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is offered through Overland Monthly for the best lyric of thirty lines or less, submitted under the conditions of the contest as already announced.



is offered through Overland Monthly for the best short story, written and submitted under the contest terms as announced.


are offered by Overland Monthly.

Full particulars are given in February Overland Monthly.
Send 25c in stamps for a copy of the issue.

Overland Monthly and Out-West Magazine




WO recent books, Doctor David Starr Jordan's Days Of a Man and Will Irwin's Christ or Mars stand in an interesting relation to each other. It is not a strange thing that a pupil of a prophet of democracy should arraign belligerent lands with the question Christ or Mars? Neither is it strange that out of a democracy in Arcadia, with its intangible Stanford spirit, which people tried vainly to explain by remoteness and newness, should come Hoover and Kellogg to feed Europe, and Will Irwin in the cause of peace to demand of civilized nations, "Christ or Mars?"

Yet who of the "old guard" would have predicted that Will Irwin was to be the torch-bearer of Stanford ideals? Some of those ideals are set forth in such essays of Doctor Jordan's as The Blood of the Nations or The Human Harvest, The Call of the Twentieth Century, and The Strength of Being Clean, originally published under the admirable title, The Quest for Unearned Happiness. Undoubtedly Irwin was gifted, and gifted people should be torch-bearers, but he was said not to work much at his trade. We all knew he would be a writer. He would make a new place in society verse-perhaps humor in some new form. Whatever the Irwin brothers wrote would have literary finish and readableness, a bubbling over with the sheer joy of living.

We knew Will Irwin would write, but we didn't know he would go South to make for Collier's Weekly an investigation of the sale of liquor to Negroes, an investigation that, as much as any one thing, enabled the South to go dry. What would the paragraphers on the Chaparral have said had such activity on Irwin's part been predicted (Continued on page 236)


The Editor's Brief Case

VERLAND MONTHLY seems to hold a place in the affections of its readers which neither time nor distance nor vicissitudes-and the old Bear has known many of them!-can dim. Scarcely a mail but brings to the editor's desk a card or a letter expressing the writer's joy that Overland is once more coming into its own. Only the other day came a letter from 'way back in Oklahoma. It is too long to quote in full, unfortunately:

"Dear friend of my lang syne yesteryears:

"How pleased I am to know that you have survived the vicissitudes of an occasional semi-desuetude put upon you by force of circumstances over which you seem to have no control. Shame on the literati of the great West Coast that they almost permitted you to meet with dissolution! Is it possible that these people forget that you were the very first organ of wide influence at our western gateway to bring into existence a purely individual, characteristic West Coast literature? Do these people forget that you wrought from the rude outposts of civilization a humor and pathos,in fact, a new form of literature which took an Englishspeaking world by storm-a literature so virile and so full of red blood, and so human that, while it has been patterned after from that day to this, it has not been and never will be, improved upon? Where has gone the pride and gratitude of the West Coasters and their descendants that they seem to have sadly forgotten the debt they owe you?

They seem to bear in grateful memory the one who begat you; but O, how they have neglected the deserving child of a worthy father!

How glad I am that some apparently able doctors have come across you, armed with pulmotors and other late appliances for revivifying; and seemingly with the determination to restore you to your pristine vigor and virility, and start you down life's road again with the assurance of a long and happy future smiling gladly at you from clear across a continent to the land of sunset-your habitat!

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WONDER if you can remember how we of Indiana and Illinois smiled (and sometimes wept) at you and the one who begat you; and how we welcomed you and the tales you told, as we sat around the old fire-place and heard father or mother read your stories in the light of the back-log's blaze. I wonder if you can remember how we lads were gladly permitted to read your pages when, a few years later, we were old enough to do so-O, for the joy and pleasure of memory and reminiscent things born of the times when father brought the Overland Monthly home from the city and laid it upon the chimney jamb where stood the big and heavy old-fashioned iron candle sticks. Then the evening of contentment and wide-eyed wonderment as father read from the Overland's pages. He read aloud, and right then was born in our minds the great desire to see far-off California,-a desire which we always held, but which we did not find a way to gratify until more than forty years later on.

There have been times since then when we came to feel that you were to be numbered with the many other good things that have passed out of life. But we find it is no such thing; and O, how glad we are for that! Why, the very name "Overland" is inspiring; and it awakens memories of the realest romance this country has ever knowed! Go on, old frien; go on and grow; and I'll keep an eye on ye and lend ye a helpin' hand when and wherever I kin. Hug the grizzly b'ar fer me; but, for the love of "Truthful James," don't let the pesky varmint hug ye back ag'in." And that is signed by Overland's good old friend Joseph R. Piatt.


ND THEN this extract from another letter:

"Coming home from Mill Valley yesterday, at the Ferry station I possessed myself of the March number of Overland. It was-is-a delight: its personal appearance, subject matter, everything; special mention; articles and poetry-I have not read the stories yet.

The Thad Welches were among my close and interesting friends until they removed to Santa Barbara-so you may know the interest Helen Vernon Reid's well-written paper has for me. Your sketch of Mrs. Spreckles is alluring and is a great satisfaction to many beside myself who had very much wanted to know more of her history than her noble work tells us. Then your "Beginnings of Etching in California" appeals. To be an artist in black and white was my ambition before the newspaper office got me. Then there is my versatile friend Torrey Connor. (What about her artistic "Silhouette" in which she took so much pride, and justly?) And Charles Shinn; we were on the staff of The Star at the same time. How thoroughly grounded he is in the history of the State. And how scholarly all his work. If San Franciscans (and others "round about" as Charles Keeler says it) give to this dear old magazine in its new life the support it deserves, it will come into its own again THE Magazine of the Golden West.

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I'm ashamed to ask, but what is domestic science?"

Ann patiently and thoroughly explained the nature of her former vocation, while Mrs. Carson, her hands full of dough, listened intently.

"And I was goin' to show you how to cook," she said, with deep self disdain, "The nerve of me. It's awful sometimes, honey, but you'll excuse me this time, won't you? I wanted to make you feel so at home.

Mrs. Carson was very contrite over what she thought her asinine presumption. She felt that sensation of lowliness which the country woman often experiences in the presence of her more sophisticated city sister.

"You must excuse me," she went on apologetically, "When us women live out here in the sage brush so long we get to thinkin' there ain't anybody but us. We're somethin' like burros. They think jackasses are the only animals in the world till they see an automobile come tearin' along. Then they wake. up, if burros can wake up." She affixed the qualification, which produced a merry laugh from the girl. This erased Mrs. Carson's self abasement and she was herself once more. The laugh also awoke Barbara, who came rubbing her not yet sleep satisfied eyes. (Continued next month)



(Continued from page 234)

How could we know that he, more than any other Stanford student, would put into words the real feeling of the American people against war?

My first glimpse of Irwin was at a kirmess held in the Stanford museum to raise money for the purchase of the Hildebrand library. He was a curly-headed youth in spectacles -horn bows had not yet come in. He was acting as speiler for a mirth-provoking sideshow that exhibited, among other wonders, a mermaid that had come through the pipes from Sears Lake and had been found in a The Pike and the Zone Faculty bathtub. were yet to come, but he showed forth speilers past and future in a delicious bit of burlesque.

I met him first when at the suggestion of Miss March, gymnasium director, I called on a girl whose plans for college had been ended by an accident. Will Irwin was there, telling her stories and describing his own college experiences with a wealth of spontaneous jollity for the benefit of the shut-in. He did not like science, which he was studying with Doctor W. W. Thoburn, whom Doctor Jordan called "the heart of the University." With picturesque exaggeration Irwin told how heartily he hated any kind of science, and consequently anybody who taught it. The boyish outburst against Doctor Thoburn recalled itself when I read the introduction to Irwin's Latins at War, for that introduction sounds exactly as if Doctor Thoburn had written it!


By Viola Price Franklin

GOING out alone into a world of struggle,

with only her two white hands like delicate bird wings, to help her win in the strife, Mary Carolyn Davies has achieved greatly. Recently, in one short week, two honors came to her; she won the Circuit Rider Contest, a prize of $100, over five hundred contestants, and she was elected President of the Northwest Poetry Society.

The winning poem was set to music and sung at the unveiling of the statue to the Circuit Rider by A. Phimister Proctor, on The April 19, on the Capitol Grounds. Northwest Poetry Society has been organized at the request of Mrs. Edwin Markham, and will affiliate with the Poetry Society of America.

The beautiful poetry of Mary Carolyn Davies is no more interesting than is the charming personality of the poet herself. All love her. Her birthplace in Washington; her early home in Portland, where she published her first verse; her university days at Berkeley, where she won poetry prizes; her residence in New York, where she attended New York University, and still maintains a studio, have all helped to make her range of observation wide and varied. Then she has roamed the hills and prairies; is a member of the Blackfoot Indian tribe; has romped with children and participated in athletics; and is an excellent horsewoman-in short has been an all-round nature lover.

