Of course we may use them

neous and unnecessary. if we like, for they have an office of their own. But even here we must draw a distinction; they are not equally available. Admiration of the gentleman's deed would be increased by the knowledge that he performed it in spite of some physical disadvantage. We could imagine the horse's fright more readily if we knew the color of the cloak-lining to be scarlet, because this is a violent color and more exciting than a tamer one. We can even conceive how our interest might be slightly increased if we were told that the buggy was new, because the magnitude of the damage would in that case be increased. But can you imagine any purpose that would be served by telling us the horse was black? It is surely not to be supposed that black horses take fright any more easily than those of any other color, or that they are any more dangerous when they do.

Not every fact then may be introduced simply because it is a fact. If it does not assist to a clearer understanding of the narrative, it must have some other justification for its insertion. This justification we find in a vital, active relation between it and the main facts of the narrative, which contributes to the interest and effectiveness of the whole.

Consider for a moment again the other selection, "A Dude's Discomfiture." The information in regard to the young man's dress is wholly unnecessary; is it likewise ineffective? No; for we are less ready to sympathize with one whose consideration for externals betrays a lack of depth in his nature. The knowledge here given us helps us to enjoy more unreservedly the humor of the situation. And so fully has the writer

appreciated this that he has even ventured to incorporate in his title this unessential feature of the incident.

The matter stands simply thus: That which is essential we must use; that which is effective only we may use; all else we had better omit.

Select another incident-your daily life is so full of them that you can never exhaust subjects of this class -and write it out with such fullness of detail and such unessential touches as your judgment shall dictate.

The following selection, taken from How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar, by Bret Harte, shows what can be done in the way of embellishing a narrative by a master of the literary art. If any portions seem unnatural or overwrought, it must be remembered that this is only a fragment of the story; the portion which precedes fully prepares the reader for everything that is given here. "Dick" takes a wild ride of fifty miles the night before Christmas to bring some presents to a sick boy. His object is to reach the "Old Man's cabin before dawn.

The storm had cleared away, the air was brisk and cold, the outlines of adjacent landmarks were distinct, but it was half past four before Dick reached the meeting-house and the crossing of the county road. To avoid the rising grade he had taken a longer and more circuitous road, in whose viscid mud Jovita sank fetlock deep at every bound. It was a poor preparation for a steady ascent of five miles more; but Jovita, gathering her legs under her, took it with her usual blind, unreasoning fury, and a half hour later reached the long level that led to Rattlesnake Creek. Another half hour would bring him to the creek. He threw the reins lightly upon the neck of the mare, chirruped to her, and began to sing.

Suddenly Jovita shied with a bound that would have unseated a less practised rider. Hanging to her rein was a figure that had

leaped from the bank, and at the same time from the road before her arose a shadowy horse and rider. "Throw up your hands!" commanded the second apparition, with an oath.

Dick felt the mare tremble, quiver, and apparently sink under him. He knew what it meant, and was prepared.

"Stand aside, Jack Simpson. I know you, you thief! Let me pass, or "

He did not finish the sentence. Jovita rose straight in the air with a terrific bound, throwing the figure from her bit with a single shake of her vicious head, and charged with deadly malevolence down on the impediment before her. An oath, a pistol-shot, horse and highwayman rolled over in the road, and the next moment Jovita was a hundred yards away. But the good right arm of her rider, shattered by a bullet, dropped helplessly at his side.

Without slacking his speed he shifted the reins to his left hand. But a few moments later he was obliged to halt and tighten the saddle-girths that had slipped in the onset. This in his crippled condition took some time. He had, no fear of pursuit, but, looking up, he saw that the eastern stars were already paling, and that the distant peaks had lost their ghostly whiteness, and now stood out blackly against a lighter sky. Day was upon him. Then com

pletely absorbed in a single idea, he forgot the pain of his wound, and, mounting again, dashed on towards Rattlesnake Creek. But now Jovita's breath came broken by gasps, Dick reeled in the saddle, and brighter and brighter grew the sky.

Ride, Richard; run, Jovita ; linger, O day!

Was it

For the last few rods there was a roaring in his ears. exhaustion from a loss of blood, or what? He was dazed and giddy as he swept down the hill, and did not recognize his surroundings. Had he taken the wrong road, or was this Rattlesnake Creek?

It was. But the brawling creek he had swum a few hours before had risen, more than doubled its volume, and now rolled a swift and resistless river between him and Rattlesnake Hill. For the first time that night Richard's heart sank within him. The river, the mountain, the quickening east, swam before his eyes. He shut them to recover his self-control. In that brief interval,

by some fantastic mental process, the little room at Simpson's Bar and the figures of the sleeping father and son rose upon him. He opened his eyes wildly, cast off his coat, pistol, boots, and saddle, bound his precious pack tightly to his shoulders, grasped the bare flanks of Jovita with his bared knees, and with a shout dashed into the yellow water. A cry rose from the opposite bank as the head of a man and horse struggled for a few moments against the battling current, and then were swept away amidst uprooted trees and whirling driftwood.

The fire on the hearth was flickering in its socket, and

The Old Man started and woke. dead, the candle in the outer room somebody was rapping at the door. He opened it, but fell back with a cry before the dripping, half-naked figure that reeled against the doorpost.

"Tell him," said Dick, with a weak little laugh," tell him Sandy Claus has come."

And even so, bedraggled, ragged, unshaven and unshorn, with one arm hanging helplessly at his side, Santa Claus came to Simpson's Bar, and fell fainting on the first threshold. The Christmas dawn came slowly after, touching the remoter peaks with the rosy warmth of ineffable love. And it looked so tenderly on Simpson's Bar that the whole mountain, as if caught in a generous action, blushed to the skies.

Here we have simply narrowed the choice of subjects to a field with which you are all equally well acquainted. It will be noticed that the first subject given is a rather general one, only somewhat narrower than the subject which stands at the head of the exercise. But even if you draw upon occurrences within the school-room for your incident, it will be well to devise for it a more particular title.

The question may be asked, Why select a title before writing, or why select one at all? It is true brief articles are sometimes printed in newspapers and elsewhere without titles. It is also true that the title of many a book has not been fixed upon until after the book was written. But the principle holds none the less good, Select your title first. No man can write coherently and effectively without having in his mind a definite idea of what he is writing about. And since language is the best means for crystallizing our ideas, for rendering them clear and definite, the sooner we put the subject of our thought into some formula of words, the better. This holds especially true in the more abstract themes which we shall take up later, for in them the temptation to wander from the main line of thought is peculiarly great. But even in the writing of an ordinary incident, the selection of a title beforehand, and the endeavor to keep that title clearly in mind throughout, will give a directness and unity to the composition that could not otherwise be obtained. It will occasionally be found necessary in the course of writing, to introduce certain things that were not contemplated at first, or to extend or abridge the treatment of a subject in accordance with the requirements of