her work yourself, down to the last detail_; pay the wages which other
people would be glad to pay for the same service; keep your temper,
and, in the face of everything, _be kind_! Remember that housework is
hard work--that it never stays done--that a meal which it takes half a
day to prepare is disposed of in half an hour. Remember, too, that it
requires much intelligence and good judgment to be a good cook, and
that the daily tasks lack inspiration. The hardest part of housework
must be done at a time when many other people are free for rest and
enjoyment, and it carries with it a social bar sinister when it is
done for money. The woman who does it for her board and clothes, in
her own kitchen, does not necessarily lose caste, but doing it for a
higher wage, in another's kitchen, makes one almost an outcast.
Strange and unreasonable, but true.

It was at my own suggestion that she began to leave the dishes piled
up in the sink until morning. When the room is otherwise immaculate,
a tray of neatly piled plates, even if unwashed, does not disturb my
æsthetic sense.

Ordinarily, she is free for the evening at half-past seven or a
quarter of eight--always by eight. Her evenings are hers, not
mine,--unless I pay her extra, as I always do. A dollar or so counts
for nothing in the expense of an entertainment, and she both earns and
deserves the extra wage.

If I am to entertain twenty or thirty people--the house will hold no
more, and I cannot ask more than ten to dinner--I consult with her,
decide upon the menu, tell her that she can have all the help she
needs, and go my ways in peace. I can order the flowers, decorate the
table, put on my best gown, and receive my guests, unwearied, with an
easy mind.

When I am not expecting guests, I can leave the house immediately
after breakfast, without a word about dinner, and return to the right
sort of a meal at seven o'clock, bringing a guest or two with me, if I
telephone first.

I can work for six weeks or two months in a seclusion as perfect as I
could have in the Sahara Desert, and my household, meanwhile, will
move as if on greased skids. I can go away for two months and hear
nothing from her, and yet know that everything is all right at home. I
think no more about it, so far as responsibility is concerned, when I
am travelling, than as if I had no home at all. When we leave the
apartment alone in the evening, we turn on the most of the lights,
being assured by the police that burglars will never molest a
brilliantly illuminated house.

The morose countenance of my ugly maid has subtly changed. It
radiates, in its own way, beauty and good cheer. Her harsh voice is
gentle, her manner is kind, her tastes are becoming refined, her ways
are those of a lady.

My friends and neighbours continually allude to the transformation as
"a miracle." The janitor remarked, in a burst of confidence, that he
"never saw anybody change so." He "reckoned," too, that "it must be
the folks she lives with!" Annie herself, conscious of a change,
recently said complacently: "Ay guess Ay wass one awful crank when Ay
first come here."

And so it happens that the highest satisfaction is connected with the
beautiful theory, triumphantly proven now, against heavy odds.
Whatever else I may have done, I have taught one woman the workman's
pride in her work, shown her where true happiness lies, and set her
feet firmly on the path of right and joyous living.

To a Violin

(Antonius Stradivarius, 1685.)

     What flights of years have gone to fashion thee,
     My violin! What centuries have wrought
     Thy sounding fibres! What dead fingers taught
     Thy music to awake in ecstasy
     Beyond our human dreams? Thy melody
     Is resurrection. Every buried thought
     Of singing bird, or stream, or south wind, fraught
     With tender message, or of sobbing sea,
     Lives once again. The tempest's solemn roll
     Is in thy passion sleeping, till the king
     Whose touch is mastery shall sound thy soul.
     The organ tones of ocean shalt thou bring,
     The crashing chords of thunder, and the whole
     Vast harmony of God. Ah, Spirit, sing!

The Old Maid

One of the best things the last century has done for woman is to make
single-blessedness appear very tolerable indeed, even if it be not
actually desirable.

The woman who didn't marry used to be looked down upon as a sort of a
"leftover" without a thought, apparently, that she may have refused
many a chance to change her attitude toward the world. But now, the
"bachelor maid" is welcomed everywhere, and is not considered
eccentric on account of her oneness.

With the long records of the divorce courts before their eyes, it is
not very unusual for the younger generation of women nowadays
deliberately to choose spinsterhood as their independent lot in life.

A girl said the other day: "It's no use to say that a woman can't
marry if she wants to. Look around you, and see the women who _have_
married, and then ask yourself if there is anybody who can't!"

This is a great truth very concisely stated. It is safe to say that no
woman ever reached twenty-five years of age, and very few have passed
twenty, without having an opportunity to become somebody's mate.

A very small maiden with very bright eyes once came to her mother with
the question: "Mamma, do you think I shall ever have a chance to get
married?"

And the mother answered: "Surely you will, my child; the woods are
full of offers of marriage--no woman can avoid them."

And ere many years had passed the maiden had learned that the wisdom
of her mother's prophecy was fully vindicated.

Every one knows that a woman needs neither beauty, talent, nor money
to win the deepest and sincerest love that man is capable of giving.

Single life is, with rare exceptions, a matter of choice and not of
necessity; and while it is true that a happy married life is the
happiest position for either man or woman, there are many things which
are infinitely worse than being an old maid, and chiefest among these
is marrying the wrong man!

The modern woman looks her future squarely in the face and decides
according to her best light whether her happiness depends upon
spinsterhood or matrimony. This decision is of course influenced very
largely by the quality of her chances in either direction, but if the
one whom she fully believes to be the right man comes along, he is
likely to be able to overcome strong objections to the married state.
If love comes to her from the right source, she takes it gladly;
otherwise she bravely goes her way alone, often showing the world that
some of the most mother-hearted women are not really mothers. Think of
the magnificent solitude of such women as Florence Nightingale and our
own splendid Frances Willard! Who shall say that these, and thousands
of others of earth's grandest souls, were not better for their
single-heartedness in the service of humanity?

A writer in a leading journal recently said: "The fact that a woman
remains single is a tribute to her perception. She gains an added
dignity from being hard to suit."

This, from the pen of a man, is somewhat of a revelation, in the light
of various masculine criticisms concerning superfluous women. No woman
is superfluous. God made her, and put her into this world to help her
fellow-beings. There is a little niche somewhere which she, and she
alone, can fill. She finds her own completeness in rounding out the
lives of others.

It has been said that the average man may be piloted through life by
one woman, but it must be admitted that several of him need somewhere
near a dozen of the fair sex to wait upon him at the same time. His
wife and mother are kept "hustling," while his "sisters and his aunts"
are likely to be "on the keen jump" from the time his lordship enters
the house until he leaves it!

But to return to the "superfluous woman,"--although we cannot
literally return to her because she does not exist. Of the "old maid"
of to-day, it is safe to say that she has her allotted plane of
usefulness. She isn't the type our newspaper brethren delight to
caricature. She doesn't dwell altogether upon the subject of "woman's
sphere," which, by the way, comes very near being the plane of the
earth's sphere, and she need not, for her position is now well
recognised.

She doesn't wear corkscrew curls and hideous reform garments. She is a
dainty, feminine, broad-minded woman, and a charming companion. Men
are her friends, and often her lovers, in her old age as well as in
her youth.

Every old maid has her love story, a little romance that makes her
heart young again as she dreams it over in the firelight, and it
calls a happy smile to the faded face.

Or, perhaps, it is the old, sad story of a faithless lover, or a
happiness spoiled by gossips--or it may be the scarcely less sad story
of love and death.

Ibsen makes two of his characters, a young man and woman who love each
other, part voluntarily on the top of a high mountain in order that
they may be enabled to keep their high ideals and uplifting love for
each other.

So the old maid keeps her ideals, not through fulfilment, but through
memory, and she is far happier than many a woman who finds her ideal
surprisingly and disagreeably real.

The bachelor girl and the bachelor man are much on the increase.
Marriage is not in itself a failure, but the people who enter unwisely
into this solemn covenant too often are not only failures, but bitter
disappointments to those who love them best.

Life for men and women means the highest usefulness and happiness, for
the terms are synonymous, neither being able to exist without the
other.

The model spinster of to-day is philanthropic. She is connected, not
with innumerable charities, but with a few well-chosen ones. She gives
freely of her time and money in many ways, where her left hand
scarcely knoweth what her right doeth, and the record of her good
works is not found in the chronicles of the world.

She is literary, musical, or artistic. She is a devoted and loyal club
member, and is well informed on the leading topics of the day, while
the resources of her well-balanced mind are always at the service of
her friends.

And when all is said and done, the highest and truest life is within
the reach of us all. Doing well whatever is given us to do will keep
us all busy, and married or single, no woman has a right to be idle.
The old maid may be womanly and mother-hearted as well as the wife and
mother.

The Spinster's Rubaiyat

     Wake! For the hour of hope will soon take flight
     And on your form and features leave a blight;
     Since Time, who heals full many an open wound,
     More oft than not is impolite.

     II

     Before my relatives began to chide,
     Methought the voice of conscience said inside:
     "Why should you want a husband, when you have
     A cat who seldom will at home abide?"

     And, when the evening breeze comes in the door,
     The lamp smokes like a chimney, only more;
     And yet the deacon of the church
     Is telling every one my parrot swore.

     IV

     Behold, my aunt into my years inquires,
     Then swiftly with my parents she conspires,
     And in the family record changes dates--
     In that same book that says all men are liars.

