Изображения страниц

He hadn't gained his point, but husbandlike, he smiled in satisfaction that his diplomacy had smoothed over the question of Tillie remaining with the firm. as a partner. It mattered little to Pa whether or not Tillie came to his house as a guest, but he could see far enough ahead to wish that the two women were on better terms. The fact is, he had omitted many details in talking to his wife of his recent activities. The business dinners that robbed Pa of his evening at home, Ma accepted as part of the price of success. It never occurred to her that a woman, no matter how high her standing in the commercial world, would appear at a business man's dinner.


A had forgotten his morning paper -the very morning he should have taken it with him if he desired to keep the "details" of his business from the

eyes of his wife. Ma was very quiet for a long time after she read the paper. But she hadn't lost her voice-so Pa found out when he called up during the afternoon. He told Ma he wouldn't be home for dinner as he had to entertain a

prospective business customer at least, he tried to tell her. It was rather a busy day for Pa, so, after listening to Ma and not getting a word in for several minutes, he hung up.

Poor Pa! Dinner with his friend went by the board. Pa needed not the aid of formal logic to tell him that Ma had read the morning paper. It was a meek Pa Moser who ascended the steps of his home at five-forty-five that night. The sagging hairs of his moustache told Ma that she had easy pickings. At that, Pa was thankful that his wife retained her pre-prosperity appetite. Shortly after pie Ma showed signs of the strain her appetite had caused her mentally. Pa was shaking out the evening paper-for man is ever hopeful.

"Pa, I could do a whole lot worse for what I think than let you come home for supper. I'm mad at you, Pa."

"Now, Vida-"

"You know what you going to say?" "Why, of course. Vida, I'm afraid-" "Then you know already what you going to say, but you don't know what I got to tell. Pretty soon you know both. Twenty-five years we been married, and never once but I trust you. Twenty-five years, and a son not quite so old what trusts you in Oregon. Going out with a woman!"

"Vida! You get all wound up if I don't tell you something. That girl, Tillie-"

"Bobbed hair! And you an old man with a family. If I should go out with

Not So Bankrupt

(Continued from page 292)

a man, maybe you don't like it, too." "Listen a little minute, Mama. Tillie and I is nix when it comes to the end of business. So foolish, Mama, if a lady should attend a business meeting."

"I don't care what that Doffer girl does. I don't want you to go out with her."

"But I don't take her out ever." "The paper this morning-" "Miss Doffer was representing our company at the meeting."

"It was a banquet-and besides, if she is your representation, why do you go, too?"

"It was a get-acquainted business meeting and supper for all the jobbers and brokers and it would only hurt the business if we weren't both there."

"So-It's more friends like Tillie Doffer what you got to have for your business, huh? Then I get a smart lawyer what knows how much it costs a divorced woman to live."

"I got a right to attend to my business, Mama, especially if it's to be a good business so you can have this


"You got nothing to do but let Tillie go."

"Mama, let me be honest with you. Tillie and I is nix. She got her business and I got mine."

"Only they come together." "Because it's the same business." "Pa, please, you let Tillie find another business."

"She's going away Monday, Mama, going to Portland."

"For good? Papa, why you don't tell me before?"

"Just a trip for business. We got a chance to extend the firm up North, and Tillie's going after it. She'll be away a month."

"Maybe she'll have to stay in Portland," mused Ma.

"Sure, Mama. Maybe the business is so big, she got to stay. Then it be all right if she is my business partner?" "Pa-what you said about the phonograph-"

"What did I say?"

"You said maybe you couldn't buy one for some time. You think, if Tillie goes to Portland, we make more money?" Pa gazed at Ma rather closely. She She had jumped with startling abruptness from one subject to another. Apparently she had decided that Pa was in no danger of being vamped, so she had seized. upon a good opportunity to complete a former discussion. Give in too easily now and Pa knew that Ma would al

most certainly revert to the subject of Tillie Doffer.

"But I told you it ain't the machine so much. You got to buy records. In one year you pay just so much for records as the machine costs."

