl, and that simply does not happen in short stories that magazines buy. T h e original title, "High School Days," was changed to "If in Passing Years" and finally to "If in Years to Come." My own suggestion, which found favor neither with Eda nor my agent, was " A Plea for Jimmy Fiske," which I still think is a good title although not so pleasing as the one finally adopted. T h e story was written in the second person, consistently through the mind of Jimmy Fiske, and was constructed fluently. Not until the first half-dozen pages were completed did the plot take definite form, although I knew it would revolve around the love of a poor boy for a girl on a higher social plane. I wanted to write an "old-fashioned" story about a high school group and to include a school dance in Bauer's Hall and a visit to Boynton Beach. It was my original intention to have Jimmy visit the Randolphs' summer home in Maine where he would be made to appear somewhat of a clod in Ruth's eyes. He was then to go away determined to make good, and, having attained a moderate degree of success, return home and claim Ruth's hand. T h e story was to reach its conclusion with their meeting after a lapse of years. Fortunately, the plot was changed in the course of writing and the college dance substituted for the visit to Maine. T o have Ruth invite Jimmy to her summer home, knowing that her mother disapproved, would not have been in keeping with her character. T o have her mother invite Jimmy for the purpose of humiliating him, of making him appear less attractive to Ruth, would have introduced something malicious, something out of keeping with the tone of the story. It would have caused a minor character to play too big a part. When Ruth invited Jimmy to the Sophomore Hop, however, she did so because she wanted him as her guest, because she was proud of him and in love with him, and expected him to have a good time. T h a t strengthened the reader's sympathy

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both for Jimmy and Ruth, made the reader more sensitive to the unhappy results of a situation which was natural and logical but which could not have been foreseen by either of the two chief characters involved. In my many years at college I have seen boys embarrassed and ill at ease at houseparty week-ends; I have seen freshmen bring home town girls to dances and discover that they did not begin to match in attractiveness the habitual prom-trotters. I have seen many a youthful romance blasted under the same circumstances in which Jimmy and Ruth found themselves. And because I was so familiar with that situation, I was able to write of Jimmy's first college dance with sympathy and understanding. T h a t it ended unhappily and in a maze of misunderstanding is logical and natural, for Jimmy's reactions were those of any average boy in a similar situation. A n author needs to know his characters as well as his story background in order to write effectively, and both characters and background must be synchronized in creating the effect for which the story is intended. It is this selection of detail, of the right incident in plot and character development, which makes the difference between a successful and an unsuccessful story. T h e present ending of "If in Years to Come" did not occur to me until the manuscript was two-thirds completed. But undoubtedly it strengthened the story, rounding out the plot, giving it an unexpected twist and establishing a reason for the writing of the anniversary letter. Such success as the story gained is due chiefly to the fact that the author wrote honestly and sincerely about his own people in a setting with which he was intimately familiar. T h e characters were real to him; he knew their way of living. T h e background was real; he was a small town boy. If in his first attempt at adult fiction he had written a story about the South Sea Islands, the Limehouse District of Lon-

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don or New York's Chinatown, his effort would have been destined to failure. He would have made the mistake which a surprisingly large number of beginning writers make. They do not realize that an author does not need to travel to far places and undergo exotic experiences in order to write salable stories. They do not realize that good plots may be found anywhere. There is a story in the house next door if we can find it, in the small boy who trudges wearily to school, in that family down the street whose son is "missing in action." There are stories all around us which are ours for the taking, and these are the stories we best can write. "If in Years to Come" was written at South Casco, Maine, during the last days of a summer vacation. The idea came to me one evening after Eda and Fliv had left for Bridgton and I was alone on the Island. I began the story at a table in the sunporch facing the darkening Sebago Lake, completing three thousand words in a little less than three hours. The next morning, however, those three thousand words were cut to four hundred, for I found that I had used up ten pages of manuscript introducing Jimmy and Ruth to the reader. It was necessary only to establish the fact that Jimmy fell in love with Ruth at the moment he first saw her, that although he was poor and she was rich, he loved her nevertheless. So we eliminated those pages which told of his meeting her after church, of their walk home in the moonlight, and her crowd's almost amused tolerance of Ruth's new "crush." We ended the introduction with the words: "And I knew that I loved you and would always love you. There would never be any one else." The theme and tone of the story were thus established, and we were ready to go on with its writing. The fact that we had adopted the second person type of narration had a great deal to do with the story's development, for we were able to ex-

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elude from the minds of the two main characters everything except their mutual love and the factors which had bearing upon it. It did not matter to them what other people thought; at the college dance, for instance, Jimmy cared not a whit about the impression he might make upon Ruth's sorority sisters, but he did care stupendously about the impression he was making upon Ruth. The lasting quality of his love as indicated in the introduction made it unnecessary to devise a love-triangle, which is usual in stories of this type; all we needed to do was to erect a social barrier which threatened Jimmy's and Ruth's romance and to thrust aside that barrier, not by any sensational or unusual incident but simply by the enduring quality of their mutual affection. Thus the introduction did more than start the story going and introduce the main characters; it determined in no small degree the kind of story it was to be, a close-to-the-heart, simply written story of two normal young people pursuing a normal life. In the case of "If in Years to Come," this philosophy of writing, or this technique, or whatever you may call it, was subconscious; in later stories, it was worked out deliberately, for I had learned that the introduction is of vital importance in the evolvement of a short story, and has not only a direct bearing, but also a vital influence upon the story proper, the climax and the conclusion. In the following six days, I wrote approximately three hours a day. The words came easily and the action flowed smoothly, for I had placed no limitation on length and simply let myself go. The plot unfolded and the characters, because they were real people, spoke and acted naturally. When finally the first draft was completed, the family read and liked it. We spent only an hour or two in revision, then sent it to New York. The following three letters from my agent trace the steps leading to its sale:

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I really enjoyed reading this story and think your title, "If in Years to Come," is delightful and apt. I have no changes to suggest, so you may use your own judgment about the final version. I hope it may find a buyer. I shall look forward to the final draft and we'll all keep our fingers crossed 1 SEPTEMBER

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Just a line to say that the story, "If in Years to Come," reached me safely this morning and has already started out on its travels. OCTOBER

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I am delighted to be able to report that I have this morning sold your short story, "If in Years to Come" to Good Housekeeping for $400.—the highest price they ever pay for a "first" short story. Let's hope that this success will be an encouragement for you to go on and write for the magazines. T h e story was published the following May. It was the seco n d story in the magazine, illustrated in two colors by Jay Hyde Barnum; and by strange coincidence the pictures of Jimmy Fiske looked so much like Sam that many persons commented upon the similarity. U n d e r the title was the sub-title: " ' W i l l you Remember?' asked the Boy. As if A n y G i r l C o u l d Ever Forget." T h e r e were three illustrations; one a picture of a middle-aged man writing a letter, the second of Jimmy and R u t h on the pier at Pointer's Beach, and the third of Jimmy waiting for R u t h at the foot of the stairs in the sorority house. W e were not consulted as to the illustrations; authors seldom are. W e had read the galley proofs and had found that the editor had deleted only two sentences, but we did not know what the layout would be. T h e finished product thrilled and delighted us and we found, somewhat to our amazement, that w e had grown greatly in stature in the eyes of our friends

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and acquaintances. In the years when my juvenile books had appeared with almost monotonous regularity, I was known vaguely as an author but no one was particularly impressed. T h e neighborhood sons and daughters read the books, invariably borrowing them from Sam and Fliv, and occasionally a mother would purchase one as a Christmas present for a youthful relative. Once in a while I was introduced to a stranger as "a man who writes boys' stories," but the stranger did not seem to care especially. When "If in Years to Come" made its appearance, however, casual acquaintances stopped me on the street to shake hands, immediate friends bragged about me (for the one and only time), and at the next dance of the social club of which I am a member pretty young girls made as much fuss over me as if I had been Jimmy Fiske himself. At a dinner of the English department at college, the story was the main topic of conversation. President Clothier read it, borrowing a copy of the magazine from his maid. One would have thought I had written the Great American Novel. Now, when a story of mine is published, hardly anyone among the T o w n and Gown bothers to read it. But they read the first story, and I was a Personage. T w o days after that issue of Good Housekeeping appeared, every copy in Rahway had been sold, and to say that we were not pleased would be dishonest and super-modest. After a week or two, word reached us from other places that the story had been well received. Mr. William F. Bigelow, for many years the efficient and understanding editor of Good Housekeeping, wrote me: I am enclosing three letters of rather unusual nature. It is seldom that an editor publishes anything that practically everybody praises. T o date, that has been the fate of your story, "If in Years to Come." Incidentally, I discovered when I looked you up in Who's

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Who that you are almost a neighbor of mine. I live in Roselle Park, which is only five or six miles from Rahway. Some day when I am out in the car I will probably run down and say hello. Your agent tells me that you are planning to devote most of your time next year to writing. I hope that I shall have the pleasure of seeing more of your work. Mr. Bigelow never ran down to say hello, b u t I shall always be grateful to him. "If in Years to C o m e , " I think now, is slightly too sentimental and somewhat overwritten. If I were to do it again, I would cut its wordage, eliminate some of its "fine writing." B u t that, probably, w o u l d have taken away some of its appeal. Mr. Bigelow must have realized it, for he permitted the story to be printed practically as submitted. T w o of the three letters to which he referred follow. I am including them because they show how people react to a story, and bear out my contention that magazine readers enjoy and appreciate simply written stories in which such qualities as honesty, loyalty and integrity dominate. A n editor purchases a manuscript and passes it on to his readers, and it is these readers, not the editorial staff, w h o determine the success or failure of the story. T h u s , an author whose story is well received by the buyers of the magazine in w h i c h it appears is considered an asset by the editor, and any future manuscripts which he may submit are assured quick and sympathetic reading. A writer w h o can build a following and maintain it need have no concern about the marketability of his product so long as it continues to be of high standard. B u t if that standard is lowered, his readers are the first to notice it, and his following becomes smaller and eventually disappears. His name may still be good for an occasional sale in a minor magazine, b u t sooner or later, unless his standard is raised to its former level, he will no longer be a selling author. N o w the letters:

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From Fort Thomas, Kentucky: MAY 3, 1937

Editor, Good Housekeeping, My daughter, aged fourteen, came to me the other day with the May issue of Good Housekeeping and said "Mother, I've just finished reading the sweetest story I've ever read and I want you to read it." I promised to do so, when I had more time, really thinking it was some article appealing only to an adolescent mind. Yesterday, I began my usual thorough perusal of Good Housekeeping—I had utterly forgotten my child's request—when in the midst of reading "If in Years to Come" by Earl Reed Silvers, it dawned upon me that it must be her "sweetest story"—for never have I been so moved by any short story—and I am almost a constant reader. Last night, after much persuasion I got my husband (whose ideas of literature are financial and sporting pages) to read it. And in a rather husky voice he said, "Well that's the gol darndest, finest story I ever did read." And the three of us, daughter, father and mother, sat and discussed it—father and mother, I must admit, in a rather sentimental reminiscent mood. But just because it is so very unusual for any story written these days to be acceptable for both the young and adult mind, I felt I wanted very much to say thank you to you and the author for "the gol darndest, sweetest story." M. C. P. From West Hartford, Connecticut: Your May book presents a story of Earl Reed Silvers, "If in Years to Come." That a theme so beautifully conceived could find space in a current magazine, is to me a revelation. My daughter, who is sixteen and as modern as saucer-hats with three inch veils, insisted that I read the story. She promised I would find in it none of the usual tedium. She said it had impressive individuality, singularly free of literary connotations. Well, the child has judgment in such matters, so I read i t — I read it three times.

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And then I put it away—safely, and a little sadly, too—in the very small space in my modest library where tenancy depends not on popular acclaim but upon merit. P. R. As the weeks went on, many other letters arrived: from literary agents and editors of magazines; from young men, among them a radio technician in Hollywood, who wrote: "You have written so poignantly and beautifully around a difficult theme that even this hard-shelled and matter-of-fact technician wept, practically copiously furthermore. And this after twenty hours 'on watch' and four hours' sleep." But most of the letters were from mothers. Word reached me from former residents of Rahway, who had moved to far places; a classmate in Montana, another in Ohio. A colored boy with whom I had played football in high school addressed a letter from North Carolina. Russell Tandy, who had illustrated my first "book" back in the old Franklin Grammar School days and whom I had not seen in twenty years, wrote from his studio in New York: I just wanted to tell you what a kick I got out of "If in Years to Come." I can't tell you what ghosts were raised from the dead and with what feelings (I had tears in my eyes) I read about "Lydia Hunt" and "Old Jake Snyder." I can see her stiff back now and hear the tap of Old Jake's foot on the floor as he sawed out the dance music with his ear close down to the bridge of his fiddle in "Brower's Hall." Also, I, like so many other swains, took my first love to dance at "Pointer's Beach" and sang "Somewhere"; I remember all the words. The change came about when, as in your story, the well-to-do went off to college, the poor boys to work, and none realized that the end of their "Day of Brahms" or the "Twilight of the Gods" was at hand. . . . I go to "that town" but once in a blue moon and, as you wrote, the only thing that looks natural and that I view with a pang is "Jefferson School." I only wish I could have illustrated the story. . . .

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After two or three months only a few letters arrived; but a year later Good Housekeeping, referring to "If in Years to Come" in its "Fact and Fiction" page, announced that "it brought the second greatest amount of correspondence ever received from a story in this office." I am not laboring under the delusion that it is a great story in any sense of the word; it is simply a story written from the heart about people whom the author knows well against a background with which he has long been familiar. It is a typical example of one of the basic rules of the short story: We should write of things we know.

After three years the story was completely forgotten except for a few sentimentalists among my friends. Then, out of a clear sky, came the following letter from an associate editor of The Reader's Digest: In accordance with our arrangement with Hearst Magazines we take pleasure in enclosing our check for $250 in payment for exclusive reprint rights among magazines similar to The Reader's Digest to your story "Do You Remember?" which appeared in Good Housekeeping for May 1937. We have scheduled our condensation of this story for our July issue, two copies of which will be sent to you upon publication. Why the Digest selected this story from the thousands available, I do not know. But we were pleased, of course. A great many people wrote us about it, and at least a dozen letters came from South America and Cuba, for the story was included in the Digest's Spanish edition. One letter was of special interest. It was written from Havana and asked permission to reprint the story: "Will you please, if you have available, send me copy of picture of you and your wife and daughter so I publish in Cuban newspaper. The Cuban peo-

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pie have like your history very much. I send you my congratulation and hope to hear from you." T h e writer was a member of my class at Rutgers, whom I had not seen or heard from in twenty-eight years. In the condensed version of the story the name was changed because the song "Somewhere," from which the original title was taken, was omitted completely. The time of the story was changed from 1909 to 1 9 1 1 . All minor characters except Jimmy's mother and Ruth's mother, father and sister were eliminated, and only brief mention was made of them. Other omissions include the first meeting between Jimmy and Ruth, the incident of the pompadour at the high school dance, the trolley ride to Pointer's Beach, Jimmy's preparation for the Sophomore Hop and his visit to the rooming house. The conclusion was changed only slightly. In comparing the manuscripts of both stories, I found that the first eleven pages in the original story were cut to one and one-half pages in the condensation; the first fifteen pages were condensed to three pages; the first twenty-eight to six and onefourth pages. "If in Years to Come" contained twenty-nine pages of manuscript; "Do You Remember?" contained seven. The story was cut from 7,500 words to 2,200 and yet, the editor who made the condensation, if letters from readers may be considered a criterion, managed to preserve the human touch which, apparently, appealed strongly to the readers of the original story. In the course of the years, beginning writers have told me frequently that it was impossible to delete a single sentence from manuscripts they had submitted for criticism. Since "Do You Remember?" appeared, I have been able to cite it to them as a model of condensation, as a perfect example of how a readable story may be written without a superabundance of words. It is printed herewith in full.

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Do You Remember? Do YOU REMEMBER, dear, the days back in 1911 when we went to Oakwood High School, and the chemistry lab where you and I worked over messy chem experiments and grew to know each other? Your family had just moved to our town; I learned that your father was a Randolph of Philadelphia, and a man of affairs. My father was dead, and I lived with my mother in a double house on Hancock Street. We received $30 a month rent for the other half of the house, and my mother did fancy sewing for the well-to-do people in town. She did it proudly, with her head held high, but you did not know that. All you knew was that I was a dressmaker's son. But I was taken into your crowd, the Franklin Avenue crowd, because I was Jimmy Fiske, the football captain and president of the senior class. When I told my mother that you were going to the high school dance with me, her tired eyes clouded. She knew that my waking thoughts were mostly of you, but she knew also that the gulf between Franklin Avenue and Hancock Street was not easily bridged. Yet she did not tell me that; she said only that she was sorry I did not have a blue suit to wear. I assured her that the gray one I had bought at the Main Street Emporium would be all right. When I arrived at your house to take you to the dance, you came downstairs in a new blue dress which was all frilly net around your shoulders. Your face was like a dark flower, pink roses were in your cheeks, and there were golden strands in your hair. You stood on the bottom step and looked at me, unmindful of my cheap suit. You must have seen something in my eyes which a man reserves for sacred moments. Then your mother came in, and I was aware not so much of From The Reader's Association, Inc.

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disapproval as of tolerance. There was a subtle difference in her attitude toward me and toward the others of your crowd; they were of her own kind, and I was an outsider. In her presence I was awkward and inarticulate. You and I walked to the dance, and I carried your velvet slipper bag. There were few automobiles then, if you remember, and no garages on Franklin Avenue—just wide green lawns and spacious porches. W e had dance programs in those days; I kept eight of the twelve dances for myself, and when I showed you the program you flashed a look at me that made my heart miss a beat. When the last dance ended there were specks of gold in your eyes, as if you were recalling that we had heard the music of the stars. Do you remember Pointer's Beach? Where it stood twentyodd years ago on the shore of the Sound is now a row of oil tanks, but in those days it was a place where the sons of dressmakers and the daughters of clerks went to dance on summer evenings. A pass to the dance hall for the evening cost only 25 cents, the trolley ride cost a nickel, and there was a long pier on which to walk in the moonlight. But to girls like you, Pointer's Beach was only a name until that evening in June when the Franklin Avenue crowd decided to do a bit of slumming. You were leaving the next day to spend the summer at your family's island in Maine. When you came back you were to go away to college, and I would be able to see you only for short vacation periods. I was face to face with tragedy. During that evening at Pointer's Beach you and I left the dance pavilion and walked out to the end of the pier. W e had only a little time together, for we all were to go home on the 9:30 trolley. Fifteen minutes, perhaps,—fifteen minutes to make up for a whole summer. " T h i s time tomorrow night you will be on your way to Maine," I said.

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"I'd rather be here with you, Jim," you said. "I've got a job, starting next week," I said. "It isn't much at first but there's a chance to work up in the electrical field. And I'll make good; I've got to." "You will," you said. " I know that." You moved closer. " J i m , " you said softly, "I want you to come to the Freshman Hop with me at college next year. Will you come?" "Yes," I promised. I reached down and took your two hands. W e stood, the clasp of our hands tightening. Then you let go of my hands and put your arms around me. You raised your face in the starlight and your lips, which I had never touched, brushed against my cheek. T h e stars came down and enveloped us. You said, "I shall always remember tonight, my dear." Have you remembered it? Many things have happened since that night. Oakwood has changed. T h e trolleys are no more. T h e green lawns on Franklin Avenue are marred with gravel driveways and ugly garages. Honking horns and racing engines shatter the quiet of the night. T h e small red brick high school we knew is empty, its windows staring vacantly at the new million-dollar school across the way. Peg-top trousers and padded shoulders have given way to slacks and sport jackets. Girls don't wait at home for escorts to a high school dance; they trip, with crimson lips, to curbs where lounging boys in roadsters wait impatiently to greet them with studied arrogance. At the end of July you wrote me that your mother thought we shouldn't write each other so often. I sent you only two letters a week after that. I wasn't earning much, but I could now see big chances of advancement. Men spoke in the office of the new developments in electricity. There was talk of wafting music long distances through the air; it fascinated me and I worked hard, thinking always of you.

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T h e n you wrote that your sister had, with the cruel thoughtlessness of the very young, told your father that you were in love with me; that you mooned around all day and sometimes wouldn't go swimming because you said you had a letter to write. A week after that, when I was counting the days until you should be home again, you wrote that you weren't coming back—your family had decided to send you directly to college from Maine. I wrote you at college every day but you did not answer often. I had only the Hop to look forward to. I imagine your mother protested your inviting me, but you had definitely committed yourself. A t any rate, I came. For the Hop I bought a new suit—not a very good one, but the best I could afford— and rented a Tuxedo. W e had agreed excitedly, by letter, that I would take the four o'clock train on Friday which arrived at your college town about six. I was to get a room at the hotel and dress, and be at your sorority house for dinner. After the dance I would catch the two A. M. train back to New York, since my boss said I was needed on Saturday. I rode in the day coach, not being able to afford a Pullman chair. T h e cheapest room at the hotel in your town was $ 3 , so I walked around the streets until I found a boarding-house room for 50 cents. A t your sorority house you presented me to people, but I couldn't think of appropriate things to say to them. You sat next to me, but you didn't talk much. I became aware that my T u x e d o was outmoded; that gray-topped shoes were not proper with evening clothes. Somehow I suffered the hour through. T h e n the girls went upstairs for their wraps; the men donned black overcoats and pulled white gloves from their pockets. My brown plaid overcoat was pretty conspicuous. You came down wearing a white evening wrap embroidered in silver, looking more beautiful than I had ever seen you.

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" S o m e of the girls are taking cabs, but I'd rather walk," you said. "Is that all right, J i m ? " I should have ordered a cab in advance, but no one had told me about that. T h e gymnasium where the dance was held was only two blocks away, and we walked through the moonlight, your hand beneath my arm. During the first dance I noticed that all the other girls wore flowers. I hadn't bought any for you; I hadn't known I was expected to. " I ' m sorry about the flowers," I said. You looked at me with a hint of tears in your eyes. " J i m , " you said, "the flowers don't matter. I — " You pressed your head against my shoulder. I held you close for a moment, sensing that this was the beginning of the end. But I carried on through the evening as best I could, trying to talk to your friends in their own language, and if I failed it was not for lack of trying but because I hadn't any small-talk on colleges and fraternities and plays in New York. You and I danced together, but not to the music of the stars this time. When it was all over you said you were coming to the station with me. As we rode down in a hack, I told you— wanting you to know the worst—that I hadn't registered at the hotel but had dressed in a rooming house, that I was wearing a rented T u x e d o , and all the rest of it. When I had finished you said, " O h , J i m , I wanted you to have a good time tonight—and you didn't." " N o , " I said, "it was a mistake having me here. I — I just don't belong." It was only a minute or two after we got to the station that the headlight of the train gleamed far down the track. I put my hands on your shoulders and said, "If in years to come you should recall me, dear, will you remember that I love you very much?" And you closed your eyes, swaying toward me, and said, " O h , J i m — d o n ' t say that!"

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I thought you meant that I shouldn't say I loved you, but I opened my arms, for this was our last minute together, and you came into them. I kissed you and you smiled up at me through your tears and said, "Goodbye, dear." On Sunday I wrote you a restrained letter, thanking you for inviting me to the Hop and explaining that I would understand if you did not care to reply. All week I waited for an answer, but it did not come. One week followed another, and I had only my memories of you. My firm sent me to Chicago; we were expanding and the dream of sending music through the air became a possibility. Not long after that, things really began to come my way. Mother laid away her thimble and I took her to live with me. Do you remember, dear? T h e years have gone by—twentysix in all—and tomorrow we shall celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary. For I came back to find you soon after you had finished college. By chance we met on Barrett Street and the golden specks were in your eyes again. Standing there on the street, I began to repeat what I had said to you that night when I left you at the station after the Hop: "If in years to come . . ." Interrupting me, you reached out your arms (half the town looking on!) and said, " I do remember, and I love you, J i m dear!" W e kissed each other, and a hurdy-gurdy on the corner ground out some impossible music that sounded sweeter than Schubert. You are worried now, dear, about Betty—as your mother was once worried over you. Our daughter is 18 years old and thinks she is in love with Bill McKim. I am asking you to let him have his chance. You can decide about Bill after you have read this clumsy attempt to recreate our own romance. It is

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my anniversary present to you; I shall leave it in the room where you are sleeping. Perhaps we can ask Bill to our dinner at the Country Club. He will probably be ill at ease with a Pulitzer Prize biographer, a Congresswoman and our other distinguished guests. He will probably wear rented evening clothes and may not know the appropriate things to say. But a long time ago you invited a poor boy to a college Hop. Do you remember? Two months after "Do You Remember?" appeared in The Reader's Digest, the following letter was received from one of Harold Ober's associates: We've given Orson Welles permission to make an adaptation of your story IF IN YEARS TO COME and broadcast it on his program for a fee of $150, which I hope is satisfactory. The broadcast is not yet scheduled, but they have promised to let me know in advance, and I will pass the word on to you. The adaptation will be about gi/£ minutes long,* which is the reason for the fee being no larger. Eda and I had never listened to an Orson Welles broadcast but the following Monday evening we decided to tune in on his program. Suddenly, out of the void sounded this announcement: Good evening! This is Orson Welles. Tonight we bring you another radio program for Lady Esther. . . . We've got two items for you. The first is one of the warmest and nicest love stories I ever found for radio. Ever since I read it four years ago, I've been wanting to do it for you. It is called "If in Years to Come," and I hope you like it as much as I do. Just at that moment Sam came in, and the three of us sat in * The broadcast, however, consumed 29 minutes.

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the living room and heard the broadcast together. Orson Welles took the part of Jimmy Fiske, and the script reads: * (MUSIC: OF THEME. . . . DOWN AND FADE OUT)

Jimmy: Do you remember, dear, those old days back in 1909 when we were eighteen? Do you remember the blondehaired boy who saw you first on Radcliffe Avenue? You were coming to High School with Margaret Blue. I was football captain and President of the Senior Class. I was with Buck Cooper and another fellow and when I saw you I stopped in my tracks and just stared. Buck: Say, what's the matter with you, Jimmy? Jimmy: Who is she, Buck? Buck: Her name's Ruth Randolph, a new girl in town. Her family just moved here from Philadelphia. They've got a lot of money and their ancestors came over in Noah's Ark. What's eating you anyway? Jimmy: You came, walking into the sunshine with Margaret Blue. And there was an aura around your head. There were specks of gold in your eyes as you glanced at me. . . . The subsequent dialogue follows closely the story's text. When Jimmy tells his mother he is taking Ruth to the dance, the script reads: Mother: You're very fond of Ruth Randolph, aren't you, Jimmy? Jimmy: She . . . she's my girl, Mother. Mother: The Randolphs are very rich, Jimmy. Jimmy: That doesn't make any difference to her. She's not like that. Mother: Of course not. I wasn't thinking of her. . . . (PAUSE) I'm sorry you haven't a good blue suit to wear. * Used by permission of Orson Welles. Broadcast October 13, 1941, over the national network of the Columbia Broadcasting System.

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Jimmy: T h e gray one I bought from Abe Grossman in the Main Street Emporium will be all right. Mother: I hope so, Jimmy. Jimmy: But it wasn't all right. I knew that as soon as I got to the Randolphs' house. You were still upstairs. . . . T h e incident of the pompadour is included in the script.

Jimmy: . . . Lydia Collins, an old maid, and Jake Moss, the town drunkard, played the music. And I never heard such music as they played. It was beautiful. And do you remember the terrible thing I did to poor Miss Collins? We waltzed too near the piano and as I swung you around, my thumb—which was held out stiffly as was the fashion in those days—caught in Miss Collins' pompadour . . . and her rat fell to the floor. (MUSIC: VOICES

STOPS OF

SUDDENLY)

SURPRISE

AND

SHARP

SCREAMS

OF

INDIGNA-

T I O N AND E M B A R R A S S M E N T

. . . And there was the thin gray hair which was her own streaming down all around her. . . . VOICES

BURSTS OF

LAUGHTER

Lydia: Young man . . . young man! You ought to look where you're dancing. . . . Ruth: We're terribly sorry, Miss Collins . . . may I come in the dressing room with you. . . . I'll help you rearrange it. . . . After the dance (I do not know why Lydia's and Jake's last names were changed) the scene switches to the trip to Pointer's Beach. (MUSIC:

U P AND DOWN AND

SOUND:

CLANGING

RUMBLE BADLY

OF

OF

OUT)

OLD-FASHIONED

TROLLEY.

"GENEVIEVE"

. . . MEN'S

TROLLEY

BELL.

VOICES S I N G I N G

. . . VERY

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Jimmy: And then do you remember, dear, the night we went to Pointer's Beach? We sat together on the bumping trolley, holding hands. . . . ( S O U N D : T R O L L E Y STOPS. . . . VOICES O F SINGERS

Conductor:

(OFF MIKE)

SOUND: G E N E R A L (MUSIC:

STOP)

Pointer's Beach. . . . All out.

CONFUSION

OF HURDY GURDY O F F

MIKE)

First Barker: Fifteen shots for a quarter. T r y your skill. Rifles for the ladies. Second Barker: ( O F F M I K E ) Only ten cents, fellows—take your girl up on the Ferris Wheel. . . . Only ten cents. . . . a few seats left for this ride. . . . Step right up, gentlemen. . . . Jimmy: It was your last night. We didn't want to share it with the others. When they went into the pavilion to dance . . . (MUSIC:

DANCE MUSIC O F F M I K E , HOLD UNDER)

We walked on down the pier . . . and looked out over the water. (SOUND:

W A T E R L A P P I N G AGAINST

BEACH)

Jimmy: T h i s time tomorrow night you'll be on your way to Maine. Ruth: You know I don't want to go, Jimmy. I'd rather stay here with you. After R u t h invites J i m m y to the Sophomore H o p , Jimmy tells in the script of the events of the summer. T h e scene then shifts to the railroad station at the college town and their first meeting since early summer. T h e n J i m m y goes to the rooming house:

Landlady: Yes, what do you want? Jimmy: I'd like a room to dress in. I won't need it after eight o'clock. How much will that be?

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Landlady: Fifty cents. And you can have the use of the bathroom if you don't take too long. J i m m y next goes to the sorority house where his embarrassment is obvious. H e and R u t h go to the dance and finally she accompanies him to the railroad station. (SOUND:

TRAIN CHUGGING INTO STATION)

Ruth: Here's the train now. Well, it's time to say goodbye. Jimmy: Goodbye, Ruth. . . . R u t h . . . darling, if in years to come you should think of me once in a while, remember that I love you very much. . . . Ruth: (SOBBING) Oh, J i m . . . don't . . . don't . . . say that! Jimmy: I thought you meant that I shouldn't say I loved you, but I opened my arms, for this was our last minute together . . . and you came into them, your silver embroidered coat against my worn brown one. ( S T A N F O R D : B O A R D ! ) I kissed you and you smiled u p at me through your tears. . . . Ruth: Goodbye, dear . . . goodbye. . . . (SOUND: TRAIN

WHISTLE)

Conductor: ( O F F M I K E ) All aboard . . . all aboard. . . . Jimmy: Goodbye. . . . ( M U S I C : U P AND DOWN AND OUT)

J i m m y then tells of his going away, of his return and of his meeting R u t h on Barrett Street. T h e latter scene is enacted to the tune of a hurdy gurdy. T h e conclusion follows the story's text exactly, ending:

Jimmy: H e (Bill) will probably wear rented evening clothes and a bulging shirt. H e won't know the right things to say. But a long time ago you invited a poor boy to a Sophomore Hop. Do you remember? (MUSIC)

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T h e story of "If in Years to Come" ends with the Welles broadcast. I have included in this chapter the complete Digest version and extracts from the radio script with the thought that a study of them may be of value to the beginning author. Probably, many thousands of people have read the story or heard it on the air, and its writing and reception have given us a measure of happiness all out of proportion to the effort put into it.