     V

     Come, fill the cup and let the kettle sing!
     What though upon my finger gleams no ring,
     Save that cheap turquoise that I bought myself?
     The coming years a gladsome change may bring.

     VI

     Here, minion, fill the steaming cup that clears
     The skin I will not have exposed to jeers,
     And rub this wrinkle vigorously until
     The maddening crow's-foot wholly disappears.

     VII

     And let me don some artificial bloom,
     And turn the lamps down low, and make a gloom
     That spreads from library to hall and stair;
     Thus do I look my best--but ah, for whom?

The Rights of Dogs

We hear a great deal about the "rights of men" and still more,
perhaps, about the "rights of women," but few stop to consider those
which properly belong to the friend and companion of both--the dog.

According to our municipal code, a dog must be muzzled from June 1st
to September 30th. The wise men who framed this measure either did not
know, or did not stop to consider, that a dog perspires and "cools
off" only at his mouth.

Man and the horse have tiny pores distributed all over the body, but
in the dog they are found only in the tongue.

Any one who has had a fever need not be told what happened when these
pores ceased to act; what, then, must be the sufferings of a dog on a
hot day, when, securely muzzled, he takes his daily exercise?

Even on the coolest days, the barbarous muzzle will fret a
thoroughbred almost to insanity, unless, indeed, he has brains to free
himself, as did a brilliant Irish setter which we once knew. This wise
dog would run far ahead of his human guardian, and with the help of
his forepaws slip the strap over his slender head, then hide the
offending muzzle in the gutter, and race onward again. When the loss
was discovered, it was far too late to remedy it by any search that
could be instituted.

And still, without this uncomfortable encumbrance, it is unsafe for
any valuable dog to be seen, even on his own doorsteps, for the
"dog-catcher" is ever on the look-out for blue-blooded victims.

The homeless mongrel, to whom a painless death would be a blessing, is
left to get a precarious living as best he may from the garbage boxes,
and spread pestilence from house to house, but the setter, the collie,
and the St. Bernard are choked into insensibility with a wire noose,
hurled into a stuffy cage, and with the thermometer at ninety in the
shade, are dragged through the blistering city, as a sop to that
Cerberus of the law which demands for its citizens safety from dogs,
and pays no attention to the lawlessness of men.

The dog tax which is paid every year is sufficient to guarantee the
interest of the owner in his dog. Howells has pitied "the dogless
man," and Thomas Nelson Page has said somewhere that "some of us know
what it is to be loved by a dog."

Countless writers have paid tribute to his fidelity and devotion, and
to the constant forgiveness of blows and neglect which spring from the
heart of the commonest cur.

The trained hunter, who is as truly a sportsman as the man who brings
down the birds he finds, can be easily fretted into madness by the
injudicious application of the muzzle.

The average dog is a gentleman and does not attack people for the
pleasure of it, and it is lamentably true that people who live in
cities often find it necessary to keep some sort of a dog as a
guardian to life and property. In spite of his loyalty, which every
one admits, the dog is an absolute slave. Men with less sense, and
less morality, constitute a court from which he has no appeal.

Four or five years of devotion to his master's interests, and four or
five years of peaceful, friendly conduct, count for absolutely nothing
beside the perjured statement of some man, or even woman, who, from
spite against the owner, is willing to assert, "the dog is vicious."

     "He is very imprudent, a dog is," said Jerome K. Jerome. "He
     never makes it his business to inquire whether you are in
     the right or wrong--never bothers as to whether you are
     going up or down life's ladder--never asks whether you are
     rich or poor, silly or wise, saint or sinner. You are his
     pal. That is enough for him, and come luck or misfortune,
     good repute or bad, honour or shame, he is going to stick to
     you, to comfort you, guard you, and give his life for you,
     if need be--foolish, brainless, soulless dog!

     "Ah! staunch old friend, with your deep, clear eyes, and
     bright quick glances that take in all one has to say, before
     one has time to speak it, do you know you are only an animal
     and have no mind?

     "Do you know that dull-eyed, gin-sodden lout leaning against
     the post out there is immeasurably your intellectual
     superior? Do you know that every little-minded selfish
     scoundrel, who never had a thought that was not mean and
     base--whose every action is a fraud and whose every
     utterance is a lie; do you know that these are as much
     superior to you as the sun is to the rush-light, you
     honourable, brave-hearted, unselfish brute?

     "They are men, you know, and men are the greatest, noblest,
     wisest, and best beings in the universe. Any man will tell
     you that."

Are the men whom we elect to public office our masters or our
servants? If the former, let us change our form of government; if the
latter, let us hope that from somewhere a little light may penetrate
their craniums and that they may be induced to give the dog a chance.

Twilight

     The birds were hushed into silence,
       The clouds had sunk from sight,
     And the great trees bowed to the summer breeze
       That kissed the flowers good-night.

     The stars came out in the cool still air,
       From the mansions of the blest,
     And softly, over the dim blue hills,
       Night came to the world with rest.

Women's Clothes in Men's Books

When asked why women wrote better novels than men, Mr. Richard Le
Gallienne is said to have replied, more or less conclusively, "They
don't"; thus recalling _Punch's_ famous advice to those about to
marry.

Happily there is no segregation in literature, and masculine and
feminine hands alike may dabble in fiction, as long as the publishers
are willing.

If we accept Zola's dictum to the effect that art is nature seen
through the medium of a temperament, the thing is possible to many,
though the achievement may differ both in manner and degree. For women
have temperament--too much of it--as the hysterical novelists daily
testify.

The gentleman novelist, however, prances in boldly, where feminine
feet well may fear to tread, and consequently has a wider scope for
his writing. It is not for a woman to mingle in a barroom brawl and
write of the thing as she sees it. The prize-ring, the interior of a
cattle-ship, Broadway at four in the morning--these and countless
other places are forbidden by her innate refinement as well as by the
Ladies' Own, and all the other aunties who have taken upon themselves
the guardianship of the Home with a big H.

Fancy the outpouring of scorn upon the luckless offender's head if one
should write to the Manners and Morals Department of the Ladies' Own
as follows: "Would it be proper for a lady novelist, in search of
local colour and new experiences, to accept the escort of a strange
man at midnight if he was too drunk to recognise her afterward?" Yet a
man in the same circumstances would not hesitate to put an intoxicated
woman into a sea-going cab, and would plume himself for a year and a
day upon his virtuous performance.

All things are considered proper for a man who is about to write a
book. Like the disciple of Mary McLane who stole a horse in order to
get the emotions of a police court, he may delve deeply not only into
life, but into that under-stratum which is not spoken of, where
respectable journals circulate.

Everything is fish that comes into his net. If conscientious, he may
even undertake marriage in order to study the feminine personal
equations at close range. Woman's emotions, singly and collectively,
are pilloried before his scientific gaze. He cowers before one
problem, and one only--woman's clothes!

Carlyle, after long and painful thought, arrives at the conclusion
that "cut betokens intellect and talent; colour reveals temper and
heart."

This reminds one of the language of flowers, and the directions given
for postage-stamp flirtation. If that massive mind had penetrated
further into the mysteries of the subject, we might have been told
that a turnover collar indicated that the woman was a High Church
Episcopalian who had embroidered two altar cloths, and that suède
gloves show a yielding but contradictory nature.

Clothes are, undoubtedly, indices of character and taste, as well as a
sop to conventionality, but this only when one has the wherewithal to
browse at will in the department store. Many a woman with ermine
tastes has only a rabbit-fur pocket-book, and thus her clothes wrong
her in the sight of gods and women, though men know nothing about it.

Once upon a time there was a notion to the effect that women dressed
to please men, but that idea has long since been relegated to the
limbo of forgotten things.

Not one man in a thousand can tell the difference between Brussels
point at thirty dollars a yard, and imitation Valenciennes at ten or
fifteen cents a yard which was one of the "famous Friday features in
the busy bargain basement."

But across the room, yea, even from across the street, the eagle eye
of another woman can unerringly locate the Brussels point and the
mock Valenciennes.

A man knows silk by the sound of it and diamonds by the shine. He will
say that his heroine "was richly dressed in silk." Little does he wot
of the difference between taffeta at eighty-five cents a yard and
broadcloth at four dollars. Still less does he know that a white
cotton shirt-waist represents financial ease, and a silk waist of
festive colouring represents poverty, since it takes but two days to
"do up" a white shirt-waist in one sense, and thirty or forty cents to
do it up in the other!

One listens with wicked delight to men's discourse upon woman's
clothes. Now and then a man will express his preference for a tailored
gown, as being eminently simple and satisfactory. Unless he is married
and has seen the bills for tailored gowns, he also thinks they are
inexpensive.

It is the benedict, wise with the acquired knowledge of the serpent,
who begs his wife to get a new party gown and let the tailor-made go
until next season. He also knows that when the material is bought, the
expense has scarcely begun, whereas the ignorant bachelor thinks that
the worst is happily over.

In _A Little Journey through the World_ Mr. Warner philosophised thus:
"How a woman in a crisis hesitates before her wardrobe, and at last
chooses just what will express her innermost feelings!"