Ma got the phonograph and Tillie was not mentioned again that evening. Indeed, it was close to five weeks before Ma had anything more to say about Pa's business partner.

Tillie had tasted success in the larger city, and now, in Portland, she let her enthusiasm carry her a notch higher in business conquests. Rivalry in that city between two large firms had resulted in a third jobber being close to bankruptcy. It took Tillie four weeks to convince the owner that his business could be raised from the contemplated hands of a receiver to financial security. Another week passed before the harassed jobber consented to let his business become a branch of the San Francisco office. Tillie wired Pa at once. He must come to Portland to look over the business, sign papers and meet his new partner.

Ma and Pa Moser wrangled far into the night; but in the end, she let him go. Ma was getting used to the idea of plenty of spending money, and the thought of more clothes, perhaps a larger car, appealed to her. She took him to the station in the little car, and her parting, which occupied fully fifteen minutes of spare time, was full of admonitions.


A had expected to stay in Portland but three or four days. He did finish his business in that time, but his visit stretched to a week. For the first time in years, Pa was away from the guardian eyes of his wife. Fast living had never attracted Pa so he was content to breathe the air of freedom and sit on a park bench when it did not rain. He had been careful to select a room across town from Tillie's hotel, and could Ma have seen how particular Pa was to refrain from any but business discussions with Tillie-but Ma wasn't there. All Ma had to go by was the letter written on hotel stationery by Pa in the lobby of the hotel where Tillie roomed.

Leon was in the midst of his examinations. Pa had dropped in to see him at college once-wanted him to meet Tillie when he could spare the time. Although Leon came up to his father's room several times, he never stayed long, pleading a prior engagement or his studies. Pa was hurt a little by his son's indifference, but argued that Leon would be home on his vacation in another two weeks, and certainly his son was busy

with his examinations. He wished he might wait till college closed so he could. return with Leon; but business called and back he went to San Francisco.

Pa arrived in the city at the unearthly, car-stopped hour of 2:30 a. m. He counted his change and took a taxi. Ma had insisted that he leave his key at home, lest he lose it; so there was no recourse but to wake Ma by ringing the bell. Pa was at the door for several minutes, wearing out the bell battery, before his wife's voice asked who was there.

"Hello, Vida! Just got back." "Better you stay where you are. don't want to see you."

"Vida! What you mean?"


"You call up that smart lawyer, Phillip Levin, tomorrow. Maybe you know what he knows."

"Vida, let me in! You want I should take my death of pneumonia?"

But Ma had left the door. Pa listened till he heard her Juliettes flap noisily on the floor and bedsprings creak.

"Now, what I wonder that crazy woman do nex'?" Pa mused. He went around to the bedroom window.

"Ma-stop your silly! You going to let me in?" Silence. "Vida-Why you don't say what I do? I got lots to tell. The business is much bigger and I see Leon in Portland. in?"

Let me

"Stop your noise! You want I should smother, that I have to close my window?"

"But Mama! If I don't get in, how can I sleep? I got no money with me, and how I get to a hotel when they ain't no cars running till six o'clock?"

Bam! The window shut under Ma's heavy hand. Next door there was the grating of a sash raised and a neighbor's voice broke into Pa's plea.

"Tell your troubles to the moon, and let a man that's in his bed sleep!"

Bam! Pa looked from one closed window to the other. He mentally fig

"I got nothing myself to say with you," replied Ma firmly.

"What I thought." Pa's moustache sank half an inch into the coffee.

"So? You got a head too smart for your shoulders, huh? Then I'll tell you I'm getting from you a divorce."

That surprised Pa for a moment, but he came back gamely.

"How you think you get it?" "I got desertion from you and correspondence with a woman."

"So? You taking a study course at a business college?"

"I got business at a law office and no college. You can go back to Portland and your Tillie Doffer with the bobby head."

"Tillie Doffer! Tillie Doffer! Mama, I don't have to tell you it's no reflection on you when I say Tillie is a fine girl. For a daughter, now, Mama,—”

"So! Just why I get a divorce. One woman is all a good man can love. You would take this Tillie into your own. house, only it's my house, too. When you go to work, you don't come back tonight. My house is for only good people."

