In Exercise XVI. the descriptions were not limited to either kind, though they would probably be rather of the former than of the latter. Naturally many descriptions will partake of the characteristics of both classes. In Exercise XVII. they were strictly of the scientific class. In the present exercise again they will not be limited to either class, though they will lean toward the literary.

Much depends on the subject selected. If you choose a factory or a new schoolhouse, you can do little more than give a detailed description of the building. The subject lends itself only to the plainest kind of treatment. An architect could give a strictly "scientific" description; one without his knowledge and experience would have to be content with something less exact. On the other hand, if you choose to describe your home or the old schoolhouse in which you have spent many years, a thousand memories and associations will conspire to brighten up the sombre tints and soften the harsh lines and lend beauty and grace to the homeliest features. You can hardly keep your personality from entering into and idealizing such a description. Nor will you be expected to do so. This is one of the characteristics of our best genuine literature. It is not meant that you shall be inaccurate or untruthful, only that you shall not be over-curious for accuracy, and in particular that you shall not strive, to the exclusion of better things, for absolute completeness of detail.

The descriptions may well be made from memory, without having the object before you. Read as an example Hawthorne's description of The Old Manse. In the following model, though the language and con

struction are not always the best that might be chosen, the expression is sincere and the feeling that inspired it was evidently genuine.

A CABIN.

All day we followed a dark winding path which leads into the interior of Wahkiakum County, Washington, with scarcely a gleam of sunlight. At last, while descending one side of a gulch, there opened to us a striking scene.

In the woods below us was a clearing, surrounded by a wall of dense evergreens. At the bottom of the gulch trickled a stream of sweet mountain water. In the opening on the opposite side of the stream was a bed of grass. Here and there were old mosscovered logs and brush piles.

Then, as our eyes followed the path which led up the opposite bank, we caught sight of a small cabin which seemed to be standing out from the side of the hill. It was made of boards which had been manufactured without a sawmill, and the eaves came to to the ground so that it looked like a potato house. Above it towered some gigantic firs which with swaying branches threatened to fall on the little cabin and bury it.

As we approached we saw that the cabin had been recently deserted, and we inferred from the axes and saws which were scattered here and there that the desertion had been a hasty one. The loneliness told the story. Perhaps the rancher came into the woods to seek a fortune and went out to seek a wife.

We have seen that there are kinds of narrative composition that partake more or less of the nature of description. Here we have a species of descriptive composition that borders on narration. Here action and time are again conspicuous elements, only it is action producing a complex, material result. If we deal primarily with the actors, or makers, our composition seems to be essentially narrative; if we deal primarily with the things acted upon, or made, then it is essentially descriptive. But it is of little use to endeavor always to keep the terms distinct. These considerations will merely help to fix the fundamental distinction. The laws of discourse and the characteristics of style are not limited to this or that kind of composition. Clearness, Force, and Beauty, have as much place in one kind as in another. One, as another, may be interesting or dull, sublime or ridiculous, humorous or pathetic.

To tell how an article is made will often necessitate describing its various parts, but this in turn will probably make it unnecessary to describe the article as a finished whole; that will have been done well enough already. Indeed it is a very common resource in describing an object to tell how portions of it were constructed, and if you look over the descriptions you have written you will probably find instances of

this.

Models of this kind of writing will be of little service. If you know how to make the article yourself you have only to seek the best words and simplest formulas by which to give a clear explanation of the process to another. Clearness is the one thing to be sought,

and the test of excellence will be the ability of the reader to make such an article from your description alone.

However it is often desirable to describe certain unusual processes, or the construction of unfamiliar objects, not with any intention of enabling another to imitate the process, but simply for the purpose of affording instruction or entertainment and gratifying an almost universal curiosity to hear about that which is strange. The following is an example of such a description.

INDIAN BREAD MAKING.

Along toward sunset of a hot summer afternoon I sauntered down to the Indians' huts and watched two squaws on the bank of the river making acorn bread. They had set up some large willow boughs to protect them from the sun, and these formed an effective background for the ragged, dirty forms of the old squaws. By asking many questions I finally obtained from them the process of Indian bread making.

It takes two days, one to gather the acorns, a second to grind them and bake the meal. After the grinding, the flour is washed with sand and water in a water-tight basket, such as Indians always use, and is then allowed to stand until the sand has settled to the bottom. Next, the top is poured off into another basket and into this are thrust intensely hot stones, which cause the mixture to bubble and boil as though a fire were cooking it. After it has been boiled down to a thick paste it is set in the river to cool, and when cool enough to handle it is rolled into small loaves and again put into the river to harden.

The bread, as I saw it, was of a pinkish color and looked sufficiently tempting. I was repeatedly urged to taste it, but when I glanced at the squaws' hands I felt constrained to decline.

No doubt some knowledge of geology or mineralogy would contribute much toward giving an intrinsic value to descriptions of this class. But intrinsic value is not just now the one thing needful. We are writing English writing it because we hope some day to write it well, very well, and because we know that every sentence we write, upon whatsoever subject, makes the next subject easier and better. We want practice too in the various fields of composition, scientific as well as literary.

Now if you have no special knowledge in this line, the attempt to write in it will subserve another end it will help to give you that knowledge. It will spur you on and compel you to learn. But learn for yourself and by yourself; do your own investigating. Not only will this be vastly more profitable from every point of view, but it will be incomparably more interesting you will find genuine pleasure in observing and recording; writing will be transformed from a drudgery to a delight.

The whole secret is this: Go to books, if you like, for your names, for your terminology it is well for