If all a woman's feelings were to be expressed by her clothes, the
benedicts would immediately encounter financial shipwreck. On account
of the lamentable scarcity of money and closets, one is eternally
adjusting the emotion to the gown.

Some gown, seen at the exact psychological moment, fixes forever in a
man's mind his ideal garment. Thus we read of blue calico, of
pink-and-white print, and more often still, of white lawn. Mad colour
combinations run riot in the masculine fancy, as in the case of a man
who boldly described his favourite costume as "red, with black ruffles
down the front!"

Of a hat, a man may be a surpassingly fine critic, since he recks not
of style. Guileful is the woman who leads her liege to the millinery
and lets him choose, taking no heed of the price and the attendant
shock until later.

A normal man is anxious that his wife shall be well dressed because it
shows the critical observer that his business is a great success.
After futile explorations in the labyrinth, he concerns himself simply
with the fit, preferring always that the clothes of his heart's
dearest shall cling to her as lovingly as a kid glove, regardless of
the pouches and fulnesses prescribed by Dame Fashion.

In the writing of books, men are at their wits' end when it comes to
women's clothes. They are hampered by no restrictions--no thought of
style or period enters into their calculations, and unless they have a
wholesome fear of the unknown theme, they produce results which
further international gaiety.

Many an outrageous garment has been embalmed in a man's book, simply
because an attractive woman once wore something like it when she fed
the novelist. Unbalanced by the joy of the situation, he did not
accurately observe the garb of the ministering angel, and hence we
read of "a clinging white gown" in the days of stiff silks and rampant
crinoline; of "the curve of the upper arm" when it took five yards for
a pair of sleeves, and of "short walking skirts" during the reign of
bustles and trains!

In _The Blazed Trail_, Mr. White observes that his heroine was clad in
brown which fitted her slender figure perfectly. As Hilda had yellow
hair, "like corn silk," this was all right, and if the brown was of
the proper golden shade, she was doubtless stunning when Thorpe first
saw her in the forest. But the gown could not have fitted her as the
sheath encases the dagger, for before the straight-front corsets there
were the big sleeves, and still further back were bustles and
_bouffant_ draperies. One does not get the impression that _The_
_Blazed Trail_ was placed in the days of crinolines, but doubtless
Hilda's clothes did not fit as Mr. White seems to think they did.

That strenuous follower of millinery, Mr. Gibson, might give lessons
to his friend, Mr. Davis, with advantage to the writer, if not to the
artist. In _Captain Macklin_, the young man's cousin makes her first
appearance in a thin gown, and a white hat trimmed with roses,
reminding the adventurous captain of a Dresden statuette, in spite of
the fact that she wore heavy gauntlet gloves and carried a trowel. The
lady had been doing a hard day's work in the garden. No woman outside
the asylum ever did gardening in such a costume, and Mr. Davis
evidently has the hat and gown sadly mixed with some other pleasant
impression.

The feminine reader immediately hides Mr. Davis' mistake with the
broad mantle of charity, and in her own mind clothes Beatrice properly
in a short walking skirt, heavy shoes, shirt-waist, old hat tied down
over the ears with a rumpled ribbon, and a pair of ancient masculine
gloves, long since discarded by their rightful owner. Thus does lovely
woman garden, except on the stage and in men's books.

In _The Story of Eva_, Mr. Payne announces that Eva climbed out of a
cab in "a fawn-coloured jacket," conspicuous by reason of its newness,
and a hat "with an owl's head upon it!"

The jacket was possibly a coat of tan covert cloth with strapped
seams, but it is the startling climax which claims attention. An owl!
Surely not, Mr. Payne! It may have been a parrot, for once upon a
time, before the Audubon Society met with widespread recognition,
women wore such things, and at afternoon teas where many fair
ones were gathered together the parrot garniture was not without
significance. But an owl's face, with its glaring glassy eyes, is
too much like a pussy cat's to be appropriate, and one could no
wear it at the back without conveying an unpleasant impression
of two-facedness, if the coined word be permissible.

Still the owl is no worse than the trimming suggested by a funny
paper. The tears of mirth come yet at the picture of a hat of rough
straw, shaped like a nest, on which sat a full-fledged Plymouth Rock
hen, with her neck proudly, yet graciously curved. Perhaps Mr. Payne
saw the picture and forthwith decided to do something in the same
line, but there is a singular inappropriateness in placing the bird of
Minerva upon the head of poor Eva, who made the old, old bargain in
which she had everything to lose, and nothing save the bitterest
experience to gain. A stuffed kitten, so young and innocent that its
eyes were still blue and bleary, would have been more appropriate on
Eva's bonnet, and just as pretty.

In _The Fortunes of Oliver Horn_, Margaret Grant wears a particularly
striking costume:

     "The cloth skirt came to her ankles, which were covered with
     yarn stockings, and her feet were encased in shoes that gave
     him the shivers, the soles being as thick as his own and
     the leather as tough.

     "Her blouse was of grey flannel, belted to the waist by a
     cotton saddle-girth, white and red, and as broad as her
     hand. The tam-o-shanter was coarse and rough, evidently
     home-made, and not at all like McFudd's, which was as soft
     as the back of a kitten and without a seam."

With all due respect to Mr. Smith, one must insist that Margaret's
shoes were all right as regards material and build. She would have
been more comfortable if they had been "high-necked" shoes, and, in
that case, the yarn hosiery would not have troubled him, but that is a
minor detail. The quibble comes at the belt, and knowing that Margaret
was an artist, we must be sure that Mr. Smith was mistaken. It may
have been one of the woven cotton belts, not more than two inches
wide, which, for a dizzy moment, were at the height of fashion, and
then tottered and fell, but a "saddle-girth"--never!

In that charming morceau, _The Inn of the Silver Moon_, Mr. Viele puts
his heroine into plaid stockings and green knickerbockers--an
outrageous costume truly, even for wheeling.

As if recognising his error, and, with veritable masculine
stubbornness, refusing to admit it, Mr. Viele goes on to say that the
knickerbockers were "tailor-made!" And thereby he makes a bad matter
very much worse.

In _The Wings of the Morning_, Iris, in spite of the storm through
which the _Sirdar_ vainly attempts to make its way, appears throughout
in a "lawn dress"--white, undoubtedly, since all sorts and conditions
of men profess to admire white lawn!

How cold the poor girl must have been! And even if she could have been
so inappropriately gowned on shipboard, she had plenty of time to put
on a warm and suitable tailor-made gown before she was shipwrecked.
This is sheer fatuity, for any one with Mr. Tracy's abundant ingenuity
could easily have contrived ruin for the tailored gown in time for
Iris to assume masculine garb and participate bravely in that fearful
fight on the ledge.

Whence, oh whence, comes this fondness for lawn? Are not organdies,
dimities, and embroidered muslins fully as becoming to the women who
trip daintily through the pages of men's books? Lawn has been a back
number for many a weary moon, and still we read of it!

"When in doubt, lead trumps," might well be paraphrased thus: "When in
doubt, put her into white lawn!" Even "J. P. M.," that gentle spirit
to whom so many hidden things were revealed, sent his shrewish "Kate"
off for a canter through the woods in a white gown, and, if memory
serves, it was lawn!

In _The Master_, Mr. Zangwill describes Eleanor Wyndwood as "the
radiant apparition of a beautiful woman in a shimmering amber gown,
from which her shoulders rose dazzling."

So far so good. But a page or two farther on, that delightful minx,
Olive Regan, wears "a dress of soft green-blue cut high, with yellow
roses at the throat." One wonders whether Mr. Zangwill ever really saw
a woman in any kind of a gown "with yellow roses at the throat," or
whether it is but the slip of an overstrained fancy. The fact that he
has married since writing this gives a goodly assurance that by this
time he knows considerably more about gowns.

Still there is always a chance that the charm may not work, for Mr.
Arthur Stringer, who has been reported as being married to a very
lovely woman, takes astonishing liberties in _The Silver Poppy_:

     "She floated in before Reppellier, buoyant, smiling, like a
     breath of open morning itself, a confusion of mellow
     autumnal colours in her wine-coloured gown, and a hat of
     roses and mottled leaves.

     "Before she had as much as drawn off her gloves--and they
     were always the most spotless of white gloves--she glanced
     about in mock dismay, and saw that the last of the righting
     up had already been done."

Later, we read that the artist pinned an American Beauty upon her
gown, then shook his head over the colour combination and took it
off. If the American Beauty jarred enough for a man to notice it, the
dress must have been the colour of claret, or Burgundy, rather than
the clear soft gold of sauterne.

This brings us up with a short turn before the hat. What colour were
the roses? Surely they were not American Beauties, and they could not
have been pink. Yellow roses would have been a fright, so they must
have been white ones, and a hat covered with white roses is altogether
too festive to wear in the morning. The white gloves also would have
been sadly out of place.

What a comfort it would be to all concerned if the feminine reader
could take poor Cordelia one side and fix her up a bit! One could pat
the artistic disorder out of her beautiful yellow hair, help her out
of her hideous clothes into a grey tailor-made, with a shirt-waist of
mercerised white cheviot, put on a stock of the same material, give
her a "ready-to-wear" hat of the same trig-tailored quality, and, as
she passed out, hand her a pair of grey suède gloves which exactly
matched her gown.