"Why you fuss so at Tillie?"

"A whole week in Portland and only two letters from you. So you stay at the same hotel with Tillie? I should say so I get a divorce; and you can't live in this house while I get it."

"It's my house too, and you can't keep me out. But I don't stay at Tillie's hotel. Mama, Leon can tell you I stay at a different hotel from where Tillie rooms."

"I got a letter, and I know who lives where you wrote it."

"Ma, you get foolish the more you don't talk sense. You write to Leon." "I don't write to nobody but my lawyer; and I see him personally."

"Well, I got to get to my work. Don't forget I come home tonight. Tillie Doffer! Ma, you should be ashame'."

[ocr errors]

IVORCE proceedings went along

wred the distance to the nearest hotel. D smoothly for several days.

Even his own telephone was denied him and no public booth in the neighborhood open at this hour. The garage key! Ma hadn't asked him to hand that over.

Pa slept comfortably warm, wrapped in an auto robe, coiled up in the tonneau of the little car. The garage was a part of the basement, so Pa was aroused at seven o'clock when the servant came through the tradesman entrance to prepare breakfast-which explains how Pa got into the upstairs and had nearly finished his breakfast when Ma, heavy eyed, wrinkly gowned and breakfast capped, came into the breakfast room.

"Good morning, Vida. I not got much time to talk as I got to leave for work, and I guess you think it ain't nothing what I got to say, anyhow."


course, Ma was only bluffing when she threatened to keep Pa out of the house. Pa developed a stubborn streak and seemed perfectly content that Ma should get her divorce and Ma began to wish that she had only bluffed about separation. Pa continued to sleep in Leon's room, and it looked as if father and son were to occupy the same bed during Leon's vacation. Leon was due to return almost any day, and that thought gladdened Pa's heart; for, with Tillie away, he was very much in need of his son's help. He began to regret that Leon had decided upon a medical instead of a business career.

Then Tillie wired that affairs were satisfactory in the North and could rest for a time without her personal supervi

sion. She was returning to San Francisco immediately, but had requested that he allow her a month's vacation at once. Pa sat back in his chair and stared at the gray wall for half an hour after he read the message. He was facing the old problem again. The management of the business was up to him. Not that he couldn't do it but in the words of his wife, he was soft. Well, the burden would fall upon Leon. Pep, that boy had, and a good business head. Lots of things he'd shown Dad last sum


The telephone rang several days later, just as Pa had picked up his hat to go to lunch. He passed into the outer office and asked one of the clerks to answer the phone.

"Your son!" cried the clerk. Pa leaped back into the office.

"Hello, Leon, how you be? Fine! That's fine. Shame you should not tell Papa you come home today. What's the matter with mother? I guess she don' like too much efficiency, Leon. Sure, I be out to lunch. I was just going to eat anyway. Sure, maybe a half hour. Goodbye, Leon."

Ma, for the first time that week, smiled at her husband when she opened the door.

[ocr errors]

"Leon's home," she said. "Well, where is the boy?" "He's in the garage." "Well, that should keep him from saying hello to his Papa."

"He's putting up the machine. He took it down town."

"Why he don't have the baggageman send the trunks?"

The doorbell rang. Leon, of course. Ma and Pa made a grab for the door knob.

"Hello, Leon! Hello, Leon. Come in. Don't he look fine, Mama? Curly hair under his cap just like when he was so little."

But Leon had stood aside and was ushering in a tall, slim girl with bobbed hair.

"Oh, Tillie, come in," cried Pa. "You got to excuse us, Miss Doffer. This is my wife and my son, Leon. You got to excuse us, for Leon just got back from college."

brought him back.” "Sure, I know," laughed Tillie. "I

"What you mean, Tillie? What you bring Leon?"

"She's right, Dad," Leon grinned. "We're going to be married tomorrow, take a month off, and then plunge into that business of yours with all the pep we've got."