6 College Dances Are No Different From the Diary of Nancy

Brown:

I have just been to a College Prom. It is Monday night and I should be studying, but I want to put down my impressions before I forget them. I went with Peter Selfridge, of course. Peter is a freshman, and he met me at the station at five o'clock. He didn't wear a fur coat like a lot of the other boys, but his blue eyes were just as blue as ever, and somehow I wanted to reach up and touch his hair. We walked up to a hill and across the campus to Wentworth Hall, the dormitory where he lives, and Peter introduced me to Mrs. Parker, the house mother. He had arranged to have me stay with her, because his father does not believe in fraternities and he is not a member of any, and when he introduced us, she put her hands on my shoulders and looked at me sort of queerly and said, "You darling child!" I guess Mrs. Parker didn't realize I am sixteen and will be a senior in high school next year. After that Peter took me out to look at the stadium and the new gymnasium. He said that I would find college dances a lot different from our school dances at home, and I was homesick for a minute for Ploversville High and the grand times we had there last year, before Peter went to college. We had dinner in the Commons, and Peter introduced me From Good Housekeeping.

Copyright, 1939, by Hearst Magazines, Inc. 121

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to three or four boys I was to have dances with. He said that none of them was a big shot or even a fraternity man; but I didn't care very much, because I wanted most of all to dance with Peter. Mrs. Parker helped me to get ready for the Prom. I wore a new net dress, which Peter had never seen. It was quite low at the back, and I don't think Mrs. Parker approved of it. She said in a sort of quiet tone, "I'm afraid you're going to make some young men unhappy tonight, Nancy," and I wondered if she meant that I didn't have on the right clothes and that Peter would be ashamed of me. But when he came in at ten o'clock, his eyes lighted and I knew he wasn't ashamed. We took a taxi to the gymnasium, where the Prom was held, and on the way up he showed me my card. He had saved fourteen of the twenty dances for himself, and he asked, "You don't mind, do you, Nancy?" I said of course I didn't mind, for that was the way we had done things in high school and I couldn't see that college dances were any different. But the dance floor was a dream, all palms and flowers like a tropical island, with the swimming pool a lagoon. There were just hundreds and hundreds of girls, and they all had low-neck dresses like mine, and men like Peter, although Peter was more distinguished looking than most of them. W e had the first dance together to the wonderful music, and he asked, "Do you like it, Nancy?" "It's wonderful," I said. During intermission we sat in a big booth which was reserved for the Neutrals, and just before the music started again a tall man, thin and stoop shouldered, came up and shook hands with Peter. "This is Nancy Brown, sir," Peter said. "And this, Nancy, is Dr. Sterling, my English prof." I didn't know that English professors went to Junior Proms, and it never occurred to me that he would want to dance. But

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he asked Peter if he could have the next dance with me, and Peter had to say yes, of course. Dr. Sterling was almost thirty, I guess, and if it weren't for his eyes he would have been very homely. But his eyes had a dreamy look in them, as if he were seeing things the rest of us couldn't see. I didn't think he would be a good dancer, but he was. As long as he could remember he had dreamed of being a playwright, and now, with this lovely brown-eyed girl in his arms, the dream became clearer and nearer to actuality. He danced in perfect rhythm, for he was a poet at heart, and wondered if she thought him old and somewhat ridiculous. He was T . Ardsley Sterling, assistant professor of English, and twenty-eight years old. He had seen her as soon as she entered the gymnasium with the Selfridge boy, young and slender and desirable. For several years now he had watched girls at college dances; and he knew the prom-trotters, glamorous and assured, the girls from home with pathetic new dresses, the hard girls and the cold girls, and frightened girls who did not belong. He had watched them impersonally but never danced with them. He danced with ladies of the faculty or with his own still hopeful contemporaries in the town. But now he was dancing with Nancy Brown, and he seemed to himself no longer a colorless academic, but a man quite young. He wondered if she knew that behind the beauty of her eyes and her smooth skin there was a still greater beauty, something ethereal, something altogether intangible, which would make men worship her and awaken in them a desire to reach for the stars. "I shouldn't be keeping you from dancing with younger men, Nancy," he said inanely. "I've never danced with a professor before," she answered.

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There was no need to say more. T o her, he was just an English prof, as to other girls in other days he was just a spindlylegged boy, too thin, who wrote verses they could not understand. They swayed and glided to the beat of loud music. Memories, never entirely forgotten, flooded his consciousness; his boyhood, when he was not like other boys. He had worn short trousers after their allotted time because his parents insisted he was still too young for "longies." His classmates had taunted him about that with youth's ruthless cruelty. He remembered his high-school days. He was not one of the crowd. There was a girl, Marilyn Haines, who lived on the Hill. He sat across the aisle from her in Latin class, and the sound of her voice moved him strangely. He daydreamed to the rounded meter of the Aeneid that when he had finished college and had written his Play, he would come back to her. He wrote a poem about it, "I Shall Come Back to You." She gave parties to which he was not invited. She went with Dudley Roper to the Sweet Shoppe for banana splits, and sat with Dudley at basketball games in the "Y." But a boy across the aisle placed her on a pedestal and worshipped. He wrote the senior play, about a rich girl who married a poor poet. Marilyn was the girl, and he thought she would understand that he was the poor man who aspired to her hand. When the play was given, and they both had received their measure of praise, he mustered the courage to invite her to the senior dance. He had bought new white flannels and white shoes and a plaid sports coat. The purchases represented a family sacrifice; but he had told his mother he was taking Marilyn Haines to the dance. She thought it was fine that he should be taking Marilyn. He asked Marilyn at the conclusion of Latin class. He said, standing very straight because he needed all his courage, " I —

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I'd like to have you go to the senior dance with me, Marilyn." T h e class was shuffling out of the room. He heard the scraping of their shoes on the floor. He saw Marilyn's eyes widen and heard her shrill nervous laugh. He heard her voice, incredulous: "Why, I—I'm going with Dudley, Specs." She blinked and regained something of her composure. "Thank you, Specs, but I'm going with Dudley, of course." She didn't go with Dudley. Unexpectedly, Dudley invited a new crush, Doris Shore, and Marilyn had another escort. Specs Sterling stayed away from the dance and hid his heart from the world. He kept it hidden through four uneventful years at college. He won high honors and Phi Beta Kappa and was given a fellowship. He became, eventually, Professor Sterling. Now, he was writing the Play. He was tempted to tell Nancy about the Play. T h e first draft was finished, but the third act was wrong. His agent in New York had said to him (he rated an agent because of his prestige as a scholar): "You've got to pep up the third act, Professor. It needs a happy ending. There's too much sadness in it." He ventured hesitantly: "I'm writing a play, Nancy. Would you be interested?" "I love plays," she answered. "It's about a girl and boy in high school," he explained. " T h e title is 'White Flannels and Sports Coats.' T h e trouble with it was that it had a sad ending; but it's going to have a happy ending now, because of you." He was aware of her dubious glance, and he realized that she was puzzled and confused. For she did not know, of course, that, although he was twenty-eight and stoop shouldered and bespectacled, his few minutes with her had opened new vistas and revived new hopes; that that intangible something about her which would make men reach for the stars had, also, the

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power to make men see clearly. He knew now what was the matter with his Play; he had failed to take into account that, while sadness has its part in the scheme of things, even the hurt heart of a sensitive boy has some degree of happiness as its heritage. He thought: "Somewhere I shall reach the heights. Then, I shall find this girl again, or a girl like her, and there will be no further loneliness." Her head was against his shoulder, and her soft body was brushing his. Suddenly she looked up, and her eyes were the eyes of youth, innocent and unafraid; but they were the eyes, too, of omniscient womanhood, which has given men comfort and inspiration since the world began. They uncovered Specs Sterling's heart and gave him his third act. "Thank you, Nancy," he said. From Nancy's Diary: Dr. Sterling hardly talked at all. It was like dancing with one of the teachers back home—only different, somehow. I wanted to ask him how Peter was doing in English, but I didn't feel like talking either. He said he was writing a play and that he was going to change the ending because of me, but I guess that was just his line. When we got back to the booth, he bowed to Mrs. Parker, who was one of our chaperones, and went right o u t — he is pretty old and needs sleep, I guess. I had the next dance with Peter, but it had hardly begun when a big boy whose clothes were too small for him tapped Peter on the shoulder. "Hey, freshman, how about the next?" Peter sort of gulped. "Sure!" he answered, and when the big boy went away he said, wonderingly: "That's John Arnovitch, the football player. He—he's never even spoken to me before."

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He told Mrs. Parker about it, and she said to me, "John Arnovitch is a good man, Nancy, if he can find himself." I don't know what she meant. . . . T h i s was his first Junior Prom. He wasn't a playboy, he was John Arnovitch, rough and tough and going places. He held the freshman's girl lightly, because he didn't want to hurt her or to have her afraid of him. He had come stag, and the rented suit he wore was the biggest the store had, but not quite big enough. T h e coat chafed him at the shoulders, and the collar on his stiff shirt was too high. T h e girl, Nancy Brown her name was, said, " T h e music's wonderful, isn't it?" "It sure is," he answered. Her voice did something to him. He felt his heart thump as it thumped sometimes before the kickoff of a big game. He wondered if she had ever seen him play. She would be mentioning football soon. T h a t was what people always talked to him about. But she asked, "You live in Wentworth Hall, where Peter does, don't you?" "No, I'm over at the Deke House." T h e Dekes hadn't wanted him especially; but the coach had talked them into taking him in. He had been promised B R T when he came to college—board, room, and tuition—and one of the fraternities had to take care of him. He could have done better at some other colleges, but he wanted pre-medicine. He had intended, at first, to be a doctor. "It must be fun, being a fraternity man," Nancy said. "Yes," he answered laconically. He was a Latvian. His mother and father spoke broken English and worked in a canning factory. He had done well in college, though. He had learned, in some ways, to be a gentle-

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man. He was a junior and a big shot on the campus. He had won the State game and had heard the stands boom out his name: "Team, team, team—ArnovitchI" Now, he was at the Junior Prom, dancing with a girl whose eyes and voice did something to him. He wondered what there was about her that made him suddenly dissatisfied with himself and the picture he had painted of his future. He had decided to go into professional football after graduation. There was money in that. He had worked it all out. He would coast through his senior year at college and sign up with whichever big-league team drafted him. He would play football for five years, maybe longer, and salt his money away in the bank. After that, he might buy a farm somewhere. His body was his one big asset. Why shouldn't he capitalize on it? He had a fighting heart and the competitive spirit. And strong hands. He remembered what the head of the biology department had said about his hands at the end of his freshman year, when he was still a pre-med: "They're surgeon's hands, Arnovitch, and made for healing." He had been able to adjust the most delicate instruments in the lab in half the time it took other students. The head of the department had talked to him about a scholarship at medical school. "You'll go far, Arnovitch. It will mean hard work; but it will be worth while." Instead, he had taken the advice of the football coach, and had switched to physical ed. The coach had told him he was a fool to work too hard in college, and the lab periods cut in on practice. He had wanted very much to make the varsity, and he had been a sensation as a sophomore. Last fall he had been chosen for Ail-American. Everybody on the campus knew him and spoke to him as if he were a king or something. But the head of the department of biology, meeting him on the steps of

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chapel one morning, had said, "Those hands of yours are meant for better things than holding a football, Arnovitch." T h e professor didn't know, though, what it was to be poor and have people look down on you because you were poor. He didn't know what it was to have a paper route in early morning and to work hard every spare minute of every day. College had been a release from all that, and professional football would be a further release. Medical school would have meant another long struggle—going hungry again, perhaps, and wearing threadbare suits and frayed neckties. There were no B R T ' s in medical school. H e had thought it all out and had chosen pro football. And now, strangely, dancing with a girl in a blue dress, he found himself remembering what the head of biology had said: "They're surgeon's hands, Arnovitch, and made for healing." He danced smoothly, with the grace of a natural athlete. Nancy had nothing to say. H e asked finally, "This is your first college dance, isn't it?" "Yes," she answered. "It's mine, too." When she looked up in quick surprise, he added: "I'm not much on this social stuff. I — I ' m working my way through college." T h e statement was true enough. He was a paid athlete. She thought, of course, he was working as honest men do, washing windows or waiting on tables, and she drew slightly away and looked at him with eyes wide with sympathy. " Y o u deserve a lot of credit," she said. "I should think you'd be proud of it." It wasn't what she said that got him, it was the way she said it and the look in her eyes. They were young eyes, and yet they were old eyes, too, and he saw something in their depths which was clean and fine, like his own perfect body and his own strong hands. In his heart, he had known from the beginning that the

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head of biology was right. But he had refused to admit the truth; he had chosen the easiest way. Now, he admitted it. T h e eyes of Nancy Brown had pointed out to him the only path for him to follow. He would go back to pre-med. It meant the loss of two years, for he would have to start again where he had left off as a freshman. He would play football next fall, because he had an obligation to the team and a job to do; but after that he would get work in the laboratory, and scrub floors if he had to, but he would carry on. He would know again a poor man's uncertainty. But his hands would eventually do the work they were intended to do, and if he ever saw Nancy again, he could hold his head high. He might not see her again. It would be eight years or more before he had finished his training, and she might be married then to the tow-headed freshman or to someone else of her own kind. Sometime, though, when he was Dr. Arnovitch, he would search for her, and if she was still beyond his reach, he would find another girl with eyes both young and old, which had in their calm depths the power to make him play the game. He drew her closer, so that his lips brushed her hair. He wanted that as a lasting memory. "I won't be dancing again for a while," he said. "I'm studying medicine, and there won't be any time for dancing." T h e music stopped, and they drew apart. He put his hands, which were meant for healing, on her slim white shoulders, and he asked, "Do you think you can remember an old roughneck like me, Nancy?" "You're not a roughneck," she said. From Nancy's Diary: John Arnovitch is going to be a doctor. He is quite poor, I guess, for he is working his way through college. He asked

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me if I would remember him, and I think I will, for although he was awfully strong, he was a wonderful dancer. He had nice hands. Peter must be popular at college, for a lot of fraternity men came over to the Neutral booth and talked to him. They asked him for a dance; but he said his card was filled up. Mrs. Parker seemed to be having a good time. She smiled a great deal, and once I heard her say to the other Neutral chaperone, "We seem to rate high tonight." Then they looked at each other and grinned. Some of the boys I had met at the Commons danced with me; but they were pretty much like the boys at home. There was one man, though, who was different from the others, as Dr. Sterling and John Arnovitch were different. His name was Don Prescott, and he had tired circles under his eyes. Peter told me afterward that he was the biggest man in college in his junior year and was elected president of the Student Council; but that he had sort of fallen down as a senior. He was running around with a fast crowd. He had a car of his own and was an Alpha Delt. Peter didn't seem anxious to have me dance with him; but he couldn't very well refuse the president of the Student Council. When we passed Mrs. Parker, she stood up and touched his arm. "You're bringing her back right after the dance, Don," she told him. "Of course," he said. . . . Don Prescott glanced across the room to a small circle of chairs, where Midge Lawton was sitting. She wore a red dress which matched the deep red of her lips, and it was plain to see that she did not belong. Two men were with her—men who did not count in the campus scheme of things—but in spite of them, she looked lonely and defiant.

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He had kept Midge away from the Alpha Delt booth, for she was not the kind of girl an Alpha Delt would ordinarily take to a Junior Prom. Nevertheless, she had been, apparently, having a good time, until he had left her a few minutes before to meet Nancy. He had seen Nancy first with John Arnovitch, and it had seemed wrong, somehow, for her to be dancing with a big bruiser like that. He had watched her in the Neutral booth and on the floor. She was very young, and there was something about her which, at first vaguely and then vividly, had made him ashamed of Midge and of himself. He realized that Mrs. Parker, whom he knew slightly, had questioned the wisdom of his dancing with Nancy. Before this night was ended, though, he wanted to talk with her. She might make him forget, for a few minutes at least, the sordid happenings of the past few months. " T e l l me something about yourself, Nancy," he said. There wasn't much to tell, she answered. She came from a little town called Ploversville, where her father ran the bank. They lived in an old house on a wide street, and she was a junior in high school. This was her first college dance. She didn't see him wince at the mention of an old house on a wide street. She didn't know that he, too, lived in a small town, that he had expected to go back when he finished college and work there with his father. She didn't know that there could be no returning now. As long as he could remember, he had worshipped his father. They had fished together and gone on camping trips, and talked as man to man before a grate fire in a house a century old. His father had brought his mother there as a young girl hardly older than Nancy. And through the ensuing years, just as the old house had come to stand for security and his father for all things strong, so his mother had stood for all things fine. It was for them that he had done his best in college, and

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when he was tapped for Cap and Skull, the honor society, and elected to the Student Council, he had gone home happily to tell them he had made the grade. But he had never told his father about Cap and Skull. When he reached home early in June, his father had left the old house. He had asked his mother for a divorce. Men did things like that. His mother had stood up to it. But he had come back to college, hard inside, cynical and disillusioned. He found that if he sat late at the Corner Tavern and drank, he could forget his mother's eyes and his own sense of futility. But in the mornings he faced reality. He was moody and morose, and the brothers looked at him questioningly. They couldn't understand what had happened to him. He hadn't told them. He did, however, tell Midge Lawton. He met her one night at a football dance in the gymnasium. She had come with Jim Higgins, who was not of the elite, and she was bored with Jim. "Can't we slip away?" she asked. He drove her to a lunchroom downtown and, over coffee and sandwiches, he told her about his father. Not the good things—there was nothing good or clean any more—but the sordid things. She reached out her hand and said, " I wouldn't worry, Don." It was the first word of sympathy he had had. He saw her frequently after that. Sometimes they went to the movies and sometimes on long rides in his car. She was different from girls he had known, but she helped him to forget. She hinted persistently about the Junior Prom. "If you really cared for me, Don, you wouldn't mind us being seen together at college. I'm good enough to hang around with, but when a big dance comes—" He asked her to the Prom. Nothing made any difference, and if the brothers didn't like it, that was just too bad. There

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was no need for her to stay at the Chapter house, since she lived in town, he had explained. "Yes," she agreed. She would do anything he wanted her to, he decided. And after the dance tonight, he wasn't taking her home. He had fallen as low as that when he met Nancy. Now he was dancing with her. " A r e you having a good time, Nancy?" "Yes," she answered simply. "Even with a rounder like me?" She looked up at him. Her brown eyes had specks of gold in their depths, and he was reminded of oak leaves he had seen in the autumn among the high hills. "You couldn't be a rounder," she said. Probably she didn't know what a rounder was. Of course she didn't know about Midge Lawton. And if he took Midge home, before the Prom was ended, and said, "I'm sorry, Midge, but it's all over now," there would be no need for her to know. For that would mean that he had abandoned the Midge Lawtons of the world for the Nancy Browns. She danced with her head back, and he saw how clear her eyes were, and how honest. A light shone with sudden clarity through the fog of hurt bewilderment in which he had been groping, disclosing him as a coward and a quitter who had run away from reality. H e looked at Midge against the green wall and back again at Nancy; and one represented the new way and one the old way, to which he was now returning. For this girl in his arms stood for all things fine, as his mother did, and he knew, now that the fog had gone, that he himself could still stand for all things strong. He could do that by meeting his obligations as campus leader and his greater obligations at home. When the music stopped, he led her across the floor to the Neutral booth.

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"Thank you," he said. "There will be other dances, I hope; but none will ever mean so much to me as this." He gave her over to the Selfridge boy and bowed to Mrs. Parker and went back to Midge. He spoke gently, for he was sorry to hurt her: "Come on, Midge. We're going now." From Nancy's Diary: I don't know why Mrs. Parker said what she did to Don Prescott, for I enjoyed my dance with him very much, and he took me back to the booth as soon as it was over. He went out a little later with a girl in a red dress, and I was sorry to see him go, for he had said something about dancing with me again. But he was just fooling, I guess. That's the way it is with men. Even men like Dr. Sterling and John Arnovitch have lines of their own. Probably they've forgotten me by now. When the Prom was ended, Peter and I walked down to Wentworth Hall instead of riding, for we wanted to be by ourselves. We stopped outside the door of Mrs. Parker's apartment, and he took my face in his hands and asked, "Whose girl are you, Nancy?" "I'm your girl, Peter," I answered. Then he kissed me, and there was only Peter, and the cold night and the stars. T h e same thing happened at our high school dance last winter, and I can't see that college dances are any different.

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was written on the Island in Maine. T h e actual writing took only a week and the revision another two days, but the story was nine months in the making. One afternoon in December, a member of our freshman class dropped in to see me. He was an attractive youngster, clean-cut and enthusiastic; he was going to the Sophomore Hop, he said, and was bringing his girl from home. He explained further that she was a junior in high school and expected to be valedictorian of her class. "She's fifteen," he added. I visioned a fifteen-year-old potential valedictorian of a small town high school at a college dance, and my heart sank. "I'd like to have you bring her in to see me when she reaches town," I suggested. He promised to bring her in. She was coming by train, he explained, and the train was due at four o'clock Friday. Shortly after the appointed hour some members of our undergraduate Press Club were making considerable noise in the outer office. Suddenly the noise ceased, and a moment later the freshman and his girl opened my door. One glance at Nancy banished all my doubts, for she had poise and presence and as beautiful brown eyes as I have ever seen. I did not go to the H o p but the next day the housemother with whom she stayed told me that Nancy had been a "knockOLLEGE DANCES ARE NO DIFFERENT

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out." Later on Saturday the two youngsters drove to Rahway to tell me what a grand weekend they were having, and I noted with interest, although I knew a great many other men had "rushed" her, that she still had eyes only for her freshman. Thus, the germ of a story was born but the plot was long in developing. It was to concern a young girl attending her first college dance, men were to fall in love with her, and she was to go through some unhappy experiences but emerge unscathed. In the first draft, I choose the title "College Dances Are Dangerous," and decided to make it a first person story told by a dormitory preceptor. It began as follows: At eleven o'clock on the morning of the Junior Prom, Pin Sedgewick breezed into the Preceptor's Room in Wentworth Hall. "I'm too excited to go to classes," he announced. "I'm too excited even to think." "Why?" I asked. "I'm going to the Junior Prom, sir." Pin wasn't the kind of boy you would associate with the Junior Prom. He was a freshman from a little town called Pleasantville in northern New York, naive and enthusiastic, and very young. There was a look of clean youth in his ruddy face, and his blue eyes were unafraid. "I'm bringing Nancy, sir," he said. "A town girl?" "She's from up home," he answered, and his cheeks grew red. "She was my girl last year," he added. "She's fifteen." Fifteen and a girl from home! I remembered other Junior Proms and was dubious of Nancy. "Pretty?" I asked. Pin never answered the question, for that beginning was rejected. It was a lifeless piece of work, without the proper tone. It was a manufactured introduction, lacking in interest and in character. It was not fiction; I was reporting what actually happened, and the result was commonplace. I decided to wait a while until the story began to jell, and a

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month later tried again, this time under a better title, "Are You My Girl, Nancy?" Pin Sedgewick was going to the Junior Prom. He wasn't the kind of boy you would associate with junior proms. He was a freshman from a little town called Pleasantdale, in northern New York, naive and enthusiastic and very young. There was a look of clean youth in his ruddy face, and his blue eyes were unafraid. Life had been gentle with him. He had never had reason to be other than what he was, for he had coasted through school, and had enough money for college. At this point, I gave up in disgust. I asked myself a pertinent question which all story writers might well keep in mind: "Who cares?", and the obvious answer was, " N o one." This draft was to have been written from the omniscient point of view, but the beginning was all wrong. I had spent at least five writing hours on these two failures, and was discouraged and resentful. T h e words simply would not come. But I kept on trying. I jotted down a rough outline of the plot: What I want to show is that youth can rise above these exterior happenings and motives, and go through it all cleanly. Gene Rollins falls in love with Nancy but she just doesn't see it. Phil Rose looks upon her as a conquest and exerts all the wiles and temptations which a sophisticated man can offer, but she just goes back to Pin. I want to show what is happening at fraternity houses and how these youngsters are just above all that. I want to picture a roistering group at the Crystal Lunch and show how Nancy is untouched and unimpressed. I want her and Pin to stick together and carry through because they are clean, honest youth. And in the end, she has had a grand time and thinks Pin is the tops. T h e plot was beginning to take shape but was still not clear. I decided to tell the story in the third person through

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Nancy's stream of consciousness; to start at the beginning, carry through to the end, and stop. I wrote fifteen hundred words of a third draft under the title, " O n W i t h the Dance." Her mother had said earlier in the day, " I ' m still not sure that I should let you go. College dances are dangerous sometimes." Nancy had answered, "You don't need to worry about me, Mother"; and now the train was crossing the railroad bridge and she could see the campus buildings against the faded blue sky. She had never been to a Junior Prom before; she was a senior in high school and seventeen. Pin was waiting on the station platform. There were dozens of other boys but none so good looking as Pin. She saw his straight blond hair and his ruddy cheeks and she waved to him, but Pin did not recognize her through the spotted window. But when she came down the steps, suitcase in hand and just a little afraid, he discovered her and waved through the confusion. He pushed aside a man who looked like a football player and stood in front of her, beaming. " G e e ! " he said. "Gee, you sure do look pretty." T h i s introduction was better than the other two but it did not click. It lacked the touch and I laid it aside regretfully. T e n hours had now been spent on a story which was not even begun, not counting other hours when the plot had been revolving in my mind and getting nowhere. A f t e r a month or two I tried again, this time on the dictaphone, with still a fourth title, " N a n c y Goes to the P r o m . " There are girls like Nancy Parks. Even at seventeen they touch a man's arm and smile at him, and the man starts dreaming. They hum softly at a college dance and swing music becomes sweet music and the lights in the fraternity booths are shining stars. They say casually, " I think you're a fine dancer, T o m — " or Bill or Joe—and T o m becomes a Fred Astaire. Their hair is a miniature garden of spring flowers and their cheeks are petals of pink roses. Their soft young bodies awaken vague desires and their firm young breasts inspire unaccustomed yearnings. For they are flowering youth, the Nancy Parkses of the world, and their round arms are

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magnets which draw men to them, and their white hands have been moulded for tenderness so they might not crush too easily a man's heart. This is an attempt at fine writing which created an impression entirely different from my original intention. A story evolved from such an introduction could not be other than sophisticated and sensuous. Nancy's attraction was based primarily upon physical appeal; she would not have been at all the girl about whom I intended to write the story. T o have carried out the tone established in the introduction I would have had to write a sophisticated love story with sex as its moving factor; and that was something I did not want to do. Moreover, it has no place in the current popular magazine; for writing of this type, the reader must turn to books where there are practically no limitations. The introduction was unsatisfactory also in a technical sense. I told in expository form what I should have shown in narration. Instead of introducing Nancy to the reader and having him find out that she was beautiful and charming, I was telling the reader so. Draft number four was placed in the file with the three other failures. For some reason or other I was not ready to write the story. So I waited until we were alone on the Island, without outside distractions and, after a few days of leisurely thinking, the plot suddenly unraveled itself. It was finished in approximately twenty hours of actual writing but there was still some work to be done. I read it to the girls of Highland Nature Camp, finding by their reactions that the story of John Arnovitch was too long and that they were not especially interested in the fortunes of Don Prescott. So I returned to the typewriter, cut eight hundred words from the manuscript and rewrote that section which concerned Don and Midge. Finally, I spent two hours working out a new ending, and the manuscript was finished.

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N i n e months had elapsed since the idea of the story first came to me. T h e actual writing had consumed approximately forty hours, and many additional hours had been spent in trying to strengthen the plot, in integrating the several incidents into a compact whole, and revising and polishing the final draft. I should say in fairness that no other story has taken so long to write or caused me so much trouble, but this particular yarn is an excellent example of the axiom: Story writing is hard work. "College Dances Are N o Different" was chosen as a title because it did not disclose the plot, and at the same time it meant something. Sometimes, a magazine changes a title after acceptance; this has been done in almost fifty per cent of the stories I have written. But this particular title seemed to fit the bill. T h e story was illustrated by J o n Whitcomb, and the layout was most attractive: a large picture of Peter taking Nancy's face in his hands and asking, "Whose girl are you?", and three smaller pictures; of the professor, of J o h n Arnovitch, and of Don Prescott. T h e sub-title read, "What do men see in the eyes of a girl that gives them new hope and new courage? What lies in the depths of an answering smile that brings men new faith in themselves?" "College Dances Are N o Different" is three stories in one, bound together by Nancy's diary. It contains one main plot and three minor plots, a form which is not often employed. T h e diary, of course, is in the first person; each story incident is written in the third person through the mind of the second central character; i. e., Dr. Sterling, Arnovitch and Prescott. And each of these minor stories has a different tone, best illustrated in the description of Nancy's eyes through the streams of consciousness of the three men:

The professor:

" . . . her eyes were the eyes of youth, in-

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nocent and unafraid; but they were the eyes, too, of omniscient womanhood, which has given comfort and inspiration since the world began." John Arnovitch: " I t wasn't what she said that got him, it was the way she said it and the look in her eyes. They were young eyes, and yet they were old eyes, too, and he saw something in their depths which was clean and fine, like his own perfect body and his own strong hands." Don Prescott: " H e r brown eyes had specks of gold in their depths, and he was reminded of oak leaves he had seen in the autumn among the high hills." It would have been inconsistent for Prescott to think of Nancy's eyes as those "of omniscient womanhood," for Arnovitch to be reminded of oak leaves among the high hills, and for the Professor to interpret their charm in terms of his own body and his hands. And in short story writing, we must be consistent; a character thinks in his own language, expresses himself, even in indirect narration, in the language he would use in actual life. T h e plots of the three sub-stories had their germs in observation. Once, during summer session at college, a middleaged school teacher told me he was writing a play but was having trouble with the love scene in the third act. Later, I saw him sitting beneath the campus trees with a young girl, reading a manuscript. Out of that incident was developed substory number one. A few years ago, an outstanding Rutgers football player elected botany (and that really happens in some colleges). Later, his professor told me that the boy had the most sensitive hands he had ever seen, ideal hands for surgery. A n d so, substory number two. Occasionally, in my undergraduate days, a brother in the fraternity would invite to a house party a girl who was not considered socially qualified. I remember especially one fresh-

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man who was reprimanded by the Head of the House for having as his guest a "townie" of questionable reputation. Thus, sub-story number three. Each of these sub-plots is what is known as a "suddenly he realized" story, a type found frequently in the pages of magazines. A man married for many years is attracted by his young and beautiful secretary, believes himself in love with her and makes plans to divorce his wife and marry her. But something happens at the last moment and suddenly he realizes that his wife has many virtues which the other woman does not possess, and he returns to her, to live happily ever after. This type of story must be handled with infinite care. "College Dances Are No Different" is, as mentioned above, held together by the thread of Nancy's diary. And Nancy is kept consistently innocent and unspoiled from beginning to end. Otherwise, the story would have lost its effectiveness. In the Don Prescott incident, it was my original intention to have Nancy awaken Don's better nature so that after the dance he sought a minister and was married to Midge Lawton. But on second thought, I knew that would be inconsistent, would destroy the impression the story was designed to create. For each of these three men left Nancy with the unexpressed hope that he would meet her again and perhaps win her; or, if not her, a girl of equal charm and character. I have explained at some length these technicalities because they play an important part in the construction of a short story. In "If in Years to Come," the mechanics of writing were employed subconsciously; but in "College Dances Are No Different" they were used deliberately, for I had learned by the time it was written how a story should be constructed. The former has greater charm; the latter is, technically, a better product. It represents long hours of hard work, but in the field of authorship, salable stories are usually written only by the sweat of one's brow.

8 To a Brown-eyed Girl Those portions of the original manuscript which were deleted by the editor of Good Housekeeping are enclosed in brackets; material added by the editor is set in SMALL CAPS.