Though grey would be more becoming, she might wear tan as a concession
to Mr. Stringer, who evidently likes yellow.

In the same book, we find a woman who gathers up her "yellow skirts"
and goes down a ladder. It might have been only a yellow taffeta
drop-skirt under tan etamine, but we must take his word for it, as we
did not see it and he did.

As the Chinese keep the rat tails for the end of the feast, the worst
clothes to be found in any book must come last by way of climax. Mr.
Dixon, in _The Leopard's Spots_, has easily outdone every other knight
of the pen who has entered the lists to portray women's clothes.
Listen to the inspired description of Miss Sallie's gown!

     "She was dressed in a morning gown of a soft red material,
     trimmed with old cream lace. The material of a woman's dress
     had never interested him before. He knew calico from silk,
     but beyond that he never ventured an opinion. To colour
     alone he was responsive. This combination of red and creamy
     white, _with the bodice cut low, showing the lines of her
     beautiful white shoulders_, and the great mass of dark hair
     rising in graceful curves from her full round neck,
     heightened her beauty to an extraordinary degree.

     "As she walked, the clinging folds of her dress, outlining
     her queenly figure, seemed part of her very being, and to be
     imbued with her soul. He was dazzled with the new revelation
     of her power over him."

The fact that she goes for a ride later on, "dressed in pure white,"
sinks into insignificance beside this new and original creation of Mr.
Dixon's. A red morning gown, trimmed with cream lace, cut low enough
to show the "beautiful white shoulders"--ye gods and little fishes!
Where were the authorities, and why was not "Miss Sallie" taken to the
detention hospital, pending an inquiry into her sanity?

It would seem that any man, especially one who writes books, could be
sure of a number of women friends. Among these there ought to be at
least one whom he could take into his confidence. The gentleman
novelist might go to the chosen one and say: "My heroine, in moderate
circumstances, is going to the matinée with a girl friend. What shall
she wear?"

Instantly the discerning woman would ask the colour of her eyes and
hair, and the name of the town she lived in, then behold!

Upon the writer's page would come a radiant feminine vision, clothed
in her right mind and in proper clothes, to the joy of every woman who
reads the book.

But men are proverbially chary of their confidence, except when they
are in love, and being in love is supposed to put even book women out
of a man's head. Perhaps in the new Schools of Journalism which are to
be inaugurated, there will be supplementary courses in millinery
elective, for those who wish to learn the trade of novel writing.

If a man knows no woman to whom he can turn for counsel and advice at
the critical point in his book, there are only two courses open to
him, aside from the doubtful one of evasion. He may let his fancy run
riot and put his heroine into clothes that would give even a dumb
woman hysterics, or he may follow the example of Mr. Chatfield-Taylor,
who says of one of his heroines that "her pliant body was enshrouded
in white muslin with a blue ribbon at the waist."

Lacking the faithful hench-woman who would gladly put them straight,
the majority of gentlemen novelists evade the point, and, so far as
clothes are concerned, their heroines are as badly off as the Queen of
Spain was said to be for legs.

They delve freely into emotional situations, and fearlessly attempt
profound psychological problems, but slide off like frightened crabs
when they strike the clothesline.

After all, it may be just as well, since fashion is transient and
colours and material do not vary much. Still, judging by the painful
mistakes that many of them have made, the best advice that one can
give the gallant company of literary craftsmen is this: "When you come
to millinery, crawfish!"

Maidens of the Sea

     Far out in the ocean, deep and blue,
       Where the winds dance wild and free,
     In coral caves, dwells a beautiful band--
       The maidens of the sea.

     There are stories old, of the mystic tide,
       And legends strange, of the deep,
     How the witching sound of the siren's song
       Can lull the tempest to sleep.

     When moonlight falls on a crystal sea,
       When the clouds have backward rolled,
     The mermaids sing their low sweet songs,
       And their harp strings are of gold.

     The billows come from the vast unknown--
       From their far-away unseen home;
     The waves bring shells to the sandy bar,
       And the fairies dance on the foam.

The Technique of the Short Story

An old rule for those who would be well-dressed says: "When you have
finished, go to the mirror and see what you can take off." The same
rule applies with equal force to the short story: "When you have
written it out, go over it carefully, and see what you can take out."

Besides being the best preparation for the writing of novels,
short-story writing is undoubtedly, at the present time, the best
paying and most satisfactory form of any ephemeral literary work. The
qualities which make it successful are to be attained only by constant
and patient practice. The real work of writing a story may be brief,
but years of preparation must be worked through before a manuscript,
which may be written in an hour or so, can present an artistic result.

The first and most important thing to consider is the central idea.
There are only a few ideas in the world, but their ramifications are
countless, and one need never despair of a theme. Your story may be
one of either failure or success, but it must have the true ring.
Given the man and the circumstances, we should know his action.

The plot must unfold naturally; otherwise it will be a succession of
distinct sensations, rather than a complete and harmonious whole.

There is no better way to produce this effect than to follow Edmund
Russell's rule of colour in dress: "When a contrasting colour is
introduced, there should be at least two subordinate repetitions of
it."

Each character should appear, or be spoken of, at least twice before
his main action. Following this rule makes one of the differences
between artistic and sensational literature.

The heroine of a dime novel always finds a hero to rescue her in the
nick of time, and perhaps she never sees him again. In the artistic
novel, while the heroine may see the rescuer first at the time she
needs him most, he never disappears altogether from the story.

Description is a thing which is much abused. There is no truer
indication of an inexperienced hand than a story beginning with a
description of a landscape which is not necessary to the plot. If the
peculiarities of the scenery must be understood before the idea can be
developed, the briefest possible description is not out of place.
Subjectively, a touch of landscape or weather is allowable, but it
must be purely incidental. Weather is a very common thing and is apt
to be uninteresting.

It is a mistake to tell anything yourself which the people in the
story could inform the reader without your assistance. A conversation
between two people will bring out all the facts necessary as well as
two pages of narration by the author.

There is a way also of telling things from the point of view of the
persons which they concern. Those who have studied Latin will find
the "indirect discourse" of Cicero a useful model.

The people in the story can tell their own peculiarities better than
the author can do it for them. It is not necessary to say that a woman
is a snarling, grumpy person. Bring the old lady in, and let her
snarl, if she is in your story at all.

The choice of words is not lightly to be considered. Never use two
adjectives where one will do, or a weak word where a stronger one is
possible. Fallows' _100,000 Synonyms and Antonyms_ and Roget's
_Thesaurus of Words and Phrases_ will prove invaluable to those who
wish to improve themselves in this respect.

Analysis of sentences which seem to you particularly strong is a good
way to strengthen your vocabulary. Take, for instance, the oft-quoted
expression of George Eliot's: "Inclination snatches argument to make
indulgence seem judicious choice." Substitute "takes" for "snatches"
and read the sentence again. Leave out "seem" and put "appear" in its
place. "Proper" is a synonym for "judicious"; substitute it, and put
"selection" in the place of "choice."

Reading the sentence again we have: "Inclination takes argument to
make indulgence appear proper selection." The strength is wholly gone
although the meaning is unchanged.

Find out what you want to say, and then say it, in the most direct
English at your command. One of the best models of concise expressions
of thought is to be found in the essays of Emerson. He compresses a
whole world into a single sentence, and a system of philosophy into an
epigram.

"Literary impressionism," which is largely the use of onomatopoetic
words, is a valuable factor in the artistic short story. It is
possible to convey the impression of a threatening sky and a stormy
sea without doing more than alluding to the crash of the surf against
the shore. The mind of the reader accustomed to subtle touches will at
once picture the rest.

An element of strength is added also by occasionally referring an
impression to another sense. For instance, the newspaper poet writes:
"The street was white with snow," and makes his line commonplace
doggerel. Tennyson says: "The streets were _dumb_ with snow," and his
line is poetry.

"Blackening the background" is a common fault with story writers. In
many of the Italian operas, everybody who does not appear in the final
scene is killed off in the middle of the last act. This wholesale
slaughter is useless as well as inartistic. The true artist does not,
in order that his central figure may stand out prominently, make his
background a solid wall of gloom. Yet gloom has its proper place, as
well as joy.

In the old tragedies of the Greeks, just before the final catastrophe,
the chorus is supposed to advance to the centre of the theatre and
sing a bacchanal of frensied exultation.

In the _Antigone_ of Sophocles, just before the death of Antigone and
her lover, the chorus sings an ode which makes one wonder at its
extravagant expression. When the catastrophe occurs, the mystery is
explained. Sophocles meant the sacrifice of Antigone to come home with
its full force; and well he attained his end by use of an artistic
method which few of our writers are subtle enough to recognise and
claim for their own purposes.

"High-sounding sentences," which an inexperienced writer is apt to put
into the mouths of his people, only make them appear ridiculous. The
schoolgirl in the story is too apt to say: "The day has been most
unpleasant," whereas the real schoolgirl throws her books down with a
bang, and declares that she has "had a perfectly horrid time!"

Her grammar may be incorrect, but her method of expression is true to
life, and there the business of the writer ends.