"Oi, Leon! Tillie! That you should take the sails out of my boat." Pa blubbered for a few moments on his son's shoulders, then turned to his wife: (Continued on page 334)

[blocks in formation]

Chas. H. Shinn

ideal communities as those Wells writes such books as "The Wonderful visit," "The Time Machine,' Machine," "The World Set

Free," "Men like Gods," "Mankind in the Making," "The Dreamer."

Who would suppose that "The Lavender Dragon" could have been written by the author of such novels as "The Portreeve" or "Brunnel's Tower?" But if one looks over Eden Phillpotts' literary record of more than fifty stories and plays, he will find therein a group of such studies as "The Human Boy," "St. George and the Dragon," "Pan and the Twins," and "Children of the Mist." Nor must we forget that he was born and spent years in a border province of India (Mount Aboo,) among mystery loving Afghans. Born there in 1862, but sent home to England later for education, his best work gives us more or less of the mystic, meditative spirit of the people of his childhood.

"The Lavender Dragon" begins with. the earnest, somewhat dull Sir Jasper de Pomeroy of Devon who takes his faithful squire George Pippin, dons his armor, mounts his huge piebald stallion, and sets forth to right wrongs, punish evil-doers, rescue fair maidens, and break a lance or swing a battle-axe in Sir Galahad fashion, against Modreds and monsters.

After months of vain seeking for adventure, knight and squire come across a frightened village whose deputation to them reports the greatest and most ravenous of dragons who has caried off a number of peaceful persons to devour in some cave or forest glen. His latest

victim has been the most beautiful young woman in the village. The knight's thoughts and the reader's-travel back to the story of St. George and the fair Sabra of Egypt, and to the battle of that great hero with the fire-breathing dragon.

But as Mr. Phillpotts tells his story with irrisistable humor and ironic satire, we discover that his Lavender Dragon is in reality a high-minded dreamer, a Utopian idealist who has faith in the improvability of human nature. It takes the slow-witted knight and his rural squire (who are very different from Don Quixote and Sancho Panza) a very long time to comprehend this dragon's desire to give people a new start and make them happy.

The good knight and his squire find the dragon, and the dragon carries him off, war-horse and all. Then the situation is explained after this fashion: "Even as the world itself was hatched from the Mundane Egg made by our Creator, as the Phoenicians and Egyptians rightly maintain, so all primitive orders of living things likewise emerged to life in that manner. Dragons are among the most ancient of created beings, and they have fortunately, though not, I fear, undeservedly, personified evil from the earliest times of man. Nowadays we dragons stand as the symbol of sin in general and paganism in particular. You will judge of my personal astonishment when I came to years of understanding and found myself, not only on the side of the angels from the first, but also entirely opposed to the principles and practice of my own race."

Then the knight enters the castle of the town of Dragonville and there becomes convinced of the entire truth of his host's ardent desire to create a loftier social order, through the friends and followers of the Dragon-the people he has from time to time selected to carry away from the terrified village. But the people of his town and his castle love him dearly and call him L. D. to his face. He is very old, he suffers much and finally passes away amid universal mourning. "Upon the night of his fu

neral," we are told, "the walls of Dragonsville fell toearth and the Lavender Dragon's empire ceased to exist as a separate kingdom, defended and preserved behind its own ramparts." The dwellers therein scattered over the country, teaching the gospel of goodwill to the rest of the country, though, because of the loss of their good dragon, soon falling into dissension. Still, as the author says, "We have made a measure of progress since the days of Dragonsville, and the fact that we are so widely, keenly alive to the need for yet swifter advance is the most hopeful thing about


For six generations, we are told, the countryside made pilgrimage to the dragon's grave. Then the rite ceased, but the great saurian's ideals of generosity and self-abnegation and selfless purpose are growing in the hearts of men and women and will yet conquer the world. -Charles H. Shinn.