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HE VOICE of Miss [Lowenthal] LOWRIE, the English teacher, droned on [monotonously]. T h e windows were closed against the bitterness of a March gale. David Pearce, w h o was a new boy at Oakland HIGH, glanced fleetingly at a browneyed girl across the aisle; and she smiled at him absently, as she might have smiled at a hundred OTHERS [other men], not knowing that he loved her. H e r name was Betty Lee, and he had seen her first in the late autumn w h e n the Oakland football team had GONE [come] to Woodridge, where [he] DAVID was living then, [for the last game of the season]. H e was not a football player, he was not even a cheer leader, and between halves he had wandered across the field to the visiting cheering section. [He saw girls in f u r coats, and in cloth coats with fur collars.] HE SAW A GOOD MANY GIRLS AND most of them were blue-lipped with cold; b u t the lips of one girl were not blue at all. Her cheeks were red where the wind had kissed them, and her eyes were golden brown, more beautiful than any eyes he had ever seen. H e stopped directly in front of her, [not realizing that he was being rude, and he wanted to say to her, " Y o u ' r e not real, are you? From Good Housekeeping. Copyright, 1939, by Hearst Magazines, Inc. 144

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You're just a dream girl." He didn't say anything, of course, but] AND just stared at her; and after a moment, she [looked up and] saw him standing there. Just for an instant, their eyes met, and then he turned away, embarrassed, [aware at last of his rudeness.] He thought, wanting to look back but not daring to, "I suppose I shall never see you again, but I shall always remember." Betty Lee looked after the boy who had been staring at her. She saw the wind ruffle his unruly straw-colored hair, and she liked the way he carried himself. He was a nice boy, she thought, different, somehow. His eyes were very clear, and very blue. When the game [was] ended, David walked home alone, hardly caring that Woodridge had won. His mother, who was a trained nurse, had left a note on the dining room table, saying that she wouldn't be home until late. He stared at the small, firm handwriting, thinking that probably she was out again on a charity case. She was always doing things for people, he reflected, things she did not need to do. [Sometimes, 1 she would be away for several days, and when she came back her shoulders would be stooped with weariness. David would ask her what case she had, and she would mention some family in the poor section of town. He would know, then, that the grocery bill would have to hold over for another week. But the grocer never dunned his mother for payment.] [When she was at home, they washed dishes together, and afterwards, while he was doing his lessons, she would fall asleep in her rocking chair by the window. When, finally, he had finished his homework, they would go upstairs, and would just say goodnight, without kissing each other. David tried to let her know, by the way he spoke, that he wanted to kiss her. He would think, "She wants to kiss me, too, but she's embarrassed, as I am." But they understood each other; two rather lonely people, standing together.]

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David crumpled the note and went up to his room. He remembered the brown-eyed girl again, [forgetting his mother,] and time had no meaning. He visioned dark pools in a hidden 2 forest and cold stars shining on a winter's night. [And he thought, closing his eyes that he might think more clearly, that each star was a word, and all the stars strung together were a poem beautiful beyond expression.] The stars of his own thoughts merged themselves into a poem. He called it "Remembering," and he wrote about a crimson sunset and a silver moon. His heart said to a girl he would probably never see again that whenever he heard sweet music, he would think of her. Now he was sitting across the aisle from her in English class. Unexpectedly his mother had been appointed City Nurse at Oakland; he had changed schools, and Betty Lee was a classmate. He saw little of her except at school; she lived in a big house on Jefferson Avenue, and he was an "uptowner," living on Pine Street where the houses weren't so large. He discovered that her voice had a husky timbre which stirred him strangely; he learned that she was vice-president of the class and very popular although not so vivacious or colorful as Doris Rendall, the head cheer leader. Apparently she had forgotten about his staring at her between the halves of a football game. She smiled at him sometimes, but [she very] seldom bothered to talk to him. He was just a new boy who didn't amount to anything. He ventured a glance at her. She was listening to Miss [Lowenthal's] L O W R I E ' S eulogy of Burke's "Speech on Conciliation." The clock on the wall pointed to ten minutes to three, and steam hissed in a faulty radiator. Miss [Lowenthal] L O W R I E closed her book, the [harsh] lines in her face softening. [She was very homely, David thought, and] she was pretty old, [too;] H E THOUGHT, thirty-five, at least. [Mostly, she sat straight in her chair, holding her shoulders back as if she were

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fighting the pressure of time against her fading youth. Thick glasses emphasized the colorlessness of her eyes,] but when she quoted a beautiful passage from some author they were studying, her voice was surprisingly gentle and [her eyes were no longer colorless.] Y O U N G . She announced to an indifferent class that she was going to read a poem—A P O E M which one of their members had written. It had been given to her for criticism, she said, perhaps in confidence, but she was sure David Pearce would not mind if she read it. She hadn't known [that] they had a poet in their midst. Someone in the rear of the room chuckled—it was Red Lathrop—and Miss [Lowenthal] L O W R I E scorned him with a glance before beginning. Always, I shall remember— Whenever the sky is blue, Whenever the sun is shining, I shall remember you. Dawn, Night, In the I shall

when the birds are waking, when the stars are near, glow of a lingering sunset, remember, dear.

There was more to it, but David did not listen to words he already knew. He had not thought for an instant that Miss [Lowenthal] L O W R I E would read it [aloud] to the class. He felt his face burning, and the fire of his humiliation made his lips dry. He waited, wanting to cover his flaming face with his hands, until the reading was finished. He heard a strange silence in the room and he listened for Red's amused chuckle, but the silence continued for what seemed a long time. And then, Betty Lee started to clap, and pretty soon everybody was clapping, as they did sometimes in assembly when the basketball captain made a speech before an important

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game. He glanced across the aisle and saw Betty looking at him, and she seemed, somehow, to have changed. A t least, the light in her eyes was different. It gave him the momentary impression that she thought the poem beautiful and was proud of him for having written it. He looked away, telling himself that he was just imagining things, and the dismissal bell clanged in the hall. T h e class shuffled out, but David remained where he was, sensing that Betty was waiting, also. He heard a light step behind him and felt the touch of a soft hand on his shoulder. Doris Rendall was bending over him; Doris, who was [Red Lathrop's girl, with yellow hair and pale blue eyes.] HEAD CHEER LEADER AND R E D L A T H R O P ' S GIRL.

"Shakespeare," she said, "I think your poem was just marvelous. I want you to sign a copy and give it to me for my memory book." He was embarrassed, because Doris had never paid [much] ANY attention to him. He fumbled in his pocket, where he had a carbon copy, and he scrawled his name across it and gave it to her. Her fingers pressed against his shoulder. "You're a darling, Shakespeare," she purred. He watched her leave the room, slim and dainty; and it occurred to him that she would always get what she wanted as far as men were concerned. He had given her a copy of a poem written for someone else, and his feeling of guilt was like a stab of pain. He glanced at Betty, but she was talking to Miss [Lowenthal] LOWRIE, and he gathered up his books unhappily and left the room. Betty was saying to Miss [Lowenthal] L O W R I E , "I'd like very much to have a copy of David's poem." Miss [Lowenthal] L O W R I E picked up the typed page but the words were only a blur. "I knew a boy once." She seemed to be speaking more to

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herself than to Betty. "He had eyes something like David's, the kind of eyes which see things that most of us miss. He was shy, as David is, and sensitive. Most of us didn't understand him, but one girl did. She's with him now, and she's very happy. [I'd like you to be happy, Betty."] ["What she means is that she was in love with a boy like 3 David," Betty thought.] [Mws Lowenthal held out the typed sheet, and she was just an old maid English teacher again.] ["Here's the poem," she said. "You can have this copy. It's Called 'Remembering.'"] David passed Red Lathrop in the corridor, and Red called, "Hi, Shakespeare!" [He] D A V I D stopped before the bulletin board and read a poster which someone had tacked up; an announcement of a National Youth Poetry Contest [open to all high school pupils under twenty.] There were five prizes, with a first award of six hundred dollars, for the best poems submitted. He was about to turn away when he saw Betty come out of the English room. He glued his eyes to the poster [and] BUT was acutely aware of her as she stopped beside him. She said, after a minute: "Your poem was lovely, David. I think you ought to enter it in the contest. [It would win a prize, I think.]" He shook his head, wishing that his heart would stop its pounding. "I wouldn't have a chance against real poets," [he answered.] "Oh, but you would," she protested. "You're a real poet, David." He wasn't real, he thought. There was something artificial and wrong about a man who would give one girl a poem he had written for another. He wanted to say to Betty, "If it were as beautiful as you, for whom it was written, there wouldn't be any doubt about its winning a prize." But he didn't [say that.] He didn't say anything. He looked

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into her eyes and he thought, hopelessly, because he could never tell her now all that she meant to him: Whenever the sun is shining, I shall remember you. David copied his poem and mailed it to the magazine which was sponsoring the National Contest. He changed the title, calling it " T o a Brown-eyed Girl" so that, if by any wild chance it should win a prize, Betty would know he had written it for her and not for Doris. He permitted himself the luxury of dreaming. If he should win a prize—there was no chance, of course, but if he should win it—he would no longer be a nonentity in the class and in the school. In a certain sense, he would be a big shot like Red Lathrop. [The Oakland Advocate would carry an announcement of the award, and his picture, perhaps. There would be black-faced type on the front page:] [ L O C A L BOY V I C T O R IN N A T I O N A L C O N T E S T ] ["Specks" Millard,] the principal, would make a speech in assembly, telling him that he had brought honor and glory to the school. Miss [Lowenthal] L O W R I E would beam upon him, [through her thick glasses, and in the front row of the auditorium, so close that he would be able to see her eyes from the platform,] AND Betty would remember their minute together at the bulletin board. Later, when school was dismissed, he would wait for Betty on the broad front porch; and he wouldn't act like a big shot at all but would simply tell her he had written the poem on the night of the Woodridge football game, after he had first seen her—not knowing who she was, knowing only that he could never forget. He would tell her, too, that he had not meant to give the

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carbon copy to Doris. But until he could tell her that he would just have to go along as he had always gone, seeing [very] little of her except in school, watching her come down the street with Doris and Red [and the Jefferson Avenue crowd,] watching her go home with them. She was more friendly, he thought, although again he told himself that it was only his imagining. Sometimes, in English class, she regarded him gravely, and a smile trembled on her lips. He pretended, then, that he did not see her, [and he glared at his book or at Miss Lowenthal as if he were very much interested in what Mr. Burke had to say about conciliation]. T h e feeling grew upon him that, for some reason or other, Betty was sorry for him. Perhaps, it was because he lived in a little house on Pine Street and did not wear sports coats and checkered trousers as Red Lathrop did. Or perhaps, and this seemed more likely, she was sorry because he was not an athlete like Red. He would like to do something in athletics, he thought. After baseball season began, he sat in the stands and cheered for the team, his eyes following the gyrations of Doris Rendall in her role of head cheer leader. Doris, too, had changed. She called him Shakespeare all the time, and she asked him now and then if he had written any more poetry. Once, meeting him in the corridor, she demanded, "Can't those dreamy eyes of yours see anything, Shakespeare?" Betty and Doris were walking home [together] from a meeting of the Blue Triangle Club. They passed David on Barrett Street, in front of Brower's Candy Store, and Doris called, "Greetings, Shakespeare!" His smile included both of them, but he looked at Betty. "I'm going to ask him to the Club dance next week," Doris announced. Betty's eyes widened. She had been wondering if David would go with her [if she invited him.]

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"Why don't you let him alone, Doris?" she asked abruptly. "Let him alone? Why, I like the guy." Doris spoke almost wistfully. "Maybe, you haven't noticed his eyes. And he's so sort of hopeless-like. He wrote a poem, you know, and gave it to me." "Yes, I know," Betty said. David went to the Blue Triangle Dance with Anna Haines. O n the same morning that Anna asked him, Doris left a note in his desk: "How about the dance next week, Shakespeare? I'd like to have you go with me. [I'm Doris Rendall, if you've forgotten.]" He told Doris that Anna had already invited him, and she laughed lightly, as if it didn't matter at all, and said, flippantly, "Curses!" Anna was going to be valedictorian of the class. She looked like a valedictorian and [was not appealing to men.] David danced with her endlessly; [and she talked about Amy Lowell and T . S. Eliot, whose poems David had never been able to understand.] BUT his eyes followed Betty, who was with T i m Fenton, the baseball player. [She wore a long greenish dress, and he noticed how roundly slender her arms were.] People cut in on her and Doris all the time, but no one relieved him of Anna. Toward the end of the evening, however, Doris came over to where they were sitting. " W h y monopolize the poet?" she demanded of Anna. "You won't mind if we have a teeny-weeny dance [together,] will you?" Doris was like a feather in his arms. Her curly head rested on his shoulder. She was dancing with him, being nice to him, he thought, because she believed he had written a poem about her. She was quiet, which was unusual for Doris, and he was trying to think of something to say when T i m Fenton cut in. He saw Betty dancing in one corner with Red Lathrop, and

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he wanted [very much] to go over to her; b u t A n n a was a wall flower in a row of vacant seats, and he went back to A n n a . [They left for home early, and] the next morning, Mr. Blackwell, [who was] both track coach and Latin teacher, announced the C o u n t y T r a c k Meet to be held at Cranford. H e urged every available man to report for the team; and later R e d Lathrop accosted David on the way to lunch. " W h y don't you do something for your country, Shakespeare? Y o u ' v e got long legs and you're healthy enough. H o w about coming out for the team tomorrow?" " I ' d like to try," David answered. H e might be good in track. Probably, he w o u l d be terrible, but he might be good. For five years, until he became too old, he had delivered papers in Woodridge, sometimes r u n n i n g for long stretches in order to finish his route in time for breakfast. If he did happen to w i n a race in the County Meet, he w o u l d get his varsity letter. H e would be a big shot like R e d Lathrop. H e f o u n d an old pair of shorts and some tennis sneakers and reported to the coach, who greeted him indifferently and ordered him to take a turn around the track. B u t when the lap was completed, the coach's indifference had disappeared. ["Ever r u n before?" he demanded.] ["No, sir!"] ["You're a natural," the coach said, and turned to R e d , w h o was near the finish line. " T h i s boy has the makings of a grand half miler. C a n he take it, Red?"] [ " W e l l , " R e d answered, grinning, "he's a good poet."] T h e word spread around school that David Pearce was a candidate for the track team. A week later, he ran the half mile in two minutes and five seconds, which was fast enough to win the County Meet. H e could do even better than that under pressure, the coach said. T h e y found a pair of spiked shoes which fitted him, and he carried them home reverently. H e was a varsity man now; he was almost a big shot.

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T w o days before the meet, [he] D A V I D received a letter from the sponsor of the Poetry Contest saying that his was one of the fifty poems surviving the eliminations. Final announcement would be made almost immediately, the notice said. He carried the letter to school ON FRIDAY, touching it occasionally to make sure [that] it was real. He was sitting on top of the world, he reflected happily, and [again he] permitted himself the luxury of dreaming. Saturday—tomorrow—could very easily be the Day of Days. In the morning—"Oh, please, God," he prayed, "may it happen"—a letter could come from the Contest telling him that he had won a prize, first prize, perhaps. And in the afternoon, he could win the half mile in the County Meet, and with it his varsity award. And if that happened—"Oh, please God, may i t " — h e would telephone to Betty in the evening and ask if he could come down to see her. Perhaps they could take a walk somewhere, under the kindly stars, and at the proper time he would show her the letter from the contest and quote a line or two from the poem. 4 [Just dreams, he thought, just idle dreams. Nothing so wonderful could happen to him. But he raised his arms high above his head in a gesture of pure elation; and Mr. Blackwell, who was Latin teacher now and not track coach, interrupted his discourse on Canto V to offer a word of advice.] ["Come down out of the clouds, Shakespeare. T h e race hasn't started yet."] [The class laughed, but it was a friendly laugh. After school, at a brief senior meeting, he was elected class poet. Betty made the nomination and Doris seconded it, and the vote was unanimous.] [Betty waited until the others had gone, then she went up to Miss Lowenthal's desk. Her brown eyes were puzzled.] ["You told me once about a boy you knew, who was like

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David," she said. "What didn't you do that made you lose him."] ["/ didn't use the brains that God gave me," Miss Lowenthal answered quietly. "There was another girl, and I sat back and let her take him away."] ["Oh!" Betty said.] At supper T H A T EVENING David told his mother casually that he was running for Oakland in the County Meet. She nodded absently and said, "That's fine, David." She didn't know how much it meant to him; she didn't know about Betty and [the Jefferson Avenue crowd.] RED AND DORIS. In the short time she had been in Oakland, she had taught poor people to love her, and she was so busy that she could give David only a little of her time. She was preoccupied while they were washing the dishes TOGETHER. T h e O'Keefe boy, Sandow, had been operated on for appendicitis, she said. He wasn't very well, and there was danger of infection. "You know the O'Keefes, don't you?" He nodded. Mrs. O'Keefe did work around town; washing clothes, cleaning house and things like that. There wasn't any Mr. O'Keefe, he had just drifted away; but there was Sandow, who was crazy about baseball but who couldn't play because he was lame. [David went into the living room and sat down on a sagging armchair, forgetting about Sandow O'Keefe. He was nervous over the prospect of running, although the coach had said he could win hands down.] The telephone rang and [he thought that if it were only Betty calling him, asking him to come to see her, just the sound of her voice would dispel all nervousness. But it wasn't Betty;] it was the hospital calling his mother. He listened vaguely to a long conversation about Sandow O'Keefe, and he heard her say, "Yes, I think I can get someone."

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She seated herself at the center table, her thin body drooping with weariness; and he saw in her eyes some of the suffering of all the Mrs. O'Keefes in Oakland, some of the hopeless yearnings of poor people who live in leaky houses, some of the tragedies, touching upon such essentials as living and dy5 ing, of which he himself was only vaguely aware. [And he realized dimly that his own worries—wanting to say things to Betty he had no right to say, the fluctuating hope of winning a prize for words strung together, the pressing need to break a tape against his straining chest—were in comparison not essentials at all.] [He saw all this in a flash of understanding, and then, because he was eighteen and still cherished a dream, he walked to a window and looked out upon the shadowed street. He visioned a shifting crowd of people in low stands near the finish line, jerseyed runners digging sharp spikes into hard cinders, and girls in blue dresses and green dresses, and red ones, cheering for him. And after that . . .] His mother said: "Sandow will probably have to have a blood transfusion tomorrow morning. His mother can't afford to pay for it. I promised to find someone." [David turned from the window. T h e thrill of imagined victory was deadened by reality. He saw his mother's eyes again, very tired and very brave.] [He] DAVID knew, without her asking, what she wanted him to do I F HIS BLOOD WAS T H E RIGHT T Y P E . It wouldn't make any difference, probably; he would still be able to run. [He had given a blood transfusion once before when he was just a boy, and it hadn't bothered him much. He had gone downtown afterwards and ordered a banana split.] "I haven't anything to do tomorrow morning," he said. "Perhaps, I could help out with Sandow." [He saw the weariness fade from his mother's eyes. She

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looked at him, somewhat in the way Betty had looked at him in English class when Miss Lowenthal had read his poem. Strange, he should think of that just now.] [His mother went over to the telephone and called the hospital.] ["I've found a man to help with the O'Keefe boy," she said.] [The blood] His BLOOD WAS RIGHT AND T H E transfusion wasn't so bad. David stayed for an hour at the hospital, resting; and when he said that he was feeling fine and they let him go, he saw his mother in the waiting room downstairs. Her arm was around Mrs. O'Keefe, sustaining her, and Mrs. O'Keefe's red face was all blotchy from crying. [The two women saw him pass the open door.] 6 ["He's a grand boy, that son of yours/' Mrs. O'Keefe said.] ["He was glad to help Sandow, I know. He'll have the weekend to rest." David's mother had forgotten the County Meet entirely.] [Mrs. O'Keefe was silent for a time. She said, finally, "I'd like to have Sandow grow up like him."] David remembered that this was to be his Day of Days, and he walked across town to the " Y , " taking a deep breath with each step, trying to blink away tiny lights which persisted in flashing across his eyes. T h e coach was in the reading room with Red Lathrop and some others of the team. "You look sort of pale around the gills," Red remarked. "Nervous, Shakespeare?" " A little," he answered. He didn't tell them anything about Sandow. T h e coach, if he knew, might not want him to run. "I'll be okay this afternoon," he said. [He sat by the window looking out upon Barrett Street, 7 and he saw morning sunlight touch the faces of strangers. Many of them were like Mrs. O'Keefe, but a few were very old, and one small boy was lame, like Sandow. Each of them

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had problems, he thought, and worries and high hopes. T h e lame boy, if he could not get fifteen cents for the movies, would probably cry about it, as Mrs. O'Keefe had cried, and neither would know about the other's tragedy, thinking his own more important. T h a t was the way life was, he told himself, and it didn't really matter in the bigger scheme of things, whether he was a big shot or not.] [But, oh, Betty, Betty. . . .] He decided that he ought to go home and lie down for a while; and the coach grinned at him reassuringly as he left [the reading room.] ["Be seeing you at one-thirty, Shakespeare."] After he had gone, the coach turned to Red. "Queer chap, isn't he?" "It's because he's a poet," Red declared. "Half the girls in school are nuts about him, but he doesn't even know it. He's in the clouds most of the time, making up poems, I guess." "He's got what it takes, though, hasn't he?" "Yes," Red said, "HE HAS." When David reached home, he found a letter from the National Poetry Contest in the mail box. He sat down on the top step of the porch, holding a sealed envelope in hands that shook slightly, and he thought, "I won't get any prize, of course." He was aware of the fragrance of growing things; of fresh green grass and of lilacs. [A man in the next yard whistled as he mowed the lawn, and two small boys were being Hubbell and Mancuso in a vacant lot across the street. T h e man was whistling "I'm the guy you give your goodnight kisses to," and when he reached the fence he stopped and mopped his forehead with a red handkerchief.] ["Grand day, isn't it?"] ["Yes," David said.]

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[But was it a grand day? Was it to be, after all, the Day of Days? Was he going to be able to go to a brown-eyed girl and say, " W e did win the prize, Betty?"] He closed his eyes, and he prayed from his heart of hearts, "Please, God, give me a break just this once." [The man next door had resumed his whistling and the pushing of his mower, and Hubbell was conferring with Mancuso over the advisability of a screw ball.] [David] T H E N HE tore open the envelope, and the black type became a trumpeted announcement of the collapse of his house of dreams: We have the pleasure to advise you that you have won honorable mention in the National Poetry Contest. Your poem, 'To a Brown-eyed, Girl' shows promise of future achievement, but . . . He opened wide his fingers, and the letter fluttered to the ground, like a leaf withered and decayed after the pulsating warmth of a summer sun. [He thought, remembering Mrs. 8 O'Keefe, "It doesn't really matter whether I'm a big shot or not." But he felt very much alone and, forgetting his philosophy about the bigger scheme of things, he held out his arms toward a receding figure which was Betty Lee, and he said, knowing that he had reached the sunset of his hopes:] [JN the glow of a lingering sunset, I shall remember you.] In the locker room in the basement of Cranford High School, David heard a boy sobbing because he had lost a race. He was tempted to go over and say, "It's all right, old man," but Red Lathrop came in from the field and announced that it was almost time for the half mile to begin. He followed Red outside, fighting down his nervousness; and after an endless interval, he was on the mark and a gun sounded. Sprint-

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ing into the lead, as the coach had instructed him to do, he settled down into a steady stride, his arms swinging rhythmically. T h e thrill of competition, the first he had ever known, was like elixir in his blood. T h e lethargy which had gripped him earlier in the day had entirely disappeared; he was keen for the contest, keener yet for the victory. By winning, he could, in a measure, atone for his failure in the Poetry Contest. He could, being a big shot, explain to Betty about the poem. He saw crowded stands across the field, one section marked off by the red banner of Oakland. He saw Doris, her megaphone swinging like a pendulum, standing at the edge of the track. Doris had sent him a note while he was resting in the dressing room. She had written, "Good luck, Shakespeare! We'll all be rooting for you." He ran mechanically, well within himself, thinking, not of the race but of a hundred and one other things. Of his mother's telephone call just before noon, saying that Sandow O'Keefe was better. Of the fact that no one connected with the meet, [or watching it,] knew about him and Sandow. Of Miss [Lowenthal] L O W R I E who had driven to Cranford in her ten-year-old car, which was still immaculate. T h e sight of her, drab in a colorful group, had brought back to him some of the feeling of futility and hopelessness which had surged through him that morning. But now, rounding the third turn, he shook his head almost angrily. He had a job to do; he had a race to run. [He was still leading on the stretch. He saw Doris raise her megaphone, and he heard a ringing cheer:] [Rah, bow, wow, Rah, bow, wow, Oakland! SHAKESPEARE!]

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He glimpsed smiling faces, and one face which was very grave. He saw Betty, [not cheering like the others. She was] leaning forward, with parted lips; and her big brown eyes were wide with concern. He wondered at her gravity [and could not understand.] Red Lathrop ran along beside him on the grass bordering the track. "Hit it upl" Red screamed. He grinned, assuring Red that there was no need to worry. And he thought, rounding the first turn of the second lap, that he knew now why Red was so popular with the class. It wasn't altogether because he made touchdowns and won races; it was because, in doing so, he gave all of his effort, and all of his loyalty, to the school. [Remembrance of the Oakland cheer was like an echo in his ears.] [He] D A V I D increased the pace, and a stocky boy in an orange jersey accepted his challenge. Smiling, he ran still faster, and the orange jersey remained beside him. T u r n i n g into the backstretch, he looked across lush meadows toward green hills, hazy in the distance, and he thought, "In less than a minute [now,] I'll be breaking the tape against my chest." T h e haze from the hills began to drift across the meadows, and he watched it coming toward him, a puzzled frown on his face. In almost no time at all, it had blotted out the meadows, and there was only gray fog where sunshine had been. He blinked mist from his eyes, but the fog settled around him, and it seemed to press upon him, impeding his progress. He pushed forward, at first irritated, then, suddenly, afraid. [The orange jersey was a pale yellow ball, gliding along the 9 track as if suspended in mid-air, without visible means of support. He reached out his hand toward it but it eluded him; and he closed his eyes, hoping that the fog would disappear when he opened them again. But he was conscious of its icy

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touch; he felt phantom hands upon his shoulders, holding him back.] He heard from across the field, a cheer, the Oakland cheer; and a beam of sunshine permeated the fog. He saw that he was nearing the two-twenty mark, with only a half a lap to go, 9 and the [pale yellow ball was a jersey again, worn by a longhaired boy who strode] ORANGE JERSEY WAS STILL beside him. For a moment, his mind worked clearly. "I'm tired," he thought. "But I've got [a job to do,] a race to run." 9 His legs were heavy with growing fatigue, [and he felt the beginning of a dull ache in one shoulder. He cupped it with his hand, breaking the rhythm of his stride, causing him to swerve, so that he almost bumped into the orange jersey. Recovering, he swung around the third turn.] One turn more, he thought, just one more; and then the homestretch and the tape. People got tired in a race. T h e y got tired, but they kept on going. [He wished his shoulder would stop aching. He wasn't running on his shoulder.] If he could only stop for a moment and sort of get his breath again, he'd be all right. But he didn't stop. He remembered that the coach had said to start his sprint on the last turn, but he didn't seem to know just where he was. T h e fog came and went. One moment it was a thick gray blanket, pushing him back, the next it wasn't there at all. [He could see clearly when the fog lifted; could see some men throwing a discus in the enclosure. He saw a pole vaulter knock off the crosspiece and fall in a heap in the dirt; and he thought dazedly that if he could only lie down, in dirt or in mud, or on the hard cinders, nothing else would matter at all.] He must be at the last turn now. He had been running for hours, for years without end. But he couldn't go any faster. Where was the tape, anyhow? Where was it?

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The cheering of the stands seemed very far away. It was a dull roar at first, booming like surf on a distant beach; and then it came nearer, and the shrill voices of girls were like the screeching of rampant wind in a hurricane. The fog became a steady haze, through which he could see dark figures, like black silhouettes against a gray background; and nowhere was there color, except the orange jersey drifting along ahead of him, mocking him. [He was on the homestretch now. He saw the tape, taut 9 across the track. He tried to clench his fists and to grit his teeth, but his hands were lifeless at his sides, as if they were a stranger's hands over which he had no control. He could not even lift them to reach toward the tape, to find out how far away it was.] He heard a voice rising above all other sound, Red Lathrop's voice. The words were indistinguishable, but he realized dazedly that Red was asking him, begging him, to give all of his effort, all of his loyalty, to the school. That was all that mattered, he thought; somehow to cross the finish line, for the school. Not for Miss [Lowenthal] L O W R I E , who had driven in her high sedan to see him run. Not for Doris, who had written him a note and danced with him. Not for Betty, whose face had been very grave and sort of anxious. Not for Sandow, who was lame, or for his mother, with her tired eyes, but for the school. ["Oh, God, where is the finish line?"] 9 He fought forward, no longer seeing the tape. The orange jersey had gone away somewhere, like the sun sinking behind the clouds in a quick sunset, leaving no afterglow. Like the sunset of his hopes . . . The sound of booming surf and of rampant wind in a hurricane suddenly subsided, leaving only silence. [He thought he heard a girl's voice, low and husky, urging him on.] Darkness swept over the field. He didn't know just why, but he knew

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somehow, in the whirling haze which revolved about him, that he was crawling on his hands and knees, crawling forward. After a long time, he saw a white line against the black cinders. Somewhere above him was where the tape ought to be. He had done his job; he had run his race. He slumped forward, resting his face in his cupped hands; and his knees were pressed against the ground—in the attitude of a man praying. Doris drove to the curb in front of the locker room and saw Betty's car parked there. "Waiting for someone?" she asked. "For David," Betty answered. "So am I." Their eyes met. "We'll take it, the one who gets licked, as he did in the race. Is that all right?" "It's all right," Betty said. They waited, without speaking; and after a little while, Miss [Lowenthal] L O W R I E drove up in her high sedan. David sat in one corner of the locker room. His head ached dully and he felt very, very tired, but he said, when the coach asked him, that he was perfectly all right. He didn't understand why all the team waited. It was pretty decent of them, he thought, to wait for a man who finished last. "Let's get out to the bus," he suggested. "You're not going back in the bus," Red announced. " T h e r e are a couple of ladies waiting outside to see you, Shakespeare." He followed Red outside. T h r e e cars were parked at the curb; Betty's smart roadster, Doris's coupé, and Miss [Lowenthal's] L O W R I E ' S old sedan. " T h e y seem to think you shouldn't ride home in the bus," Red explained. "They're offering you taxi service." H e went first to Doris, who had always had what she wanted

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so far as men were concerned. He said, "Thanks, Doris, but I . . ." "It's all right," she interrupted, and her blue eyes looked straight at him. "I wanted you to drive home with me, Shakespeare. You understand that, don't you? I wanted you to." Before he could answer, she turned to Red, and all the old flippancy was in her voice again. "It's you and me together, my friend. Hop in, Hercules!" [He watched them drive off, with Doris slouching at the 10 wheel and Red casting a glance over his shoulder at Betty, as if to say good-bye.] He went next to Miss [Lowenthal] LOWRIE in her high sedan. [She was sitting erect, as she did in class, and] when she spoke, [all the sharp edges had gone from] her voice [and it] was [very] gentle, [as it was sometimes when she quoted a beautiful passage from an author they were reading.] "I didn't know these girls were waiting for you, David," SHE SAID. "I wasn't sure they had sense enough for that." She looked beyond him, [down the deserted street, for Cranford High School was on the outskirts of town;] and it seemed for a moment that she didn't see him at all but was searching for someone [she had known a long time ago, of whom he was just a dim reminder.] " T h a n k you, Miss [Lowenthal] LOWRIE," he said; and she pushed her foot against the starter, and winked at him, and the old car went rumbling away. There was only Betty now. Touches of crimson tinted the smooth olive of her skin, and her brown eyes looked after Miss [Lowenthal] LOWRIE. He stood with one foot on the running board, and he said, bewilderedly, "Betty, I don't understand." "You never do," she answered, still not looking at him. "People think you're wonderful, and you avoid them. And

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you went in a race after you had given your blood to Sandow O'Keefe, and—and you crawled over the finish line." Her voice broke, and he thought that she was going to cry. " I — I didn't know . . ." he stammered. "You weren't going to tell anyone," she continued almost fiercely. "But I learned about it from Mrs. O'Keefe, who came to our house to work this noon; and after the race, I told the coach and Red Lathrop about it." " O h ! " David said. "It wasn't anything, Betty." "Nothing at all," she snapped. She seemed angry, somehow. "You write beautiful poems, and . . ." " I guess I'm not so good as a poet," he said. " I sent the one which was read in English class to the national contest, and it didn't win a prize, Betty." " T h e one about remembering?" "Yes," he answered. " I wrote it to you, Betty, after a football game last fall. I saw you there at Woodridge, and I just went home and wrote it." " I remember," she said. " I remember, David, how clear your eyes were." "If it had been as beautiful as you," he began, and then he stopped. "It didn't win [a prize,] it only got honorable mention." Her brown eyes widened. "Don't you know, that thousands of poems must have been submitted? And if you got honorable mention . . . It was wonderful," she said softly, "but no more wonderful than what you did today." He felt dizzy, and sort of empty inside, and he thought it was because he was tired from the race. He leaned on the door of the car and saw some chickens in a big farm across the street. The fence was almost to the edge of the road, and a tall rooster strutted around importantly. Suddenly, the rooster crowed loudly, a sort of paean of triumph. David was surprised, for

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he thought that a rooster crowed only in the morning, [or after 10 a hen had laid an egg.] He saw Betty move over from the wheel, and he looked away from the rooster and found her very close to him. "David," she said, and all the huskiness which he loved was in her voice, "[David,] do you know what a dear, dumb poet you are?" Blinking, he looked into the golden depths of her eyes, and her lips were so near that he just naturally kissed them. Across the street, the rooster uttered anew his paean of triumph, and a hundred flustered chickens regarded him with pride.

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the use of restraint is as necessary as is the use of yeast in making bread. T h e purpose of a story is to create an effect upon the reader, and all words which do not contribute to that effect should be omitted. Fine writing in itself—beautiful descriptions and carefully turned phrases—will make no impression upon an editor unless it has a definite place in the construction of the plot and is essential to its proper development. One of the chief faults of the amateur author is overwriting; one of the virtues of the professional is restraint. Narration, description and dialogue all play important parts in the evolution of a short story, but each must be used in wise measure. Description should be resorted to only when necessary; a short description is more desirable than a long one. A single sentence which paints a clear picture is preferable to a paragraph. Narration is used to keep the story going; dialogue quickens the action and strengthens the characterization. These ingredients should be measured as skillfully as an expert chef measures the ingredients of a dish for which he is famous. " T o a Brown-eyed Girl" contains comparatively little dialogue. Except for the interpolated paragraphs printed in italics, it is written through the stream of consciousness of David Pearce. It is primarily a story of David, his problems, his ambitions and his thoughts; and a story of this type is N T H E WRITING OF SHORT STORIES,

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inclined to drag unless great care is exercised to accelerate the action whenever possible. Apparently the editor recognized this danger, for he used the blue pencil freely and effectively. At times, he deleted some of the finest writing, eliminating entire paragraphs, but the story as printed is a better story than it was before editorial corrections were made. It was written on the Island in late October. T e n days before the end of a protracted vacation, we decided there was time for one more story but I had no definite plot in mind. My thoughts went back thirty-odd years to "the boy poet of Rahway" who won a Thanksgiving story prize but who would have preferred a football captaincy. Here was a plot germ but the question remained as how best to develop it. A football tale would have been untimely and unsalable until the following spring at the earliest, for editors prefer not to keep on hand too large a stock of manuscripts. It occurred to me that many of my most popular juvenile stories had been about track, in which I had been an active participant at college. I knew how it felt to run a race, something of the agony of the last fifty yards of a half mile. I had once seen a beaten runner crawl across the finish line. Here was a subject with which I was intimately familiar. So " T o a Brown-eyed Girl" became a track story, with small town high school setting and a poor boy-rich girl theme. T h e town was Oakland, as in "If in Years to Come"; Betty lived in the best residential district, David was an "uptowner." Again, the influence of my own high school years is clearly indicated. There was no difficulty in finding a title; the first selection proved to be pleasing and appropriate. The plot took definite shape within a period of two days, although the details were worked out after the story had been started. David was to be a sensitive boy, a poet, in love with Betty and hoping to do something distinctive to gain her favor. His hopes were to be

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centered, first, in the winning of a poetry prize, and second, in the winning of a race. He was to fail in both—his crawling across the finish line was to be the climax—but he was to display such admirable qualities even in failure that Betty was to fall in love with him. T h e actual writing consumed five days, even though the manuscript was a long one; thirty-one typewritten pages as compared with twenty-seven for "If in Years to Come." Eda approved the first draft, except the ending, which, she said, was stereotyped. A t ten o'clock on the last night of our vacation, the present ending came to me. I dashed to the typewriter, rewrote the final three paragraphs and showed them to Eda. "That's it," she said. It was then that I decided to interpolate the paragraphs which are printed in italics. I thought that by doing so I could bring out more vividly David's character and could show in a direct, although unorthodox way what people thought about David. Moreover, I had in mind my agent's advice that editors prefer stories which are different in form or plot. "Here," I thought, "is a chance to make this one different." I believe now that the interpolated paragraphs are unnecessary, that they break into the story's continuity and introduce too many points of view. I think that the story would have been just as effective and more of a unit if they had been omitted, for the reader knows, without the interpolations, that Betty and Doris are both interested in David, that Miss Lowrie recognized his worth from the very beginning, and that half the girls in school are "nuts about him" (as indicated in the rivalry between Betty and Doris and the fact that the valedictorian invited him to the dance). But obviously the editor approved of the italicized paragraphs; otherwise he would not have used them. In this story use is made of a method of plot development

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which is known technically as a "flashback." This is employed to tell the reader what happened before the story proper began. T h e introduction finds David in English class at Oakland High School. In the second paragraph, however, we "flash back" to the preceding football season when he lived in Woodridge and first saw Betty. Then, in paragraph five, we switch again to Oakland. W e could, of course, have begun the story at the football game in Woodridge, but that would have caused a gap of several months' time and would not have conformed with "the Unities." I think now that it would have been better to have David meet Betty the day before he entered his new school, then discover her across the aisle on his first day at Oakland High. It would have given the plot closer unity of time and place. But the thought of doing that did not strike me at the time of writing. T h e story when published carried only one illustration by Bob Harris—an attractive two-page picture of a boy seated at a desk with pen and paper. T h e sub-title was brief: " A Love Story—a truly magnificent love story." After its appearance, at least a dozen persons wrote me asking for the remaining stanzas of the poem, and a number of requests were received to put the words to music. I did give permission for a music publisher to use it but, strangely, I could not remember the final stanza as originally written. T h e verses were addressed to a youngster at Highland Nature Camp on her sixteenth birthday but I had not kept a copy of it. The music publisher offered an additional four lines, to which approval was given, but financial difficulties arose and the song was never published. A technical analysis of the passages in the manuscript which were omitted in the printed version offers a concrete illustration of what editors require in the way of restraint in short story writing. As we have said before, every sentence—every word, in fact—which does not contribute to the plot and char-

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acterization should be deleted, even though it breaks the author's heart to blue-pencil some of his finest writing. We shall discuss here chiefly the paragraph omissions, but a careful study of the words and phrases deleted by the editor shows clearly the tendency of an author, even though he has joined the professional ranks, to overwrite. It should be noted, as we proceed with discussion of the deleted paragraphs, that they were not essential to the creation of the effect which the story was designed to have upon the reader. (1) David's mother is a minor character, plays just a small part in the story, and needs only to be "sketched in." Lengthy description of her, even though its purpose is to establish the fine relationship between her and David, slows up the action and is not essential. (2) Here is a typical example of the ruthless elimination of attempted fine writing. I remember thinking when the deleted sentence was composed, with some effort, that the metaphor was particularly apt and contributed materially to the delineation of David's character. But I can see now that it is just as well left out. (3) I wanted to indicate, in this first conversation between Betty and Miss Lowrie (Miss Lowenthal in the manuscript) that the teacher had once had a romance of her own with a boy like David but had not appreciated him until it was too late, and that she was hoping Betty would not make the same mistake. In the second interpolated conversation, deleted by the editor, it was my purpose to strengthen this impression; and later in the story, when David met Miss Lowrie after the track meet, to round out this thin thread of a story-within-astory by having the teacher "look beyond him . . . searching for someone she had known a long time ago, of whom he was just a dim reminder." T h e words in italics were omitted in

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the printed version, probably because the editor thought the proper impression had been created without them. (4) It was my purpose in telling of the class's friendly laughter and David's election as class poet, to show that David actually was popular with his classmates, although he considered himself a nonentity. But this was not essential; it had, in fact, been indicated earlier. The two preceding paragraphs had established David's pathetic desire to win the Poetry Contest, and that is all that was necessary at this stage of the story's evolvement. (5) Here again is an example of "too many words in the typewriter." It is obvious to the most casual reader that this deleted section and the deletions in the paragraphs following make no definite contribution to the plot's development, slow the action and cause the story to drag. (6) The reason for the inclusion of these few lines was twofold; (a) to strengthen the reader's sympathy for David and still more firmly establish his character by having Mrs. O'Keefe want "Sandow to grow up like him," and (b) to bring out the fact that David's mother had forgotten the track meet. However, it is obvious that Mrs. O'Keefe would be grateful and think David "a grand boy"; and we can assume that David's mother, concerned with her own immediate problems and having no conception of the stamina required in a running race, would forget the County Meet, especially so as David had mentioned it only casually the preceding evening when her mind was on other matters. (7) There is too much philosophizing in this paragraph. We know David well enough already and do not need to have his philosophy of the old and the lame. The sentence, "But, oh, Betty, Betty . . ." is over-emotional. (8) In the preceding few paragraphs the editor eliminated all references to the man next door and to the two boys play-

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ing baseball; obviously, they are not essential. I had included them in order to give what I thought was a human touch. The last lines of this section were omitted because they are overwritten. T o conclude the incident with the words "like a leaf withered and decayed after the pulsating warmth of a summer sun" is more restrained and more effective. (9) Although the finish of the race is the climax of the story and I tried to lead up to it graphically and realistically, the description of the race itself proved too long. The editor did a good job with his blue pencil; he did not delete any essential matter but he did cross out those passages which slowed the action. The illusion of the orange jersey being a pale yellow ball and the incident of David's aching shoulder were omitted, and one paragraph descriptive of the homestretch drive eliminated. The sentence, "Oh, God, where is the finish line?", was possibly considered offensive. The description of the race was shortened by approximately three hundred words, and this served to speed the action and heighten reader interest. (10) The conclusion of the story is comparatively long but the editor made no substantial cuts; one paragraph and an occasional word or phrase. Again, all his eliminations were of non-essential material. He appreciated my lack of barnyard knowledge when he drew his pencil through my effort at comic relief—"or after a hen had laid an egg." A professor of poultry husbandry at our College of Agriculture advises me that a hen cackles but a rooster does not crow on such occasions. Altogether, between fifteen and sixteen hundred words were cut from the original manuscript of approximately seventy-five hundred. Nothing of value was lost in the elimination of extraneous matter, and the story undoubtedly moves more quickly and has greater reader interest because of the

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editorial changes. As submitted, it constituted a typical example of overwriting. T h e fact that the editor accepted it, even though it was overdone, is a direct refutation of the frequently heard contention that "the beginner doesn't have a chance." T o be sure, I was not exactly a beginner, Good Housekeeping having accepted three of my stories before this one reached the editorial sanctum, but the manuscript could have been rejected without undue loss either to the magazine or its readers. T h e editor, however, recognized the possibilities of an acceptable story in the superabundance of words which met his eye, and was willing to spend a considerable amount of his time, or the time of one of his assistants, in painstaking revision. I think he would have done the same thing if the story had been submitted by an unknown writer, for editors are continually on the search for stories which meet their needs, and the supply never quite equals the demand.

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some four years ago, Chatham High School was playing Millville for the county football championship. A boy named Red Barnes was captain and center of the Chatham team; he had red hair and freckles and a smile that would tear your heart out. T h e score was a tie, with only two minutes to play, and Millville was about to try for a field goal from the twenty yard line. Red was crying, or, at least, tears were running down his cheeks, not because of the fatigue which gripped him with iron fingers, but because in his loyal young heart he could not bear the thought of his school's losing. He crouched low and, when the ball was passed, he slipped between center and guard, in spite of frantic efforts to stop him. Behind the opposing line he leaped high, with arms upraised, and the hard pigskin struck him squarely in the face. It bounced to one side, without touching the ground, directly into the burly arms of Jerry McCue, who played end for Chatham and whose father was janitor of the city hall. Jerry gathered it in, cuddling it preciously as a mother might cuddle an infant, and started toward the distant goal. Although he seemed to be moving slowly, not one of the pursuing horde could gain a step on him. Striding over the last white line, he placed the ball carefully on the brown turf and sat down upon it; N A BLEAK NOVEMBER DAY

From The American Magazine. Publishing Company, Inc.

Copyright, 1938, by T h e 176

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and four hundred students in the Chatham stands went into ecstasies of joy. A whistle blew. "Touchdown!" Jerry arose to meet the triumphant arrival of his teammates. He submitted momentarily to thumps upon his broad back, but closed his ears to the chorus of praise which to him was meaningless. He turned anxious eyes toward Red Barnes and saw that Red's nose was bleeding. The Chatham coach came out upon the field, followed by a proud colored boy carrying a pail. The coach wiped off the gore of battle with a wet towel, but when finally he retired to the sidelines, Red's nose was as bulbous as a sweet potato and the color of a beet. But Red grinned as the team lined up for a try at goal. Jerry stood nonchalantly in the fullback's position and booted the ball between the uprights. Chatham won the game and the championship, 7 to o. An anemic sun squinted down upon the ensuing scene of celebration. The entire student body of Chatham High School surged upon the field in a wave of adoration. A girl wearing a leopard coat stood on the outskirts of the milling crowd. She wanted to find Red Barnes and kiss him but a barrier of hero-worshippers prevented her. So she waited, and after a long time a parade formed and marched between the goal posts and Red saw her. He wheeled away from Jerry, who was his best friend, and went toward the girl; and when he reached her he smiled, although it hurt to smile, for his nose was very sore. They stood looking at each other, and the singing of the paraders was a fairy chorus. T h e gray sky was a canopy; descending, it shut them out from all the world. She raised her arms toward Red. "I want to kiss you," she whispered. "I want to kiss you, too." Their lips met and clung, and her forehead pressed against his sore nose.

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T h e y went to the football dance together. Her name was Laurel, which Jerry McCue said was a funny name for a girl, but as long as Red liked it, it was all right with him. Red's nose was swollen to twice its normal size, but it was a symbol of victory, of last-minute heroic effort, and half the girls in school would gladly have pressed their foreheads against it. T h e y would have been satisfied, however, to have Red's lop-sided smile turned upon them, but Red didn't feel like smiling that night. Something had happened to him beneath the bleak sky out there on the football field. He had loved Laurel ever since freshman year, and they had gone together a long while now. But when she said breathlessly, "I want to kiss you," he knew that she loved him, too, and all his youth had vanished and he felt himself, at nineteen, a man. College lay before him; he had thought often of bright college years, illumined by Jerry's enduring friendship. He had dreamed, as youth will, of gravel paths winding through an elm-shaded campus, and of a single light in the doorway of an ivied building. He had dreamed, too, of bare-headed young men greeting him, " A good game today, Red," and the drone of a professor's voice in a quiet classroom—memories to take with him always through the passing years. But now, he had only one memory, he wanted only one; of a girl's sweet lips against his own, pledging an irrevocable loyalty. He saw Laurel coming out of the dressing room, and they danced to some forgotten tune. T h e music of all the stars was in his heart; the poetry of all the ages was on his lips; and the beauty of all women who had been beautiful was in his arms. "I love you," he said. "I love you, too." Jerry McCue was watching from the doorway. Jerry was reality; Jerry was their friend. He knew where they could get

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a marriage license and he knew a minister who would marry them. They drove through the sleeting rain in a car which belonged to the janitor of the city hall; and Jerry, in the front seat, kept his eyes straight ahead and his thoughts to himself. The minister aroused his wife, who came downstairs in a colorless dressing gown; and she was the matron of honor and Jerry the best man. After the ceremony, Mrs. Red Barnes laid her firm hands on her husband's shoulders and said to him: " I promise you that I will always stand by; no matter what happens, I will always love you." Red took her in his arms, gently and with reverence. "I promise you," he said. Jerry gave the minister seven dollars and fifty cents. It was all the money he had. Red Barnes went to college, after all. Some of his dreams came true. He saw the flickering light at the entrance to Old King's in the night's quietude, and heard the drone of professors' voices in the classroom. Bare-headed young men' passed him on the campus and greeted him with respect or affection, depending upon their status, for, in his senior year, he was captain of the football team. He was twenty-three, and Laurel a year younger, and Red, Jr., was almost three. They lived in a three-room apartment in John Street, with a grocery store beneath them and a dim, narrow stairway leading one flight up to the landing which was the entrance to their home. Jerry McCue, talking about them to Hatchet-face Brown, the team fullback, on the day before the Lavalette game, admitted that they were poor. "They had enough at first. Red's old man died and left him some insurance money. But they used that up, and Red's on his own now." Jerry's voice was belligerent. " T h e girl's

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father's lousy with dough, but he won't help them. I'd like to crown him one." "Sure," Hatchet-face agreed. He saw Red coming toward the field house, whistling. Red had a scholarship and the football program concession. Every morning he got up at four o'clock and delivered papers in the north end of town. It would have been easy sailing if he were not married. But he had a wife and child to support, and the waves were high. The football team had nicknamed Red, Jr. the "Old Man." He was the team mascot, coming to practice sometimes with his mother, sometimes with the captain himself. He had a varsity uniform and a headguard which was much too big. But he was more interested in the student band than he was in football. He was absent from practice that day, for the team was facing its crucial Saturday of the season, was meeting Lavalette the next day in the game which would probably decide the Middle Three championship. Lavalette was good; unbeaten, untied, unscored upon. The papers proclaimed it a team of destiny. "Hah!" Jerry snorted, and polished his knuckles reflectively. Jerry was hard and tough. He walked with a swagger and talked through the corner of his mouth. On occasion, he said "youse guys" and "ain't" but, paradoxically, he had a job correcting freshman essays for the English department. He was a character on the campus; among two hundred seniors, only Red was more popular. Red laid a hand on his chum's steel-bound arm. "Cast-iron Jerry, every time he moves, he cracks." The coach was in one corner of the locker room, talking to Mike Benson, the fat trainer. Fanny Barr, quarterback, sauntered in, wearing a camel's hair coat; Adolphe Vanderwart,

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guard, stood naked on a bench, bow-legged and knotty. Jerry regarded him with some curiosity. "Your ancestors must have been cowboys, Dutch." Among Vanderwart's progenitors had been a Burgemeister of Nieuw Amsterdam; Jerry's father was janitor of a city hall; Francis Simmons Barr, Sr. was a millionaire; and Hatchet-face Brown's uncle taught Latin in high school. But these four men, with Red himself, were the team's bulwarks. They went out to the field and battered the scrubs into submission. Practice ended, they lingered in the locker room, reluctant to leave. Health exuded from them; health, and high happiness, and a confidence born of strength. T h e taint of liniment was in the air, and the smell of sweat-tinctured clothing. A man's world, the locker room. Red Barnes was smiling, but at no one in particular. He was hungry, and a good meal awaited him; not at home but at the training table. Evenings the team ate dinner together in the basement of Cord Hall, prodigious quantities of roast beef and baked potatoes, then they went out upon a shadowed campus, to fraternity houses and dormitories, for long hours of sleep. All except Red, who got up early to deliver papers. But Red was the only one among them to whom a child's voice said sleepily, "Good-night, Daddy." Red was the only one who, returning home, was greeted by a woman's yearning arms. What did money matter, when compared to that? Jerry McCue, watching, saw Red's smile broaden; and Jerry remembered a girl's promise four years ago: "No matter what happens, I will always love you." Jerry stood up. "What are youse guys going to do, stick around this dump all night?" They went outside and walked down to the corner and found a girl there. She looked very young in the gathering darkness, very frail, but somehow strong. A small boy trotted out of the shadows.

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"It's the Old Man," Hatchet-face announced. " H i ! " the Old Man greeted them. Red knelt and grasped the boy's hands. Most of the team shuffled away, and Laurel said to her husband, " I thought you'd like to see him, because you won't be home until late tonight." "You're all right, aren't you?" "Yes." She said, irrelevantly, "His birthday's next week." A shadow passed across Red's eyes. He lifted the little boy from the ground. "So it is. We—we'll have to throw a party for him." No one was within hearing distance except Jerry. "He'd like that, I think." Laurel's coat was shabby, and one of her woolen mittens had a hole in it. "We'll have to go now. Good-night, R e d ! " "Good-night, dear!" He put the little boy down, and kissed his wife. . . . Red saw the crowded stadium and felt the frozen turf, unyielding against his cleats. He saw Bunker Kirk, the Lavalette star, punt the ball halfway down the field, and he recalled the coach's words in the locker room: "Your main assignment today, Red, is to stop this bruiser Kirk." But stopping him was a man's job. Kirk could kick, punt and pass; he was a triple-threat, a potential All-American. Only Jerry was unimpressed. " H e ain't half the player you are, Red." Maybe not. But he completed a long forward pass for a touchdown in the first quarter. Red and Jerry swarmed all over him when he attempted a placement, but Lavalette led, 6 to o. At the halfway mark, the score was unchanged. Red led his team to the field house and closed the door of the locker room after them. Fanny Barr threw himself face downward

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on a wooden bench, relaxing. Dutch Vanderwart demanded, "Who are we anyhow, a lot of debutantes?" "We ain't playing our game," Jerry announced. "We ain't knocking them down hard enough." The back of his left hand was caked with dirt and blood. But he ignored it. He knew what was the matter with the team. The trouble was Red Barnes, its captain. Red was playing like a man in a dream, just going through the motions of football. Red was falling down on them. To protect Red, Jerry wailed at Hatchet-face Brown, "What's the matter with you, battle-axe? Where were you when that pass went sailing over your head?" Red walked over to a window. He saw twenty thousand people in the new stadium, and among the thousands his troubled eyes found Laurel and the Old Man. They were sitting behind the bench on the lowest tier of the stands. The Old Man wore his football uniform, and a substitute had taken over a big scarlet blanket and wrapped him in it. He was warm in the bitter cold of a November day, but Laurel would be shivering. She needed a new coat, a heavy one. She wouldn't mind, Red thought, so long as the Old Man wasn't shivering. Only a few months remained before he would graduate and get a job. He could buy her things then. But if, in the meantime, the Old Man had to do without things he needed, that was something else again. There was a day-old letter at home from her father. She could come back to Chatham at any time, the letter read, and bring her son. She could do that. Women wanted things for their sons—even a blue-eyed girl who had said, "I promise you that I shall always stand by." The Old Man's birthday would be next week. He would be three then. The Old Man had announced that he wanted an automobile, one big enough to ride in. "I want a auto'bile, Daddy." There had been mention of a party. But with what?

THE EDITOR ACCEPTS Not with the three dollars a week earned by delivering papers. Not with the money from the football programs, for payment would not be made until the end of the season. And there wasn't anything else, no savings now, no nest egg. But Laurel's father could buy the Old Man a hundred cars, if she went back to him—if she went back. The Old Man rated a birthday party. He was a good kid. Red looked out across the empty floor of the stadium, and thousands of voices of unknown persons became one conglomerate voice saying to him, "You are facing a crisis now; you must have a birthday party for your son." He heard another voice, Jerry's. "Ain't we men enough to stand up to this?" He squared his shoulders and turned toward his teammates. He had forgotten them. They had looked to him for leadership, and he had not kept faith. He hadn't been man enough to meet his obligation, his privilege, as captain. If he failed in this, he would fail in other things, too. If he failed, Laurel would look at him with questioning eyes and ask, "What's wrong, Red?" And he would have to answer, " I didn't stand up to it. I thought more of myself than of my team." Men stood up to things. He waited until the coach had finished his harangue and then he walked across the room and took his rightful place beside the coach. He looked at Jerry and Hatchet-face and at the other players, and he said quietly, "We haven't been measuring up. Let's go places this half, men." He didn't know, as they followed him out upon the field, that that was all they needed. He didn't know that he was the heart and soul, and the inspiration of the team. If someone had suggested it to him, he would have answered in all honesty, "You're crazy. It's Jerry and Hatchet-face and men like them who count." 184

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But he sensed a change in the team. They were surging forward now, going upstream. The ball was theirs, with eighty yards to go for a touchdown. They threw their backfield against the team of destiny. The canny brain of Fanny Barr picked flaws in the Lavalette defense, searched the forward line through narrowed eyes and barked out his signals in challenging arrogance. Hatchet-face Brown hacked his way forward, as if, indeed, his long nose were an axe cutting through yielding wood. They gained five yards, and ten. They played with cold fury, cruelly deliberate, ruthlessly giving no quarter, asking none. They swept across the center of the field and toward the nearing goal. T h e stands roared, but they were deaf to applause. They saw their captain smiling; he had thrown aside his headguard and his flaming hair was a banner of victory. They made a first down, scarcely three yards from the goal. Fanny Barr noticed that the defense was drawn in to meet a last surging charge at the line. His cool voice barked out an unexpected signal, and Hatchet-face crouched low and Jerry moved closer to his tackle. The ball snapped, padded bodies clashed, and there was a confusion of sound. But the ball was in Barr's hands. He held it for a long two seconds, then lobbed it almost listlessly to Jerry, who waited in the end zone. Jerry caught it waist-high, grinning from ear to ear, tapped it upon the ground for a touchdown, straightened up and waved greetings to the tumultuous stands. Later, he stood ten yards in back of center, awaiting Red's pass. Upon the result of his try for goal might depend the victory, the Middle Three championship. But Jerry was hard; he prided himself on his hardness. He raised his arms with studied nonchalance and spread wide his torn fingers. T h e pass was true, as he knew it would be, coming from Red, and he took a single step forward, swinging his leg from the

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hip. He heard the dull thud as his shoe met the pigskin, and he watched the ball as it curved in a low arc between the uprights, giving his team the lead, 7 to 6. He brushed aside arms which would have hugged him. " W e ain't started yet," he said. There was no doubt now as to the ultimate victory. They were tireless, merciless, unstoppable. They scored again, and when Lavalette, fighting futilely against eleven better men, resorted to the open game, they knocked down passes and punished the passer until the gallant Bunker Kirk, battered and bruised and very tired, was led protesting from the field. Red walked beside him until he reached the bench, and Red said to him, "Good work, Bunkerl" But with Kirk gone, his particular job was finished, and, returning, he remembered that a senior named Wolkowski, who was substitute center, needed to play in the Lavalette game if he was to win his letter. He called the team together. "I'm going out now and give Wolkowski a chance. You're acting captain, Jerry." He trotted toward the sideline, holding his head back, raising his knees high. He heard a smattering of applause, and then the smattering grew into an increasing roar, and he stopped, still some distance from the bench, for everybody in the stadium was standing up now, and the coach was walking toward him with outstretched hand. There wasn't any need for all that. This wasn't his last game, and he hadn't done anything except block a punt in the first quarter. He had just played center for the team. He had just played. After a moment, the coach came up to him and placed an arm around his shoulders. They walked to the bench together, and the cheering grew in volume. T h e Old Man slipped away from Laurel and, because he was team mascot and enjoyed special privileges, he came out to the bench, dragging

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his blanket across the running track, and grabbed hold of one of Red's legs and hugged it. T h e crowd seemed to think that that was grand, for the cheering became even louder. Red picked up the Old Man and readjusted the blanket, so that it covered both of them, and, turning, he saw Laurel looking at him proudly. He sat down on the bench, bewildered, not understanding, because he hadn't done anything, and held his son very close. "Something's wrong with Red," Hatchet-face stated gloomily. It was Thursday afternoon. T h e coach had called off practice early, wondering if his team had gone stale. Red had left for home, had gone away without so much as a smile as soon as he had finished dressing. Only a handful of players remained; Jerry, Hatchet-face, Dutch Vanderwart, Fanny Barr and, curiously, John Wolkowski, the substitute center. They sat in one corner of the locker room, worried and puzzled. " T h e Valley Tech game was practically in the bag. With Red all right, we would lick them by four touchdowns." Hatchet-face stroked his long nose absently. "I've always wanted to play on a championship team. But I'm not going to, unless Red snaps out of it." They didn't know what was the matter with Red. They didn't know about the Old Man, and Laurel's shabby coat, and the letter from Laurel's father. Jerry knew part of it. Red had met him on the campus after psychology class. Red had said, speaking casually, although there was something wrong with his voice, "Today's the kid's birthday. He wants an automobile, one of those things with pedals." Jerry nodded. "I remember now. There was some talk of a party, wasn't there?" "Yes." Red didn't say anything more about a party. With his heel he dug a hole in the gravel path of the campus. "You

THE EDITOR ACCEPTS haven't got ten or fifteen bucks on you, have you, Jerry?" It was the first time Red had ever asked him for money. It was the first time that Red's clear eyes had ever tried to avoid his. He said huskily, " I only got sixty cents to my name, Red." Now,- in the locker room, Jerry glared at Hatchet-face but he didn't really see him. He saw, instead, a ridge of brown freckles on Red's white face, heard, not Hatchet-face, but Red's muttered words, "It's all right, Jerry; I was just wondering." "Maybe, we could do something about it," Fanny Barr suggested. "Maybe, we could talk to Red. After all, we don't want to lose on Saturday. The team . . ." Jerry stood up, a wave of anger engulfing him. Fanny, like all the rest of them, was thinking, not of the team's captain, but of the team. They didn't care anything about Red. He was, so far as they were concerned, just a useful cog in a big machine that ground out victories. "The hell with the team!" he cried passionately. Then, suddenly, his anger was gone. "I'll tell you what's the matter with Red. Today's his kid's birthday, and he hasn't any money to buy him things. Not even ice cream, probably. The Old Man wants an 'auto'bile' to ride in, and Red can't buy him one." Something caught in Jerry's throat, shutting off further words. He turned away abruptly and groped blindly for his hat. He had sixty cents. He cut across the campus toward town, and a biting wind tore at him. He stopped at a drug store and bought a pint of ice cream—that would be enough for the Old Man—and then he crossed over to Schneider's Bakery and paid thirty-three cents for a chocolate layer cake and some candles. As he walked toward John Street, where Red lived, he passed a department store and saw in the spacious window the i88

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kind of toy car that small boys dream about. It was brilliant red, with a windshield and lights that worked. He saw the price mark on a card at the wheel—forty-five dollars. For the first time in a life in which money had played no part, Jerry wished that he were rich. At the narrow, dark stairway leading to Red's apartment, he stopped. "I gotta carry this thing through, I gotta be sort of joyful," he thought. He squared his muscled shoulders and whistled a song off tune, and went upstairs. When he pushed his way into the living room, the Barnes family were eating supper at a small table at one end—the end next to the kitchen. The Old Man, in a high chair, was toying with a dish of cereal, and Red—well, it didn't matter what Red was eating. Jerry went over to the high chair, and held out his big paw. "Happy Birthday, Old Man!" he chortled. "And, oh, boy, just see what we got here!" It didn't sound right; it sounded forced and false. But he had made the old college try; he had given all he had. He saw Laurel's lips tremble, and he saw Red stand up, with a grin which Was not right, somehow, on his rugged face. "Presents!" Red chuckled, and clapped his hands. "Let's see what they are, Old Man." "I want a auto'bile," the Old Man said. He was pleased about the cake, though. They put it in front of him and lighted the three small candles, and because he couldn't eat a whole pint of ice cream himself, Red and Jerry helped him out. But Jerry could see that something was wrong. He figured that it was because it was the Old Man's birthday and there were no presents except a couple of ten cent toys. There was no way of his knowing about the letter from Laurel's dad. He had not heard Laurel say, before he came, "It would only be for a few months, Red."

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He did not know—how could he know, a roughneck like him?—that two people who had started a long journey four years ago had come to a fork in the road. That this night, they would go one way or the other, together or alone. That, unless something happened, the chances were that they would not go—together. He got down on the floor with the Old Man, and was a bucking broncho; and Red found a feather duster somewhere and was an Indian, and they chased the Indian all over the room. Red tried to make a go of it, but there was something the matter with his eyes when he looked at Laurel. Once she had said to him, "I promise you that I will stand by." But she hadn't known about the Old Man then. They looked at each other, Laurel and Red, with the Old Man between them; and Jerry knew, seeing the hurt, and the uncertainty, and the vast futility in their eyes, that the night had not been a happy one. "I would make a mess of things," he thought. They heard footsteps on the stairs, heavy footsteps; and a knock sounded at the door. "Who is it?" There was no answer, and Red went over to the door and opened it. Hatchet-face Brown walked in, carrying an ungainly package; and after Hatchet-face came John Wolkowski, and then Dutch Vanderwart, and at the end of the line, Fanny Barr. They walked straight to the Old Man, who was still in Laurel's arms, and they sang, these rough men and tough men who thought more of the team than of the team's captain: Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday, dear Old Happy birthday to you.

Man,

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When the song was finished, Hatchet-face tore open his package and drew out a Teddy Bear as big as the Old Man himself; and Dutch offered a football and a baseball bat; and John Wolkowski had a book of rhymes which he extended shyly. Fanny Barr didn't have anything at all; Fanny, who could have bought half the town. But after a minute, while the Old Man sat down on the floor and punched the Teddy Bear on the nose, he went out to the dark landing and came back again, pushing before him the big red car which Jerry had seen in the department store window. And he said, no longer the cold-voiced quarterback who picked flaws in the opposing defense, "Here's your auto'bile, Old Man." Jerry was in one corner of the room, for he felt himself an outsider now. He thought about sneaking off to the kitchen, but Laurel came up to him. She tilted back her head and looked at him; and he saw, searching into the depths of her eyes, that everything was all right again. She reached up and touched the bulging muscles of his arm, as if she was thanking him for something—although there was nothing to thank him for—and then she crossed the room toward her husband, who was looking down at the Old Man and his auto'bile. Jerry saw Hatchet-face Brown standing beside Dutch Vanderwart. He strode over to them just in time to hear Hatchetface say something to Dutch. "Would you look at Red," Hatchet-face said softly. "The big bum's crying."

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HIS STORY'S ORIGINAL TITLE w a s " B i r t h d a y G r e e t i n g s , " a n d

was happily changed by the editor to "Forever Yours." T h e plot germ was suggested by Flash Miers. Flash came into the office one afternoon during football season. He had heard in his meanderings about the campus that our team captain, who was married and had a son, was subdued and depressed and showed little interest in football, even though the schedule's climax was approaching. " T h e trouble is that his boy's birthday is this week and Red hasn't any money for a present," Flash explained; "not even a nickel for a birthday card." T h e football captain was one of our outstanding undergraduate leaders, a smiling, red-headed young man who had been married before coming to college. I already knew something of his struggle for an education under difficulties, arid I admired him greatly for his character and courage. " O n e of us should write a story about him," Flash concluded. It was Flash's story but he gave it to me; and four years later when Eda and I were at the white cottage on Cape Cod, we decided to write it. When it finally appeared in print, the football captain made gracious acknowledgment. Before the introduction was begun, the plot had unfolded naturally and logically—a conflict in the marital life of two 19a

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young people, with football as a background. It had a universal theme—mother love. The story could best be told, we thought, in the third person, mainly through the stream of consciousness of Red Barnes. But we reserved the right to delve occasionally into Jerry's mind, and the tale is written from the omniscient point of view. An onlooker tells it, keeping entirely out of sight and not once imposing his personality upon the course of events. We could have begun the story in college and then have used a "flashback" to describe the high school football game and the marriage of Red and Laurel. But we decided to begin at the beginning, chiefly because the game provided an opportunity for a fast moving introduction. So we started with a description of a football contest, introducing Red and Jerry in the heat of competition. We wanted both these characters to be appealing, to have the reader like them. In the second paragraph we described Red as crying, not for himself but for the team. This established his quality of loyalty. We depicted Jerry as a rough and ready boy affecting nonchalance—"he placed the ball carefully on the brown turf and sat down upon it"—but who, even in his moment of schoolboy triumph, disclosed a feeling of loyalty toward his closest friend—"he turned anxious eyes toward Red Barnes and saw that Red's nose was bleeding." Laurel was not introduced until the game ended. Although she plays a major part in the story, she appears less frequently than either of the two men. It was she who made the final decision to maintain the family unit, yet it was not necessary to search into her character in minute detail. All we needed to do was to picture her as an appealing person, to make the reader like her and want her to be true to Red, with whom she was in love. We had them kiss each other on the high school football field—"Their lips met and clung, and her

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forehead pressed against his sore nose"—and after the story was published, a lone prospector in deep Alaska wrote the editor suggesting that such a thing was impossible. "Her forehead would have been much higher than his nose," he contended. Nevertheless, Laurel and Red were married, and after the ceremony she promised him that she would "always stand by." When this introduction was concluded and we turned to the story proper, we had already established the characters of the persons chiefly concerned and had, we hoped, awakened the reader's sympathy for them. We wanted to make them fine young people. We then permitted an interim of three years, ignoring "the Unities." But we did so deliberately, knowing we were breaking one of the rules of short story writing but knowing, also, that on occasion the breaking of a rule is justified in the attainment of an end. Moreover, the passage of years was necessary in order to account for "the Old Man," who was an essential factor in the development of the plot. We did not explain by straight narration that Red and Laurel had had enough money at first; we let Jerry do that by means of dialogue:—"Red's old man died and left him some insurance money. But they used that up, and Red's on his own now. . . . T h e girl's father is lousy with dough, but he won't help them." Thus, we accounted for the fact that Red had been able to remain in college even though married, but that he faced the problem of supporting his family in senior year. T h a t laid the foundation of the conflict; Laurel's choice of remaining with Red, who could not pay for a party for the Old Man, or going to her father, who could. T h e description of their home—"They lived in a threeroom apartment in John Street, with a grocery store beneath them—" was designed to strengthen reader sympathy, as was the mention of Red's early morning paper route.

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Red, Jr., whom we named "the Old Man" because a little girl we called "the Old Lady" had once lived across the street from our home in Rahway, needed only to be sketched into the story. It was necessary simply to make him a typical small boy and all readers, especially mothers, would love him. But we tried to make him a manly little chap; he became the team mascot and wore a headguard "which was much too big for him." It was only natural that he would want an "auto'bile" —what small boy doesn't? After we had introduced and depicted as clearly as we could the four main characters, we turned to the minor characters. We could not in a story of this length describe every member of the football team, so we selected four. If they had all been halfbacks or linemen, with the same general characteristics and background, we would have had no contrast; they would have represented a type, and would not have been clearly defined individuals. So we "tagged" them: Adolphe Vanderwart, "bow-legged and knotty" and of old Dutch ancestry; Fanny Barr, whose father was a millionaire; Hatchet-face Brown, whose uncle taught Latin; and later in the story, "a senior named Wolkowski." Because each was different from the others, they were established in the reader's mind as individuals. The other team members were unnecessary in the development of the plot, and no mention was made of them. Having established the characters in the story, we needed to exercise extreme care in keeping them consistent. There was some danger that Jerry might "steal the show" and overshadow Red. We could have introduced the love triangle, having Jerry fall in love with Laurel, with ensuing complications, but Jerry was not that kind of person as we had pictured him. He had been depicted as a "straight shooter," and a straight shooter he must remain until the end. We had him talk as he did—"What are youse guys going

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to do . . ."—because that was the way the real Jerry whom I knew in college talked upon occasion. It was, perhaps, slightly incredible, although true, but the editor apparently considered it in keeping with Jerry's character. He did, however, delete all blasphemous words, even though football players do swear both on the field and in the locker room. Editors cannot afford to offend the sensibilities of their readers. T h e story to this point was more or less one of characterization, and it was incumbent upon us to have something happen, to speed up the action. So we introduced the subject of a birthday party for the Old Man, using brief narration and dialogue. It was just a vague suggestion at first—"A shadow passed across Red's eyes. He lifted the boy from the ground. 'We—we'll have to throw a party for him.' "—but the reader senses that possibly the party might not materialize. Thus, the conflict which later developed is indicated. In the Lavalette football game, the suggestion becomes a possibility. Through Red's stream of consciousness, we explain what is wrong; it was his problem, and it is better for the reader to learn about it through his mind than through Jerry's. T h e indicated conflict becomes an established fact. Red did not have enough money for a party; but Laurel's father did. He could give things to the Old Man which Red could not. "Women wanted things for their sons—even a blue-eyed girl who had said, 'I promise you that I will always stand by.' " Here was a universal theme—mother love; here was a universal conflict—a wife's love for her husband as opposed to her love and ambition for her son. Apprehensive, recognizing a crisis in his home, Red forgets his obligation as team captain but is reminded of it by Jerry's words—"Ain't we men enough to stand up to this?" So he goes back into the game as the team leader, feeling that if he failed in his duty to the team, he would fail too with Laurel.

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During the progress of the game, each player is kept in character. Jerry "raised his arms with studied nonchalance and spread wide his torn fingers." Fanny Barr's "cool voice barked out an unexpected signal, and Hatchet-face crouched low . . ." But it is Red with whom we are chiefly concerned; it is essential to heighten the reader's interest in him, strengthen still further the reader's sympathy. So he walks to the bench with Bunker Kirk, a sportsmanlike gesture; leaves the game himself in order to give Wolkowski a chance to win a varsity letter; and is surprised at the ovation he receives from the stands. "There wasn't any need for all that. . . . He had just played center for the team. He had just played." T h e inclusion of the Old Man in the scene was designed to show Red's love for his son and to make an added appeal to the reader. " T h e crowd seemed to think that that was grand, for the cheering became even louder. . . . Red sat down on the bench, bewildered, not understanding . . . and held his son close." A t this point Red becomes the central character in the story, and it was necessary to have him do things and say things which would still further increase the reader's interest in and sympathy for him. So he attempts to borrow money from Jerry; and here again both men are in character. If Red had tried to borrow from Fanny Barr, the reader would have been disappointed; it would have hinted at lack of pride on Red's part. But it was entirely logical for him to turn to Jerry; their friendship was long established and they understood each other. Jerry's inability to grant the request paves the way for the scene in the locker room, justifies his anger born of futility. T h e incident makes it possible to acquaint the team with Red's problem, not by narration but by dialogue. And the fact that Jerry stamps out of the room without giving anyone an opportunity to suggest a solution conceals the team's later

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action. T h e story would have been weakened materially, would have been practically ruined, in fact, if this locker room incident had disclosed the climax. We do not know until later what happened in the field house after Jerry left. Our interest for the moment is in Jerry. Even after he spends what little money he has on ice cream and cake, we hope that he can do more than that. We hope that he can, somehow, bring about the purchase of an "auto'bile" for the Old Man. Thus an element of expectancy is created. Because of this expectancy, the reader is held in suspense. Suspense is essential in a short story. Without it, no matter how vivid the characterization, how fast the story moves, how sparkling the dialogue, the most beautifully written tale that man can devise is ineffectual and lifeless. It is as necessary to a story as is the sun to a growing plant. In "Forever Yours" we used Jerry as a medium to maintain suspense. He goes to Red's house, bearing his own small gift, and knows at once that something is wrong. In his blundering way he attempts to create an atmosphere of happiness and when he fails, after having given it "the old college try," he blames it on himself. " 'I would make a mess of things,' he thought." At this point, the fortunes of Red and Laurel have reached their lowest ebb. T h e reader is still expectant, the suspense is still maintained, but the time has come for something else, something important, to happen. We are ready for the climax. So "they heard footsteps on the stairs, heavy footsteps; and a knock sounded on the door." T h e appearance of the football players is natural, a logical development of the brief scene in the locker room. They are the members of the team who have been closest to Red; we tried to show earlier in the story that they were good men, although rough and tough on the field, and could be expected

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to help a friend in trouble. Wolkowski, just a secondary minor character, was included in the group because we wanted him to recognize Red's kindness in permitting him to win a varsity letter. T h e y give the Old Man his presents, but still the reader is not entirely satisfied. Where was the auto'bile? T h e party simply would not have been complete without it. So Fanny Barr drags it in; the expectancy is fulfilled, the suspense ended and the climax reached. There is no need for a long conclusion, for the story has been told and all that is necessary is to establish the fact that Red's problem was solved. This is done through Jerry, who looks into Laurel's eyes and knows "that everything was all right again." But even in these last few paragraphs, the characters remain consistent. Jerry cannot understand why Laurel should thank him for anything; the members of the team, as represented by Hatchet-face, revert to the "hard-boiled" attitude they assumed on the gridiron—"The big bum's crying—"; and Red himself, who at the story's opening wept because of loyalty to his school, weeps also at the end because of the depth of his love and his loyalty to his wife and his son. Sound, appealing characterization is the heart of any story. T h e skilled writer toils diligently to make his characters real people, to establish them firmly in the mind of the reader, to have them make substantial contribution to the evolvement of the plot. Oftentimes, he will put hours of thought and effort into this phase of his work. T h e physical appearance of a character does not need to be described, although sometimes description is desirable. But that description should be short; two lines suffice to establish Red's appearance in "Forever Yours"—"he had red hair and freckles and a smile that would tear your heart out." T h a t

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was all the reader was required to know so far as his looks were concerned. T h e very fact that he plays football indicates that he is strong and rugged. N o mention was made of broad shoulders or sturdy legs, nor did we designate the color of his eyes or the shape of his nose. In "College Dances Are N o Different," considerable attention was given to Nancy's eyes, because they played an essential part in the plot, but in this story it makes no difference whatever whether Red's eyes are gray or brown. In a description of a character only those features which distinguish him from other characters, which place an identifying "tag" on him, should be emphasized. T h e reader knows after the first paragraph of this story that Red is a red-headed boy with an appealing smile. But a great deal more than that must be known about him if the reader's initial interest is to be maintained. T h e author's task, therefore, was to make Red a living person, to show what kind of man he was through his thoughts, his words and his deeds. H o w that was done can best be pointed out, I think, by quoting from passages in the story which contribute to the delineation of Red's character: "Red's nose was as bulbous as a sweet potato and the color of a beet. But Red grinned as the team lined up for a try at goal." (Establishing his courage.) "But when she said breathlessly, 'I want to kiss you,' he knew that she loved him, too, and all his youth vanished and he felt himself, at nineteen, a man." (Establishing his manliness.) "College lay before him; he had thought often of bright college years, illumined by Jerry's enduring friendship." (Establishing his ambition.) "But now, he had only one memory—he wanted only one —of a girl's sweet lips against his own . . ." (Establishing his love for Laurel.) " H e (Jerry) saw Red coming toward the field house, whis-

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tling." (Establishing his happiness before complications arose.) "Every morning he got up at four o'clock and delivered papers in the north end of town." (Establishing his willingness to do honest work.) "Red laid a hand on his chum's steel-bound arm. 'Cast-iron Jerry! Every time he moves, he cracks.' " (Establishing his affection for his chum.) "But Red was the only one among them to whom a child's voice said sleepily, 'Good-night, Daddy!' " (Establishing his love for his son.) "Only Jerry was unimpressed. 'He ain't half the player you are, Red!' " (Establishing his football ability.) "—But Laurel would be shivering. She needed a new coat, a heavy one. She wouldn't mind, Red thought, so long as the Old Man wasn't shivering." (Establishing Red's understanding of Laurel.) " H e squared his shoulders and turned to his teammates . . . and he said quietly, 'We haven't been measuring up. Let's go places this half, men!' " (Establishing his sense of obligation to the team.) "He didn't know that he was the heart and soul . . . of the team. If someone had suggested it to him, he would have said in all honesty, 'You're crazy!' " (Establishing his quality of leadership and his modesty.) " T h e pass was true, as he (Jerry) knew it would be, coming from Red . . ." (Establishing his reliability.) "Red walked beside him [Bunker Kirk] until he reached the bench, and Red said to him, 'Good work, Bunker!' " (Establishing his sportmanship.) "He called the team together. 'I'm going out now and give Wolkowski a chance. You're acting captain, Jerry!' " (Establishing his consideration of others and his confidence in Jerry.) "—for everybody in the stadium was standing up now, and

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the coach was walking toward him with outstretched hand." (Establishing his popularity.) " R e d had left for home, had gone without so much as a smile as soon as he finished dressing." (Establishing his humanness. After all, he was no paragon of virtue.) " — h e saw Red stand up, with a grin which was not right, somehow, on his rugged face. 'Presents!' Red chuckled, and clapped his hands." (Establishing his moral courage.) W e find, reading the above quotations, that Red Barnes is loyal, physically and morally courageous, ambitious, manly, friendly, industrious, affectionate, reliable, considerate and human; a good husband and father, a good friend and an inspiring leader. But nowhere in the story is he described as such. It should be kept in mind that a proper selection of Red's qualities was necessary in order to keep him from being commonplace; without this selection, he would have been "just another guy." Properly done, this selection not only makes a character real but also insures the logical development of the story. O u r task in "Forever Yours" was a rather difficult one, for we were writing about ordinary, everyday people, the kind who may be found at any time on a college campus, in a city office or standing downtown on a busy corner. If Red had been a mathematical genius with a penchant for solving mysteries, an absent-minded college professor with his inevitable umbrella, or a football player who whistled between his teeth every time he made a classroom recitation, it would have been a comparatively easy matter to delineate his character. But Red was "just folks," as were Laurel and Jerry, and it was essential that he be kept absolutely true to type. A n absentminded professor might do something entirely startling and unforeseen, and not too much damage would result, for few people know anything about absent-minded professors; but

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thousands of readers recognize in Red a young man they have known and in his problem a problem they or their friends have faced, and if he commits one inconsistent act or says one inconsistent word, they will perceive the fallacy immediately. The more universal a character in a story, the more difficult is his effective delineation. It would be of value to the beginning author if he would follow the same procedure in regard to Jerry as we have followed with Red. The first mention of him is in the third paragraph; his influence is felt in each step in the story's progress, and he emerges an individual in whom the reader should be deeply interested. He, too, is loyal, reliable and courageous but, as in the case of the central character, he is not described as such. Several people have asked me why the football coach, not even mentioned by name, does not play a more prominent part in the story. The answer is that the coach was not necessary. He was included in two or three scenes in the first draft, but we decided that the story would be more effective, have greater appeal, if the young people were permitted to work things out for themselves. We omitted all but casual reference to the coach, therefore, knowing that too many characters serve to confuse the reader and that only those characters who are essential to the creation of the desired effect should be included in a story.

12 Stars in the Sky

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R O B A B L Y , Y O U T H I N K I*M A R O U G H N E C K , SIR. I gUeSS I

am.

But I love your daughter. I've loved her ever since my freshman year, when she came into the kitchen of the Alpha Pi House where I was eating my dinner, during a house party. I imagine she's never told you about that, for she isn't the kind to tell things. It was during the Junior Prom Weekend, and I didn't have any girl, because the kind of girls I knew then aren't invited to college proms. O n Friday afternoon, when the guests were beginning to arrive for the house party, Glen Waters, who was head of our house, called me aside in the living room. "Chug," he said, "you won't mind eating in the kitchen for a few meals, will you? We're sort of putting on the dog this weekend, and what with the girls here and everything. . . ." Glen was a pretty smooth boy but he couldn't finish the sentence. "Hell," he said, "you don't mind, do you, Chug?" "It's all right with me," I said. I was rough and tough, and I could take it. I swaggered out of the room grinning, but the grin came hard. I knew that my own fraternity brothers were ashamed of me. T h e y didn't want their girls to see me talking with my mouth full. But Glen Waters didn't know that he had stabbed a knife right through my heart. He called, as I went out: "Cheerio, Chug!" From Good

Housekeeping.

Copyright, 1941, by Hearst Magazines, Inc. 204

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I ate in the kitchen that night. Through the swinging doors I could hear the people who belonged talking in the big dining room. I heard girls laughing and men's deeper voices. And then I heard my own name. "Chug isn't exactly a social asset," one of the brothers explained, "but he sure is an awfully good football player." They were talking about me in the dining room while I ate in the kitchen with the hired help. I didn't enjoy the dinner very much. I pushed back my chair and thought maybe I ought to go back where I came from and get a job. I looked at my hands and at my thick wrists. I had worn a coat, thinking maybe I ought to look respectable, and I saw the threadbare cuff. It was the only coat I owned. T h e swinging door opened again and a girl came into the kitchen. It was your daughter. "Hellol" she said. "I'm Cherry Holmes." I didn't get up. I wasn't sure that a man should stand up when a lady came into the room. No one had ever told me that. I just sat and looked at her. She had light hair that curled at the ends and the bluest eyes I have ever seen. I had known blonds before but this girl was different. She had class, if you know what I mean. Even her name was different. "I saw you play football against Lehigh freshmen," she said. " I — I wanted to meet you, Chug." It wasn't because she wanted to meet me that she came out in the kitchen. She had come because she had heard the brothers make wisecracks about me, and she was the only one in the whole crowd who was big enough to sense how I felt. I stood up, and her head hardly reached to my shoulder. She was sixteen and I was eighteen then. We were just two kids in a fraternity house kitchen, and we didn't know what to say.

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Music came to us from the living room. Someone had turned on the phonograph and a few couples were dancing. "Maybe you'd care to dance with me," Cherry said. " I don't know how to dance," I answered. "They wouldn't want me to, anyhow. I—I'm just a roughneck, ma'am." Maybe it seems funny, my calling her "ma'am." But it wasn't funny, for, suddenly, tears came into her eyes and she reached out and touched my arm. "Sometime I'd like to have you dance with me," she said. "Will you remember that?" "Yes," I answered. " I have to go now," she said. "I'm pleased to have met you, Chug." She touched my arm again, but did not offer her hand, and went out. T h e kitchen help were standing beside a pile of unwashed dishes, watching me, but I didn't pay any attention to them. I was making a resolution, remembering the tears in her eyes, that no one would ever be ashamed of me again. At midnight I went up to the gymnasium, where the Junior Prom was held. I talked my way in, saying I was only going to stay a minute, and found a place in a darkened corner of the balcony. Hundreds of dancers were on the floor but I found Cherry almost at once. I would have found her if a million people had been there. She was dancing with Bill McCallum, a freshman. She wore a blue evening dress with silver spangles and there was a band of silver in her hair. I saw her raise her head and smile at Bill, and I wondered if she would ever smile that way at me. Not so long as I was asked to eat in the kitchen when company came, I decided. Not so long as I was just a big football bum who thought that the college owed me an education because I could hit the line hard. I would have to know poetry so as to talk to her in her own language, and to know how to

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wear a stiff shirt and a white tie in order to take her to a Prom. I would have to be a gentleman, before she'd smile at me. I looked down at the dancers, and once again at Cherry, and I knew that I had a long way to go. We had a preceptor at the chapter house, a graduate student from Michigan. I went to him next morning and asked him if he would teach me how to eat correctly. "You sit beside me at the table and just watch," he said. "I'll be glad to give you what pointers I can." I saw that he broke his bread before eating it and that he didn't put meat and mashed potatoes on his fork at the same time. He didn't talk with food in his mouth. We walked together to class after lunch and a car passed us on College Avenue. Professor Black was driving and Mrs. Black was in the back seat. I waved my hand at the professor but the graduate student tipped his hat, because Mrs. Black was there. I hadn't even thought of doing that. For the first time I realized that I could get a great deal more out of college than a big reputation as a football star. I had intended to play pro ball after graduation and make a lot of money and lead a life of Riley. I was getting my way paid by the Cobblestone Club. Maybe you don't know about that, even though you are a professor of history. It's a group of businessmen in town who raise money every year to pay the expenses of some of our best players. They gave me enough for my term bills and for my meals at the Alpha Pi House. T h e Alpha Pi's didn't charge me anything for my room, which was up on the third floor. They didn't charge me for dues either. I was their contribution to the football team. All I had to do was to earn enough money for books and incidentals. I worked in a factory up home during vacations

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and managed to save something. But I didn't have very much, for I gave most of it to my mother. She worked in the same factory. She still does. She is listed on the pay roll as Mrs. Anna Ardinowski. But I am Chug Arden—Joseph Peter Arden in the college records. The football coach suggested that I change my name when he came up to see me the spring before I entered. It would look better in the lineup, he said. I lived with my mother in a four-family house in a town called Millville. The coach was very nice to my mother and told her how much I would benefit by a college education. He said that it wouldn't cost anything, that I would be given a scholarship because I was such a fine boy and a potential leader. My mother didn't know what "potential" meant but she was flattered because a man as distinguished looking as the coach had come all the way from Collegeville to see her. She didn't know anything about football, except that I played it and got my name in the papers, and she had never heard of an athletic scholarship. She told the coach that she could get along all right by herself and that she would be proud to have me go to college. My father had been killed in an accident about two years before, and the factory where my father worked gave her a job. She is in the shipping department and has some women under her. She wouldn't be at home at a tea given by the ladies of the faculty, and she talks slowly because she can't think clearly in English, but she works eight hours a day so I can get an education, and I am proud of her. We didn't have time, either of us, to learn things that men like you and girls like Cherry have always known. When my mother came home she had meals to cook and washing to do, and I wasn't any great help to her. I was a big shot in high school because I had made All-State in football, and I had a

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swelled head. T h e Monday morning quarterbacks told me how good I was and advised me to go to the college which gave me the best offer. I came here, although some other places offered me as much as twenty-five dollars a week, because a degree from this college means something. Somehow, I had enough sense to realize that. T h e Alpha Pi's took me in and I was having a grand time, not studying much and just drifting along, until the afternoon of the Junior Prom. Then I was asked to eat in the kitchen and Cherry came out and spoke to me. I did not see her again for two and a half years. I heard Bill McCallum say that she had gone away to school, and I was glad, in a way, that she had, for it gave me time to catch up. After the opening game with State last October, the Dekes gave a house party and asked me to drop around. I had run eighty yards for the only touchdown and I was a Big Man on Campus. My own fraternity was no longer ashamed of me, and other houses asked me to parties. When I reached the Deke House, Bill McCallum was dancing with Cherry. She was older, of course, than when I had first seen her; she was almost nineteen but to me she was still just a little girl. She looked over Bill's shoulder and saw me standing by the door, and her face lighted as if I were an old friend. "Hello!" she said. "Hello, Chug!" She stopped dancing and came over to the doorway, dragging Bill after her. "It's grand to see you again," I said. We didn't shake hands, we didn't say anything more for almost a minute. Dancers glided past us and I heard one man say to his girl, "That's Chug Arden." The blue in Cherry's eyes was deeper than I had remembered.

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"I didn't know you two knew each other," Bill remarked. "We're old friends," Cherry said, and turned away from Bill. "Do you remember what I asked you?" "About dancing?" She nodded. "Yes," I said, "I remember that." She held out her arms invitingly but I shook my head. "I'd like to talk to you first. Could we go somewhere?" "I have my father's car outside," she answered. "You won't mind, will you, Bill?" "Not so much," he said. We drove across the campus to the cliffs above the river and parked the car. The night was warm and a thousand stars glimmered in the dark water. "I saw you play today," Cherry said. "You were wonderful, Chug." I could sense the admiration in her voice, and I warned myself, "Go easy, Chug! She only thinks you're wonderful because you're a football hero." But I didn't want to be a football hero, I wanted to be a gentleman who could talk to her in her own language. So I sat silent, and she was silent, too, until after a time she said, "You've changed." "Yes," I agreed. "I can dance now." "I want you to dance with me, Chug." "Later," I said. "I went to dancing school, Cherry." I waited for her to laugh, but she just looked across the river, and her face was grave. She knew, somehow, without my telling her, what a hard job that had been for me. For in dancing class I was awkward, and I wore cheap clothes, and I had never bowed to a girl before. I paid fifty cents a lesson, and I couldn't afford it. But I learned to dance because I had promised Cherry that sometime I would dance with her. "When did you go?" she asked. "In the spring of freshman year."

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"That was after the Prom." "After I met you," I said. She turned to look at me. "I'm glad you went, Chug." Her eyes were big and very blue, and it seemed to me that there were stars in them. We saw the stadium across the river, gray against a darker sky. She pointed toward it. "You'll be playing there every Saturday, Chug. I'm glad to be home again so I can watch you." "I'll be giving up football after this year," I said. "Why?" she asked. "I've been promised a job after graduation, a good one." "Oh!" she said. I remembered the Lafayette game in my sophomore year. We were a touchdown behind in the last quarter and the team wasn't giving it the old college try. In the huddle, I said to them: "What's the matter with you guys? Not laying down, are you?" Klinker Smith, whose father owned a bank, straightened up and put his hands on his hips. "Why shouldn't we lie down if we want to?" he demanded. "We're not getting paid for playing." We lost the game and Klinker said afterwards, "I'm sorry, Chug." But I learned something that day. I learned that the team looked down on me because I was a paid athlete. And I resolved to change that, too. I told the story to Cherry, and she asked: "Aren't you getting paid now, Chug?" "No," I said. "I've got a Memorial Scholarship given for good marks. I wait on table in the Alpha Pi House, and I sell stationery—writing paper and such." • "It's harder, isn't it?" "Yes," I said. "But I can hold my head up now."

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I still wear cheap clothes, and my cuffs are sometimes frayed. But people don't seem to notice that. Maybe they don't see those things because I can look right back at them, knowing that I haven't anything to be ashamed of. I looked right back at Cherry when she raised her eyes. "I'd like to have you kiss me, Chug," she said. I didn't kiss her, sir. I didn't have any right to. I took her back to the house and we had our first dance together. I was the football captain who had made All-American in his junior year. Girls who had been in the stands that afternoon asked if they could meet me, and said that I was wonderful. T h e y didn't know about the house I lived in back home or my mother's slow way of talking. They didn't know that I had spent hard-earned money tutoring in English so that I could speak their language. Cherry didn't know—then. When I told her later, she said, "I like the way you talk, Chug." She went to all the home football games. I would imagine, when the stands cheered, that I could hear her voice above all the others, and I played for her as well as for the team. When I came out of the dressing room after the second game, she was waiting in her car, and I thought maybe she was waiting for someone else, but she beckoned to me. "I wanted to tell you how proud I am," she said. W e drove down to the campus together and sat in the car outside the Alpha Pi House. Bill McCallum came out from the porch, and I said quickly, "Maybe we could go to the movies tonight." But before she could answer, Bill joined us. He grinned at me. "Great game today, Chug," he said. He turned to Cherry. "How about the movies later and a snack afterwards?" "Sorry, Bill," she answered, "but I'm going with Chug." I was pleased, of course. But I couldn't help thinking maybe

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she was going with me because I was a football hero. After the season was ended, I thought, and the glamour had passed, she would go back again with fellows like Bill. But we went together that night. I borrowed a car from one of the brothers and drove up to your house and sat at the curb for a full two minutes before going in. I had seen you on the campus but had never taken one of your courses, and I was scared to death at the idea of meeting you and Mrs. Holmes. When I rang the bell, Cherry came to the door all ready for the movies. She did not ask me in. "We'll just be able to catch the second show," she said. After the movies we stopped at the Chateau for sandwiches and coffee. T h e place was crowded with college men and their girls, and a dozen or more came over to our table and spoke about the game. Cherry's eyes were shining, but for me the night was something of a failure. I couldn't get over the feeling that our going to the movies and dancing together was just a passing fancy so far as she was concerned, and I could not forget that she had not asked me in her home to meet her parents. After we had said goodbye, I drove out to the river and parked the car on the cliff. Sometimes when I am very low, I try to write poetry. It is not good poetry and I have never told anyone about it, not even Cherry. T h a t night, I wrote a poem, jotting it down on an old envelope by the light of the dashboard. It had to do with her forgetting me at the end of the season, and the last stanza went like this: Now This Love And

as we part, dear, is goodbye; in my heart, dear, stars in the sky.

There were stars in the sky that night and love in my heart. But imagine a roughneck like me writing poetry, sir.

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As the season advanced, Cherry would come up and watch football practice. I knew exactly when she came and when she went home, and sometimes, during a lull, I would go over and say hello to her. But I did not ask her to the movies after the third game, and I saw her later in the Chateau with Bill McCallum. I was sitting with a crowd of players, and I had decided not to go to Cherry's table. But before we left I glanced over at her, and there was a hurt look in her eyes. I left my own group and went across the room to where she was. Cherry shook hands almost formally. "I'd like to have you come up to the house for dinner next Saturday," she said. "I'd be glad to," I answered. Your home was different, sir, than any I had ever known. It was not so elaborate or ornate as a fraternity house, and it was not a rich man's home, but there was a certain something about it that made me realize that all I had striven for through all my college years was worth the striving. Cherry met me at the door and led me to the living room where you and Mrs. Holmes were waiting. "This is Chug," she said. I had a black eye from the Lehigh game, but Cherry presented me without apology, black eye and all; and you held out your hand and said, "I'm happy to know you, Chug." Mrs. Holmes shook hands, too, and smiled at me. You were very kind. You talked football, although you didn't know much about it. Neither you nor Mrs. Holmes asked me about myself but I told you that my mother worked in a factory and that we were poor people. I thought you ought to know. When dinner was over, Cherry and I went to the movies. And all the way down College Avenue she held my arm tightly and walked close to me. I was no longer afraid that she would drop me at the end of football season, and I was ashamed that I had ever thought so.

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W e did not see each other too often, for I was kept busy studying and waiting on table, but occasionally we spent an evening together, getting to know each other better. Other men took her to the movies, and she was Bill McCallum's guest at the Junior Prom. She might have gone with me, but I could not afford to take her. I stood in the balcony again, in the shadows, and watched her dance with Bill, and the next night I went to the house dance, which was informal, and talked to her. She said, "I want you to dance with me, Chug." I knew then that she was my girl. I knew it by the light in her eyes and the touch of her hand on my arm. When I went home for spring vacation, we wrote each other. She began her letters, "My dear," and she said that she missed me. I could hardly wait to get back to college again. On the last night of vacation, I told my mother about her. We sat in our bare living room. My mother was tired from her day's work. "Her name is Cherry Holmes," I said, "and her father is one of our professors." My mother didn't answer for a long time. She leaned her elbows on the table and looked at her red hands, and finally she asked, "Does she know about—this?" "Yes," I said. My mother spoke slowly. "She isn't going to hurt you, is she, Joe?" N o one else in the world calls me Joe. T o my mother I am not Chug Arden, the football star, but Joe Ardinowski, her son. "She isn't going to hurt me," I said. "She's too fine for that. I've been to her house and met her people, and . . . " I was going to say, "and she loves me." But I wasn't sure of that. Cherry had never said so. I had never said "I love you" to her. My mother looked off into the distance. After a time, she

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said, " I got an invitation from the college to come down for Parents Day. I've never been to your college, Joe." It had never occurred to me that she would want to come, especially on Parents Day. As you know, mothers and fathers come down then, in silk dresses and tweed suits, and meet the President and the Dean. They have dinner in the fraternity houses and go to a faculty reception afterwards. They balance cups on their knees and talk to the professors. My mother wouldn't have a good time with them. But she is my mother, sir. "I'd be glad to have you come down," I said. "You could meet Cherry then." Her mouth twisted. She looked away and rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. " I could wear my black suit." Her black suit is four years old. She only wears it on Sundays. "Black suit nothing," I said. "We'll buy you a new dress, Mom." I had saved up some money, hoping to get some new clothes for myself. I had almost forty dollars, and I opened my wallet and gave most of it to her. When I got back, I told Cherry my mother was coming to Parents Day. "She's never been to a faculty tea or things like that," I said. "You'll find her different, Cherry." "But she's your mother," Cherry said. "I'd like to meet her, Chug." Cherry had been away to school and she was a professor's daughter. She called me "My dear" in her letters and she had missed me during vacation. She knew I was poor and working my way but she had never seen my home. She had never seen my mother.

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I loved her, sir. She knew that, I think. Girls know such things. But all the people she had met were cultured people like herself, who wore the right clothes and did the right things. My mother didn't and she was coming down to college. She would wear a new dress and a new hat. I could have written her and told her that maybe she'd better not come, that I was on the committee and would be too busy to meet her. But she would have known I was making excuses to keep her away. That would have hurt her, and she didn't rate being h u r t — not after all she had done for me. In her scrawling hand she would have written, "It's all right, Joe." But nothing would ever have been all right between us again. But I wondered how you and Mrs. Holmes would receive her. A week before the day she was to come, Mrs. Holmes telephoned me at the Alpha Pi House. "We'd like to have you and your mother have dinner with us," she said. I found myself blinking at the 'phone. I answered, "Thank you, ma'am," and I didn't know what to think. On Parents Day the sky was blue above the green grass of the campus. My mother was to arrive at noon, and Cherry suggested that we both meet her. Cherry picked me up at the chapter house and we drove down to the station. T h e platform was crowded with waiting students. I saw the train rolling across the bridge. Cherry clutched my arm. "It's coming, Chug." My mother was one of the last to get off. She stepped down upon the crowded platform, and I saw her new dress and hat. She was different from the other men's mothers and her hat was wrong. But I went straight over to her and I said, "This is Cherry, Mom." My mother's brown eyes looked into Cherry's blue eyes, and

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after a moment my mother smiled, and Cherry smiled, too. My mother said in her slow way, "Joseph has told me about you, Cherry. He is a good boy." "I know that, Mrs. Arden," Cherry said. Not good enough for either of them, I thought. I took my mother's arm and my girl's arm and walked between them down the platform to Cherry's car. When we reached your house, you came to the door yourself, and Mrs. Holmes was beside you. "This is my mother," I said. I watched your eyes, sir. You did not see my mother's hat or her worked-scarred hands. You saw the heart of a mother who was proud of her son. You said, "I am honored to meet you, Madam," and introduced my mother to your wife. Cherry and I stood on the porch before the open door. She wore a red sweater and a white coat, and her hair was a crown of gold. She smiled at me, a smile I shall never forget, and, with all of you watching, she placed her slim young arms around my neck. "I love you, Chug," she said. Do you think, sir, that you could trust your daughter to a roughneck like me?

13 Rules of the Game

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was written at home during a Christmas vacation. Our class in English 75, 76 was in session and I had outlined with some show of authority the basic rules of the short story. It occurred to me that it would be of value if I could write a story which would serve as a practical demonstration of these rules, and the class was perfectly willing to have me try. T h e teaching experience had stimulated my own thought processes and I was eager to write. During the past few weeks I had been an interested observer of the unfolding of a romance between one of our varsity football players and a pretty secretary at college and, although the boy's mother did not work in a factory and the girl's father was not a professor, the incident provided a plot germ which contained possibilities. My memory went back twenty-five years to the time my own mother had attended Commencement and had been neglected by an inconsiderate son, and the two incidents merged into a complete story outline almost overnight. TARS IN THE SKY

W e had learned after our first class assignment early in the term that the beginning author is inclined to write about things with which he is unfamiliar, that he includes in his story matters entirely foreign to the plot, and is inept in his use of dialogue. These were three faults that I must avoid. So I selected a college campus as the setting, and took special care not to overwrite and to make the dialogue natural. 219

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It is obvious that I was correct in the selection of characters and background; I was writing about people and places I knew. T h e attempt to use restraint was, apparently, successful. T h e editor did not delete a single line in the first ten pages of the manuscript. His initial deletion concerned tickets to home football games. I had written: "She went to all the home football games, (sitting in 'deadhead row' where the friends of the players sat. Some of the players sold their tickets but I gave mine to her.)" T h e deleted words are in parenthesis. I had included them purposely, thinking that the reader would be interested to know that football players are given free tickets to games in which they participate. I thought that he would like to have this "inside dope." T h e editor, however, was justified in bluepenciling it; it was a non-essential touch. There were two other deletions of more than one line. I had written, in describing dinner at the Professor's house: "Mrs. Holmes shook hands, too, and smiled at me. (She led the way to the dining room, and I held her chair until she was seated. I had enough sense not to talk until grace was said, and even then I didn't talk much. When the maid in green uniform served us, I didn't do very well. I took only one piece of meat when I wanted two, and I spilled some sauce from the asparagus. But I had never been served by a maid before.)" T h e editor deleted the words in parenthesis. I considered them of some importance in the delineation of Chug's character, for his first meal at the home of a college professor undoubtedly made a strong impression upon him and he would want to mention it in telling his story. However, the editor thought otherwise. T h e third deletion was of brief dialogue following the first time Chug and Cherry danced together. T h e preceding para-

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graph ends: "She said, 'I want you to dance with me, Chug,' and we danced together, her bright hair on my shoulder." I had added: (" 'I wish you were going home with me,' she said. 'You know that, don't you?' " 'It wouldn't be fair,' I answered. " 'But I'd like you to,' she said.") My intention in including that conversation was to show what fine youngsters they were and to emphasize their love for each other. Chug wanted very much to take Cherry home but rejected the suggestion because he thought it wouldn't be fair. Cherry appreciated his position and did not urge him. But the editor decided that the incident should end with their dancing together. Still, even though these passages were deleted, I like to think that the story is an example of restraint in writing. Surely it is when compared to the original manuscript of " T o a Browneyed Girl." T h e third fault to be avoided was awkwardness in conversation, but that was not difficult, for Chug was so real to me that, having established his personality, his background and his ambitions, I tried to have him talk exactly as a young man of his qualities would talk in real life. Cherry's conversation was simply that of an average cultured girl. Thus, the pitfalls common to a beginner were avoided but I still had to demonstrate the practical application of the basic rules of the short story. W e had talked in class about types of stories; and this, I decided, would be a character story; the evolvement of Chug Arden from a "tramp athlete" to a wellrounded, educated young man. And the best way to do this, I believed, was to use the first person; we could get closer to Chug's heart in that way. The construction was fluent, although I did write the end-

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ing before the introduction was completed. Fortunately, the conclusion fitted well into the story proper, and did not require a single word of revision. W e had mentioned " T h e Unities" in class, learning that "a story should happen as nearly as possible in one stretch of time, in one place and in one sweep of incident," and I kept these unities in mind. In this story there is "one sweep of incident," every happening from introduction to conclusion having a direct bearing upon the romance between Cherry and Chug; the location of all the action, except Chug's brief visit to his home, is the college campus, and Chug's visit is technically correct because we may consider a student's home an extension of the campus during vacation; and the story happened "as nearly as possible in one stretch of time." This extended over a period of almost four years, to be sure, but that period constitutes a unit of time essential to the attainment of the desired effect. It was necessary, however, to bridge the time gap, and this was done in a single sentence: " I did not see her again for two and a half years." I do not think it detracts from the story's interest but rather adds to it, for the reader, having learned to know Chug, is anxious to find out (or should be, if the story is well done) what happened to him in the interim. This bridging of gaps in time presents many difficulties even to an experienced author. W e cannot write, " T h e n came the dawn"; we should not write, " T w o weeks passed" unless the passage of time is emphasized deliberately in order to maintain or increase suspense, as was the case in the example cited above. In other parts of this story the time transition is accomplished less abruptly: " W h e n I came out of the dressing room after the second game . . ." ( T w o weeks had passed.) " W e did not see each other too often . . . but occasionally we spent an evening together. . . ." ( T h e period from football

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season in the fall to Parents Day in the spring is thus covered without mention of time.) Other examples could be cited but these will suffice, I hope, to show how an experienced author accounts for the passage of time without interrupting the smooth flow of narration. Occasionally, as a story reaches certain points in its development, he makes no attempt to explain time transition but permits a break in the text, a half inch or so of blank space, to indicate a change in both time and scene. In our English class we had adopted a formula for a love story, and this story, if it was to be a practical demonstration, should adhere to the formula. And I made sure that it did. Cherry and Chug were two young people who loved each other very much. T h e barrier which threatened to end their romance was their different backgrounds as represented by Chug's mother and Cherry's parents. T h e barrier was removed, not by accident or coincidence, but by the qualities of the two main characters and the strength of their mutual love. Every story, we had learned in class, has an introduction, story proper, climax and conclusion. T h e introduction should start quickly, attract attention and create interest. What about the introduction of this story? T h e first paragraph does not mention either Cherry or Chug by name. But we know that a poor boy, a "roughneck," is in love with a girl. W e know in the next few paragraphs that he is humiliated and unhappy, that a girl comes into the kitchen and is kind to him. Because of that visit he resolves to become a gentleman so that he may be worthy of her. W e had learned also that the story proper should continue on a straight line to the conclusion. I knew that if there was any deviation from that line, I could not in good conscience read it to the class. So I imagined myself an editor taking grim delight in the wielding of a blue pencil. I described no football game, because the description of a game had no part in

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the story. I made use of only six characters; others would have been superfluous. I made mention only of those incidents which affected the plot's development. I tried to keep the story moving, and on page nineteen of the manuscript, I found that the climax had been reached without great effort and without the use of extraneous material. T h e climax, we had learned in class, should be sharp, clearcut and, in a sense, breathtaking. In this story, it came when Chug's mother met Cherry's parents, with the two young people looking on. T h e r e was no need for lengthy description. It was only necessary to tell the reader what happened. T h e professor said, " I am honored to meet you, Madam," and Cherry said, " I love you, Ciiug." T h e conclusion, the class had agreed, should round out the story and be as brief as possible. So C h u g asked, " D o you think, sir, that you could trust your daughter to a roughneck like me?" T h e answer was obvious. T h e professor could. A n d what more was there to say? When the story is ended, stop. I read it to the class under the title, " R o u g h n e c k . " But Flash Miers contended that this title was too disclosing, and suggested, " A n d Stars in the Sky." T h e editor eliminated the "And." It was written more easily and in a shorter working period than any adult story I had so far attempted. T h i s is accounted for by two reasons; my mind was running in the story groove, and I had for the first time in a long career deliberately applied to a manuscript the basic rules of short story writing. Just as a golfer plays with less effort after he has mastered the technique of the drive, the approach and the putt, so an author writes more smoothly and easily after he has mastered the technique of restraint, suspense, characterization, dialogue and other fine points of fiction writing. T h i s knowledge of technique is the tool with which an

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author constructs his stories. Words are his materials, and he must make wise use of them if he hopes to build effectively. He should use simple words whenever possible so that the reader may enjoy his stories without a dictionary. I recall that in "Stars in the Sky" I had great difficulty with the scene which described Chug's thoughts as he lurked in the balcony at the Junior Prom. I wanted to emphasize most strongly Chug's recognition of his limitations and his determination to overcome them, and I wrote three long paragraphs about his inner struggle. T h e next day they were crossed out and a single sentence substituted: "I looked down at the dancers, and once again at Cherry, and I knew that I had a long way to go." T h a t sentence was sufficient to create the desired impression. A dozen paragraphs could have done no more. Words, as we have said above, are the materials with which an author builds his stories. They cannot be strung together without purpose; each word must have its place in the edifice the author is erecting, just as each brick must have its place according to an architect's design in the construction of a building. A master mason is a craftsman who lays each brick in proper relation to all other bricks until the resulting structure is a thing of symmetry and beauty; the simpler, the more beautiful. And an author, who is both architect and craftsman, must place his words as carefully as a mason lays his bricks, until a story of simple beauty results from his efforts. When "Stars in the Sky" appeared, it drew approximately as many letters from readers as did "If in Years to Come." T h e majority were from men and, curiously, a considerable number was received as long as a year after publication. Several readers asked about the poem, the last stanza of which appears in the story. It was written to Fliv on a summer night before I left Highland Nature Camp for a week at college, and has since been printed in three magazines.

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Part of it was included in the story because I wanted to show that Chug, in spite of his rough exterior, was a poet and idealist at heart. It could have been omitted without retarding the plot's forward movement. But inasmuch as it provided the story's title and marked the low ebb in Chug's courtship, the editor evidently felt that it was worthy of inclusion. Technically, "Stars in the Sky" is the best story in this volume. It avoids the pitfalls common to a beginner, it makes use of restraint, it conforms to " T h e Unities," it follows the formula of a love story, it contains suspense and is written in simple language. Whether or not it has an appeal equal to or greater than the other stories is for the reader to say.

14 If We Are Strong Enough

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was five minutes late for the first session of our class in Business English. Professor Jordan had already started his lecture when the door opened and Bob came in. He wore a V-neck gray sweater and unpressed trousers, and his face was red with embarrassment. His hair was the color of ripe wheat, and his eyes bluer than any eyes I have ever seen. His heavy shoulders were bent as if from overwork, and his bigness filled the room. There was something about him, something that even then, in my eyes at least, stamped him as different. He took a seat unobtrusively in the rear row of chairs, and before the hour was well under way, he had fallen fast asleep. Business English was one of our extension courses, held at night in Old King's, the oldest building on our campus. We had about twenty-five students, both men and women, and the professor had given me permission to vagabond the course. I am Ruth Lindsay, his secretary. Bob woke up before the hour was ended and glanced around defiantly. But young men have slept in Professor Jordan's classes before, and the professor just grinned at him and continued lecturing. Bob seemed surprised at the lack of a reprimand. After he had left we read his registration card. He listed his occupation as "farm hand," and his residence as Millbrook, sixty miles from the campus. He was twenty years old. 887 OB NEWSOME

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He had not attended high school but he had studied mathematics through trigonometry and calculus. He wanted to be an engineer, he wrote, and he was taking Business English because he felt an engineer should be able to write readable letters. He was an expert mechanic. He yawned through the second class but did not fall asleep again. He sat between Dick Williams, a graduate of Wisconsin, and Paul Larson, of Norwegian parentage. His hands were a man's hands, wide and strong with gnarled fingers. But they were clean. His neck was clean and his face almost shone with cleanliness. He reminded me of a small boy who had been carefully scrubbed for his first party by a doting mother. He must have felt my eyes upon him, for suddenly he glanced up and smiled. I looked away quickly, but the memory of that smile is still with me. The month was October and the year 1940. Europe was at war, but the war seemed far away. Our college students talked of football, and people said that we would never send our boys across the seas again. And I, like many others, thought only of myself. I remember that October as the time when Bob first smiled at me. I half expected him to wait after class on some pretext but he went away without a word. And I did not get to know him until more than a month later, when, unexpectedly, he drove me home. Professor Jordan had said something in class about his own car developing engine trouble, and when the others had left, Bob came up to the desk. "Perhaps, I could fix it for you, sir," he offered. We drove to the professor's house in Bob's battered car. It was very old, a high sedan, but it ran smoothly. He had practically rebuilt the engine himself, he explained. When we reached the garage in back of the Jordan house, Bob drew off his sweater and rolled up his sleeves. He took out

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a part or two of the engine, and the tools he used were like brushes in the hands of a great artist. In fifteen minutes the damage was repaired, and the engine purred. He straightened up, wiping his hands on some waste, and turned to me. "Maybe I could take you home," he said. "Maybe you could," I answered. He did not speak during the short distance we had to go, and when we reached my house, he climbed down from the car and bowed quite formally. "Thank you very much," he said. "I guess I'd better be going now." Probably he expected me to get out but I just sat there in the front seat. T h e night was cold and dark but I could see him plainly in the light of a street lamp. "It's early yet," I suggested. "Tell me something about yourself, Bob." " I don't like to talk about myself," he answered, but he came back in the car. "There isn't much to tell. I've never done anything or been anyone." He was different from college boys, who are always glad to talk about themselves. I touched his arm. "You want to be an engineer, don't you?" "Yes," he said. Under his thick, cheap mackinaw, I could feel his hard muscles. He glanced at my hand quickly, and away again, and suddenly he was talking. "My parents died when I was twelve years old and I've been just knocking around ever since. For the past three years I've been working on a farm in Millbrook. I've been studying nights." "You're twenty years old, aren't you?" He nodded. "I'm nineteen," I said. He looked straight ahead, his ungloved hands on the wheel. "I've never known a girl like you. I've never had a chance to."

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"But you know me now, Bob." "Yes. But I'm just a farm hand, and you . . ." "I'm a stenographer," I told him. He turned and looked at me, and again I could see how blue his eyes were. " M y mother was a Bryn Mawr graduate," he said. Something caught in my throat. I wanted to ask him about his father, and how he had lost his parents. I wanted to ask him more about himself but I felt he had told me all he wanted to tell when he mentioned his mother. Apparently, he thought so, too, for he opened the door of the car and stepped out. "Sometime, perhaps, I can drive you home again," he suggested. "I'd like you to," I said. I went to the Football Dance with John Atwood the next night. John had asked me the preceding spring. W e had been going together for almost a year, and we had grown to like each other. He called for me in his new car, and as we drove down College Avenue to the gymnasium, I thought of Bob and his high sedan. John was immaculate in evening clothes, and I thought of Bob's gray sweater. W e danced to the music of a name band, beneath soft lights. John talked about himself. He had a job in an essential industry after graduation, he said. T h a t would take him out of the draft. He didn't believe in war, anyhow. Other boys danced with me. They said how swell I was and how grand I looked. I wore a new dress, and I wondered if Bob would like it if he could see it. He had never seen me in an evening dress. I had been going to college dances for three years, and they had always been wonderful. This dance was the same as the

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others; the same lights and music, the same small talk. But somehow, it was different. I kept thinking of Bob. John noticed that I was quiet. "Anything wrong?" he asked. "Just a little tired," I answered. "Maybe I've been working too hard." But it wasn't that. It was a blue-eyed boy with an artist's hands. Some people were in the balcony overlooking the dance floor; young professors and their wives who had not bothered to dress, a few students who could not afford to buy tickets. I glanced up at them indifferently, and then my heart stood still. Bob was up there, sitting alone in one shadowed corner. His mackinaw was unbuttoned, and I could see his gray sweater underneath. I stopped dancing in the middle of the floor, and someone bumped into me. "I have to go out for a minute, John," I said. "I'll be right back." I waved to Bob, who seemed to be watching me. It took a minute or two to push through the crowd and up to the balcony, but when I reached the place where Bob had been, he was no longer there. I asked him about it when next the class met. "I saw you up in the balcony, Bob, but when I went up to say hello, you had gone." "Yes," he answered gravely, "I ran away because I didn't want to embarrass you." "Why would you embarrass me?" I asked. "My clothes," he explained. "As if clothes mattered," I protested. Professor Jordan was getting ready for his lecture. T w o or three of the class were watching us curiously. Bob looked at me, his clear eyes puzzled.

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"I'll have to think of that," he said. But he did not drive me home again for almost a month. Christmas came, a war Christmas in Europe, and I sent him a card, although he did not send me one. I wondered if he had received any other cards. He thanked me when our vacation was ended. "I'm always going to keep it, Ruth." "Why?" I asked. "Because it's from you," he said. "Were there many others, Bob?" He shook his head. "Not many." He waited after class but I found that he was not waiting for me. Dr. Powell, head of the engineering department, came in, and he and Bob went out together to inspect the engineering labs. Professor Jordan walked part way home with me. "Newsome has the makings of a great engineer," he explained, "and Dr. Powell has taken a special interest in him." He ought to go to college, I thought. But he couldn't do that, of course, for he lacked entrance credits. But, if he only could. . . . "It isn't fair for some men to have everything and some others nothing at all," I said. "No," the professor agreed gently. "It isn't fair." But there was nothing we could do about it. T h e first term ended, and Bob's mark was the highest in the class. He asked, unexpectedly, to drive me home but that was the night I had a date with John Atwood. Bob stood in the doorway of Old King's and saw me ride off with John, and at the next class session he was absent. It was the first time since the year began he had stayed away. "Where's Bob?" someone asked. T h e class looked at me. " I don't know," I answered.

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It seemed wrong for him not to be in his familiar place. It had rained during the afternoon and then turned cold, and the roads were icy. And he had sixty miles to drive. "Maybe he's had an accident," Paul Larson suggested. T h e room was quiet. T h e members of the class, many of whom were older by years than Bob, were suddenly concerned because a farm hand had stayed away. They waited, some of them glancing at Bob's empty chair, as if for reassurance. Finally, the professor spoke. "Probably, he didn't even attempt the trip. I'll check up tomorrow." T h e next morning, he called me into his office. "I've just been in touch with the farmer for whom Bob works," he announced casually. "His car skidded on the way to class last night." Something caught at my heart. "Was he hurt?" I demanded. "Only a scratch or two." T h e professor spoke reassuringly. "He'll be all right in a couple of days." "Oh!" I said. I had promised to go with John Atwood to a basketball game that afternoon. But when he called for me, I asked him if he would mind taking a drive instead. "One of the members of our class was hurt in an auto accident," I explained. "I'd like to know how he is." "Of course," John said. T h e ice had melted and the roads were clear. At Millbrook we found the farm where Bob lived and knocked at the kitchen door. A stout woman in a gingham dress answered and explained that Bob was in his room in the barn. T h e room was under the eaves. A single window looked out upon barren fields and there was no rug on the floor. But there was a picture of a college campus on the wall—Bryn Mawr, I thought—and a copy of "Blue Boy" by Gainsborough. Bob sat in a faded chair by the window, a strip of plaster

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over one eye, a purple bruise on his cheek. He stood up when we entered. " T h i s is John Atwood," I said. " W e thought we'd drive out to see how you are." He held out his hand to John but looked directly at me. " T h a n k you!" he said. I walked over to him and touched the bruise on his cheek. "Does it hurt much?" I asked. " N o , " he answered. His lips quivered. "It doesn't hurt at all—now." "I was just wondering," I said. W e looked into each other's eyes and, although John was in the room with us, he might just as well have been a thousand miles away. He knew it, too, I guess, for when we started home he slumped down before the wheel and spoke gruffly. "You should have told me, Ruth." " T o l d you what?" I asked. " T h a t you were in love with him," John said. When Bob returned to class after a week's absence, a new relationship grew up between us. Sometimes he drove me home and we, talked for a while, but always he had to leave early because of his farm work. Sometimes we went over to the English House on College Avenue where Dr. Powell would join us. T h e men discussed engineering in terms which I could not understand, but I did not mind. I could feel Bob growing older. T h e war still filled the front pages of the newspapers. T h e selective service act had been passed and young men were going off to camp. Paul Larson, of Norwegian parentage, announced in English Class one night that he was leaving for camp the next day. Some of the women were shocked but Paul announced quietly, " W e have to stand up to things."

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Somehow, his going brought the war much closer to us. Bob was quieter, I thought. He said, as we were sitting on the porch of the English House a week after Paul had gone, "I wonder how Larson is making out." But I wasn't thinking about Paul. It was Bob who mattered. "I'm glad you're too young for the draft," I said. He did not answer. A group of undergraduates passed us on the avenue singing: Oh, Mother of ancient men, How rich thy storied past has been. . . . Bob clasped his hands around his knees. "I wonder if they know how lucky they are." His voice was low in the night's dimness. "I would give my right arm to go to college. I could learn engineering. I could be somebody." "You're somebody now," I said. T h e singing of "Hail Mother" floated back to us. Bob raised his head and listened. "I wonder if they know how lucky they are," he repeated. Professor Jordan was with us. He is a big man and an understanding one, and the next day he went to the Dean. I do not know how he did it, but he persuaded the Dean to forget entrance credits and admit Bob as a special student in September. He told me about it, and I said, "But Bob has to have room and meals, too. He hasn't any money, sir." He explained that that had been taken care of, too. Bob would be given a scholarship covering his tuition and would live in the Alfalfa House and earn his way. I knew about the Alfalfa House. It is a rambling farmhouse on the College Farm which has been turned over to the students. T h e y keep the rooms clean and buy and cook their own food. They work odd hours to meet expenses. Only the professor and I were in the office. I thought, looking across College Avenue to the Kappa Sigma House: "Next

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year, Bob will be part of all this. He won't be lonely any more. He'll walk to classes in the rain and have friends. Maybe he'll play football or go out for crew. He has an oarsman's strong hands." W e told Bob after class Friday night. T h e term was nearing its close and only a few sessions remained. Spring had come to the campus and through the open windows we could see the trees swaying. Now, whenever I hear a whispering tree, I think of Bob; and I remember the look in his eyes when the professor told him he was going to college. He did not understand at first. "You—you're joking, sir," he stammered. W e explained to him about the Alfalfa House and the scholarship, and he leaned against a scarred desk in a room in which a vice-president of the United States had studied and said uncertainly, "I'm dreaming, I guess." He walked to the window and looked out upon the campus. W e could hear men's feet tramping across the worn floor of the corridor of Old King's. A great poet who had written "Trees" had walked there. I had a feeling, watching Bob's broad shoulders straighten, that he was accepting the challenge of his new heritage. He turned finally. "This is too big to grasp all at once," he said. "It means, Ruth, that I can be here for four years and can see you almost every day. T h a t I can take you to a Junior Prom, perhaps." I hadn't known he had wanted to take me to a Junior Prom. But I said to him, as gently as I could, for I wanted him to remember this night always, " T o all the Junior Proms, Bob, through all the years." W e did not say anything to the class about Bob's coming to college, for they had their own interests and their own problems. Another of the men announced that he would leave for camp within a week, and the war seemed closer still.

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It was late April in 1941. Nazi forces had invaded Jugoslavia and Greece was in danger. The darkening shadow of a great conflict hung over us, but Bob was too young for the draft. We talked about ourselves and the years to come, and one night we sat on the steps of Winants Hall, the "Old Dorm," and saw two lamps glow steadily at the entrance to King's. "Here is where the Senior Sing is held," I said. "You'll be a senior sometime, Bob." "Yes," he answered. "You'll wear a cap and gown at Commencement. You'll be a B.M.O.C. Do you know what that means?" He shook his head. "It means a big man on the campus." " I wouldn't care so much about that," he said. "What I want to do most of all is to study and to work." Through the open door of the dormitory, we heard a young man's booming voice: "Oh, Bill Hawley. Telephone!" "I'd like to know people and to have friends," Bob continued. "I'd like to have someone call me on the 'phone." "I'll call you on the 'phone," I promised. "Just little things," he said, "and yet, they mean so much. T o stand in front of Chapel and to know that I belong. T o have a room in a house. T o have something to cling to. " T h e big things, too." He spoke so softly I could hardly hear. "Machines to work on, and traditions, and books. A n d — and you, Ruth." We drove out to the College Farm and parked the car before the Alfalfa House. We could see boys studying in some of the rooms. "I'll be doing that," Bob said. A light was turned on in the living room. W e saw a touslehaired boy sit down at an old piano and run his fingers over the keys. We heard the music of "On the Banks":

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Then sing aloud to A Ima Mater, And keep the Scarlet in the van. . . . Alumni of our college throughout the world stand up and uncover their heads when " O n the Banks" is played. And on this spring night, Bob climbed out of the parked car and stood at attention, his shoulders back. After a moment, I got out, too, and took my place beside him, wanting him to know that I understood. At the next class session, the last but one of the term, Professor Jordan read a letter from Paul Larson. Paul wrote that he was at Fort Knox, Kentucky, and was learning to be a soldier. He didn't like it very much, but there were some things a man had to stand up to. He was remembering Norway, which was his father's country. He was remembering Poland and Belgium. He sent his best regards to all of us, especially to Bob Newsome. I glanced over at Bob. His blue eyes were looking into far distances, and his big hands were clenched. Only a few short weeks ago, Paul Larson had been sitting beside him. But now, Paul was in camp, and Bob . . . I said to him on the way home: "I don't think we'll ever get in the war. And you're too young, anyhow, Bob." "I'm twenty," he answered evenly. W e drove to the College Farm and stopped again before the Alfalfa House. T h e living room was dark, and there was no music. "You'll be living there next year," I reminded him. "I wonder which room will be yours." "I wonder," he said. When he reported for our final class session, he wore a dark blue suit, a green necktie and tan shoes. T h e suit looked as if it had been selected from a mail order catalogue, and the shoes

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were too bright. He looked more like a farm hand than he had on that first day of class, but I wanted to go over to him in front of all the group and straighten his tie possessively. I watched him while the professor gave his last lecture. Dr. Powell had offered him a position in the engineering laboratories for the summer, and we could be together. After he had earned some money, I would persuade him to buy a new suit, a baggy tweed like college men wore. W e would drive in his high sedan to the cool hills. Maybe we would go to the shore for a swim. I lost myself in dreaming, and there was no draft and no war in Europe—only Bob and I. Professor Jordan closed his book and stood up. This was our last time together, he said, and there was no telling what would happen before we met again, if ever we did. W e were living in a changing world and many things would change, but not the ancient virtues. Bob's eyes were fixed upon him. Bob leaned forward in his chair, and listened. T h e professor mentioned courage and high thinking and sacrifice. These were our heritage, he said, and these would remain only if we were strong enough to keep the faith. He looked across the rows of chairs to Paul Larson's empty chair, and then for a brief moment he bowed his head as if he were praying. "If we are strong enough," he finished, and dismissed the class, and the course was ended. T h e class shook hands with him and shuffled from the room, but Bob and I waited. Bob held out his big paw. "Good-bye, sir, and thank you," he said. When we stepped out upon the campus, the April sky was studded with a million stars. A dim light glimmered on the porch of the chapel, and Bob led me there.