Put yourself in your hero's place and see what you would do under
similar circumstances. If you were in love with a young woman, you
wouldn't get down on your knees, and swear by all that was holy that
you would die if she didn't marry you, at the same time tearing your
hair out by handfuls, and then endeavour to give her a concise
biography of yourself.

You would put your arm around her, the first minute you had her to
yourself, if you felt reasonably sure that she cared for you, and tell
her what she meant to you--perhaps so low that even the author of the
story couldn't hear what you said, and would have to describe what
he saw afterward in order to let his reader guess what had really
happened.

It is a lamentable fact that the description of a person's features
gives absolutely no idea of his appearance. It is better to give a
touch or two, and let the imagination do the rest. "Hair like raven's
wing," and the "midnight eyes," and many similar things, may be very
well spared. The personal charms of the lover may be brought out
through the mediations of the lovee, much better than by pages of
description.

The law of compensation must always have its place in the artistic
story. Those who do wrong must suffer wrong--those who work must be
rewarded, if not in the tangible things they seek, at least in the
conscious strength that comes from struggling. And "poetic justice,"
which metes out to those who do the things that they have done, is
relentless and eternal, in art, as well as in life.

"Style" is purely an individual matter, and, if it is anything at all,
it is the expression of one's self. Zola has said that, "art is nature
seen through the medium of a temperament," and the same is true of
literature. Bunner's stories are as thoroughly Bunner as the man who
wrote them, and _The Badge of Courage_ is nothing unless it be the
moody, sensitive, half-morbid Stephen Crane.

Observation of things nearest at hand and the sympathetic
understanding of people are the first requisites. Do not place the
scene of a story in Europe if you have never been there, and do not
assume to comprehend the inner life of a Congressman if you have never
seen one. Do not write of mining camps if you have never seen a
mountain, or of society if you have never worn evening dress.

James Whitcomb Riley has made himself loved and honoured by writing of
the simple things of home, and Louisa Alcott's name is a household
word because she wrote of the little women whom she knew. Eugene Field
has written of the children that he loved and understood, and won
a truer fame than if he had undertaken _The Master_ of Zangwill.
Kipling's life in India has given us _Plain Tales from the Hills_ and
_The Jungle Book_, which Mary E. Wilkins could not have written in
spite of the genius which made her New England stories the most
effective of their kind. Joel Chandler Harris could not have written
_The Prisoner of Zenda_, but those of us who have enjoyed the wiles of
that "monstus soon beast, Brer Rabbit," would not have it otherwise.

You cannot write of love unless you have loved, of suffering unless
you have suffered, or of death unless some one who was near to you has
learned the heavenly secret. A little touch of each must teach you the
full meaning of the great thing you mean to write about, or your work
will be lacking. There are few of us to whom the great experiences do
not come sooner or later, and, in the meantime, there are the little
everyday happenings, which are full of sweetness and help, if they are
only seen properly, to last until the great things come to test our
utmost strength, to crush us if we are not strong, and to make us
broader, better men and women if we withstand the blow.

And lastly, remember this, that merit is invariably recognised. If
your stories are worth printing, they will fight their way through
"the abundance of material on hand." The light of the public square
is the unfailing test, and a good story is sure to be published
sooner or later, if a fair amount of literary instinct is exercised in
sending it out. Meteoric success is not desirable. Slow, hard,
conscientious work will surely win its way, and those who are now near
the bottom of the ladder are gradually ascending to make room for the
next generation of story-writers on the rounds below.

To Dorothy

     There's a sleepy look in your violet eyes,
       So the sails of our ship we'll unfurl,
     And turn the prow to the Land of Rest,
       My dear little Dorothy girl.

     Twilight is coming soon, little one,
       The sheep have gone to the fold;
     See! where our white sails bend and dip
       In the sunset glow of gold.

     The roses nod to the sound of the waves,
       And the bluebells sweet are ringing;
     Do you hear the music, Dorothy dear?
       The song that the angels are singing?

     The fairies shall weave their drowsy spell
       On the shadowy shore of the stream;
     Dear little voyager say "good-night,"
       For the birds are beginning to dream.

     O white little craft, with sails full spread,
       My heart goes out with thee;
     God keep thee strong with thy precious freight,
       My Dorothy--out at sea.

Writing a Book

Having written a few small books which have been published by a
reputable house, and which have been pleasantly received by both the
press and the public, and having just completed another which I
devoutly pray may meet the same fate, I feel that I may henceforth
deem myself an author.

I have been considered such for some time among my numerous
acquaintances ever since I made my literary bow with a short story
in a literary magazine, years and years ago. Being of the feminine
persuasion, I am usually presented to strangers as "an authoress." It
is at these times that I wish I were a man.

The social side of authorship is extremely interesting. At least once
a week, I am asked how I "came to write."

This is difficult, for I do not know. When I so reply, my questioner
ascertains by further inquiries where I was educated and how I have
been trained. Never having been through a "School of Journalism," my
answer is not satisfactory.

"You must read a great deal in order to get all those ideas," is
frequently said to me. I reply that I do read a great deal, being
naturally bookish, but that it is the great object of my life to avoid
getting ideas from books. To an author, "Plagiarist" is like the old
cry of "Wolf," and when an idea is once assimilated it is difficult
indeed to distinguish it from one's own.

I am often asked how long it takes me to write a book. I am ashamed to
tell, but sometimes the secret escapes, since I am naturally truthful,
and find it hard to parry a direct question. The actual time of
composition is always greeted with astonishment, and I can read the
questioner's inference, that if I can do so much in so short a time,
how much could I do if I actually worked!

This is always distasteful, so I hasten to add that the composition
is really a very small part of the real writing of a book, and that
authors' methods differ. My own practice is not to begin to write
until my material is fully arranged in my mind, and I often use notes
which I have been making for a period of months. Such a report is
seldom convincing, however, to my questioners. I am gradually
learning, when this inquiry comes, to smile inscrutably.

It seems strange to many people that I do not work all the time. If I
can write a short story in two hours and be paid thirty dollars for
it, I am an idiot indeed if I do not write at least three in a day!
Ninety dollars a day might easily mount up into a very comfortable
income.

Still, there are some who understand that an author cannot write
continuously any more than a spider or a silkworm can spin all the
time. These people ask me when, and where, and how, I get my
material.

"Getting material" is supposed to be a secret process, and I am
thought a gay deceiver when I say I make no particular effort to get
it--that it comes in the daily living--like the morning cream! I am
then asked if I rely wholly upon "inspiration." I answer that
"inspiration" doubtless has its value as well as hard work, and that
the author who would derive all possible benefit from the rare flashes
of it must have the same command of technique that a good workman has
of his tools.

The majority learn with surprise that there is more to a book than is
self-evident. It was once my happy lot to put this fact into the
understanding of a lady from the country.

With infinite pains I told her of the constant study of words,
illustrated the fine shades of distinction between synonyms, spoke of
the different ways in which characters and events might be introduced,
and of the subordinate repetition of contrasting themes. She listened
in breathless wonder, and then turned to her daughter: "There, Mame,"
she said, "I told you there was something in it!"

There is nothing so pathetic as the widespread literary ambition among
people whose future is utterly hopeless. It is sad enough for one who
has attained a small success to see the heights which are ever beyond,
and it makes one gentle indeed to those who come seeking aid.

One ambitious soul once asked me if I would teach her to write. I
replied that I did not know of any way in which it could be taught,
but that I would gladly help her if I could. She said she had
absolutely no imagination, and asked me if that would make any
difference. I told her it was certainly an unfortunate circumstance
and advised her to cultivate that quality before she attempted
extensive writing. I suppose she is still doing it, for I have not
been asked for further assistance.

People often inquire what qualities I deem essential to literary
success. Imagination is, of course, the first, observation, the
second, and ambition, perseverance and executive ability are
indispensable. Besides these I would place the sense of humour, of
proportion, sympathy, insight,--indeed, there is nothing admirable in
human nature which would come amiss in the equipment of a writer.

The necessity for the humourous sense was recently brought home to me
most forcibly. A woman brought me the manuscript of a novel which she
asked me to read. She felt that something was wrong with it, but she
did not know just what it was. She said it needed "a few little
touches," she thought, such as my experience would have fitted me to
give, and she would be grateful, indeed, if I would revise it. She
added that, owing to the connection which I had formed with my
publishing house, it would be an easy matter for me to get it
published, and she generously offered to divide the royalties with me
if I would consummate the arrangement!

I began to read the manuscript, and had not gone far when I discovered
that it was indeed rare. The entire family read it, or portions of it,
with screams of laughter, and with tears in their eyes, although it
was not intended to be a funny book at all. To this day, certain
phrases from that novel will upset any one of us, even at a solemn
time.

Of course it was badly written. Characters appeared, talked for a few
pages, and were never seen or heard from again.

Long conversations were intruded which had no connection with such
plot as there was. Commonplace descriptions of scenery, also useless,
were frequent. Many a time the thread of the story was lost. There
were no distinguishing traits in any one of the characters--they all
talked very much alike. But the supreme defect was the author's lack
of humour. With all seriousness, she made her people say and do
things which were absolutely ridiculous and not by any means true to
life.