HERWOOD EDDY in his recent volume "The New World of Labor" gives a rapid review of labor conditions in different parts of the world. In China, Japan, and India, poverty, illiteracy, and child labor are the general rule. The workday ranges from twelve to sixteen hours, seven days a week, and the average wage for men and women is from thirty to forty cents a day. Housing conditions are appalling. Three and four families may be found living in a room, eight by ten feet.

The second part of the book dealing with labor in Europe and America leaves much to be desired. The attempt to trace the history of labor from ancient times to the present is bound to be superficial, and rather out of place in a "New World of Labor."

The discussion on Russian conditions is perhaps the most interesting part of the book. As a representative of the Y. M. C. A., Sherwood Eddy cannot be accused of Bolshevist tendencies. He says in part:

"We met no working men in all Russia, however, who even for the increased

wages, would be willing to return to the regime of the Czar or of Liberalism after the first revolution. Poor as it is, it remains a workingman's government, in many respects nearer the people than any other in the world.

"We may look upon Russia as a vast laboratory for social experiment."

In spite of its partisan attitude and religious bias, the book is valuable for the statistics and fund of information which it presents.

The New World of Labor, by Sherwood Eddy, New York, George H. Doran Company, $1.50.

[blocks in formation]

"So Big" is utterly unconventional in its construction and handling. Miss Ferber is sufficiently master of not only her technique but also her publishers to dare step aside from prescribed paths when inclination impels, and it frequently does. Selina Peake is forced by circumstances into the unfamiliar life of that "incredibly Dutch district southwest. of Chicago known first as New Holland and later as High Prairie." First as a school teacher and later as a wife and mother she undergoes the hardships of farm life, bringing up her boy Dirk DeJong-nicknamed "So Big"-to a desire for a wider life than that afforded by the community.

Selina's struggles and problems are scarcely felt by the boy. College takes him into another atmosphere, one of artificial standards which are far apart from those which the years have taught his mother as being of permanent value. He comes in contact and falls in love with Paula, who confirms him in his estimate of values; then, later, with Dallas O'Mara. "Miss Dallas O'Mara, in her studio, was perched on a high stool before an easel with a large tray of assorted crayons at her side. She looked a sight and didn't care at all." Indifferent to Dirk, interested in her art and its achievement to the exclusion of social attainment, Dallas is a new type to Dirk and a tantalizing one. Gradually his interest in Paula fades, to be replaced by a deeper love for Dallas.

He is amazed that his mother, workroughened by her years on the truckfarm, should gain the girl's affection. where he can find but tolerance.


You can't forget the way the shadows fell,

How dropped the wind when bugles sang retreat:

Remember still the regimental band— And then the steady, measured tramp of feet!

Once more to have those days upon the range!

You'll always hear the way a bullet purrs

Its deadly song across the firing pits The sunset gun-the merry clink of spurs!

You can't forget the colors floating down,

tells of his life as Harry Smith, and in his telling the author is at his satirical best in poking fun at the senseless conventions of our contemporary civilization; for senseless enough they appear from the spiritual viewpoint of Sarnac and his companions. There is satire in the telling, and there is humor.

But it is when the author reaches the love story of Hetty Marcus and Harry that humor drops like a mantle shed and the tale enters into real drama. It becomes a gripping story, with as keen characterization as Wells has ever given, running to a climax unexpected and strong. This is one of the books which is not apt to be laid aside until it is finished.

"The Dream," by H. G. Wells. The (When day of march and drill at last MacMillan Co., $2.50 net. was spent,)

To waiting arms below, while straight and still

The long bronze ranks stood locked at stiff "Present!"

The thrilling lift and lilt of marching songs!

You'll always find a shred of dim regret You can't be out there soldierin' againYou can't forget, old boy, you can't forget!


-Charles Josef Carey.

And the ending is not the conventional Edna Ferber is too much the artist to spoil a splendidly strong story with an Ethel Dell climax. "So Big" is the finest thing Miss Ferber has yet done, a literary achievement; strong, clean, written as from the inside, interesting throughout, it is a book which will continue to hold its place on the "intimate" shelves, and be given more than the one reading.