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(Continued from page 220)

to the last the delightfully imaginative quality which gave his pictures general appeal. His hand was as sure, his lines as free and virile, his colors as fresh and pure, as a quarter of a century before. Of the almost countless pictures which felt the impress of his touch only a few remained unsold at his death. They were pictures which always found ready sale, even at the prices which his work commanded. They were of the sort which found loved and honored place both with the connoisseur and with the layman.

This has not been intended as a critical discussion of the art of H. W. Hansen. It has been merely a tribute to the splendid gentleman whose sympathy and encouragement helped many, whose faith in his fellowmen persisted in spite of disappointment. It is a farewell to the artist who so quietly, so unassumingly and so sincerely sent forth from San Francisco his message of beauty.

requested him to read from his book over radio, March 3rd. The Standard Catalog Bi-monthly, published by H. W. Wilson Co., Jan. 1924 recommends the book very highly quoting from the Boston Transcript: "Mr. Alexander deserves to be placed side by side with the creator of Mowgli and the Jungle books." High praises, but deserved.


Mr. Alexander tells me that from his stack of reviews, ranging from Honolulu to New York, but one is unfavorable. added "I have been amazed at the fine reviews; the one in the Boston Transcript especially pleased me, for I had not looked for praise in such conservative quarters. Thus far 'Fang in the Forest' has outsold any book in the Northwest, written by a Northwesterner; and from what little I can hear from the East it is beginning to take hold there."

ARTHUR M. HARRIS of Oregon, author of "Pirate Tales from the Law" had a rather unusual career before being admitted to the Oregon bar. Here are a few high-lights: cabin-boy on a North Sea coaster; art student in London; surveyor in the far West; applicant, while penniless in Montana, for a job of sheep-herding, and rejected. in favor of a one-eyed professional; a journey to Chicago on ten cents and a scalper's ticket. Incidentally his earliest advisers counselled him to become a baker.

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Poets and Things

HE poetry magazines of the month display something of a dearth of that ware which is their excuse for existThere is jingle and rhyme and words a'plenty, but a scarcity of ideas. Poetry is something more than a concord of musical sounds. Of course the greater number of the multitude of contemporary writers are not poets, but even as versifiers it would seem that they might occasionally put forth a combination of words strung upon some new theme.

Of course there is beauty even in old themes, and at times the younger writers present an untarnished facet which flashes a momentary gleam of lovliness from muchly be-written subjects. The Poetry Editor finds evidence of this in the Poetry Issue of The Occident, now in its forty-second year, published by the Associated Students of the University of California. There are names included in the issue which are becoming more or less widely known among those who read the poetry of the day: Idella Purnell, Roberta Holloway, Hildegarde Flanner, Vernon Patterson -yet it is in the verse of still younger aspirants that the Poetry Editor finds a note of greater promise; greater promise because there is in their lines greater evidence of a return to the principles upon which Poetry is based. There is evident, indeed, in the entire number an increasing appreciation of the fact that Poetry is Beauty, and that a departure from the beautiful means an evanescence, a creation which is not of lasting worth.

Here is a very pleasing lyric by one of the associate editors, Jack Lyons: TO ONE WHO VOWED



When you go down to Acheron
And see romantic shadows there,
Don Juan with his ruffles on,

And Galahad with golden hair.

Or some lost singing troubadour,
Whose fingers wove a queen's love-knot,
Or Abelard, or Roland, or
Elaine's forbidden Lancelot.

You will deny the vows you made One foolish night before you went, And give to some heroic Shade

Your body's richest compliment.

O bind your breasts, perfume your hair
For Tristan or Endymion,

And I shall guess the gowns you wear
When you go down to Acheron-

When you go down to Acheron.

And this fragment from Sans Toi by Louise Lincoln:

"I miss you in the clattering of feet
Along the walk-not yours—
Nor yours, in voices calling out-
The old, fat, wadded robe you used to lug
Sprawls limp across the wicker chair.

The closed door vexes, and the ceiling,
White and blank above-no ward
To fill the vacant, echoing corral of lamplight
My books glint dustily from unused shelves,
And that last one, we left half-read—

THE University of California "Chroni

cle" is coming into its own as a literary periodical. It is neither the dry-as-dust pub

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lication which its title might indicate nor the frothy issue of student standards. It is serious in its purpose, yet possessing a "readability" which gives it place on the ordinary library table.

It has its particular appeal to the Poetry Editor in that it uses no little verse which measures up to sound and sane standards. If the "Chronicle" came out each month instead of quarterly, the Poetry Editor would feel that it more nearly fulfilled its mission..

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