I think I must have an unsuspected bit of tact somewhere for I
extricated myself from the situation, and the woman is still my
friend. I did not hurt her feelings about her book, nor did I send it
to my publishers with a letter of recommendation. I remarked that her
central idea was all right, which was true, since it was a love story,
but that it had not been properly developed and that she needed to
study. She thanked me for my counsel and said she would rewrite it. I
wish it might be printed just as it was, however, for it is indeed a
sodden and mirthless world in which we live and move.

As the editors say on the refusal blanks, "I am always glad to read
manuscripts," although, as a rule, it makes an enemy for me if I try
to help the author by criticism, when only praise was expected or
desired.

Having written some verse which has landed in respectable places, I
am also asked about poetry. Poems written in trochaic metre with the
good old rhymes, "trees and breeze," "light and night," soldered on at
the end of the lines, are continually brought to me for revision and
improvement.

Once, for the benefit of the literary aspirant, I brought out my
rhyming dictionary, but I shall never do it again. He looked it over
carefully, while I explained the advantage for the writer in having
before him all the available rhymes, so that the least common might
be quickly chosen and the verse made to run smoothly.

"Humph!" he said; "it's just the book. Anybody can write poetry with
one of these books!"

My invaluable thesaurus is chained to my desk in order that it may not
escape, and I frequently have to justify its existence when aliens
penetrate my den. "It's no wonder you can write," was said to me once.
"Here's all the English language right on your desk, and all you've
got to do is to put it together."

"Yes," I answered wickedly, "but it's all in the dictionary too."

Last week I had a rare treat. I met a woman who had "never seen a
literary person before," and who said "it was quite a novelty!" I
beamed upon her, for it is very nice to be a "novelty," and after a
while we became quite confidential.

"I want you to tell me just how you write," she said, "so's I can tell
the folks at home. I'm going to buy some of your books to give away."

Mindful of "royalty to author," I immediately became willing to tell
anything I could.

"Well, I want to know how you write. Do you just sit down and do it?"

"Yes, I just sit down and do it."

"Do you write any special time?"

"No, mornings, usually; but any time will do."

"What do you write with--a pen or a pencil?"

"Neither, I always use a typewriter."

"Why, can you write on a typewriter?"

"Yes, it's much easier than a pen, and it keeps the ink off your
hands. You can write with both hands at once, you know."

"You have to write it all out with a pencil, first, don't you?"

"No, I just think into the keys."

"Wouldn't it be easier to write it with a pencil first and then copy
it?"

"No, or I'd do it that way."

"Do you dress any special way when you write?"

"No, only I must be neat and also comfortable. I usually wear a
shirt-waist and take off my collar. Can't write with a collar on, but
I must be well groomed otherwise."

There was a long silence. The little lady was digesting the
information which she had just received.

"It seems easy enough," she said. "I should think any one could write.
What do you do when it is done?"

"Oh, I go all over it and revise very carefully."

"Why, do you have to go all over it, after it is done?"

"Certainly."

"Then it takes you longer than it does most people, doesn't it?"

"I cannot say as to that. Everybody revises."

"Why, when I write a letter, if I go over it I always scratch out so
much that I have to do it over."

"That's the idea, exactly," I replied. "I go over it until there isn't
a thing to be scratched out, or a word to be changed."

"But you've got lots left," she said, enviously. "When I go over a
letter there's hardly anything left."

Innumerable questions followed these, but at last she had her
curiosity partially satisfied and turned away from me. I trust,
however, that I shall some day meet her again, for she too is "a
novelty!"

The mechanical part of a book is a source of great wonder to the
uninitiated. My galley proofs were once passed around among the guests
at a summer hotel as if they were some new strange animal. They did
not understand page proofs nor plates, nor how I could ever know when
it was right.

The cover is frequently commented upon as a thing of beauty (which
with my publishers it always is), and I am asked if I did it. I am
always sorry that I do not know enough to do covers, so I have to
explain that an artist does that--that I often do not see it until the
first copies come from the bindery, and that I am of such small
importance that I am not often consulted in relation to the
matter--being merely the poor worm who wrote the book.

There are many people who seem to be afraid to talk before me lest
their pearly utterances be transformed into copy. Time and time again
I have heard this: "We must be very careful what we say now, or Miss
---- will put us into a book!"

People are strangely literal. An author gets no credit whatever for
inventive faculty--his characters and stories are supposedly real
people and real things. I am asked how I came to know so much about
such and such a thing. I once wrote a love story with an unhappy
ending and it was at once assumed that I had been disappointed in
love!

When my first book came from the press I was pointed out at a
reception as the author of it. The man surveyed me long and carefully,
then he announced: "That's a mistake. That girl never wrote that book.
She's too frivolous and empty headed!"

I have tried, until I am discouraged, to make people understand that a
book does not have to be a verity in order to be true--that a story
must be possible, instead of actual, and that actual circumstances may
be too unreal for literature.

There are always people who will ask that things, even books, may be
written especially for them. People often want to tell me a story and
let me write it up into a nice book and divide the royalties with
them! During a summer at the coast, I had endless opportunities to
write biographical sketches of the guests at the hotel--to write a
story and put them all into it, or to write something about anything,
that they might have as "a souvenir!" As a matter of fact, there were
only two people at the hotel who could have been of any possible use
as copy, and one of these was a woman to whom only Mr. Stockton could
have done justice.

It was hard to be always good-natured, but I lost my temper only once.
We stayed late into the autumn and were rewarded by a magnificent
storm. I put on my bathing suit and my mackintosh and went down to the
beach, in the teeth of a northwest gale. Little needles of sand were
blown in my face, and I lost my cap, but it was well worth the effort.
For over an hour we stood on the desolate beach, sheltered from the
sand by a bath house. I had never seen anything so grand--it was far
beyond words. At last it grew dark and I was soaked through and stiff
with the cold. So I went back to the hotel, my soul struck dumb by
the might and glory of the sea. My heart was too full to speak. The
majestic chords were still thundering in my ears; that tempest-tossed
ocean was still before my eyes. On my way upstairs I met a woman whom
I had formerly liked.

"Oh, Miss ----, I want you to write me a description of that storm!" I
brushed past her, rudely, I fear, and she caught hold of the cape of
my mackintosh with elephantine playfulness. "You can't go," she said
coquettishly, "until you promise to write me a description of that
storm!"

"I can't write it," I said coldly. "Please let me go."

"You've got to write it," she returned. "I know you can, and I won't
let you go until you promise me."

I wrenched myself away from her, white with wrath, and got to my room
before she did, though she was still pursuing me. I locked my door and
had a hard fight for my self-control. From the beach came the distant
boom of the surf, mingled with the liquid melody of the returning
breakers.

Later, just as I had finished dressing for dinner, there was a tap at
my door. My friend (?) stood there beaming. "Have you got it done? You
know you promised to write me a description of that storm!"

She remained only three days longer, and I stayed away from her as
much as possible, but occasional meetings were inevitable. When the
gladsome time of parting came, she hung about my neck.

"I want you to come and see me," she said. "You know you haven't done
what you said you would. Don't you forget to write me a description of
that storm!"

My business arrangements with my publishers are seemingly a matter of
public interest. I am asked how much it costs to print a book the size
of mine. People are surprised to find that I do not pay the expenses
and that I haven't the least idea of what it costs.

Then they want to know if the publisher buys the book of me. I explain
that this is sometimes done, but that I myself am paid upon the
royalty basis, ---- per cent. on the list price of every copy sold.
This seems painfully small to the dear public, but it is comparatively
easy to demonstrate that the royalty on five or six thousand copies is
quite worth while.

They shortly come to the conclusion, however, that the publishers make
more money than I do, and that seems to them to be very unfair. They
suggest that if I published it myself, I should make a great deal more
money!

It is difficult for them to understand that writing books and selling
books are two very different propositions--that I don't know enough to
sell books, and that the imprint of a reputable house upon the
title-page is worth a great deal to any author.

"Well," a man once said to me, "how much did you make out of your book
this year?"

I explained that the percentage royalty basis was really an equal
division of the profits, everything considered, and that all the
financial risk was on one side. I named my few hundreds, with which I
was very well satisfied. He absorbed himself in a calculation on the
back of an envelope.

"I figure out," said he, at length, "that they must have made at least
a third more than you did. That isn't fair!"

My ire arose. "It is perfectly fair," I replied. "Paper is cheap, I
know, but composition isn't, and advertising isn't. They are welcome
to every penny they can make out of my books. I'd be glad to have them
make twice as much as they do now, even if my own income remained the
same."

At this point, I became telepathically aware that I was considered
crazy, so I changed the subject.

I am often asked how I happened to meet my publishers and "get in with
them," and as a very great favour to me, and to them, I am offered the
privilege of sending them some "splendid novel which was written by a
friend" of somebody--as they know me, "they have decided to let my
publishers have the book!"

They are surprised to hear me say that I have never met any member of
the firm, though I was in the same city with them for over a year.
More than this, there is nothing on earth, except a green worm, which
would scare me so much as a summons to that publishing house.

I have walked by in fear and trembling. I have seen a huge pile of my
books in the window, and on the bulletin board a poster which bore my
name in conspicuous letters, as if I had been cured of something. But
I should no more dare to go into that office than I should venture to
call upon the wife of the President with a shawl over my head, and my
fancywork tucked under my arm.

This is incomprehensible to the uninitiated. The publishers have ever
been most courteous and kind. They are people with whom it is a
pleasure to have any sort of business dealings, but we are not bosom
friends--and I very much fear that they do not care to become chummy
with me.

There may be some authors who have taken nerve tonics and are not
afraid to meet an editor or publisher. I have even read of some who
will walk cheerfully into an editorial sanctum--but I've never seen a
sanctum, nor an editor, nor a publisher. I don't even write to an
editor when I send him a piece--just put in a stamp. He usually knows
what to do with it.

Fame, or long experience, may enable authors to meet the arbiters of
their destiny without becoming frightened, but I have had brief
experience, and still less fame. The admirable qualities of the
pachyderm may have been bestowed upon some authors--but not on this
one.

The Man Behind the Gun

     Now let the eagle flap his wings
       And let the cannon roar,
     For while the conquering bullet sings
       We pledge the commodore.
     First battle of a righteous war
       Right royally he won,
     But here's a health to the jolly tar--
       To the man behind the gun!

     Now praise be to the flag-ship's spars--
       To the captain in command,
     And honour to the Stripes and Stars
       For whose defence they stand;
     And for the pilot at his wheel
       Let the streams of red wine run,
     But here's a health to the man of steel--
       The man behind the gun!

     Here's to the man who does not swerve
       In the face of any foe;
     Here's to the man of iron nerve,
       On deck and down below;
     Here's to the man whose heart is glad
       When the battle has begun;
     Here's to the health of that daring lad--
       To the man behind the gun!

     Now let the Stars and Stripes float high
       And let the eagle soar;
     Until the echoes make reply
       We pledge the commodore.
     Here's to the chief and here's to war,
       And here's to the fleet that won,
     And here's a health to the jolly tar--
       To the man behind the gun!

Quaint Old Christmas Customs

Compared with the celebrations of our ancestors, the modern Christmas
becomes a very hurried thing. The rush of the twentieth century
forbids twelve days of celebration, or even two. Paterfamilias
considers himself very indulgent if he gives two nights and a day to
the annual festival, because, forsooth, "the office needs him!"

One by one the quaint old customs have vanished. We still have the
Christmas tree, evergreens in our houses and churches, and the yawning
stocking still waits in many homes for the good St. Nicholas.

But what is poor Santa Claus to do when the chimney leads to the
furnace? And what of the city apartment, which boasts a radiator and
gas grate, but no chimney? The myth evidently needs reconstruction to
meet the times in which we live, and perhaps we shall soon see
pictures of Santa Claus arriving in an automobile, and taking the
elevator to the ninth floor, flat B, where a single childish stocking
is hung upon the radiator.

Nearly all of the Christmas observances began in ancient Rome. The
primitive Italians were wont to celebrate the winter solstice and
call it the feast of Saturn. Thus Saturnalia came to mean almost
any kind of celebration which came in the wake of conquest, and
these ceremonies being engrafted upon Anglo-Saxon customs assumed
a religious significance.

The pretty maid who hesitates and blushes beneath the overhanging
branch of mistletoe, never stops to think of the grim festival with
which the Druids celebrated its gathering.

In their mythology the plant was regarded with the utmost reverence,
especially when found growing upon an oak.

At the time of the winter solstice, the ancient Britons, accompanied
by their priests, the Druids, went out with great pomp and rejoicing
to gather the mistletoe, which was believed to possess great curative
powers. These processions were usually by night, to the accompaniment
of flaring torches and the solemn chanting of the people. When an oak
was reached on which the parasite grew, the company paused.

Two white bulls were bound to the tree and the chief Druid, clothed
in white to signify purity, climbed, more or less gracefully, to the
plant. It was severed from the oak, and another priest, standing
below, caught it in the folds of his robe. The bulls were then
sacrificed, and often, alas, human victims also. The mistletoe thus
gathered was divided into small portions and distributed among the
people. The tiny sprays were fastened above the doors of the houses,
as propitiation to the sylvan deities during the cold season.

These rites were retained throughout the Roman occupation of Great
Britain, and for some time afterward, under the sovereignty of the
Jutes, the Saxons, and the Angles.

In Scandinavian mythology there is a beautiful legend of the
mistletoe. Balder, the god of poetry, the son of Odin and Friga, one
day told his mother that he had dreamed his death was near at hand.
Much alarmed, the mother invoked all the powers of nature--earth, air,
water, fire, animals and plants, and obtained from them a solemn oath
that they would do her son no harm.

Then Balder fearlessly took his place in the combats of the gods and
fought unharmed while showers of arrows were falling all about him.

His enemy, Loake, determined to discover the secret of his
invulnerability, and, disguising himself as an old woman, went to the
mother with a question of the reason of his immunity. Friga answered
that she had made a charm and invoked all nature to keep from injuring
her son.

"Indeed," said the old woman, "and did you ask all the animals and
plants? There are so many, it seems impossible."

"All but one," answered Friga proudly; "all but a little insignificant
plant which grows upon the bark of the oak. This I did not think of
invoking, since so small a thing could do no harm."

Much delighted, Loake went away and gathered mistletoe. Then he
entered the assembly of the gods and made his way to the blind Heda.

"Why do you not shoot with the arrows at Balder?" asked Loake.

"Alas," replied Heda, "I am blind and have no arms."

Loake then gave him an arrow tipped with mistletoe and said: "Balder
is before thee." Heda shot and Balder fell, pierced through the heart.

In its natural state, the plant is believed to be propagated by the
missel-thrush, which feeds upon its berries, but under favourable
climatic conditions one may raise one's own mistletoe by bruising the
berries on the bark of fruit trees, where they take root readily. It
must be remembered, however, that the plant is a true parasite and
will eventually kill whatever tree gives it nourishment.

Kissing under the mistletoe was also a custom of the Druids, and in
those uncivilised days men kissed each other. For each kiss, a single
white berry was plucked from the spray, and kept as a souvenir by the
one who was kissed.

The burning of the Yule log was an ancient Christmas ceremony borrowed
from the early Scandinavians. At their feast of Juul (pronounced
_Yuul_), at the time of the winter solstice, they were wont to kindle
huge bonfires in honour of their god Thor. The custom soon made its
way to England where it is still in vogue in many parts of the
country.

One may imagine an ancient feudal castle, heavily fortified, standing
in splendid isolation upon a snowy hill, on that night of all others
when war was forgotten and peace proclaimed. Drawn by six horses, the
great Yule log was brought into the hall and rolled into the vast
fireplace, where it was lighted with the charred remnants of last
year's Yule log, religiously kept in some secure place as a charm
against fire.

As the flames seize upon the oak and the light gleams from the castle
windows, a lusty procession of wayfarers passes through, each one
raising his hat as he passes the fire which burns all the evil out of
the hearts of men, and up to the rafters there rings a stern old Saxon
chant.

When the song was finished, the steaming wassail bowl was brought out,
and all the company drank to a better understanding.

Up to the time of Henry VI, and even afterward, the Yule log was
greeted with bards and minstrelsy. If a squinting person came into the
hall while the log was burning, it was sure to bring bad luck. The
appearance of a barefooted man was worse, and a flat-footed woman was
the worst of all.

As an accompaniment to the Yule log, a monstrous Christmas candle was
burned on the table at supper; even now in St. John's College at
Oxford, there is an old candle socket of stone, ornamented with the
figure of a lamb. What generations of gay students must have sat
around that kindly light when Christmas came to Oxford!

Snap-dragon was a favourite Christmas sport at this time. Several
raisins were put into a large shallow bowl and thoroughly saturated
with brandy. All other lights were extinguished and the brandy
ignited. By turns each one of the company tried to snatch a raisin
out of the flames, singing meanwhile.

In Devonshire, they burn great bundles of ash sticks, while master and
servants sit together, for once on terms of perfect equality, and
drink spiced ale, and the season is one of great rejoicing.

Another custom in Devonshire is for the farmer, his family, and
friends, to partake of hot cake and cider, and afterward go to the
orchard and place a cake ceremoniously in the fork of a big tree, when
cider is poured over it while the men fire off pistols and the women
sing.

A similar libation, but of spiced ale, used to be sprinkled through
the orchards and meadows of Norfolk. Midnight of Christmas was the
time usually chosen for the ceremony.

In Devon and Cornwall, a belief is current that, at midnight on
Christmas Eve, the cattle kneel in their stalls in honour of the
Saviour, as legend claims they did in Bethlehem.

In Wales, they carry about at Christmas time a horse's skull gaily
adorned with ribbons, and supported on a pole by a man who is wholly
concealed by a white cloth. There is a clever contrivance for opening
and shutting the jaws, and this strange creature pursues and bites all
who come near it.

The figure is usually accompanied by a party of men and boys
grotesquely dressed, who, on reaching a house, sing some verses, often
extemporaneous, demanding admittance, and are answered in the same
fashion by those within until rhymes have given out on one side or
the other.

In Scotland, he who first opens the door on Christmas Day expects more
good luck than will fall to the lot of other members of the family
during the year, because, as the saying goes, he lets in Yule.

In Germany, Christmas Eve is the children's night, and there is a tree
and presents. England and America appear to have borrowed the
Christmas tree from Germany, where the custom is ancient and very
generally followed.