So Big, by Edna Ferber. Doubleday, Page & Co., $2.00 net.



G. WELLS has in his latest novel "The Dream" developed a somewhat trite theme into an unusual and most interesting story. It is nothing new, in stories, to dream of past existences, or even of a series of past existences. The possibilities to the novelist are fascinating, and more than a few of them have used the theme more or less skilfully. Wells, however, approaches from a somewhat different angle in that his characters are looking back from the year 3900 upon the civilization of today.

And today's civilization, viewed from the higher, more spiritual standpoint, of that time is a poor thing. Sarnac is the chief character in the story. He dreams, in the brief space of time which dreams take, of his entire life prior to and during the great world war; relating his dream, when he awakens, to his companions. He



poets that one feels sometimes that it is the greater distinction to be of California and yet not write poetry. Certainly the list of verse writers who find inspiration in the Golden State is a constantly and rapidly increasing one. Nor are all of these newly discovered poets of the younger generation. Michael Doyle, who has recently brought out "Mary and Other Poems" has waited for gray hairs before giving expression in verse to his love of beauty.

The poems have the atmosphere of the West, and that longer one from which the volume takes its title depicts the hardships of a pioneer mother who ventures the long sea voyage and the discomforts of the Isthmus to join her husband in the San Francisco of the

gold rush days.

It is in the "other poems," however, that the reviewer finds the book's chief treasure, and finds trace of that companion art of sculpture which Mr. Doyle has made his chief expression. The last poem in the volume has as subject one which many a poet before Mr. Doyle has used, and which will be sung again and again, "Sunset Through the Golden Gate."

Hill won, I rest; while Berkeley's mellow bells,

By magian fingers fondled, wake to glee,
Pouring far floods of tidal melody
O'er echoing canons and delighted dells.
Lo! while this transport round the campus

Glory descends upon the western sea
To drape with beauty its immensity
As weaving goddess of our vesper spells.
From fleecy clouds, twirled by her wheel,
the sun,

Such strands and weaves of radiance soon

[blocks in formation]



IGH ROAD" is the story of


in her "Fountains of Ordunna" is her

Peter Adams, musician of his THAT a story is true adds nothing self a fountain. There is verse which

quest of beauty-of those who helped, and those who hindered him in the quest. Although the other characters are well drawn, especially interesting is the sympathetic portrait of Mammy Louie, and very fine are the words of the old German music master. "You, Peter, say you write music which is the searching of man for truth. I say you have written nothing of the sort-but you have made good music because you can think such high thoughts-that you care, that you understand, how pitiful we all are in this universe. Music is the overtone of all art, Peter. It can say the fine thing which the painting, the writing cannot express." It is Peter who holds our interest-Peter, the child, with ear to shell, listening to the first whisperings of the Eternal Harmony-Peter, the man, through all of his struggles to reach self-expression to his triumphant direction of his own "Poem of the Eter

nal Mystery" on to the finale, where he

writes, "Pilgrimage"-"Which is quest of beauty" it is Peter who makes "High Road" a novel that is more than a story; it has much of the appeal of biography, for in Peter we may see the evolution of an artist's soul.

-Elizabeth La Dow. High Road, by Janet Ramsey. The Century Co., $2.00 net.

STRANGE CORNERS ONDON has a fascination which

is felt half a world away, for every nook and cranny of the old city has its romance and its tradition. To the stranger in London, dependent on his guide book, it is only the more famous spots with which he gains acquaintance. And even the London resident of long time knows surprisingly little of the interesting history of the ancient streets and buildings about him.