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"You're all dressed up," I remarked inanely. He sat down on the stone step and clasped his hands around his knees. "I always dress up when I go to church," he answered. " A n d this is like church tonight." I didn't understand what he meant. I sat beside him so that our shoulders touched. "I don't know what you mean," I ventured. He did not look at me. He looked across the shadowed pattern on the campus grass to the oblong lights which were the windows of Winants Hall. "I'm going to enlist," he said. A light went out in one of the windows of the old dorm. A light went out in my heart. "You can't be meaning it," I protested. "What about college, Bob?" " T h i s thing is bigger even than college," he stated simply. "What about me?" I asked. He did not answer directly. He unclasped his hands and held them out in front of him; a man's hand, capable of doing a man's work. "Maybe I can't explain it," he answered slowly. "But these hands of mine are needed." "What about me?" I persisted. "I can come back to you," he said, "and we can keep the faith, if we are strong enough." T h e fabric of his mail order suit touched my shoulder. I was nineteen and he was a year older, and the United States had not entered the war. But dimly I sensed what he was trying to explain. Behind the locked doors of the Chapel were portraits of men who had made our country's traditions; a general in the Revolution, a justice of the Supreme Court and a World War hero. And beside me on the porch, a boy who wanted to meas-

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ure up to his heritage—even though it was not yet entirely his. He had thought just a short time ago that a dream he had cherished through long years would be fulfilled. That he would have a house to live in and a place where he belonged. That he could learn to be an engineer. But this new call, this new challenge, was greater than all minor dreams. This was a dream of free men thinking freely, of strong men fighting to uphold an ideal. I choked down a sob in my throat, and the light went on again in the window of Winants Hall. A light shone again in my heart. " I understand," I said, and reached blindly toward him. "You—you won't need your new suit now," I added. W e stood up on the Chapel's shadowed porch, and the dim lamp was our star to remember always. Bob held out his arms. " I love you," he whispered. " I love you, too." I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. "Soldier, good-bye," I said. He was sent to Fort Slocum and later transferred to the Signal Corps. In November, he went to Pearl Harbor. I do not know just where he was when the Japanese bombers came. I only know he was wounded and cannot write. But last night, now that it is spring again, I sat alone on the Chapel porch. The lamp which is our star still shone steadily. And the light in my heart is still shining—for a blue-eyed farm hand who has kept the faith.

15 Short Circuit of this story was written at "Sandy Run," a log cabin (five spacious rooms and bath) of one of our friends at Pine Lake, New Jersey. Eda and I had slipped away for a week, while things were quiet at college, and we both felt that the story was so clearly shaped in my mind that it would be comparatively easy to write. It was to be entitled "Even Bigger Than College" and was to be based upon the personality, character and experiences of one of the pupils in our class in short story writing. On the opening night of the course, a young man entered late. He was big and muscular, with corn-colored hair, a ruddy skin and strikingly blue eyes. During my initial lecture he fell asleep and for the next few sessions he yawned almost continually. Eventually, I learned that he was a farm hand living fifty miles from Newark. Both his parents died when he was twelve years of age and he had been "on his own" ever since. He arose at four o'clock every morning in order to finish his work by five in the afternoon, then drove his battered car to class, a total distance of two hundred miles each week. I learned, as the term progressed, that he had taken correspondence courses and had attended an evening business college for a year. One of his classmates told me that his mother had graduated from Bryn Mawr, but I never learned much about his family from Bill himself. At the end of the term he submitted a story, "Ploughboy," which is the best story by a HE FIRST DRAFT

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beginner I have ever read. We revised it during the second term, sent it for criticism to Harold Ober who considered it good enough for submission to the quality magazines. During the second term, Bill became the outstanding personality of the class. Although he spoke rarely, his words carried weight. His fellow members respected and admired him, appreciated his ability and enjoyed his dry humor. He was twenty-three years old and, although eligible for the draft, would probably have secured occupational deferment. A few days after the course ended, however, he appeared in my office and announced that he intended to enlist. He talked of his aspirations and of his hope to be a writer, but declared that his personal ambitions must be set aside until he had met his obligation to his country. He said something about maintaining the dignity of the common man and the traditions which had made America great. A week or so later he wrote me that he had enlisted in the Signal Corps and was located at Fort Slocum, New York. Shortly afterwards, he sent word that he expected to leave for Hawaii. The letter was dated May 20, 1941, and in it he wrote: "If 'Ploughboy' should sell, although I doubt it very much, I wish you would take what money it may bring and turn it over to Rutgers University which I consider a fine institution run by splendid men." We have not sold the story. It was submitted to Reader's Digest and considered inappropriate for that publication, and I have not sent it anywhere else. I am waiting until Bill comes back from the war. A letter addressed to him at Fort Slocum was forwarded to Hawaii and finally returned to me. At Christmas, I received a card from Bill, postmarked Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, but containing no address, and although I have tried to locate him, my efforts have not been successful. I do not know where he is now, but I expect to see him again.

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Of all the young men I have known over a period of three decades, Bill Neilson stands in the very front rank. At "Sandy Run" I wrote his story. It was told in the first person by Professor Jordan but was entirely unsatisfactory. So I tried again, using another title, " T o Girls Like Ruth." This time I decided to make it different in form and presentation. The introduction was "From the Pen of Professor Jordan," the story proper "From the Pen of Ruth Lindsay," and in the conclusion I turned again to the professor. The story was better than the first draft and, although both Eda and Flash were frankly dubious, I sent it to Mr. Ober. He wrote that it is difficult to sell stories about aspiring writers and that he did not think this manuscript was salable. So I tried a third time, using the title, "Soldier, Good-bye," which was changed later to "If We Are Strong Enough." I had Ruth tell the story, believing that she was the best medium through which to achieve the desired effect. Before beginning the third draft, I made a brief mental review of certain basic rules of short story writing. I selected characters and a background with which I was familiar; I decided to write a story of young love; I chose a universal theme, a young man's sacrifice for his country. It seemed that surely the story would be successful. The final draft was completed during Christmas vacation. Fliv read it and was deeply impressed. Two friends who were visiting us and who had read my previous stories were enthusiastic about it. But Eda expressed doubt. Unwisely, I did not show it to Flash. Mr. Ober considered it salable and started it on its rounds. It was rejected by Good Housekeeping, McCall's, Ladies' Home Journal, American, Country Gentleman, Cosmopolitan, Red Book, Woman's Home Companion, and Liberty. Having failed with these nine magazines, it was "retired." Why did it fail? The consensus of opinion among the edi-

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tors rejecting it was that it has a good plot but is over-emotional. Still, it is not so emotional as "If in Years to Come" or " T o a Brown-eyed Girl." There must be another reason which busy editors had not bothered to state. I asked three members of my office staff to read the story and tell me why in their opinion it was rejected. Their answers follow: My secretary: "It is too sentimental for young people, and has not enough plot for older people. The story does not contain enough about the boy and too much about the girl." One assistant: "Your character, Ruth Lindsay, expresses great understanding of Bob and his problems throughout. Yet when she is faced with his departure she exhibits a somewhat selfish approach by failing to understand his action. In line with opinions of college officials who have said that trained men are essential, might it not be more plausible for Bob to enter college and learn his engineering? T h e story leaves me with too much of an emotional 'taste.' It pulls too much at the heartstrings." Another assistant: " T h e central character is a pathetic individual who appeals to the heart, but the expectancy of the reader is either something of a sacrificial or heroic act. In this respect the fact that he was 'just' wounded leaves a half-way situation. T h e obvious conclusion would be his death. If in some demonstrative manner he could carry out further the theme of 'faith' and survive unscathed, it would give the story something of a new twist." I asked Eda. She said, with customary frankness: " I don't like stories in which the narrator has to say, 'I am so-and-so.' I think you knew so much about Bill Neilson that you assumed the reader knew as much as you, and so you didn't bother to include those little touches which make him a real person. Moreover, your ending seems forced and artificial." I asked Flash to make critical analysis. He did, as follows:

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"The story lacks conviction and the characters are shadowy. Who is John Atwood; who is Bob Newsome? Who is Ruth Lindsay? You never know, for their feelings are elusive, they all talk the same, and not one of them ever conveys a challenging thought, a really vital, human thought. Ruth is no more familiar in her reactions than the professor. She doesn't exist. The mounting war background, much like the college background, is thrown in—sprinkled on the pages by the author instead of emerging through the acts, the thoughts, the words of the characters. There are no big moments in the story, but a series of incidents, each rather commonplace, building up to a mention of Pearl Harbor where the actual experiences were so dramatic that what takes place in this story is by that fact overshadowed, limp. "This is not the story you meant to write; these are not the characters you had in mind. Something cross fired between your emotions and your brain—the manuscript is the short circuit." It would be of value, I think, to make brief analysis of the story, based chiefly upon the criticisms of Eda and Flash. T h e introduction describes Bob Newsome but it awakens no special interest. In paragraph three, we pause for an explanation, which somehow does not ring true. W e explain again a few paragraphs later, and Bob is still not a living person. T h e conversation between Bob and Ruth does not contribute greatly to the story's forward movement; the reader is still waiting for something to happen. But nothing happens. John Atwood is not a clearly pictured person; Bob, lurking in the balcony, as Chug Arden had done in "Stars in the Sky," awakens no great interest. W e knew Chug at that stage of his story; we do not know Bob at this stage of his. T h e Christmas card incident is flat, and when Dr. Powell, the engineering professor, is introduced, he is not a real person. Even in my own mind, I could not distinguish between him and Professor Jordan; I had to turn back the pages of the manuscript to identify them. Bob's accident was designed to increase the reader's sym-

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pathy for him, but I do not think the reader cared particularly. Ruth's visit to his room in the barn carries with it no sense of reality. The story does not begin to move until it is half finished; when Professor Jordan goes to the Dean and arranges to have Bob admitted to college. After that it moves more swiftly and the reader begins to have more sympathy for Bob. But Ruth remains a shadowy figure. Efforts to make her real—her promising to call Bob on the 'phone, her standing beside him when the Alma Mater is being sung—are ineffective. Paul Larson's writing from camp is simply a mechanical gesture. Paul is a puppet, not a real person. The professor's speech at the conclusion of the course is not especially impressive. His words and Larson's letter are supposed to be the reason why Bob awakened to his obligation to his country. But neither the professor nor Paul is a strong enough character to make that awakening logical. The climax is effective, I think, but here there is some confusion in the reader's mind when we mention Bob's heritage. What was it? He wasn't a college man yet. Somehow, the reference strikes a false note. The conclusion, as Eda and Flash both indicated, does not fit into the story. Here again, there is a false note. I had written two endings. In one, Bob was killed; in the other, wounded. I think now that it would have been better if he had lost his life, but even that would not have saved the story. It just did not click. If one of my pupils in English 75, 76 had written it and submitted it for impersonal criticism, I would have said that he had failed utterly in characterization. He did not make his characters real and, because they were not, the things they said and did, which were designed to provide suspense and forward movement, made no impression upon the reader. Not knowing the people concerned, the reader simply did not care.

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T o review briefly what we learned in English 75, 76, it conforms to the rules of short story writing inasmuch as: (1) It is written in the first person, a desirable medium for this type of story. (2) It has a universal theme; properly developed, it would have been effective. (3) It was of fluent construction, outlined clearly in the author's mind before it was begun. (4) It starts quickly, proceeds in a straight line to the climax, and has a brief conclusion. (5) Although based mainly on fact, it is not a true story; it is concerned with causes and effects. (6) The author worked hard in writing it. Nevertheless, it failed, for its characterization is poor. If Bob Newsome, Ruth Lindsay and Professor Jordan had been individuals instead of just types, the story would have moved more quickly, contained greater interest, escaped from artificiality and found a market. It is proper delineation of character, we should remember, which gives a story charm and marks the difference between a salable and an unsalable manuscript. "If We Are Strong Enough" is mechanically a better-than-average piece of work, but it lacks in large measure that certain something which we have already referred to as "the human touch." Without this touch, no matter how closely a story may conform to all the rules of writing, it will be a lifeless thing, destined never to find its way into print with the type of living stories which the editor accepts.

IV

Juvenile Stories: A Testing Ground

16 Writing and Selling Juvenile Stories

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provides an excellent testing ground for the aspiring writer. Here he may learn how to apply the basic rules of short story writing and, while learning, receive a fair financial return for his efforts. As mentioned in a previous chapter, I believe that the beginning author can achieve quicker and more satisfactory results by writing juvenile stories than by any other means. He can learn how to write simply and effectively, how to make proper use of description, dialogue and narration in developing a plot, how to make his characters natural, and how to employ restraint and suspense in creating and holding interest. He can perfect his technique and go through his period of apprenticeship with a good chance to earn and learn at the same time. Generally speaking, juvenile stories may be grouped in four classifications: (1) Tiny Tot Age (4 to 8) Stories of this type should not be more than five hundred words in length; the average is three hundred. T h e y have to do with a child's everyday life, his pets, toys, and friends. T h e y have only the slightest thread of a plot and are written in the simplest words. Payment ranges from one-third cent to one-half cent a word, and the market includes such magazines as Dew Drops, Stories for Primary Children, Storyland, Storytime, and Story World. *5» HE JUVENILE FIELD

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(2) Junior Age (9 to 12) Stories in this group may be written for boys or girls, or for boys and girls. The youngsters have been in school, have made new friends and undergone new experiences. Their horizons have broadened, they read their own books and magazines, and are concerned with events outside of their own immediate interests. The boy of this age enjoys playing games, considers himself an authority, and sometimes is, on airplanes and automobiles. His imagination has been developed, and sometimes he pretends to be a policeman, a bus driver, an explorer or an adventurer. He is a member of a gang which explores a patch of woods behind the school; he goes camping or organizes a neighborhood baseball team. He likes to read stories about other boys who have gangs, who go on camping trips or form a club from which all but the elect are strictly debarred. So the stories written for him are about the things in which he is most deeply interested; baseball and football games, hikes in the mountains, the building of huts, the formation of clubs. They range in length from 1,200 to 2,000 words, but the plots must not be too complicated and the stories must be told in easily understandable words. Magazines using stories in this group include Boys' and

Girls' Comrade, Junior Catholic Messenger, Junior

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The Sentinel, and The Explorer. Payment is from one-third to three-fourths of a cent a word. (3) Intermediate Age (12 to 17) Stories for boys or girls, or boys and girls in this group are from 2,000 to 3,000 words in length. They must be carefully plotted, contain plenty of action, advance quickly to a climax and conclusion. The plot must be sound, the action logical, and the characters of teen age. In order to hold the reader's interest, they must ring true; and to write them successfully, an author must conform to the basic rules of the short story. Boys and girls of this age are eager to read good stories; they are influenced by what they read and are intensely loyal

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to the writers whose work they enjoy. Clarence Budington Kelland, at one time among the most popular writers of juveniles, has said that he believes he carried a good part of his audience with him when he turned to the adult field. It is these teen age stories which form the basis of the greater part of the discussion in this chapter. The market is wide and includes the following magazines: Boys and Girls: Child Life, Young America, Quest, Christian Youth, Young Catholic Messenger, Highway, 'Teens. Girls: American Girl, Portal, Girl's Companion, Queens' Gardens. Boys: Boys' Life, Open Road for Boys, Target, Pioneer, Canadian Boy, Boys' World. (4) Senior Age (18 years and up) Stories in this group should not, technically, be included in the category of juveniles. And yet, they are so closely allied to the juvenile tale, their form and content are so similar, that I believe they deserve a place here. They are read by all ages; a precocious youngster of fourteen and his grandmother of sixty-four may peruse a copy of a church school paper with equal interest. Stories in this group must be well written; they must be on a higher level than the teen age yarn and just a notch lower than the standard required by the slicks. The rate of payment is from one cent to two cents a word; the desired length from 2,800 to 3,000 words. The love element may be introduced in wise measure, for the problems are those of adults, not of boys and girls. Characters should be between eighteen and twenty-five; high ideals must be emphasized and the story must have a purpose. The technique of stories of this type has already been discussed. It differs only in small degree from the technique of the juvenile and the slick. All three must conform to the rules of short story writing, but in the young people's story more care in detail must be exercised than in the purely juvenile;

254 THE EDITOR ACCEPTS and in the slick more care must be exercised than in the young people's story. "Forever Yours" is hardly more than a glorified juvenile; the plot germ of "Stars in the Sky" has been used several times in stories published by Classmate and Forward. Magazines using young people's stories include, in addition to the two mentioned above, Young People's Weekly, The Challenge, Young People's Paper, The Front Rank, Try, Youth, and Young People. An author, in order to write salable stories for boys and girls of the teen age, must have three requisites: 1. An understanding of and sympathy for young people; 2. A knowledge of the technique of short story writing; and 3. Natural ability as a story teller. If he has these requisites, he will find a market for his wares. Rates vary from $2.50 a thousand words to $20.00 a thousand, with one-half cent a word the average payment. A moderately successful book will net from three to five hundred dollars in royalties the first year, and for many years thereafter the author will receive a steady, if small income from his book. In the adult field, a novel of moderate popularity rarely continues selling for more than a year. The writer of juvenile stories should keep in mind that the standards of juvenile magazines are high and the trend of these standards is definitely upward. It is not unusual to find an author of the calibre of Walter D. Edmonds turning his hand to writing a juvenile story. Margaret E. Sangster and Kenneth Payson Kempton, successful in the adult field, are occasionally found in the juveniles. The time has passed when the church publications accept loosely written, hastily plotted stories for boys. Competition for space in these magazines is now keen, a fine thing for the beginning writer; it serves to make the juvenile field a better testing ground than formerly.

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T h e author who today is able to sell his stories regularly to the best juvenile magazines is on a fair way to recognition among the slicks provided he has not reached the limit of his creative powers and is willing to work hard. T h e technique of juvenile writing is not greatly different from that of adult fiction, but there are certain basic principles which must be followed if the stories are to succeed. We must not write down to our youthful readers. A boy deeply resents being patronized, having a fat man pat him on the head and ask, " A n d how are you today, my son?" W e must remember, in writing stories for him, that he has an alert mind, that he is constantly learning, that he can absorb certain types of new material more readily than his parents, and that he can be reached only if we respect his capacity to understand what we want to say. W e must, therefore, avoid the slightest hint of patronage. W e must talk to him through our stories as one man to another. A story about boys should be told through the mind of a boy. T h e third person is the most common medium for telling a juvenile story. It enables the author to enter the mind of a main character, to work out the solution of a problem as the boy himself would work it out, and to make the conclusion logical and natural from a boy's point of view. Some of our best juvenile writers, however, use the first person. It is most effective when told by a minor character who keeps himself in the background, as in the case of Kelland's "Mark T i d d " stories where Binney Jenks is the narrator and Mark the hero. Sometimes, the hero tells his own tale, but the author must be careful to keep him consistently modest and to avoid the too-frequent use of the word "I." T h e point of view in the boys' story should be adapted to the tone and type of the story, and if it is well done the reader will have no quarrel with its manner of presentation. He will

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insist only upon one thing: that it be told with spirit and naturalness through the stream of consciousness of a boy. There must be a moral purpose to a juvenile story. T h e author must accept this responsibility sincerely and believe in the sanctity of his role; he is helping boys and girls to grow u p into the kind of men and women a civilized society needs. T h i s story moral must not be tacked on to the story plot, but must develop through the story situation and the way the hero deals with the problems which confront him. For instance, J i m m y Jones is just a slip of a boy who has always cherished an ambition to win his varsity letter in football. T o m Smith, the fullback on the team, something of a bully but a good chap at heart, continually taunts J i m m y because of his small size. Naturally, J i m m y is resentful and hopes sometime to be in position to "get back" at T o m . A week before the final game, T o m is declared ineligible until he passes a special test in Latin. J i m m y is the school's outstanding student in this subject and it occurs to him that if he should tutor T o m , the latter would probably be able to pass the test. T o m , however, has always been unfriendly to him and he brushes the thought aside. But the school will lose unless T o m plays. Jimmy's resentment toward T o m battles with his loyalty to the school, and his loyalty triumphs. H e volunteers to tutor T o m , the offer is accepted, T o m passes the test and scores the winning touchdown for the school. H e becomes the big hero and is carried off the field by his teammates while Jimmy sits forgotten in the stands. But, at the football banquet that night T o m stands u p and proposes that a varsity letter be given J i m m y Jones for service to the team. T h e coach agrees, and when J i m m y walks u p to the platform to receive his award, the applause for him is louder than for anyone else. T h e story ends when Jimmy, his eyes filled with tears, accepts his cherished letter. We do not say, " A n d so, because he thought more of the school than himself, he was rewarded for

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his good deed even beyond his fondest dreams." W e let the story end with the granting of the award, and the boy reader does not know he is being preached to. T h e moral is obvious, without sermonizing, without comment, and the purpose of the story is achieved. Juvenile stories must stress characterization. In juvenile stories, as in adult fiction, proper characterization is essential. T h e main character must be such a real boy that the reader becomes that boy himself and lives the story vicariously. He suffers with the hero, is discouraged when things go wrong, rejoices when the problem is solved. Characters in juvenile stories must be "tagged" in order that they can be quickly recognized as individuals. Thus, if we tag Dick with a long nose which he rubs constantly as though hoping that the rubbing will make it smaller, T e d with a pair of squeaky new shoes which give away his whereabouts even on the darkest night, and Harry with a penchant for harmonica playing, the reader will be able to keep these three characters clear in his mind as long as those tags are there for quick recognition. "Down the hall Dick heard a harmonica playing and began to grin. Harry was coming to the room—he hoped with some of that cake his mother brought on her visit the day before." T h e reader knows Harry is coming down the hall as soon as Dick does, and shares Dick's eagerness to discover what is coming next. T h a t is what we mean by tagging a character in juvenile stories; and the same thing applies to adult fiction. In juvenile writing, we should avoid long descriptions. Youth is impatient. T h e average boy does not care about the number of colors in a sunset. If, in writing a camp story, we state that a group of five canoes paddled across the lake toward the sunset, that is all a boy wants to know. It does not matter at all to him whether the sky is green or orange or red. He

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wants to get on with the story. Where did the canoes go, and why? So we let the sunset fade without description, and have the canoes land on an island where, perhaps, the campers discover a big "No Trespassing" sign. It is getting dark now and they have no other place to spend the night. What are they going to do? Never mind about describing the island. Just get on with the story. And so, in writing juveniles, we give only enough description to identify the locations in which the happenings occur. And we do not describe our characters in long sentences; we simply tag them. The plot develops and the action is carried on by what they say and do and think. T h e fewer the descriptions the better. Action is essential. T h e story must keep moving, for the average boy will toss it aside disgustedly if it contains too long descriptions, windy little essays on morality, or too much emphasis upon background and setting. All action in the story must be designed to create suspense. If Bob runs up a hill with no definite purpose in view, that is not action but movement. However, if some factor is at stake—the winning of a cross country race, spreading the alarm of an Indian attack—then every step of Bob's run is charged with suspense. This suspense is best achieved by creating such strong sympathy for the hero that the reader's desire to have him triumph over adversity becomes almost desperate. A boy demands quick action in the development of the plot. But by quick action, we do not mean continual movement. T h e description of the last few innings of a baseball game or the final minutes of a hare and hound chase, in which movement predominates, is not action unless it has a definite place in the story plan. But a conversation between characters, if it has a direct bearing upon the plot, is action. So is a decision which the boy hero makes—a decision which may be stated in

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one or two lines—provided it advances the story toward the desired end. T h e conflict in a story grows out of the conflict within its characters. A story of honesty vs. dishonesty becomes a problem for the hero and is solved by his decision of which is the better course for him to take. T h e author's responsibility is well discharged so long as the hero is normal and likable, for, without the author saying so, honesty is then the best policy for all normal, likable boys. In pulp paper stories the plot predominates and the characters not infrequently are puppets keeping the story moving. In juvenile stories characters and plots must be closely correlated, as in the case of the slicks. It is for this reason, among others, that I believe the juvenile magazines make such a fine testing ground for the writer casting a hungry eye toward the smooth paper magazines of large national circulation. T h e juvenile story writer must cram his story full of action, but he must distinguish between action and movement. T h e thoughts of his characters, their reactions to situations and the words they utter are media through which action is achieved and suspense created. T h e story of a Boy Scout trip in which one exciting incident happens after another—a fire, a near drowning, a hurricane, a visit of a bear to camp—may be chock full of movement and yet not be an action story at all. O n the other hand, a story of a Boy Scout who is tempted to disobey the Scout Law and resists that temptation may be an ideal action story, made so by the Scout's conflict within himself, even though there is not a single fire or fist fight in the entire manuscript. The story must be plotted carefully. T h e stereotyped plots which formed the basis of juvenile stories for many years are no longer acceptable to the modern juvenile editor. A n experienced author may still write a story of the boy who is

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believed to be a coward and who proves himself a hero in a great emergency, but if he hopes to find a market for it, he will have to give it a new angle or write it in such a way that it is not quickly recognizable as "an old chestnut." T h e new writer would do well to avoid such themes as these: A boy prevents a railroad wreck by flagging the train at the last possible minute. A boy loses a race because his chum needs to win in order to earn his varsity letter. A boy suffers agonies by thrusting his arm through a hole in the dam and thus saves a village from ruin. A boy gives up his schooling and goes to work because his father is incapacitated by an accident and needs his help. A boy rejects his parents' advice and gets in trouble. A boy, by his own good example, causes his parents to repent of their sins. A boy is chased by wolves, is caught in a forest fire or treed by a bear. A beginning author will sell his first story because it has a strong plot properly developed. His efforts will be consistently rejected if he attempts to dress up the old plots in pretty clothing. A plot germ is a situation or incident which gives the author an idea for a story. If it is of the juvenile type, he should plan to make his story of preferred juvenile length, from 2,000 to 2,700 words in the church school papers, from 3,000 to 4,000 in magazines like Boys' Life or The American Girl. He should know that what makes a plot are two conflicting forces working toward a crisis, seemingly a dilemma, which the hero solves through his own initiative. He should know that the situation is one which has not been used previously as the plot germ of scores of other juveniles. He should know that his story must have a purpose.

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For instance, Budd Strong had always wanted to win a varsity letter in track but has never succeeded. His roommate, Pete, is a better runner but not quite good enough to defeat the rival school's top-notcher in the big race. Budd decides to pace the rival runner through the first half of the race and wear him out so that Pete can win, even though Budd by so doing will lose his last chance to earn a letter. But Pete falls in the backstretch, and an exhausted Budd and his exhausted rival are left to fight it out. Realizing how equal the competition is now, and urged on by the renewed hope of getting his letter, Budd rises to the occasion and wins the race. This is a typical plot for a boys' story. T h e denouement, however, must not be a trick but a perfectly plausible development of the situation. When Pete falls down on the backstretch, there must be a reason for his falling. Perhaps he has broken training rules against Budd's advice and so collapses because of poor physical condition. Perhaps he simply isn't the better runner Budd has always believed him to be, and the discovery of that fact releases Budd from an inferiority complex. Or perhaps Pete knows that Budd can win if he's the only contender left in the race and so sacrifices his own chance for victory in order to permit Budd to cross the tape. This last is one of the themes listed above as to be avoided but it has a different twist, a new angle, and so is permissible. The average teen age boy is a hero worshipper, and he likes to read about boys, usually older than himself, who are heroic, self-sacrificing, resourceful, confident and courageous. He prefers American boys who do things which he himself would like to do if only he had the chance. He wants his hero to be allsufficient and, although young, able to accomplish the seemingly impossible. This accounts in large measure for the popularity of the comic strips in recent years. But, although a boy may take for granted the miracles of Buck Rogers or Superman, he demands plausibility in his short stories. T h e writer

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of juveniles must be careful not to make his hero do incredible things. He must avoid melodrama. He must tread on middle ground. Good juvenile plots are to be found everywhere. Boys, and girls, too, are passing through one of the most dramatic periods of human metamorphosis in simply growing up, and anything that affects that process is story material. But juvenile story situations must be easily recognized as being real life situations; the majority of stories for boys and girls are modern in setting and language. Editors want live stories which catch the readers' attention because they belong to the very hour in which they are being read. Stories of school life are well received because the majority of the readers are in school themselves. High school stories are preferred over preparatory school stories because the great majority of boys attend public and not private schools. Athletic contests provide many situations from which stories may be written but care should be taken not to make them simply descriptions of football or basketball games, track meets, or tennis matches. There must be something behind the story of a game. Likewise, stories of school groups, of interclass rivalries, of class elections, of extracurricular clubs, of scholastic honors and of classroom conflicts must have a purpose in their writing; they must emphasize such qualities as loyalty, courage, fair play, honesty and friendship. Stories of adventure and discovery offer a wide field for writers who have imagination and who possess the patience for reading and research. T h e teen age boy craves adventure, dreams of the South Seas and the North Pole and the African jungles. He will read avidly of the experiences of a boy of his own age who braves the dangers of tropical islands or the mysteries of hidden caverns in a lost forest. But in these stories, as in all other juvenile types, the action must be plausible and a moral purpose must be achieved.

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Boys enjoy mystery stories, especially if the setting is familiar; in a small town, at school or at a summer camp. But they insist that the mystery be solved by a boy character without adult assistance; and the editor insists that there be no mention of murder or bloodshed. Boys enjoy, also, stories of modern science, when the plot concerns radio and television, the airplane and the submarine. T h e story may be one in which the hero is a member of a scientific expedition to far places, an amateur radio operator, an apprentice engineer building a bridge in the desert. Authors with a scientific turn of mind and the ability to tell a story which is not too technical will find his manuscripts welcomed by juvenile editors. As in the adult field, humorous stories are always desirable. Boys enjoy good fun but they like a "belly laugh" rather than a chuckle. T h e humor in a juvenile story must not be too subtle or they will miss it altogether. They laugh at situations rather than phrases; nothing is funnier than having a boy fall into a rain barrel, or slip into a puddle of water, or be hit in the head with a fly ball he is attempting to catch. Boy readers enjoy pranks; they like slap-stick comedy, and if we can insert a prank or two into our story without harm to anyone, the story will probably find a warm reception. T h e humorous yarn, I think, is the hardest of all types to write, but it offers an unusual opportunity to the beginning writer who can gauge his wit to the level of a teen age boy. In a juvenile story, the opening sentence must start the action and establish the mood. A boy will not wade through a long introduction; he wants something to happen at once, or else he will not be sufficiently interested to continue. Each paragraph, from the introduction to the conclusion, must add something to the story, and not too great attention should be given to paragraph transitions. What the boy reader wants

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more than anything else is to have the story keep going. T h e author should use narration, description and dialogue in proper proportions, keeping in mind always the necessity of eliminating anything which does not directly concern the plot development. Conversation should be short, pointed and natural. A boy character must talk as an actual boy would talk, sometimes making grammatical errors, sometimes using slang. Any conversation over fifty or sixty words is almost certain to be too long. Boys talk in clear, simple sentences, and usually answer a question with a question, thus: "Where are you going?" "Where do you think? T o see a hockey game." Because boys talk a language all their own, a writer of juvenile stories should have frequent contact with boys. He must not attempt to base his dialogue upon the way he talked when he was young; if he does, the conversation will be stilted and outmoded. In narration, he should use short sentences, avoid too many adjectives, and select his verbs with care. For verbs express action, and action is what the boy reader wants. As in adult fiction, a story consists of an introduction, story proper, climax and conclusion. Sufficient attention should be given to the ending to round out the tale. A twist, a punch-line, or a touch of humor is desirable if it is natural to the hero and not tacked on to demonstrate how very clever the author is. There are certain taboos which a beginning author must recognize if he is to be successful in the juvenile field. He must not, as we have said, tack a moral on his story; he should not write about unnaturally good boys; his characters should not smoke, drink or play cards. His stories should not acquaint readers with crime and should not moralize. Adults should always be minor characters and should not influence the decisions of the youthful hero. T o permit them

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to do so causes the reader to lose his respect and admiration for the hero. Fathers, mothers, teachers and athletic coaches may play a part in the story; a son may decide not to cheat in an examination because he feels his father would not want him to, or a football player may make a big sacrifice because of his respect for the coach, but to have a father say to his son, "You must not cheat" or to have a coach say, "I expect you to let Perkins make all the touchdowns" takes the initiative away from the boy hero and awakens resentment on the part of the reader. In a juvenile story, parents are normally a part of the background but they should not have anything directly to do with the solution of the hero's problem. In the church school papers especially, stories should tend to promote respect of parents and teachers. T h e hero should never manifest a flippant attitude toward adults; he should never be cynical or antagonistic. A normal boy is not cynical, morbid or melancholy; and the beginning author should remember always that he is writing of the normal, and not the abnormal boy. He should understand that there is a marked difference between boy stories written for boys and stories about boys written for adults. T h e psychology, the method of approach and the point of view are entirely dissimilar. Adult stories which poke gentle fun at the problems of youth, which scoff at puppy love, which take the attitude that the tragedies of the young are not tragic at all, do not belong in the juvenile field. T h e average boy resents being laughed at, being pointed out as a type. His problems are real problems, his interests as absorbing and important to him as adult interests are to adults. He expects his authors to keep faith with him, not to make fun of him. So the stories which are written for the boy reader should treat the boy hero with respect, not tolerantly, not humorously, but with honesty and sincerity. A successful author of juveniles should have not only an

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understanding of and a sympathy for boys, but also frequent contact with them. He cannot write stories based entirely upon the memories of his own lost childhood; he must know the modern boy, appreciate his interests, be able to reproduce his talk. He does not need to be a school teacher or a Scout leader; he simply needs to be a friend of the boys in his neighborhood, go skating with them, watch them in a backlot baseball game, listen to their arguments. If he writes school stories, he should attend the high school interscholastic contests, be present at "pep" meetings, visit the athletic field during practice, and gain the friendship and confidence of the youngsters around whom he weaves his stories. If he does this, he will never lack material for juvenile tales. T h e majority of stories for boys mention girls only incidentally, if at all, for the boy in his early teens is not especially interested in girls. When he does become interested, he has usually reached the stage when he reads adult fiction. In juvenile stories designed for the boy reader, therefore, it is a safe rule to leave the girls out entirely; but if it is necessary to include them, they should be pictured as just good pals; they should not under any circumstances dominate the action, nor should there be any sex attraction between the girl and boy characters. In this discussion of the juvenile field, I have confined myself chiefly to stories for boys between the ages of twelve and seventeen, for these offer the most profitable market and provide excellent training in the mastery of the technique of short story writing. But practically everything I have written about stories for boys applies also to stories for girls in the same age range. Boys and girls in their teens attend the same schools, play the same games and, with a few exceptions, have the same general interests. T h e goody-good type of stories which girls were

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expected to read a quarter of a century ago has passed into the discard. Girls like action, they enjoy competition, they wear shorts on the tennis courts and in the gymnasium. No longer are they expected to sit quietly on the front porch and knit sweaters, or whatever it is that girls knit, while their more fortunate brothers rush off to some outdoor activity. T h e y have learned how to paddle canoes, to go on hiking trips and sleep under the stars, to play basketball, to lead the school in cheers at football games. Their lives have become more active and they expect their stories to mirror their lives. And so, most of our modern stories for girls are simply boys' stories adjusted to girl characters. Instead of having Ed Saunders, star halfback, kick a field goal and win the county football championship, we have Mary Thompson cage a corner shot in the final quarter of a basketball game and win the girls' basketball title for the school. T h e same plot may be used for both stories, the same moral purpose achieved. In these tales for the gentler sex, the characters must be natural, the suspense must be sustained, the climax and conclusion' must be logical. And the author must, of course, understand girls and have sympathy for them. I recall that some fifteen years ago, Miss Wilma MacFarland, then editor of The Portal but now editor of Child Life, conferred with me in New York about a serial for her girl readers. " W e want both boy and girl characters," she explained, "with pleasant rivalry between them. There must be no hint of sentiment, although they must be good friends. Inasmuch as the stories will be written primarily for girls, I would like to have the girls win their share of triumphs, but the boys may play an equally prominent part in the story. I would like to have both groups enjoy a community of interests as they do in an average high school, and I would like to have the atmosphere clean, wholesome and friendly."

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T h a t is as clear a statement of what an editor wants in the way of stories for girls as I have yet seen. It inspired me to write three books for girls—the Barry Browning books— which have been among the most popular I have ever done. A l l girls' stories do not include boy characters, of course, and all are not written around school life and athletics. W e may read stories of mystery, even of adventure and discovery, which include no mention of boys, but die average girl in her teens prefers a girl-and-boy story over a story in which boys are conspicuously absent. In recent years, girls' books containing characters of both sexes are increasingly popular. It would be wise for the beginning author who feels that he can do better with girls' stories than with stories about boys to confine himself to this field. He should keep in mind the rules of writing outlined above—not to write down to his readers, to adopt the point of view of a girl character, to give the story a moral purpose, to stress characterization, to avoid long descriptions, to include action (not just movement), to plot the story carefully and avoid trite themes. If he does so, he will find the venture stimulating and worth while. " Y o u Know What a Boob I Am, Uncle," is a typical juvenile story. It appeared originally in Open Road for Boys and was reprinted in The Year's Best Stories for Boys, edited by Ralph Henry Barbour. I remember that at the time it was written, William Hazlett Upton's Earthworm Tractor stories had begun to appear in The Saturday Evening Post, and it occurred to me that probably boys would enjoy reading a story in the same general vein. T h e manuscript was completed in early June and sent to Open Road. Six months passed and I heard nothing of it, had, in fact, practically forgotten it, when a copy of the magazine containing the story was sent me from Boston. I wrote the editor, suggesting that inasmuch as the story was used, perhaps

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I should be paid something for it. Within a couple of weeks the check arrived; the rate of payment was one cent a word. Although the story has a college setting, it is, nevertheless, a juvenile, for it is young in spirit, written about a boy for boys, and conforms to the rules of the juvenile story. It is too long for the church school papers, but it does serve as an illustration of certain truths which it is necessary for the juvenile writer to know if he hopes to market his manuscripts. It is unnecessary, I feel, to go into detailed analysis of the story. It is about a boy, written through the stream of consciousness of the main character; a first person story. It is designed to appeal to readers of intermediate age. It has a moral purpose, showing that a boy may make a mistake but by doing the right thing and displaying courage, he may rectify his error. It stresses characterization; Allerton Hyde is tagged, not only by his derby hat but by the things he says and does. There are no long descriptions; even the football game is described in a few brief paragraphs. It contains action, not through a series of hair-raising incidents, but through the hero's conflict within himself. It is carefully plotted. In the opening paragraph, the action is started and the mood established. T h e story keeps going. T h e plot is by no means original but it is made salable because it is developed from a new angle. T h e reader, at least the boy reader, is glad at the end that Allerton kicked the goal and made good. Technically, the story conforms to the rules of the short story. There is an introduction, a story proper, a climax and a conclusion. T h e conclusion has a punch-line. W e do not say, after the ending has been reached: "So Allerton returned to college and became a big hero." T h e reader guesses that, although he does not care particularly. T h e main points to be emphasized are that the story is about a sympathetic character, that a barrier is created which must be thrust aside, that the hero, by his own good qualities

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and not by coincidence or accident, thrusts it aside and emerges triumphant in the end. It offers a situation and a plot which could be developed into an adult story as well as into a juvenile, and shows the close relationship between the two fields of writing.

17 You Know What a Boob I Am, Uncle Belmont College, September 2 1 . Dear Uncle: You know what a boob I am. Well, I got in wrong my first day at college, and now I'm out for the freshman football team. Seems funny, doesn't it, me out for a college team? I got here yesterday morning at eleven o'clock. A hundred other fellows came on the same train, and everybody seemed to know everybody else. I stood there on the station platform like a shipwrecked sailor on a desert island. There were fellows everywhere, but not a one to talk to. Most of them wore white knickers and fancy sweaters and no hats. My derby seemed sort of out of style. Anyhow, after a while they all started to walk up to the top of a hill where the college was. I trailed along after them, lugging the new suitcase you bought me and thinking I was down near the equator. Hot? It was hotter than it is on our farm during a dry spell in August. Well, anyhow, feeling like a baked potato, I came to the campus finally and stood in a long line of freshmen to register. From Open Road for Boys. Copyright, 1926, by The Torbell Company. From The Year's Best Stories for Boys. Copyright, 1937, by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. 271

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Then one of the clerks showed me my room in Willetts Hall. It's a single room up on the third floor, with green walls and an open fireplace. No rugs on the floor but good, solid furniture; and a view of the campus down below,—green grass, brownstone buildings, gravel paths. Sort of made a lump come in my throat. I'd like to make good here. I just sat around until lunch time, then went downstairs and ate. Some other freshmen at the table all knew each other and didn't pay much attention to me. They talked about the Proclamation Rush which was going to be held that night. " T h e sophs paste up procs and we try to tear them down," one of them said. "Then we have a fight on King's Campus." He looked over at me. "Pretty rough affair, I've heard. Sometimes, the freshmen get half killed." I sort of worried about it all afternoon, not liking the idea of getting killed. But I had read in the freshman handbook that everybody is supposed to go in the rush. About four o'clock, without even knocking at the door, two fellows came into the room. "We're sophomores," they said, "and you're a freshman, of course." I wondered how they knew, but said yes that I was. "Then you'll be going in the proc rush," they said. "Yes," I told them, "everybody has to." "Except the football players," one of them answered. "What's that?" I asked. "Candidates for the freshman football team are excused." "Oh," I said, thinking only of getting out of the rush, "I'm a football man." They looked interested. " I come from Bergenfield," I explained; "we had a football team there." You remember, Uncle, we did have sort of a team last year.

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When we could get eleven men together and find someone to play, we played. And I was captain, because no one else cared enough about football to get up a game. But I was crazy about it. "I was captain," I said. "What did you play?" they asked me. "Fullback. And I did the kicking." "Know how to drop kick?" Well, I knew how it was done, so I told them that I was a drop kicker. Sort of exaggerated, I guess, but then they were the first college fellows I had talked to all day, and I was lonesome. And I wanted to get out of the rush. T h e biggest one of the two—his name was Cliff Banks— held out his hand. " T h e freshman team will be able to use you," he said. "I'm an assistant manager, and I'll tell the coach about you. And we'll expect you to report at the field tomorrow afternoon at four." "Sure," I said. "And—and can't I go in the rush tonight?" "No," he answered. "If anyone says anything, tell them you're a football man." At the supper table that night, the freshmen were all excited about the rush, but when one of them asked me if I was going in it, I said no, I was out for football. They sort of warmed up to me after that, acting more respectful. When we were about through, a member of the junior class came in and made a speech, telling all the freshmen to report at the gymnasium at eight o'clock. But I stayed in my room, being a football man, and didn't go off with the others to hunt for procs. But at about ten o'clock I saw the whole rush down on the campus underneath my window. It was dark at first, but after a while someone lighted some yellow torches. T h e sophomores gathered round a tree with

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a proclamation pasted on it, someone fired a gun, and the freshmen attacked them. There wasn't any real fighting, just a lot of yelling, and wrestling, and pulling off clothes. I was sort of sorry I didn't go in it. I was missing something that maybe I would remember all my life. A n d I guess I got in wrong by saying I was a football player. A pretty bad start, maybe. But you know what a boob I am, Uncle. Your affectionate nephew, Allerton Hyde. Belmont College, September 24. Dear Uncle: I was all packed and ready to start for home last night, but now I've thought it over and decided to stick. Perhaps I'm a boob, hanging on, but, well, I guess it would be quitting not to. I went out for freshman football practice yesterday afternoon and reported at the field house. Cliff Banks, the sophomore I told you about the other night, was handing out uniforms, and when he saw me he nodded pleasantly. "Seeing you've had experience," he said, "we'll give you a regular suit," and he pushed a bundle of clothes over at me which I carried across the room to one of the benches. There were stockings and real football shoes, pants and blue jersey. I put them on, looking around, curious. There were about fifty fellows in the room. When they finished dressing, they stamped outside. I didn't know who the freshman coach was, but someone pointed him out to me, and I went up and looked him over. H e wasn't very big, but there was something hard about him. He had blue eyes, a sort of undershot jaw, and twisted fingers with knots on them. H e saw me looking at him and turned, grinning.

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"What's your name?" he asked. "Allerton Hyde," I said. "Oh, but not hiding your light under a bushel, I see," he shot at me. I guess Cliff Banks had been telling him about my drop kicking, for he seemed to know who I was. His eyes bored into me, making me feel uncomfortable. "Not a bad build for a football player," he said, as if talking to someone else. "Legs a bit too thin but good hands." A ball came his way, and he picked it up. "You're a drop kicker, aren't you?" "Yes, sir," I said. He looked down at my feet. "Hoofs like that ought to be able to boot it a mile," he told me, and tossed over the ball. "Let's see you do your stuff." T h e ball hit my hands and bounced out, and when I went after it I sort of stumbled. A group of players, some in red varsity jerseys, were standing around, and one of them snickered. "Where did you find it, Mike?" he called. T h e coach grinned. "We have before us, gentlemen, the star drop kicker of Bergenfield." You can imagine how I felt, Uncle. I didn't know much about kicking in the first place, and that crowd of fellows looking on made me so scared that my knees were shaking. But the ball was in my hands, and the only thing to do was to kick it. I had told them I could, and, well, I was just boob enough to try. But the ball, when I dropped it, bounced too high, and instead of hitting it with my foot, I just bumped my knee against it. It went about ten yards and then rolled dead. " A sure field goal," the coach announced, and everybody laughed. A little itchy feeling crept from my forehead into my hair. I wanted to sink through the ground, but couldn't; and when

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someone threw me the ball again I caught it, not very gracefully. " T a k e your time," the coach said. I tried hard, but the ball went shooting off at an angle, bumping along the ground. I wanted to die, Uncle, but my heart kept on beating. I thought maybe people could hear it, it thumped so hard. T h e coach didn't say anything, just looked at me; but I knew that he could see I was a faker. A n d after a long time, with people grinning all around, he came over and laid his hand on my shoulder. "Aloysius," he said, getting my name wrong and making a joke out of it, "you'd better go home and hide your light under a bushel for keeps. You're a four-flusher." "Yes," I told him. " A n d we haven't any place on this team of ours for the likes of you." He dropped his hand. " G o back to the field house and turn in your suit." I'm still here, a failure, with nothing to look forward to except being made fun of. Fellows at the table call me Aloysius and ask me how many goals I kicked last year. Maybe I ought to be starting for home now, but I'm sticking along. You know what a boob I am. I'd like to show the coach, somehow, that he's wrong about me. But I don't think he is. I'm a four-flusher, Uncle. But I'm sticking along. Your nephew, Allerton. Belmont College, October 18. Dear Uncle: I haven't written you before, because there wasn't anything much to write about. Everybody down here calls me Aloysius,

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but they've sort of forgotten about the first day of football practice and I'm just one of the crowd. For a couple of days after Mike Williams, the freshman coach, showed me up, I went around in sort of a daze, trying to make myself believe that he hadn't given me a square deal. But something inside of me, conscience, I guess, kept telling me that the coach was right, that I didn't know anything about football and never had known anything. But I kept thinking that there were four years ahead of me, and I might learn. A fellow can learn a lot in four years. One day I started on a walk around town, having nothing else to do. I wanted to go in and watch the football practice, but didn't dare to, so I kept on up the river and through the City Park. And then, as I passed the big Harding & Whitcomb factory, which makes shoes down here, a crowd of men came out of the main entrance and started across the street to what looked like an athletic field. They all had football suits on; and I followed after them to see what they were going to do. They kicked the ball around, just like the fellows at college did, and after a while an older man called them together, read out some names and lined up a team for signal drill. A small boy standing next to me on the sidelines explained what it was all about. T h e team was called the Hardings and played in the City Park every Saturday afternoon, mostly against other factories. T h e regulars were let out at four o'clock three afternoons a week for practice, and the coach was a department head who had played at Harvard and was a great kicker in his time. I stood and watched them until they were through; then, walking over to the coach, I asked him if I could talk to him for a minute. "Sure," he said, "what's on your mind? Shoot!" I told him that I was a freshman at college, that I had lied

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about saying I could play football but that I'd like to learn how. " A n d I'm wondering," I finished, "if you would let me come up here and practice with your team every afternoon. And teach me how to kick a drop kick." He thought it over for a while, and sort of eyed me up and down. "Well," he said finally, "we're always in need of men for scrimmage practice. And if you care to come up and be something of a punching bag for us, I haven't any objections. Got a suit?" " N o , " I answered, "but I can get one." " A l l right then," he told me, "report tomorrow and we'll give you your first lesson." He started to turn away, but I reached out and touched his shoulder. "Would you mind showing me how to go about learning drop kicking?" I asked. He smiled as if I had told him a joke, but I wasn't joking. "Stop, look and listen," he said, and then showed me how to hold the ball, how to drop it just as my right leg swung back. "It's all in the timing," he explained, "and in the strength of your leg." " A n d can I learn, do you think?" I asked. "If you practice," he promised, "and practice, and keep on practicing." "I'll do it," I said. I was through at two o'clock the next afternoon, so I went downtown to a store and bought a football outfit that cost me thirty-seven dollars. But don't worry; I've still got some of the money left that I came down with, and my board's paid for a week yet. After that, I can economize. It's up to me to pay for that lie I told. O n the way home I passed the college heating plant, which is way down on a side street that no one goes by much. T h e r e

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is sort of a level space behind it, stretching out from a high brick wall without windows in it. I decided that it would make a fine place for practice, so I put on my new football shoes, stood about thirty yards from the wall and tried to do what the factory team coach had told me. I didn't get along very well at first. The ball kept shooting off to one side, or rolling on the ground, but I kept at it until half past three, and then headed for the City Park. When I got there, the coach was just coming out of the door, so I asked him if there was a place inside where I could dress. "Sure," he said, "right through the hall, two doors to your left." I got into football clothes as quickly as I could and jogged across the street to the field. The players were kicking the ball around, so I joined them, and whenever I could get hold of it, I tried a drop kick. The coach, whose name is Mr. Zabriskie, gave me a few more pointers; and I thanked him and kept on trying until he called for scrimmage. Because I said I was willing, he put me at left tackle on the scrubs along with some other hangers-on who didn't know anything more about the game than I did. On the first rush, someone kicked me on the shoulder so hard that I yelled out loud; but when they asked me about it, I said that it wasn't anything. I couldn't very well quit when they had been so decent. By the time practice was ended, though, I felt as if I had been through the war. But in the dressing room, the coach thanked me for coming out, and I promised to be there right along. I decided, thinking it over in my room that night, that what I needed was more practice at drop kicking; and after a while it came to me that by getting up at six o'clock I could put in an hour by myself over at the heating plant.

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So the next morning I got up early and practiced for an hour behind the brick wall. I even began to think a bit about being a varsity player some day. But that isn't possible, of course. You know what a boob I am, Uncle. Anyhow, I've been at it for the past three weeks, haven't missed an afternoon at City Park or a morning behind the power house. I can shoot a ball over the crossbar from the twenty-yard line eight times out of ten. I sure want to make good on that lie I told Mike Williams. I want to go up to him and say: "Mike, I told you I was a drop kicker, and I am." Your loving nephew, Allerton Belmont College, November 16. Dear Uncle: I've seen the freshman team play all its games to date, and having watched them, I know now why the coach wouldn't bother with a dub like me. He had too many good men to look after. W e haven't lost a game yet, and we're hoping to beat Saulsbury, our big rival, next Saturday. If we beat them, the season will be a success; if we don't, it will be a failure. I'm going up to Saulsbury to watch the team play; it's an all-night trip but I've got the money to make it, so don't send me any, at least not until after the season is ended. Maybe I won't need any then, because I've got a job as waiter lined up. I can't take it just yet because of football. I've been going up to City Park every afternoon and I haven't missed a single morning behind the power plant. I've learned what Mr. Zabriskie calls the fundamentals of the game, and he says that right now I'm good timber for the Belmont varsity. H e calls me the kicking fool, but you

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know what a boob I am, Uncle. Just the same, I can drop kick a ball over the crossbar nine times out of ten. Last Monday Mr. Zabriskie asked me how I was getting along, and I showed him. "Gee!" he said, "all you need is to learn to boot it with men charging at you." There wasn't any reason why he should be interested in me; but for about fifteen minutes every afternoon for the rest of the week, he lined up the scrubs and the varsity and let me kick from formation. Yesterday I dropped over six in succession! When the practice was ended, Mr. Zabriskie called me aside. "You've learned about all we can teach you," he said, "and tomorrow afternoon I want you to go to Mike Williams and show him that you've arrived." So at four o'clock the next day I put on my football shoes and tramped up to the field. T h e whole squad was out in uniform working hard. Coach Williams, looking worried and haggard, was drilling the first team in some new formations and I didn't have a chance to speak to him for a long time. Just before it began to get dark, he called a halt to the signal drill and stood by himself, sort of looking off into the distance. I walked across the field, but he didn't notice me, even when I stood in front of him. So I cleared my throat "Coach," I said, not having nerve enough to call him Mike, "I told you . . ." He turned then, seeing me for the first time. But his face was blank. "Don't bother me," he snapped. "Tell it to one of the managers." Then, before I could say anything else, he called to an assistant coach: "Oh, Bill, come over here, will you?"

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So my chance has gone, I guess. But I'll be trailing along with the team on Saturday, thinking that perhaps somehow I can make up for that lie I told. Your nephew, Allerton. P.S. They still call me Aloysius down here. Belmont College, November 18. Dear Uncle: Well, the football season has ended, and I've got myself that waiter's job, so I won't be needing much money from you after this. But you'll be wanting to know, I guess, about the Saulsbury game. I took the same train as the team, getting on a day coach way up in front so that no one saw me. I had my ticket to Saulsbury and some bread and bananas, but no way of getting home again. But I didn't let that worry me much; what mattered most was that the team would have at least one rooter to yell for them. There might have been more except that the varsity was playing its big home game on the campus on Saturday and everybody stuck around there. At the Saulsbury station I bumped square into the players, who were waiting for a bus to take them to the college. They seemed surprised to see me, but sort of glad. "It's Aloysius," one of them announced. "What under the blue sky are you doing here?" "Came up to root for the team," I said, feeling embarrassed. "But I won't bother you, of course." "Why didn't you come in last night?" they asked. "Well," I explained, " I was in the day coach, and . . ." Coach Williams, who didn't seem so worried as he had been a few days before, came over and stood in front of me.

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"Sat up all night, did you?" he asked. "Just to come with the team?" "Yes," I answered. Somehow, he seemed more human than he had ever been. "Fellows," he said to the team, "here is our lone rooter. And he's coming along with us, isn't he?" "You betl" they answered. "Hurray for Aloysius!" I protested a bit, feeling out of things with my derby hat and shabby overcoat, but they didn't seem to mind; and when the bus came up, they made me get in it and go to the field with them. At ten, the coach ordered the players into uniforms for limbering up practice; and because there wasn't anything else to do, I put on a pair of shoes and went out with them. T h e first team ran through signal drill and the subs just threw and kicked the ball around down at one end of the field. T h e ball came to me after a while. I was standing on the thirty-five yard line at a hard angle but, taking good aim, I let loose and dropped it clean over the crossbar. And Mike Williams happened to be looking. "Can you do that again?" he asked. "Yes," I answered. He called for the ball and flipped it at me. "Let's see you." When I dropped it over the second time, his eyes widened. He must have remembered, all of a sudden, that first day of practice. "You're the kid who told me once that you could drop kick, aren't you?" he demanded. I could have said the thing I had been planning to say all season, but somehow the words wouldn't come. "I lied to you then," I answered, "but I've been trying to make good at it."

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"How?" H e seemed interested and really wanted to know, so I told him about the mornings behind the power house and the afternoons at City Park. And when I had finished he reached over and dug his fingers into my shoulder. "Aloysius," he said, "I apologize. You're not a four-flusher at all." Someone's yelling downstairs now, so I'll have to quit. But I'll write you some more tomorrow. Your affectionate nephew, Allerton. Belmont College, November 19. Dear Uncle: I was telling you about the Saulsbury game yesterday, when interrupted. T w o fellows from one of the fraternity houses came up and invited me over. T h e y want me to join, but I don't think that I can afford it—at least not yet. Well, to get back to the game, the coach said it was lucky they already had a good drop kicker on the team or they might have to put me in. He made me do a lot more kicking, just for the fun of it; and I was pretty lucky, I guess, for I put most of them over. T h e other fellows were sort of impressed by it, but they had the game to think of; and by the time we were ready for lunch they had mostly forgotten about me. I ate with them, being the lone rooter, and listened to the talk about different formations and that kind of thing. When they went down to the locker room to put on their suits, the place smelled of liniment. Jack Bousoros, the trainer who had come along with us, wrapped ankles with gauze and adhesive tape and cracked a lot of jokes which

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no one laughed at. T h e n the coach spoke to the team, telling them that they had a hard fight before them but that they must win for the honor of the college, and then he said a lot of things about how much he thought of all the fellows. When he had finished, I felt like putting my head in my arms and bawling like a kid. There were tears in my eyes when I stumbled out of the field house at the tail end of the procession. I suppose you'll think I'm more of a boob than ever when you read this, Uncle, but it sort of gets in a fellow's blood. Well, anyhow, we scored a touchdown in the first quarter, and we thought then that it was all over but the shouting, even though we missed on the try for goal. But Saulsbury braced after that, holding us once on the five yard line and again when we were within two yards of another six points. In the locker room between halves, we talked about a couple more touchdowns and a clean slate for the season. But the coach's face was grim. " N o game is won until the last whistle blows," he told them. T h e n the team went back for the second half with heads up and eyes eager. But near the end of the third quarter, a Saulsbury halfback picked up a fumbled ball and sprinted eighty yards for a touchdown. A minute later they kicked the goal, making the score 7 to 6 against us. " G e e ! " I said. Coach Williams sat beside me, his mouth in a straight line, his fingers clasped so tightly around his knees that the knuckles were white. T h e substitutes fidgeted. T h e whistle blew. There was fifteen minutes to go, and we were behind. W e went out to win that last quarter, taking the ball on the kickoff and rushing sixty yards down the field before

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we lost it. Saulsbury, stalling for time, tried three downs before they kicked; and we started our drive again on our twenty-five yard line. You ought to have seen it, Uncle. T w o yards through guard, three outside of tackle, a sweep around end for five more! But we had more than two-thirds of the length of the field to go, and time was racing along. Saulsbury was delaying things whenever they could. T h e coach stood up and paced in front of the bench, muttering. T h e n he came back and said something to the substitute next to me. "Probably won't be time for a touchdown. What we'll have to do is wait until we get inside the thirty yard line and then try for a field goal." "Collins can do it," the sub said. Budd Collins was our fullback, and the best kicker on the team. He was playing like a demon out there, his face dirtstreaked, his jersey torn. As we watched, he received the ball on a fake kick formation from center, dashed toward the left and then swept around end. Those of us on the bench stood up and yelled hoarsely: "Touchdown! Touchdown!" A Saulsbury end dove for him just as he attempted to dodge out of the way, and their bodies met in mid-air. Budd, twisting sort of queerly, landed shoulder first against the ground. He lay there, without moving, but hung on to the ball. As the whistle blew, our trainer rushed out on the field. "If he's hurt," Coach Williams said, "we're through. There's only three minutes to play." T h e players crowded around Budd, shutting us out from sight of him. But after a long time, we saw two fellows lift

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him to his feet and help him, protesting, toward the sidelines. The trainer came up to the bench and spoke to the coach: "Dislocation of the shoulder." Coach Williams nodded. "Take him into the locker room and fix him up." As Budd passed us he smiled feebly. "Sorry, Mike!" he said. "Just when you—need me." We sent in a substitute, and the game went on. But you could have cut the gloom on the bench with a knife. The coach sat crouched forward beside me, his hands on his knees, his square jaw stuck out like the prow of a boat. Feeling sorry for him, I wondered sort of dazedly if there was anything I could do. And, suddenly, I knew that there was. "Coach," I said, hardly realizing I was saying it, "let me go in and try a drop kick." I thought for a moment that he hadn't heard, for he didn't move a muscle. Then he turned and looked me square in the eyes. "Can you do it, Al?" Maybe I was swelled-headed and should have been modest about it,* but you know what a boob I am, Uncle. So I looked right back at him. "Yes, sir," I said. Maybe he thought it was our only hope, or perhaps he remembered those long hours of practice behind the power house. But, anyhow, he asked one of the substitutes how much time there was to go. "A minute and forty seconds," the sub said. Our team was on the thirty yard line, gaining at every rush, but only a few yards at a time. T h e coach's eyes narrowed, then opened wide.

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"I'll do it," he said. I had kept a pair of football shoes on from the morning's practice, but that was all the uniform I had. "Get a sweater," the coach snapped, "and take off your coat. Report for Lowery at fullback, and don't say a word. T h e quarterback will know what you've come for." Not nervous at all, I threw off my coat and hat, picked up a jersey which someone threw me and put it on. T h e coach stood before me, his eyes flashing. Not knowing what I was doing, I reached down and grabbed my derby hat, and ran out upon the field. It must have looked funny from the stands; a fellow without a suit and wearing a black defby going in at the last minute of a game. But I didn't care what it looked like; I was out there to win for the team. T h e referee blew his whistle, looking puzzled. "Hyde for Lowery," I said. "You?" he demanded. "Yes, me," I told him. "And hurry it up!" Sort of a fresh thing to say, but I was just boob enough not to know any better. Jack Lowery pulled off his headguard and trotted to the sidelines. From the Saulsbury stands came a confused roar, like thunder. T h e rules of the game wouldn't let me say anything, so I just went back to fullback position and stood there. But our quarterback, who was smart as a whip, knew instantly why the coach had sent me. "Kick formation!" he boomed. "Eight, twenty-one, nine!" T h e signals didn't mean anything at all to me, but the formation did. I moved back about twelve yards behind center, and waited for the men to get set. Thirty-five yards away, the goal posts stood out against the blue sky. But I didn't see them; all I saw was the white mark of the crossbar on the brick wall of the power house.

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After a moment, I opened my hands, and the ball came into them straight and true. There was the sound of clashing bodies, and a dull roar from the stands. But I had done the same thing thousands of times before, and now it was just sort of machinelike. I dropped the ball, not thinking of the charging defense, swung back my right foot, and let it go. The ball sailed forward, curving gracefully. I just had time to see it go over the crossbar when a Saulsbury tackle leaped at me and we went down in a heap. It's funny, Uncle, but all I could think of just then was that my derby hat was smashed. I had won the game for Belmont, had earned my class numerals, and had kept the team's record clean. But all I could think of was that derby. Later, on the way home in the Pullman car with the Test of the team, I had time, of course, to think of other things. Of how it would feel to be a hero at college and not to be an outcast any more, to wear the class numerals on a new football sweater, and have people look at me man to man. And to make friends who will stick along on the varsity next year. But in that big moment of victory, I kept thinking of that derby hat. Queer, isn't it? But you know what a boob I am, Uncle. Your affectionate nephew, Allerton.

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during which I was supposed to read the proofs of this book (we did not finish it before the first term of college began, but in late October), Sam came home unexpectedly from Key West. We telephoned Fliv, who dashed down from New London, and for the first time in many months the family was together again. Sam did not say much about his experiences as executive officer on a submarine chaser. He had grown taller since we saw him, and had grown older. A dozen small boys in the neighborhood, to whom for the past several years he has been something of an idol, dropped in to see him. He talked more freely with them. He talked freely with Fliv, who is a senior at college and wants to join the WAVES after graduation. Eda and I were parents. There are times when parents do not matter much; there are times when they do. The family attended a dance at the Club on the weekend Sam and Fliv were home. They did not pay much attention to Eda and me, although Sam danced with his mother. I danced with Fliv, and she said I was old-fashioned. They both left the next afternoon; Fliv for Connecticut, Sam for Florida. Fliv asked: "When are you going to write another story, Dad?" "I don't know," I answered. HE WEEKEND

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She said: "You could write a good story about Sam." Her train left before Sam's. T h e y shook hands. "Be seeing you," Fliv said. Sam did not say anything, but his eyes followed her as she boarded the train, and followed the train until it was just a dark speck in the dim distance. After Sam had left, Eda spoke gently, as mothers have spoken through the ages when their sons go off to war: " I hate to see him go this time." She writes to each of them twice a week, on Sunday and Wednesday evenings. I do better than that, for I have a dictaphone, but they watch for their mother's letters. Eda has never written a short story. But Flash Miers has a son, now three years old, whom he wants to be like Sam. Another friend at college has a daughter, whom he wants to be like Fliv. Each of us lives his own story. Some conform to the rules of the game, and the editor accepts their contributions, and a few people are better people because these contributions have touched their hearts. History is made by the little people, by those of us who live in small communities, and play bridge with our neighbors, pay our grocery bills, and have children for whom we cherish dreams. And if the editor rejects the stories we have lived, we may still hope that he will accept the story of a clear-eyed boy or a smiling girl to whom we have given the opportunity to be honest, courageous and fair dealing. In this book, I have tried to show the relationship between a man's philosophy of life and his philosophy of writing. I believe that an author must write from the heart if he is to achieve success. He must know people and have sympathy for them. He must understand that there is some good in all men. If a beginning author has this understanding, I would say to him: Write if you can. And if you fail, you will be stronger

ags

THE EDITOR

ACCEPTS

for having tried. Failing, you can still carry on by living a story which will touch the hearts of those around you. T h e greatest story ever written is no more beautiful than the eyes of a mother—a mother who has kept the faith—watching her children go away.