In the smaller towns and villages in northern Germany, the presents
are sent by all the parents to some one fellow who, in high buskins,
white robe, mask, and flaxen wig, personates the servant, Rupert. On
Christmas night he goes around to every house, and says that his
master sent him. The parents and older children receive him with pomp
and reverence, while the younger ones are often badly frightened.

He asks for the children, and then demands of their parents a report
of their conduct during the past year. The good children are rewarded
with sugar-plums and other things, while for the bad ones a rod is
given to the parents with instructions to use it freely during the
coming year.

In those parts of Pennsylvania where there are many German settlers,
the little sinners often find birchen rods suggestively placed in
their stockings on Christmas morning.

In Poland, the Christmas gifts are hidden, and the members of the
family search for them.

In Sweden and Norway, the house is thoroughly cleaned, and juniper or
fir branches are spread over the floor. Then each member of the family
goes in turn to the bake house, or outer shed, where he takes his
annual bath.

But it is back to Old England, after all, that we look for the
merriest Christmas. For two or three weeks beforehand, men and boys
of the poorer class, who were called "waits," sang Christmas carols
under every window. Until quite recently these carols were sung all
through England, and others of similar import were heard in France and
Italy.

The English are said to "take their pleasures sadly," but in the
matter of Christmas they can "give us cards and spades and still win."
Parties of Christmas drummers used to go around to the different
houses, grotesquely attired, and play all sorts of tricks. The actors
were chiefly boys, and the parish beadle always went along to insure
order.

The Christmas dinner of Old England was a thing capable of giving the
whole nation dyspepsia if they indulged freely.

The main dish was a boar's head, roasted to a turn, and preceded by
trumpets and minstrelsy. Mustard was indispensable to this dish.

Next came a peacock, skinned and roasted. The beak was gilded, and
sometimes a bit of cotton, well soaked in spirits, was put into his
mouth, and when he was brought to the table this was ignited, so that
the bird was literally spouting fire. He was stuffed with spices,
basted with yolks of eggs, and served with plenty of gravy.

Geese, capons, pheasants, carps' tongues, frumenty, and mince, or
"shred" pies, made up the balance of the feast.

The chief functionary of Christmas was called "The Lord of Misrule."

In the house of king and nobleman he held full sway for twelve days.
His badge was a fool's bauble and he was always attended by a page,
both of them being masked. So many pranks were played, and so much
mischief perpetrated which was far from being amusing, that an edict
was eventually issued against this form of liberty, not to say
license.

The Lord of Misrule was especially reviled by the Puritans, one of
whom set him down as "a grande captain of mischiefe." One may easily
imagine that this stern old gentleman had been ducked by a party of
revellers following in the wake of the lawless "Captaine" because he
had refused to contribute to their entertainment.

We need not lament the passing of Christmas pageantry, if the spirit
of the festival remains. Through the centuries that have passed since
the first Christmas, the spirit of it has wandered in and out like a
golden thread in a dull tapestry, sometimes hidden, but never wholly
lost. It behooves us to keep well and reverently such Christmas as we
have, else we shall share old Ben Jonson's lament in _The Mask of
Father Christmas_, which was presented before the English Court nearly
two hundred years ago:

     "Any man or woman ... that can give any knowledge, or tell
     any tidings of an old, very old, grey haired gentleman
     called Christmas, who was wont to be a very familiar ghest,
     and visit all sorts of people both pore and rich, and used
     to appear in glittering gold, silk and silver in the court,
     and in all shapes in the theatre in Whitehall, and had
     singing, feasts and jolitie in all places, both citie and
     countrie for his coming--whosoever can tel what is become of
     him, or where he may be found, let them bring him back again
     into England."

Consecration

     Cathedral spire and lofty architrave,
     Nor priestly rite and humble reverence,
     Nor costly fires of myrrh and frankincense
     May give the consecration that we crave;
     Upon the shore where tides forever lave
     With grateful coolness on the fevered sense;
     Where passion grows to silence, rapt, intense,
     There waits the chrismal fountain of the wave.

     By rock-hewn altars where is said no word,
     Save by the deep that calleth unto deep,
     While organ tones of sea resound above;
     The truth of truths our inmost souls have heard,
     And in our hearts communion wine we keep,
     For He Himself hath said it--"God is Love!"

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors;
otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's
words and intent.


WRITING CLASS

                          By Robert Sheckley

                "Never use cliches in describing alien
             life-forms," Professor Carner admonished his
             class. But Eddie persisted--with good reason!

              Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
                             December 1952

Eddie McDermott paused at the door, then caught his breath and tiptoed
into the classroom and to his seat. Mort Eddison, his best friend,
looked at him reprovingly; the class had been in session for almost
fifteen minutes, and one just didn't come late to Professor Carner's
lecture. Especially on the first day.

Eddie breathed easier as he saw that Professor Carner's back was to the
class as he completed a diagram on the blackboard.

"Now then," Carner said. "Suppose you were writing about the--ah--the
Venusian Threngener, which, as you know, has three legs. How would you
describe it?"

One of the students raised his hand. "I'd call it a three-legged
monstrosity, spawned in the deepest hells of--"

"No," Carner said quietly. "That kind of writing might have been all
right in the earliest days of our subject. But remember: You are no
longer dealing with a simple, credulous audience. To achieve the proper
effects nowadays, you must _underplay_! Understand? Underplay! Now,
someone else?"

Mort raised his hand, threw a glance at Eddie, and said: "How about,
'this tri-pedal blob of orange protoplasm, octopus like in its
gropings--'"

"That's better," Carner said. "Tri-pedal is very nice, very exact. But
must you compare it to an octopus?"

"Why not?" Mort asked.

"An octopus," the professor said, "is a well-known form of Earth
life. It inspires no terror, no wonder. You might better compare the
Threngener to _another_ strange monster; a Callistan Eddel-splayer, for
example." He smiled winningly at the class.

Eddie frowned and scratched his blonde crewcut. He had liked it better
the first way. But Carner should know, of course. He was one of the
best-known writers in the entire field, and he had done the college a
favor by agreeing to teach the course. Eddie remembered reading some
of Carner's stuff. It had scared the living daylights out of him when
he was younger. That description of Saturnian brains immobilizing
Earth-confederation ships, for example. That had been a great yarn.

The trouble is, Eddie thought, I'm just not interested. He had had
serious doubts about this course. Actually, he had signed up only
because Mort had insisted.

"Any questions at this point?" Carner asked. One of the students--a
serious-looking fellow wearing black horn-rimmed glasses--raised his
hand.

"Suppose," he asked, "suppose you were writing a story speculating on
an interstellar combine formed with the purpose of taking over Earth?
Would it be permissible, for greater contrast, to make Earth's enemies
black-hearted villains?"

A political thinker, Eddie thought with a sneer. He glanced hopefully
at the clock.

"It wouldn't be advisable." Carner sat casually on the corner of his
desk. "Make them human also; show the reader that these aliens--whether
they have one head or five--have emotions understandable to them. Let
them feel joy and pain. Show them as being misguided. Pure evil in your
characters has gone out of fashion."

"But could I make their leader pure evil?" the young man asked, busily
jotting down everything Carner had said.

"I suppose so," Carner said thoughtfully. "But give him motivations
also. By the way, in dealing with that sort of story--the panoramic
kind--remember not to oversimplify the aliens' problems. If they amass
an army of twenty million, all have to be fed. If the rulers of fifty
scattered star systems meet in conclave, remember that different star
systems have different languages, and different races have different
nervous systems. Bear in mind also, that there would be little logical
reason for attacking earth; the galaxy is filled with so many stars and
planets, what is the necessity of fighting for one?"

The horn-rimmed fellow nodded dubiously, writing his notes with
tremendous speed. Eddie stifled a yawn. He preferred to think of his
villains as pure unadulterated evil; it made characterization so much
easier. And he was getting tremendously bored.

Carner answered questions for the next half hour. He told them not to
describe Venus as a 'jungle-choked green hell,' never, never to call
the moon 'pock-marked,' 'small-pox pitted,' or 'scarred from centuries
of meteoric bombardment.'

"All this has been said," he explained. "Millions of times. _Do not_
use cliches."

He went on to explain that the red spot of Jupiter need not be called a
malevolent red eye, that Saturn's rings don't necessarily resemble a
halo, and that the inhabitants of Venus are not Venetians.

"All common errors," he said. "I want a thousand words from each of you
next time. I suggest that you choose a planet and write a fresh study
of it, avoiding with care all the cliches I mentioned. Class dismissed."

"Well, whadja think?" Mort asked Eddie in the hall. "Isn't he great? I
mean, he really _knows_!"

"I'm dropping out of the class," Eddie said, making up his mind.

"What! Why?"

"Well," Eddie said, "There's no reason why I shouldn't call the red
spot on Jupiter a malevolent red eye. I put that in a story last month,
and it sounded good. And that Venetian Threngener--I think it's a
_monstrosity_, and I'm going to write about it that way."

He paused, and his face hardened with conviction.

"But the real reason--well, I'm just not interested in journalism. I'm
dropping Carner's course in fact feature-article writing, because I
want to write fiction!"