Charles G. Harper has had the interest and the leisure to trace out the interesting facts which hover about some of the more unfamiliar spots in London, and in "Queer Things About London" he presents these fascinating tales in his own simple and interesting manner. From the old lamp posts-one would never think to find a story there!-to St. Paul's Cathedral; from the Adelphi to Westminster-did you know there was a waxworks show in the famous church? -the reader is taken in never-failing in


To the traveller who is about to visit London, the book will serve as an unusually valuable guidebook. To the stayat-home traveller the volume is of even greater value. It is profusely illustrated. Queer Things About London, by Charles G. Harper Lippincott, publishers, $2.50 net.

to its value if the story itself is not interesting, but there's many a true tale of the old West which is as thrilling in its intensity as any creation of our best action writers. In "A Tenderfoot Bride" Clarice E. Richards deals with the experiences of herself and her husband when they went, newly married, from their accustomed life in an Eastern City to Colorado to undertake the ownership and management of a large cattle ranch. There is mystery and drama and comedy in full measure in these annals, simply told in Mrs. Richards' delightful manner. And, somehow, one wishes that it might have been fiction after all, so that the mystery of the old root house and its hidden passage might be explained.

A Tenderfoot Bride, by Clarice E. Richards. Doubleday, Page & Co., $2.00 net.


MOUNTAINS rise and dip to a melody all their own; throwing their silver columns against the blue, dropping almost to the mirroring waters, and always to that undertone of their own singing. And Cecilia MacKinnon


rises almost to the heights; there is poetry of lesser leaping; but it all sings And there is a delightful imaginative with a charmingly irregular rhythm.

quality which marks Miss MacKinnon as most truly of the fraternity.

This poet is another of those who find their artistic expression through more than one channel. Painter as well as poet, Miss MacKinnon succeeds in retaining in her verse those qualities which make for attainment in the companion art. Not every poet has the lyric gift. One has but to read "The Three Princesses" to realize that Miss MacKinnon has the gift in full measure. Or that brief bit from which the volume takes its name:

The fountain in Ordunna knows
That when its silver shaft arose
The earth protested, groaned and rocked.
But when it fell in shining spray

On famished sand and sun-baked clay,
The earth rejoiced.

O aching earth, this agony
Will end at last,

And fountains fill the shining land
When it is past.

Fountain of Ordunna, by Cecilia MacKinnon. B. J. Brimmer Co., $1.50



HAT the atrocious hodgepodge of frothy sensation and sentimentality that weighs down our magazine stands is the product of a "give the public what it wants" policy is somewhat to be doubted.

There are before me copies of two magazines which have recently invaded the well populated field of national publications. One of these was secured only after I had visited five dealers. The supply of the first four having been exhausted within twenty-four hours of the magazine's release. Great stacks of the other face me from the table of every vender. Placards and full page newspaper and magazine advertisements proclaiming the features of one obtrude themselves upon my attention hourly. The publishers of the other have contented themselves with a formal announcement published in a few of the more conservative publications.

i scan the contents of one. Shades of Horace Greeley, William Dean Howells and Bret Harte! In the Twentieth Century magazine world is there nothing new under the sun? Here is a combination of the most trite and yellow features of a Sunday Supplement, low features of a Sunday Supplement, the American Magazine, McCalls Fashion Book, Farm and Fireside, True Conion Book, Farm and Fireside, True Confessions and the Saturday Evening Post.

Here we have our old friends, tried and true, George Barr McCutcheon, Montague Glass, Albert Payson Terhune, Dr. Frank Crane, Sophie Kerr, Arnold Bennett, etc. etc., all doing their usual "stuff." Here are vivid and horrible illustrations of the situations in American social and domestic life depicted in the stories and confessions; personality stories about such original subjects as Hughes, Hiram Johnson and Charles Murphy; pictorial sections displaying scenes that seem vaguely suggestive of a Pathe Weekly which I witnessed some weeks ago, a group of photographs of movie "stars" and an article on synthetic booze by Dr. Evans. Everything, in fact, that the public is supposed to be demanding.

The other magazine, a thick, unillustrated volume yields a collection of essays, several departments of more or less relevent and gently irreverent comment on American ideals, politics, business, drama and literature; two brief stories; papers on Ruskin, Lowell and Jim Wat


The character of its contents would probably classify it as a journal of the cynical intelligencia. Its major mission. is, very patently, to convey the somewhat bellicose, dogmatic, iconoclastic criticisms which scintillate from the pens

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »