512 
 
A MANUAL OF THE 
 SHORT STORY ART 
 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO DALLAS 
 ATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED 
 
 LONDON BOMBAY CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 OF CANADA, LIMITED 
 
 TORONTO 
 
A MANUAL OF THE 
 
 SHORT STORY ART 
 
 BY 
 
 GLENN CLARK, A.M. 
 
 PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH AT MACALESTER COLLEGE 
 
 H3eto Porfe 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 1932 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1922, 
 BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 
 
 All rights reserved no part of this book may 
 be reproduced in any form without permission in 
 writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer 
 who wishes to quote brief passages in connection 
 with a review written for inclusion in magazine 
 or newspaper. 
 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published April, 1922. 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BY 
 THE BERWICK & SMITH CO. 
 
To 
 MY FATHER AND MY MOTHER 
 
 who taught their children around 
 
 the evening lamp and before 
 
 the open fire place that to 
 
 see life imaginatively 
 
 was to see life 
 
 truthfully. 
 
 879780 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 A famous actress, long since dead, once remarked with 
 bitterness : "In my day all that was necessary to produce 
 a play were two boards and a passion ; today all that is 
 necessary are two sticks and a wardrobe." In adapting 
 this statement to the writing art I am tempted to para- 
 phrase it as follows: In the good old days all that one 
 needed to become a writer was an idea and a dozen goose 
 quills ; today all that one needs is a dozen rhetorics and a 
 blue pencil. 
 
 This book was written with an eye on the student, not 
 on the rules of composition and rhetoric. It conceives 
 of the student as a creature who loves to use his eyes 
 and ears, and who takes delight in playing the amateur 
 detective and in ravelling and unravelling plots. It as- 
 sumes that a young man or a young woman is filled to 
 overflowing with warm, living interests and desires and 
 aspirations which, taken together, constitute a greater driv- 
 ing force toward success in writing than anything which 
 the textbooks and teachers can give him. By taking 
 advantage of these natural desires and instincts and not 
 working against them it is believed that the teacher may 
 best "draw out" the student to the fullest self-expression. 
 
 One of these deep-seated instincts of the student is to 
 see things in the concrete. For that reason the method 
 of presenting exercises commonly used in this book is the 
 so-called "projective method." Instead of being asked to 
 
 vii 
 
viii FOREWORD 
 
 describe a city street, the student is asked to read a sen- 
 tence that helps him to visualize a street and then to write 
 down what he sees. 
 
 Another deep-seated instinct of a boy is to "get some- 
 where." Much as we may decry this by-product of the 
 American worship of efficiency, we must accept it as a 
 fact, whether or not we ignore it in theory. The Amer- 
 ican boy hates to mark time. For that reason he gives 
 the best of himself in supporting his football team which 
 is righting its way toward a very definite and materially 
 visible goal, and withholds all but the minimum amount 
 of himself from the mastering of Latin conjugations 
 where the goal is shrouded in mists of "sweetness and 
 light." For the same reason the average boy hates the 
 thought of writing "themes" where the only relation of 
 one to the other is as the relation of the chapters on 
 Unity, Coherence and Mass in his textbook are one to the 
 other, and where the final result is the blue pencil or the 
 wastebasket. 
 
 In this book the short story is the goal, and the descrip- 
 tive and narrative bits which are required of the student 
 in the early chapters are all steps in a carefully charted 
 path leading directly toward that goal. 
 
 Needless to say there are many other instincts, charac- 
 teristic of boy nature, which this textbook attempts to 
 utilize in tempting a boy to give the best of himself to 
 the art of writing, which, lest we become tedious, we 
 shall leave for the individual instructors and students to 
 discover for themselves as they proceed to put these exer- 
 cises into practice. 
 
 To summarize briefly what has just been said, the pur- 
 pose of this book is to take the study of English Com- 
 
FOREWORD ix 
 
 position out of the hands of the sons of Martha, who 
 have monopolized it for many weary and all but fruitless 
 years, and restore it to the sons of Mary to whom by 
 birthright it naturally belongs. In other words, it is an 
 attempt to transfer the art of composition from the field 
 of the Sciences back to the field of the Arts, and to invest 
 it with that most potent of all incentives to success the 
 artist's true joy in his work. 
 
 While the scheme of this book, taken as a whole, pre- 
 sents a new attack upon an old problem, the principles 
 underlying the plan are not new. Perhaps the chief claim 
 to originality which the book deserves is that its author 
 has wandered somewhat off the beaten track in his search 
 for these principles and for the illustrative matter to make 
 them clear. 
 
 I am indebted first of all to the psychologists and the 
 students of the human mind, from Aristotle down. In the 
 second place I am indebted to Mr. H. C. Peterson who in a 
 very elementary book intended for high schools, and to 
 Miss Gertrude Buck who in a book intended for teaching 
 "Expository Writing" to college girls discovered some 
 psychological methods of approach which I considered 
 adaptable for short story writing. I am indebted to in- 
 numerable authors who have in one way or another 
 revealed some of their "trade secrets." One source which 
 yielded richly of this material was the "Editor Magazine." 
 
 For assistance in reading manuscript and for criticism 
 and suggestions I wish to acknowledge with gratitude and 
 appreciation my indebtedness to the following teachers 
 of English: Dean L. B. R. Briggs of Harvard Univer- 
 sity ; Dr. Laura Lockwood, Wellesley College ; Professor 
 
x FOREWORD 
 
 W. S. Ament, Pomona College; Professor M. G. Framp- 
 ton, Pomona College; Professor Charles A. Noble, Grin- 
 nell College; Professor George F. Richardson, Oregon 
 State College; Professor Paul F. Wood, University of 
 Southern California ; Professor Irving R. Outcault, Cali- 
 fornia Normal College; Miss Esther B. Tiffany, Univer- 
 sity of Wisconsin. 
 
 I wish also to acknowledge my indebtedness to the 
 following writers and journalists who read the manuscript 
 and gave many suggestions of practical nature: Miss I. 
 R. A. Wiley of England, Mr. Demaree Bess of St. Paul, 
 and Mrs. Edith Fullerton Scott of Detroit. 
 
 For assistance in reading proof I am indebted to Mr. 
 Kenneth B. Hunter of the English Department of the 
 University of Minnesota, and Professor A. B. Anderson 
 and Dr. J. C. Hazzard of Macalester College. 
 
 I wish to express my appreciation of the following 
 members of the Macalester College Faculty who have at 
 different times assisted me in teaching freshmen classes 
 where these methods have been used and who have helped 
 me build up this system upon the solid basis of class- 
 room results : Miss Frances B. Tiffany, Miss Frances B. 
 Kelley, Professor F. D. McRae, Professor John Porter 
 Hall, Miss Helen Kellogg, Miss Margaret Doty, Dr. C. L. 
 Wilson, Mrs. L. R. Shero and Miss Sana McKenney. 
 
 Great assistance of most invaluable nature has been 
 rendered by Miss Dorothy Dornberg, Miss Clara Jones, 
 Miss Carrie Krugmeier, and Miss Ada Newcomb, mem- 
 bers of the Macalester College Quill Club. 
 
 Acknowledgment is due the following writers and 
 publishers for the right to use material in this book: 
 Edward J. O'Brien, Annual Anthologies of Best Short 
 
FOREWORD xi 
 
 Stories, The Editor Magazine, Tne Student Writer, 
 The Gateway Magazine, The Atlantic Monthly, Edna Fer- 
 ber, Wilbur Daniel Steele, Georges Polti, Henry Holt & 
 Company, and Doubleday, Page & Company. 
 

 
 
 
A WORD TO THE TEACHER 
 
 The following plan of using this book has been found 
 to be effective. One week may very profitably be spent 
 on each of the first five chapters with the exception of 
 the fourth which deserves two weeks. A week means 
 three class recitations with theme assignments and some- 
 times an impromptu theme in class. The first five chap- 
 ters serve to introduce the student to the more elementary 
 materials of the short story, train his hand in the funda- 
 mentals of style, and form the habit of almost daily 
 writing. 
 
 Following this introductory stage a week may be 
 devoted to gathering material for plots according to the 
 directions in Chapter VI; and while this is being done 
 outside of class hours, the class periods may be used for 
 impromptu themes or class discussions based upon the 
 exercises in Chapter XL Then should follow one or two 
 weeks' study of each of the following chapters: VII, 
 VIII, IX, and X. Stories should not be written these 
 weeks ; they should merely be planned. 
 
 Finally a month or three weeks should be given over 
 to the writing of an original short story which should 
 afterwards be carefully revised. 
 
 When the book is used for advanced classes in short 
 story writing the first five chapters may be passed over 
 a little more rapidly and the more intensive work begin 
 with Chapter VI. One story of each of the four types 
 
 xiii 
 
xiv A WORD TO THE TEACHER 
 
 should be required of the students, one of which should 
 be very carefully revised as the crowning effort of the 
 course. 
 
 The most annoying difficulties in a course of this kind 
 are usually connected with rhetoric, style, and plot build- 
 ing. For that reason the material in Part III has been 
 included in this book to relieve the teacher of some of 
 the burden of overcoming these faults of the student. It 
 should be reserved for specific individual assignments 
 to be prescribed by the teacher whenever and wherever 
 it seems to be particularly needed. 
 
 The main body of technique is grouped together in one 
 short chapter (Chapter XI) which the student is to read 
 and re-read and refer to constantly while he is writing his 
 complete short story. This chapter discloses the whole 
 premise upon which this book is based: That only as the 
 student is required to apply his knowledge in actual exer- 
 cises will the knowledge be assimilated, become part 
 of that larger body of actual working knowledge which 
 the student already possesses, and which, when it is made 
 an integral part of himself, becomes wisdom. 
 
A WORD TO THE STUDENT 
 
 It is only fair to tell you right at the beginning what 
 this book cannot do for you. It cannot give you the 
 background of a wide and deep experience of life. It 
 cannot give you that liberal culture and training of intel- 
 lect which only years of reading and study can give you. 
 The highest attributes of a writer character, culture and 
 vision this book cannot and does not pretend to give you. 
 It furnishes only the smallest part of the requirements 
 of a writer the technique and formula of one specific 
 mode of writing. 
 
 rTmight be said that this book is merely the mallet 
 and chisel by which the student may be enabled to 
 disengage his vision from the block. The technique 
 is not as important as the vision; and a knowledge of 
 formula is not as important as a knowledge of life. The 
 beginner, without vision and without knowledge of life, 
 will find himself circumscribed by a too slavish observa- 
 tion of the purely mechanical laws of short-story writing. 
 But as he grows in knowledge of life and in breadth of 
 vision he will find himself touching with confident hand 
 certain phases of life regardless of whether they fall into 
 the frame of the conventional plot with its emphasis upon 
 action which too often results in melodrama, seeking 
 rather those more subtle, intangible clashes between 
 motives and persons which is real drama. 
 
 It is advisable that the beginner in any art should 
 
 xv 
 
xvi A WORD TO THE STUDENT 
 
 submit his work to the technique and formula of that art. 
 But that does not mean that he should become complacent 
 as he sees himself attaining the mastery of the external 
 material in which he works. For development in any art 
 is measured not so much by the things done by the student 
 as by the growth within the student ; and this inner growth 
 awaits upon the gradual development of his general intel- 
 lectual capacities and his ever enlarging knowle4ge of life. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 FOREWORD vii 
 
 A WORD TO THE TEACHER xiii 
 
 A WORD TO THE STUDENT . xv 
 
 PART I 
 
 STUDIES IN SHORT STORY WRITING . . i 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. THE PICTURE 3 
 
 STUDIES IN VISUALIZATION 8 
 
 II. THE LOGICAL ARRANGEMENT OF A PICTURE 10 
 
 STUDIES IN FIRST IMPRESSIONS 12 
 
 III. SUPPORTING THE PICTURE ..... 14 
 
 STUDIES IN THE FIVE SENSES 17 
 
 IV. THE STORY EMERGES FROM THE PICTURE . 21 
 
 STUDIES IN SUGGESTION 22 
 
 V. THE STORY EMERGES FROM DIALOGUE . . 27 
 
 STUDIES IN DIALOGUE 31 
 
 The House Opposite Anthony Hope . . 33 
 
 VI. GATHERING MATERIAL FOR STORIES ... 39 
 
 EXERCISES IN GATHERING IDEAS FOR STORIES . 44 
 xvii 
 
xviii CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 VII. THE STORY FROM CHARACTER .... 47 
 
 EXERCISES 52 
 
 VIII. THE STORY WHICH BEGINS WITH COMPLI- 
 CATION 62 
 
 EXERCISES 68 
 
 IX. THE STORY FROM SETTING 72 
 
 EXERCISES 75 
 
 X. THE STORY THAT GROWS FROM A THEME . 80 
 
 EXERCISES 81 
 
 XL SOME QUESTIONS ANSWERED 88 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS STUDIES IN SHORT STORY WRIT- 
 ING 104 
 
 The Spurious One Gertrude Brooke Hamil- 
 ton 109 
 
 PART II 
 
 CREATIVE CRITICISM OF FOUR SHORT 
 
 STORIES 115 
 
 AN INTERVIEW WITH JAMES OPPENHEIM . 118 
 
 THE SELF-INVENTORY OF THE WRITER OF 
 
 STORIES 122 
 
 "THE GAY OLD DOG" By Edna Ferber . . 124 
 CREATIVE CRITICISM OF A STORY OF CHARACTER 153 
 
CONTENTS xix 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 "THE COP AND THE ANTHEM" By O. Henry 157 
 
 CREATIVE CRITICISM OF A COMPLICATION STORY 164 
 
 "GREATER LOVE HATH No MAN" By Beat- 
 rice Walker 169 
 
 CREATIVE CRITICISM OF A STORY OF ATMOSPHERE 180 
 
 "THE DARK HOUR" By Wilbur Daniel Steele 184 
 
 CREATIVE CRITICISM OF A THEMATIC STORY . 196 
 
 PART III 
 
 SOME SUGGESTIONS FOR MEETING THE 
 CHIEF PROBLEMS IN RHETORIC, 
 
 STYLE, AND PLOT BUILDING . 203 
 
 I. FIRST AID IN REVISION 205 
 
 EXERCISES IN RHETORIC 22O 
 
 II. SELF-CULTIVATION IN STYLE .... 221 
 
 DIRECTIONS FOR EXERCISES IN STYLE BUILDING 223 
 
 III. THE THIRTY-SIX ORIGINAL PLOT SITUA- 
 TIONS 234 
 
 EXERCISES IN THE THIRTY-SIX PLOT SITUATIONS 249 
 
PART I 
 
 STUDIES IN SHORT 
 STORY WRITING 
 
A MANUAL OF 
 
 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THE PICTURE. 
 
 The protoplasm of all writing is the picture. The first 
 known writing was picture writing. The latest achieve- 
 ment of human art is the picture drama. The picture is 
 the most simple, the most elemental, the most effective 
 of all methods of presenting thought. 
 
 As a matter of- fact we habitually think, even in our 
 commonest affairs, not in abstractions but in pictures. 
 Your friend invites you to go with him on a fishing trip. 
 You sit down to consider the matter. Almost at once 
 your mental conceptions take the form of pictures. You 
 see yourself collecting" your tackle, and packing your grip. 
 Then you see yourself on the edge of the lake or the creek, 
 and pushing out in a little boat. You see the silver sur- 
 face of the water all about you and the birches or willows 
 along the water's edge. Perhaps you see your line shake 
 as a fish nibbles at the bait, and then suddenly pull taut 
 as the victim is snared. Or you may see the sun beating 
 down upon your hat and the swarms of little gnats and 
 mosquitoes buzzing round your ears, and your line hang- 
 
 3 
 
4 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 ing listlessly in the water with no sign of a "bite." Other 
 things being equal, it depends very largely upon the^icture 
 wriich yoi* see most vividly whether you will/accept your 
 friend's invitation or not. 
 
 Someone has said that a story is/merely a series of 
 pictures strung together by dialogue, and as a matter of 
 fact this is not by any means/the poorest definition of a 
 story. Teachers of public/speaking have pointed out that 
 nothing is much more effective in a speech than a series 
 of well chosen pieties which illustrate and amplify the 
 central 1 hough t,x Thus you see that whether you are 
 writing a stpry or delivering a speech the picture method 
 is equally^ effective. Whether your hearers are illiterate 
 peasants or the most learned scholars you can rest assured 
 that the picture as a means of conveying thought is very 
 rarely futile or inappropriate. 
 
 \ I rSo we may reaffirm that the fundamental element in all 
 
 ^-writing is the picture. It is the raw material, the proto- 
 -plasm out of which the first writing came, and the mastery 
 of it and the shaping of it to artistic and effective ends 
 ---is the chief goal of our greatest writers of today. There- 
 fore if you intend to become a writer or speaker, or 
 -merely an intelligent reader of other men's writings, you 
 should learn how to see and how to reproduce a picture. 
 Your first step toward the writing of the short story 
 will be to put into practice this fundamental principle. 
 You are to see a picture and to see it as vividly as you can. 
 With that purpose in view give your concentrated atten- 
 tion for several minutes to the sentence in the middle of 
 the next page. 
 
OLD UNCLE JOHN SAT 
 
 IN HIS COMFORTABLE . 
 
 ARM-CHAIR BEFORE THE 
 
 FIRE, SMOKING HIS PIPE 
 
6 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 Did you get a picture? Now shut your eyes and wait 
 until the picture becomes very clear, so clear that you 
 begin to see the vaguely discerned objects in the shadows 
 creep out to the edge of the flickering fire's glow. Do 
 you see the way Uncle John sits the lines on the cheeks 
 and brow the way he holds his hands the garments he 
 wears? Is he a real man, or merely a phantom man 
 without a shadow and without a complexion, without 
 wrinkles or freckles or anything to distinguish him from 
 any other man ? Is it a room different from all other 
 rooms a real room in fact? 
 
 Now take a perfectly clean sheet of paper and put that 
 picture down in words. Take care not to have any other 
 character enter and do not conjecture what Uncle John 
 is thinking about. All that we want is a picture. Re- 
 member that every object is not equally distinct ; some 
 things are in the shadow, soirue are in the light. Try 
 hard to put down all those salient little details which 
 individualize that room and -make it different from all 
 other rooms. Begin with the thing which affects you 
 most or stands out the brightest, and go straight ahead. 
 Don't look to right or lef/. Let your pen go as fast as 
 your fingers can make it. Don't pause for the word that 
 won't come. Leave a blank and come back to it later. 
 Don't stop to correct a /word which you think may be mis- 
 spelled. There will ^>e plenty of time for that later. 
 Your chief business/ for the time being is to get that 
 picture down on the paper before you. 
 
 After your picture is completed, and not before, you 
 
 may lean back in ,an easy chair and proceed to go over it, 
 
 as the saying runs, "with a fine-tooth comb." / Make this 
 
 one of your n/ost carefully observed laws of writing: 
 
 \After writing down your picture in hot blood, revise it 
 
THE PICTURE 7 
 
 in cold blood.) At this point you cannot be too careful. 
 You will see the wisdom now of leaving space enough 
 between the lines for interlinear corrections. Wide mar- 
 gins are also a great help. In your first themes look out 
 especially for the following faults: 
 
 1. Have you used abstract or general words for con- 
 crete or specific ones ? For instance, did you say that the 
 room was dirty when you might have said that there were 
 splotches of mud on the floor? 
 
 2. Were the sentences monotonously similar in form 
 and length? 
 
 3. Did you use commas where they were not needed 
 to make the meaning clear? 
 
 4. Did you use too many "ands"? 
 
 When you have finally made all the corrections you can, 
 copy the theme neatly on a clean sheet of paper, writing 
 on one side of the paper only, leaving good margins 
 and your first task is done. 
 
 L/THE ADVICE OF A FAMOUS TEACHER TO A FAMOUS PUPIL 
 
 "Everything which one desires to express must be 
 looked at with sufficient attention, and during a sufficiently 
 long time, to discover in it some aspect which no one has 
 as yet seen or described. In everything there is still some 
 spot unexplored, because we are accustomed only to use 
 our eyes with the recollection of what others before us 
 have thought on the subject which we contemplate. The 
 smallest object contains something unknown. Find it. 
 To describe a fire that flames, and a tree on the plain, 
 look, keep looking, at that flame and that tree until in 
 your eyes they have lost all resemblance to any other tree 
 or any other fire. 
 
 "This is the way to become original. . . . 
 
 "When you pass a grocer seated at his shop door, a 
 janitor smoking his pipe, a stand of hackftey coaches, 
 
8 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 show me that grocer and that janitor their attitude, their 
 whole physical appearance embracing likewise, as indi- 
 cated by the skil fulness of the picture, their whole moral 
 nature; so that I cannot confound them with any other 
 grocer or any other janitor. Make me see, in one word, 
 that a certain cab horse does not resemble the fifty others 
 that follow or precede it." 
 
 Flaubert's advice to Maupassant. 
 
 STUDIES IN VISUALIZATION 
 
 1. Little Johnny sat on the bank of a pond, with one shoe 
 
 and stocking off, in deep meditation. 
 
 2. The street of smooth asphalt gleamed under the summer 
 
 sun. 
 
 3. Mary, with her bonnet hanging loose, leaned over the 
 
 gate, watching the road closely. 
 
 4. The soda clerk, in neat apron, stood behind the marble 
 
 counter. 
 
 5. At the end of the long portage, the old harvester stopped 
 
 for a moment to contemplate the glare of the setting 
 sun upon the placid water of Lake Silence. 
 
 6. The immense cathedral stood right before him. 
 
 7. The riveter was working on the rattling steel girder. 
 
 8. Old Eben, with his scythe on his shoulder, stood by the 
 
 old farm gate at the close of day. 
 
 9. A lone musician sat with his guitar in a small boat, play- 
 
 ing to the moonlight on the water. 
 
 jo. In the door of the tent Old Indian John, the last of his 
 tribe, sat smoking his stone pipe. 
 
 11. The professor sat behind his desk waiting for his ques- 
 
 tion to be answered. 
 
 12. With a gun in his hand and a dependable bird dog at his 
 
 side he started out over the wild hay meadows. 
 
 13. The day was warm and the stands were crowded with 
 
 people waiting for the race to begin. 
 
THE PICTURE 9 
 
 14. Aunt Tilly sat on a straight bade chair, reading the 
 
 family Bible. 
 
 15. Grandmother Grey sat knitting in the back yard under 
 
 the old apple tree. 
 
 16. The Old Doctor sat in his old office chair. 
 
 17. Little Marie sat on the floor of the nursery, playing 
 
 with her dolls. 
 
 18. Old Silas and his friends had seated themselves around 
 
 the old stove, in the general merchandise store, which 
 was lighted by a hanging oil lamp. 
 
 19. On the wall above the mantle of the fireplace hung a 
 
 colored painting entitled "Aurora." 
 
 20. Alice, a little girl three years old, was playing with a 
 
 broken toy wagon on^the street. 
 
 21. The moon shone brightly on the little old cabin, dis- 
 
 closing a darky seated on the front step with his banjo. 
 
 22. The chimney sweep, with bag of tools over his shoulder, 
 
 came whistling down the street. 
 
 23. Shortly after landing we marched five miles inland, and 
 
 then, for the first time, I saw the remaining ruins of 
 the ancient Spanish fort. 
 
 24. Old Granny Chappie was busily weeding her garden 
 
 beside the house. 
 
 25. Mary sits at her desk, busily writing a theme for 
 
 English. 
 
 26. The old man in ragged coat sat on the bench in the park. 
 
 27. Freddie, standing on the outside of the circus tent with 
 
 one eye glued to a tiny opening, seemed very intent 
 on what was happening inside. 
 
 28. Old Rover was stretched out on the back step sunning 
 
 himself. 
 
 29. Little Tom sat playing in the sand pile by the garden. 
 
 30. John was sitting on the ground fixing his automobile. 
 
 NOTE: The exercises above may be divided into three sets to be used in 
 three succeeding years, or to avoid too great duplication in assignments when 
 used in several sections of a Freshman College English course. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE LOGICAL ARRANGEMENT OF A PICTURE 
 
 In your description of Uncle John what detail did you 
 put first? His face? The effect of the light upon the 
 room? The rbom as a whole? Or did you begin back 
 in the corner? 
 
 This is an important question; for upon its answer 
 hinges the clearness of effect which your picture will 
 make upon your readers. The first thing we must learn 
 after the elementary art of visualization has been mastered 
 is the art of beginning in the right place. 
 
 t\call this an art because that is what it practically 
 amourTte to in the hands of a true artist. However, it is 
 an art fouixjed upon a firmly established principle, and 
 it will prove oix, inestimable help to you to know what 
 this principle is. 'On its face this principle sounds very 
 simple: Describe first the thing which you see first. 
 
 But as a matter of fact there is hardly a more difficult 
 thing in the world than to determine definitely what you 
 see first. Our method of observing things has become 
 by long habit so rapid a process that to many of us it 
 seems instantaneous. When we sit down and attempt to 
 find stages in this process, we find it almost impossible. 
 
 We can get at this problem best by calling to our aid 
 the analogy of the moving-picture machine. A naturalist 
 who has/difficulty in discovering the exact motions of a 
 wild animal when it is running at top speed has recourse 
 to the ultra-rapid movie camera. There comes a day 
 
 10 
 
LOGICAL ARRANGEMENT OF A PICTURE 11 
 
 he has the opportunity of making a series of pictures 
 of tHe -animal in motion. These pictures,^ when released 
 upon the screen, reveal the animal moving at one-fifth its 
 actual speed, thus enabling the-student to observe accur- 
 ately the exact sequence o-f its motions. A similar method 
 has been used on groups of industrial workers by students 
 of scientific management to discover ways and means of 
 eliminating waste motions in industry. 
 
 As one means of getting at our problem, then r I suggest 
 that we, figuratively speaking, bring to~ our aid a device 
 similar to that of the moving-picture machine. That is 
 to say, let us attempt to get our first impressions of a 
 scene quickly, and then take them into a dark room, so 
 to speak, and examine them slowly." 
 
 How shall you do this ? Select an old church, a black- 
 smith shop or a dark cellar for your experiment. Step 
 in, take one sweeping glance around you, and then step 
 out again. What impression did you get? When you 
 come to examine your results you will find' that you will 
 be able to deduce the following principle :-^The tendency 
 of the good description is to move from the general to 
 the particular, from the effect as a whole to the effect 
 as detail.) The mass of de/ails, contributor^ to this gen- 
 eral impression, should come later. 
 
 Another wa^ of retarding your process of observation 
 is to station yourself a long distance away frjom an object 
 and approach! it slowly. You can then record your im- 
 pressions in me actual order in which they icome to you. 
 
 "Southward, above and beyond the deep green chain, 
 tower other volcanic forms very far away, and so pale- 
 gray as to seem like clouds. Those are the heights of 
 Nevis another creation ;of the subterranean fires. 
 
 "It draws nearer, floats steadily into definition : a great 
 
12 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 mountain flanked by two small ones; three summits; the 
 loftiest, with clouds packed high upon it, still seems to 
 smoke; the second highest displays the most symmetrical 
 crater-form I have yet seen. All are still grayish-blue or 
 gray. Gradually through the blues break long high gleams 
 of green. 
 
 "As we steam closer, the island becomes all verdant 
 from flood to sky; the great dead crater shows its im- 
 mense wreath of perennial green. On the lower slopes 
 little settlements are sprinkled in white, red, and brown ; 
 houses, windmills, sugar-factories, high chimneys are dis- 
 tinguishable cane-plantations unfold gold-green surfaces. 
 
 "We pass away. The island does not seem to sink 
 behind us, but to become a ghost. All its outlines grow 
 shadowy. For a little while it continues green ; but it is 
 a hazy, spectral green, as of colored vapor. The sea to- 
 day looks almost black : the southwest wind has filled the 
 day with luminous mist ; and the phantom of Nevis melts 
 in the vast glow, dissolves utterly." 
 
 Lafcadio Hearn. 
 
 This substantiates your first conclusion : that the stages 
 through which perception passes are always from the gen- 
 eral effect to the particular details. "Perception is not the 
 instantaneous thing we are accustomed to think, but occu- 
 pies time, though brief time," writes Miss Buck in "Essen- 
 tials of Expository Writing." "The stages through which 
 perception passes on its way to completeness are, in their 
 essential features, the same for all normal observers." 
 
 STUDIES IN FIRST IMPRESSIONS 
 I. Step into a building and out again quickly, in imagina- 
 tion or in reality, and then record your first impression in 
 one or two sentences. 
 
 A cathedral A kitchen An attic 
 
 A grocery store An old church A barn 
 
 A. cellar A cozy parlor A schoolroom 
 
LOGICAL ARRANGEMENT OF A PICTURE 13 
 
 II. Describe in one paragraph, giving the general im- 
 pression first and following with only a few of the most sig- 
 nificant details, the glimpses you get from a rapidly moving 
 train, of a lake, a river, a wood path, a street in a village, 
 a crowd pouring from a hall, a burning house. 
 
 III. (i) Describe the way a black spot on the horizon 
 resolves itself into detail as you approach : a factory, a vil- 
 lage, a clump of trees, a farmer in the field. 
 
 (2) Watch an approaching train, steamboat, automobile, 
 horseman, cyclist or drove of cattle, and record your impres- 
 sions. 
 
 IV. Describe as in Chapter I one of the following: 
 
 1. The little store invited the weary shopper to its quiet. 
 
 2. As Vera reached the top of the hill, the rising sun 
 
 was just peeping over the horizon. 
 
 3. Alice stood gazing at the beautiful silver path the 
 
 moon was throwing across the lake. 
 
 4. Charles stood on the pier and watched the immense 
 
 steamer slowly move out of the harbor. 
 
 5. An old dust-covered bicycle stood in Grandmother's 
 
 attic. 
 6. Old Jerry sat dozing in the noon-day glare, his fish 
 
 pole slanting down by the edge of the boat. 
 7. The little baby lay on his back on the rug playing 
 with his toes. 
 
 SUGGESTIONS FOR ASSIGNMENTS 
 
 First Lesson: Describe one from I, one from II, one 
 from IV. 
 
 Second Lesson: Describe one from I, one from III, one 
 from IV. 
 
 Third Lesson: Take topic of own choosing and apply 
 principles discussed in this chapter. 
 
 NOTE: The exercises in this chapter will automatically impress upon the 
 student the importance of unity, coherence and a definite point of view- 
 

 
 CHAPTER III 
 SUPPORTING THE PICTURE 
 
 We see, then, that the picture is the starting point of all 
 writing. And we have discovered that to present a picture 
 vividly and effectively we must take into account two 
 things : first, the importance of the seemingly trivial but in 
 fact very important detail ; and, second, the importance of 
 presenting the picture in the natural, logical way in which 
 it would appear to the observer. 
 
 But to give us a sense of reality a picture should be 
 more than mere details strung together according to a 
 definite and logical arrangement. The reader should be 
 made to step into the picture, so to speak, and to feel him- 
 self a part of it. And here we find the limitations of the 
 sense of sight. 
 
 I can make this clear by an illustration. Suppose we 
 add to the purely visual details in the sketch of Uncle 
 John, the sound of crackling logs, the smell of burning 
 pine knots and the soothing sense of warmth stealing over 
 the face and body of the old man, and immediately the 
 picture springs into a thing of life. The object that we 
 have been seeing becomes a real object in a real world. 
 
 In other words, a picture should possess that element 
 which all great painters prize very highly atmosphere, 
 something which mere visual detail cannot give it. There 
 is nothing that gives this depth and tone to a picture 
 better than a judicious adjnixture of details of sound, 
 smell, taste and touch. Note The sense of reality that 
 lingers about the following descriptions: 
 
 14 
 
SUPPORTING THE PICTURE 15 
 
 SOUND: "His room was on the north side of the 
 street, and the morning sun shone in his window as he 
 lay back in the chair, grateful for its warmth. A heavy 
 cart lumbered along slowly over the worn and irregular 
 pavement ; it came to a stand at the corner, and a gang of 
 workmen swiftly emptied it of the steel rails it contained, 
 dropping them on the sidewalk one by one with a loud 
 clang which reverberated harshly far down the street. 
 From the little knot of men who were relaying the horse- 
 car track came cries of command, and then a rail would 
 drop into position, and be spiked swiftly to its place. 
 Then the laborers would draw aside while an arrested 
 horse-car urged forward again, with the regular foot- fall 
 of its one horse, as audible above the mighty roar of the 
 metropolis as the jingle of the little bell on the horse's 
 collar. At last there came from over the house-tops a 
 loud whistle of escaping steam, followed shortly by a 
 dozen similar signals, proclaiming the midday rest. A 
 rail or two more clanged down on the others, and then 
 the cart rumbled away. The workmen relaying the track 
 had already seated themselves on the curb to eat their 
 dinner, while one of them had gone to the saloon at the 
 corner for a large can of the new beer advertised in the 
 window by the gaudy lithograph of a frisky young goat 
 bearing a plump young ^goddess on his back." Brander 
 Matthews, "Vignettes of Manhattan." 
 
 SMELL: "There were whole streets and these by 
 no means the least fascinating and romantic where the 
 unwritten domestic records of every house were afloat in 
 the air outside it records not all savory or sweet, but 
 always full of interest and charm ! 
 
 "One knew at a sniff as one passed the porte-cochere 
 what kind of people lived behind and above ; what they ate 
 and what they drank, and what their trade was ; whether 
 they did their washing at home, and burned tallow or wax, 
 and mixed chicory with their coffee, and were over-fond 
 of Gruyere cheese the biggest, cheapest, plainest, and 
 most formidable cheese in the world ; whether they fried 
 with oil or butter, and liked their omelets overdone and 
 
16 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 garlic in their salad, and sipped black-currant brandy or 
 anisette as a liqueur ; and were overrun with mice, and 
 used cats or mouse traps to get rid of them, or neither; 
 and bought violets, or pinks, or gillyflowers in season, and 
 kept them too long ; and fasted on Friday with red or white 
 beans, or lentils, or had a dispensation from the Pope or 
 haply, even dispensed with the Pope's dispensation." 
 George du Manner, "Peter Ibbetson." 
 
 TASTE : "You have watched that fruit-laden tree for 
 a week. You have noted the blush beginning to creep 
 over the sunward side of those peaches on the lower limb. 
 But all your pinching heretofore has been in vain not a 
 peach responds with the well-known yielding at the pres- 
 sure of your ringers. Now, at last, here in the fork is 
 one with a blackened cavity in its side. It drops from 
 its place when your hand rests upon it. You pick it up, 
 exulting, rolling it over and over in your hands, noting 
 the downy softness and the pliancy of its form with your 
 fingers. 
 
 "Your next impulse is to carry it to your nose. When 
 its fragrance strikes your nostrils, your mouth begins to 
 water out of sympathy. A rich, clinging odor, not spicy 
 nor savoring of aromatic drugs, but rich with the plain, 
 honest sweetness of nature! 
 
 "The mouth in this case is the necessary concomitant 
 of the nose. So in goes the peach bit by bit to prolong 
 the pleasure of the eating. The rich, clinging fragrance 
 changes to a rich, clinging flavor. The delicate structure 
 seems to melt in your mouth ; all turns to juice a honied 
 draught of nature's that neither intoxicates nor cloys a 
 drink that the nectar-sipping gods might envy." George 
 F. Richardson, in Grinnell College "Unit." 
 
 TOUCH: "I found Uriah (Heep) reading a great 
 fat book, with such demonstrative attention that his lank 
 forefinger followed up every line as he read, and made 
 clammy tracks along the page (or I so fully believed) 
 like a snail. ... It was no fancy of mine about his hands, 
 I observed; for he frequently ground the palms against 
 
SUPPORTING THE PICTURE 17 
 
 each other as if to squeeze them dry and warm, besides 
 often wiping them, in a stealthy way, on his pocket-hand- 
 kerchief. . . . After shaking hands with me his hand 
 felt like a fish, in the dark he opened the door into the 
 street a very little, and crept out, and shut it, leaving me 
 to grope my way back into the house ; which cost me some 
 trouble and a fall over his stool." Dickens, "David 
 Copperfield" 
 
 STUDIES IN THE FIVE SENSES 
 I 
 
 SOUND 
 
 In the following exercises limit yourselves to one or two 
 sentences for each. 
 
 1. The sound of a garden hose in the early morning. 
 
 2. The sound of a distant surf. 
 
 3. The distant sound of running water. 
 
 4. The sound of footsteps through dead leaves. 
 
 5. The sound of unloading coal down a chute. 
 
 6. The sound of footsteps on a board walk. 
 
 7. The sound of bells striking one at night. 
 
 8. The sound of oars at twilight. 
 
 9. The sound of a train crossing a bridge. 
 
 10. The sound of a stone striking the water. 
 
 11. The sound of a woman's voice singing in a lonely 
 
 wood at the dead of night. 
 
 12. The sound of cheering from a distance. 
 
 13. The sound of wagon wheels going through a pile 
 
 of loose gravel. 
 
 14. The sound of a section hand driving spikes on the 
 
 railroad. 
 
 15. The sound of boisterous laughter coming from 
 
 another room. 
 
 16. The whinnying of a horse. 
 
i8 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 17. The sound of a train passing at full speed. 
 
 18. The sound of an automobile passing rapidly. 
 
 19. The sound of wind blowing through a keyhole. 
 
 20. The sound of wind in the telegraph wires. 
 
 21. The sound of rain on the roof. 
 
 22. The sound of a fire bell. 
 
 23. The sounds of the deepest tones of the organ. 
 
 24. The sound of dogs barking at night. 
 
 25. A nocturnal chorus of cats outside your window on 
 
 a moonlight night in June. 
 
 II 
 
 TOUCH 
 
 Limit yourself in the following . exercises to a short para- 
 graph for each. 
 
 1. Using the sense of touch alone, describe a climb up 
 
 a small hill where there are many jagged rocks 
 and much loose gravel. 
 
 2. Describe the sensation of diving into a lake fed with 
 
 cool springs. 
 
 "The cool silver shock of a plunge in a pool's 
 
 living water." Browning. 
 
 (If you have never dived describe the sensation of 
 entering the lake "by inches"). 
 
 3. Describe the sensation of running across your back 
 
 yard without hat and coat on a bright blustering 
 day in January. 
 
 4. Describe the sensations felt while working in the 
 
 field in the sun on a tropical day in July. 
 
 5. Imagine you are stricken blind and are amusing 
 
 yourself with pets given you by friends. Describe 
 in less than ten words for each, the sensation to 
 the hand of the following: a bantam hen, three 
 baby chicks, a Newfoundland dog, a small kitten, 
 a sheep and a pony. 
 
SUPPORTING THE PICTURE 19 
 
 -* 
 
 III 
 
 TASTE AND SMELL 
 
 These exercises should be longer than the others, in many 
 cases a page or two in length. 
 
 1. Describe a boiled dinner on the farm. 
 
 2. Describe the walking home from church through a 
 
 part of town where housewives are busy getting 
 dinner. 
 
 3. Describe the eating of a watermelon picked fresh 
 
 on the vines. 
 
 4. Describe the cooking of wieners and coffee at a 
 
 campfire, and the roasting of marshmallows. 
 
 5. Describe the making of candy in your mother's 
 
 kitchen. 
 
 6. Describe your experience, away from home, at a 
 
 first-class hotel, in ordering and being served with 
 an unusually appetizing meal, after you have been 
 living on crackers and cheese for several days be- 
 cause of shortage of pocket money. 
 
 7. Describe your experience at a cheap lunch counter 
 
 in a dirty little "joint" where you are forced to 
 get a bite between trains. 
 
 IV 
 
 ALL FIVE SENSES 
 
 I should rank the five senses in the following order both in 
 regard to their difficulty for description and in regard to their 
 effectiveness for conveying images to readers: ist, sight 
 when applied to objects in motion; 2nd, sound; 3rd, smell; 
 4th, taste; 5th, touch; 6th, sight as applied to objects at rest, 
 i. e., outline, form, color, etc. 
 
 The most effective combination and the one easiest to 
 handle is a combination of the first and second in the list 
 
20 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 given above. Where the art of writing has especial advan- 
 tages over the art of painting is in its power to suggest sound 
 and motion.* Bearing that fact in mind it would be well for 
 you to make it a special point when choosing scenes to intro- 
 duce into your stories to select those which give the greatest 
 opportunity for describing sound and motion. In describing 
 the following scenes, while making use more or less of all 
 five senses, select the moment when sound and activity are at 
 their height. 
 
 1. Passing of a fire wagon down a crowded street. 
 
 2. A busy hour in the factory. 
 
 3. The unloading of a steamer. 
 
 4. The children pouring from the school door at recess 
 
 time. 
 
 5. A thunder storm. 
 
 6. A blustering March day in the suburbs. 
 
 7. A forest fire. 
 
 8. When Brown hit a three-bagger in the ninth. 
 
 9. At the fair. 
 
 10. The waiting-room at the Railroad Station. 
 
 * "According to Aristotle it would seem that though the arts should scorn 
 none of the abundance and variety of images they should nevertheless rely 
 not so much on images that are purely tactual, visual, or gustatory as upon 
 those which are auditory and motor." Prof. Raymond M7 Weaver of Co- 
 lumbia University in Eng. Journ., February, 1919. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 THE STORY EMERGES FROM THE PICTURE 
 
 A dervish traveling alone in Arabia met two merchants 
 who seemed to be in some sort of trouble. 
 
 "You have lost a camel?" he said to the merchants. 
 
 "Indeed we have," they replied. 
 
 "He was blind in the right eye, I believe," said the 
 dervish. 
 
 "He was." 
 
 "And lame in the left fore leg?" 
 
 "Yes," answered the merchants joyfully. 
 
 "Had he not lost a front tooth?" 
 
 "He had," both replied. 
 
 "He was loaded with wheat on one side?" 
 
 "True." 
 
 "And with honey on the other?" 
 
 "Most certainly he was. Will you please tell us where 
 he is?" 
 
 The dervish said he could not. When they asked why, 
 he said he had not seen the camel. He was straightway 
 haled before a judge. When the trial came off, he ex- 
 plained how he knew about the camel to the judge's 
 complete satisfaction, and was given his liberty. 
 
 How interesting that sounds! How eager we are to 
 hear the sequel which explains how the Arab constructed 
 his hypothesis from such slender clues as the ants and 
 bees and other signs along the trail ! This ancient chron- 
 icle, the earliest of all detective stories, has been introduced 
 here in order to impress upon you the fact that if you 
 wish to become a good story writer you must first of all 
 
 21 
 
22 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 become a good detective. For the work of a short story 
 writer and that of a detective are exceedingly similar. 
 The chief difference lies in their angles of approach ; for 
 while the business of the detective is to construct hy- 
 potheses from clues, the business of the story writer is to 
 furnish clues for the reader to draw hypotheses from. 
 But in both cases chief emphasis is laid, not upon what 
 comes into the picture, but upon what is suggested by the 
 picture. The importance of this truth cannot be im- 
 pressed too much upon you. The very heart and marrow 
 of all our greatest fiction is SUGGESTION. 
 
 How much more interesting it is to read that John 
 Simpkins wore no collar and that his neck needed shaving 
 than to be told that he was out of a job! How much 
 more interesting to be led by the writer to a room where 
 we may find two overturned chairs, a half dozen poker 
 chips, a pistol, and a hat with a hole in it, than to be told 
 that a brawl had occurred in a western town! 
 
 In the following studies it is not what you tell but what 
 you suggest that counts. It is only the significant detail 
 that you should look for. We are now concerned not 
 with denotation but with connotation. 
 
 STUDIES IN SUGGESTION 
 I 
 
 Description of Place 
 
 Describe the following scenes, taking care not to have any 
 
 people appear in them. 
 
 I. Describe a room in such a way as to show that the 
 occupant is a young lady, who is a student, is 
 rich, thinks much of style, is rather frivolous, 
 hates study, and has red hair. 
 
STORY EMERGES FROM THE PICTURE 23 
 
 2. Describe a library so as to show that the owner is 
 
 something of a hermit, who is deeply wrapt up in 
 one phase of study, believes he has a message, 
 but is impractical, and has weak eyes. 
 
 3. Describe a kitchen so as to show that the cook is 
 
 Irish, is a Catholic, is very sentimental, very neat, 
 but behind the times in her methods. 
 
 4. Describe a shoe-repair shop to show that the shoe- 
 
 maker is a foreigner, is a socialist, opposed to war, 
 is something of a reader, and is lame. 
 
 5. Describe the interior of a cabin in the woods so as 
 
 to show that the dwelling is a long way from 
 civilization, and is occupied by a retired sea- 
 faring man who lives alone and subsists largely 
 on the results of his hunting and fishing. 
 
 6. Describe a nursery so as to show that the family 
 
 has one small son, who has a special private nurse, 
 and is greatly pampered and spoiled. 
 
 7. Describe a hat rack full of hats and caps so as to 
 
 show that a large family dwells in the house, that 
 they are all interested in out-of-door sports, are 
 in general slovenly and careless in their habits, 
 and while not possessed of much worldly goods 
 have abundance of health and good spirits. Show 
 that the father enjoys gardening. 
 
 8. Describe a lonely spot of ground by a pond in the 
 
 woods so as to show that a deer has been killed 
 there, and that the hunter was an Indian with a 
 gun, and was accompanied by a dog with a long 
 tail. 
 
 9. Describe a village church in such a way as to show 
 
 that the congregation are Baptists, are not very 
 well to do, but that one member of the church is 
 very wealthy, and that he has lost his wife or some 
 other member of his family within the last five 
 years; also show if you can that the congregation 
 
24 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 is noted for its singing, or at least gives an im- 
 portant place to song in worship. 
 
 IO. Describe a village store so as to show that the village 
 is behind the times, is largely foreign in popula- 
 tion, contains many old people, and is rather 
 famous for the honesty of its citizens. Also that 
 the storekeeper is good-natured and a little careless. 
 
 II 
 
 Description of Persons 
 
 In the foregoing exercises you were required to suggest 
 things about people who were absent without letting them 
 enter into the picture. Now reverse the process and suggest 
 what has happened by inferences that may be drawn from 
 the action of the persons themselves. 
 
 Here is a good example of character description to suggest 
 something that has happened, taken from the novel "Adam 
 Bede." You can see that Adam has gone through a terrible 
 ordeal, though if you have not read the book you may not, 
 of course, guess that one of his great illusions has been 
 shattered his faith in Hetty. 
 
 "You would hardly have known it was Adam without being 
 told. His face has got thinner this last week; he has the 
 sunken eyes, the neglected beard of a man just risen from 
 a sick-bed. His heavy black hair hangs over his forehead, 
 and there is no active impulse in him which inclines him to 
 push it off, that he may be more awake to what is around 
 him. He has one arm over the back of the chair, and he 
 seems to be looking down at his clasped hands." 
 
 "Adam Bede" by George Eliot. 
 
 I. Show by his actions that a young man who is wait- 
 ing on a corner is a student at a military academy 
 returning for his Christmas vacation, that the car 
 is late and the day is cold. 
 
STORY EMERGES FROM THE PICTURE 25 
 
 2. Describe the reserved lady 'in the next pew, ob- 
 
 served during a service which moved her greatly. 
 
 3. Describe a business man, neat and capable, seated 
 
 at his desk, so as to show that he is a man of 
 great efficiency, and has made a momentous deci- 
 sion. 
 
 4. Describe a patient workman eating his noonday 
 
 lunch by his wheelbarrow so as to show that he 
 is satisfied with his job. 
 
 5. Describe a grandfather, contentedly seated by the 
 
 fireplace, smoking his evening pipe, so as to show 
 that he is thinking of bygone times. (Do not 
 tell us his thoughts.) 
 
 6. Describe a student entering a room, in such a way 
 
 as to show that he has just returned from a foot- 
 ball game where his team lost. 
 
 7. Describe the same student entering his room so as 
 
 to show that he has just come from an examina- 
 tion where he flunked. 
 
 8. Describe the manners of a country boy so as to 
 
 show that it is his first visit to the city. 
 
 9. Describe a city boy in the country, to show that he 
 
 has never been on a farm before. 
 
 10. Contrast so as to show their character the way two 
 
 students enter a class room when they are late, 
 or the behavior of two boys during a football 
 game. 
 
 11. Describe the new minister observed during his first 
 
 sermon, so as to show that he is young, modest, 
 but understands the human heart. 
 
 12. Describe a small boy at a circus so as to show that 
 
 he is a typical "boy." 
 
 13. At an art gallery you remain for five minutes before 
 
 a great picture like "The Song of the Lark." 
 Relate the actions of one person who was very 
 critical and yet did not say a word. Contrast 
 
26 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 him with a noisy group who were making many 
 criticisms regarding the work of art. 
 14. Describe a young man, cap in hand, sitting in a 
 parlor, in such a way as to show that he is bash- 
 ful, is waiting for his best girl, and that she is 
 late. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 THE STORY EMERGES FROM DIALOGUE 
 
 In the first chapter reference was made to a definition 
 of the short story as a series of pictures fastened together 
 by dialogue. You have been for some time producing 
 pictures of various types, and you will probably hail as 
 a welcome change an opportunity of trying your hand at 
 the somewhat more complicated problem of making people 
 talk. 
 
 If you wish to handle dialogue successfully there are 
 two cardinal principles that you must never forget: one 
 is that you should be acquainted with your characters, and 
 the other is that you should keep your eye on them while 
 they talk. 
 
 The failure of many beginners to make their characters 
 talk naturally is due to the fact that they do not know 
 their characters any better than their readers do. A full 
 discussion of the methods of getting acquainted with your 
 characters will be reserved until a later chapter, but it 
 should be perfectly obvious to any student that without 
 sympathetic realization of the inner motives and feelings 
 of a character, an accurate rendering of his spoken dis- 
 course is impossible. 
 
 Another cause of failure in handling dialogue success- 
 fully comes from taking your eye off the characters while 
 they talk. Any one who plays golf knows what happens 
 when he removes his eye from the ball when he swings 
 his club. What is true in golf is doubly true in dialogue. 
 
 27 
 
28 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 As soon as you cease to visualize the character who is 
 talking, his words are likely to cease to become his words 
 and to become anybody's words most probably your own. 
 That is one of the many reasons why long speeches in a 
 story are bad. The writer takes his eye off his character 
 and begins to make a speech himself. Even Mr. Wells, 
 a past master of the art of fiction, has frequently fallen 
 into that error. Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, and 
 Arnold Bennett, on the other hand, never lose sight of 
 their characters. 
 
 Some writer has said that when writing dialogue you 
 should enter into each character in turn. I am inclined 
 to counsel against that. Provided you know your charac- 
 ters all the advantages that would accrue from this "sub- 
 jective" method can be obtained by careful visualization, 
 and, what is very important, many of the pitfalls of the 
 method avoided. Therefore I say, take the attitude of 
 the interested observer. Watch the facial expressions and 
 gestures of your characters. Let them stand before you 
 as living breathing personalities, and then try faithfully 
 to convey to your readers the vivid impression which they 
 make on you. In other words, make use of the powers 
 of visualization developed in the exercises in the opening 
 chapters of this book. 
 
 As soon as the talking begins, watch intently the "re- 
 action" of each character on the other. Much of this 
 reaction will naturally be without significance, foolish, 
 inane. Do not record every bit, but look hard for the 
 significant, the suggestive, the striking facial expression 
 and gesture. This little element of "stage business" is 
 one of the "small things that make the large differences," 
 and a student cannot give too much attention to it. "From 
 most amateur narratives," writes Miss Blanche Colton 
 
THE STORY EMERGES FROM DIALOGUE 29 
 
 Williams in "A Handbook on Story Writing," "I should 
 judge that young writers regard gesture and business as 
 conventionalized devices for propping the remarks of the 
 characters. 'So speaking, she drew herself to her full 
 height/ 'He thoughtfully flicked the ashes from his cigar,' 
 'With a glad cry she threw her arms about him,' and 
 other statements equally venerable suggest by their faith- 
 ful presence that the student relies upon the hackneyed." 
 Note in contrast to such amateur methods the consci- 
 entious nicety used by the real masters of the art, as 
 illustrated in the dialogues at the close of this chapter. 
 Read these selections and see how far they possess the 
 two cardinal requirements of good dialogue : Naturalness, 
 and inter estingness. If you do so you will come to the 
 following conclusions: Not only should you know your 
 character; not only should you visualize him when he 
 talks; but to these two rules, you should add one more: 
 Speed up the conversation; make it sprightly. Here are 
 a few suggestions that may help you to do this : 
 
 1. Make your speeches short. No one in real life talks 
 in long sentences, and no one except on platforms makes 
 ten minute speeches. 
 
 2. Do not hesitate to have one speaker break in on 
 another. Interruptions and rapidity in "taking one's cues" 
 keep the dialogue lively. 
 
 3. Instead of answering a question, have the character 
 addressed ask another. 
 
 4. Instead of a character answering a question with a 
 statement of what was -done, have him tell why it was 
 done. 
 
 5. Have a character ignore the question and anticipate 
 the next and answer that instead. 
 
 6. Have a character answer a question by using differ- 
 
30 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 ent words from those of the questioner. (See the open- 
 ing scene in Hamlet for an example.) 
 
 In short, unless you have a special reason for making 
 your dialogue move slowly you should move along in your 
 conversation just as you go up a flight of stairs in a hurry 
 two and three steps at a time. 
 
 The following dialogue between a father and a son is 
 taken from The Harbor, by Ernest Poole, and is written 
 in such a way as to show that the son has studied in 
 Europe and is ambitious to become a writer, and that the 
 father is very reticent,, understands nothing about the 
 profession of writing, and yet is very anxious for his son 
 to succeed, and that both of them dearly love the mother 
 who has died recently: 
 
 But what an embarrassing job it is to get acquainted 
 with one's father ! When Sue had left us after dinner, 
 there had been a few brief remarks and then this long 
 tense silence. I, too, pretended to be reading. 
 
 "Your mother thought a lot of you, boy." He spoke 
 at last so abruptly that I looked up at him with a start, 
 and saw him watching me anxiously. 
 
 "Yes, sir." I looked quickly down, and our eyes did 
 not meet again after that." 
 
 "It was her pluck that kept you in Paris while she 
 was dying." 
 
 I choked: "I know." 
 
 "You don't know not how she wanted you back 
 you'll never know. I wanted to write you to come home." 
 
 "I wish you had!" 
 
 "She wouldn't hear of it !" 
 
 "I see." Another silence. Why couldn't I think of 
 something to say? 
 
 "She kept every letter you wrote her. They're up^ there 
 in her bureau drawer. She was always reading 'em 
 
THE STORY EMERGES FROM DIALOGUE 31 
 
 over and over. She thought a lot of your writing, boy 
 of what you would do when when she was dead." The 
 last came out almost fiercely. I waited a moment, got 
 hold of myself. 
 
 "Yes, sir," I brought out at last. 
 
 "I hope you'll make it all worth while." 
 
 "I will. I'll try. I'll do my best." I did not look up, 
 for I could still feel his anxious eyes upon my face. 
 
 "Do you want to go back to Paris?" 
 
 "No, sir ! I want to stay right here !" What was the 
 matter with my fool voice? 
 
 "Have you got any plans for your writing here ? How 
 are you going about it to start?" 
 
 "Well, sir, to begin with I've got some stuff I did 
 abroad." 
 
 "Stories?" 
 
 "Not exactly " 
 
 "Poems?" My father's look was tragic. 
 
 "No." 
 
 And I tried to explain what I had been doing. But 
 my attempts to tell him of my work in Paris were as 
 forced and as pathetic as his efforts to attend. More and 
 more halting grew our talk, and it ended in a silence that 
 seemed to have no end. Then I went to the fireplace, 
 knocked the ashes out of my pipe, refilled it and relit it. 
 When I returned he was reading his book, and with deep 
 relief I took up mine. That much of it was over ! 
 Ernest Poole, "The Harbor." 
 
 STUDIES IN DIALOGUE 
 
 I. Write a conversation between two college students so 
 as to show that they are roommates, and that one is a foot- 
 ball player of unusual ability, but rather weak in English and 
 very conscious of his limitations; that the other is of a 
 cheery, sociable nature, somewhat given to wasting time, 
 although exceedingly proud of his modest but famous room- 
 mate. 
 
32 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 2. Write a conversation between a minister and a little 
 boy so as to show that the minister is absent-minded, well 
 meaning but doesn't understand small boys; and that the 
 little boy is mischievous, doesn't know much about Jeremiah 
 or Bunyan or Izaak Walton, but knows all about the best 
 swimming places and knows the batting average of all the 
 star players in the American League. 
 
 3. A college man and a boarding-school girl went canoe- 
 ing in August on a salt water inlet. Losing all track of time 
 they were left by the ebbing tide aground in the salt marsh, 
 surrounded by acres of bottomless mud crawling with small 
 sea beasts. A violent thunder storm approached. What did 
 they say and do during the first few minutes after discov- 
 ering their plight? Don't try to rescue them. That is an- 
 other story. 
 
 4. Write a conversation between a negro, who has had 
 no education but who has obtained possession of one of your 
 textbooks which contain large words, and one of the members 
 of your college faculty. 
 
 5. Write a conversation between two characters taken 
 from different novels which you have read. 
 
 6. Write a conversation between a man and a small boy 
 so as to show that the man is a burglar, has had a very inter- 
 esting though criminal past, and has once been a star on a 
 high school football team in his little home town of Georgia, 
 and that the little boy is alone in the house, is expecting an 
 uncle and has a new football which he is very anxious to 
 initiate. 
 
 7. Write an imaginary conversation between two rather 
 dignified characters you know, possibly a member of the 
 college faculty, and the superintendent of your home school, 
 if they should meet in some unconventional place such as at 
 a cheap lunch counter, or in a side show at the fair. 
 
 8. Write a conversation between two persons who meet 
 at a railway station, so as to show that one is a farmer who 
 has recently shipped a loa'd of hogs and feels good-natured 
 
THE STORY EMERGES FROM DIALOGUE 33 
 
 toward all the wcrld; and that the other is a young woman, 
 waiting for a train which is late, that she has just received 
 a telegram announcing her mother's death, and that she is 
 very intense and refined, yet very brave and desires to keep 
 her grief hidden from strangers. 
 
 9. Study "The House Opposite" as a model of effective 
 dialogue. 
 
 THE HOUSE OPPOSITE * 
 
 ANTHONY HOPE 
 
 We were talking over the sad case of young Algy 
 Groom ; I was explaining to Mrs. Hilary exactly what had 
 happened. 
 
 "His father gave him," said I, "a hundred pounds, to 
 keep him for three months in Paris while he learnt 
 French." 
 
 "And very liberal too," said Mrs. Hilary. 
 
 "It depends where you dine," said I. "However, that 
 question did not arise, for Algy went to the Grand Prix 
 the day after he arrived 
 
 "A horse race?" asked Mrs. Hilary, with great contempt. 
 
 "Certainly the competitors are horses," I Ire joined. [ 
 "And there he, most unfortunately, lost the whole sum, 
 without learning any French to speak of." 
 
 "How disgusting!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilary, and little 
 Miss Phyllis gasped in horror. 
 
 "Oh, well," said Hilary, with much bravery (as it 
 struck me), "his father's very well off." 
 
 "That doesn't make it a bit better," declared his wife. 
 
 "There's no mortal sin in a little betting, my dear. Boys 
 will be boys 
 
 "And even that," I (interposed* "wouldn't matter if we 
 could only prevent girls from being girls." 
 
 Mrs. Hilary, taking no notice whatever of me, pro- 
 nounced sentence. "He grossly deceived his father," she 
 said, and took up her embroidery. 
 
 * Copyright, 1901, by Henry Holt and Company. 
 
34 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 "Most of us have grossly deceived our parents before 
 now," said I. "We should all have to confess something 
 of the sort." 
 
 "I hope you're speaking for your own sex," observed 
 Mrs. Hilary. 
 
 "Not more than yours," said I. "You used to meet 
 Hilary on the pier when your father wasn't there you 
 told me so." 
 
 "Father had authorized my acquaintance with Hilary." 
 
 "I hate quibbles," said I. 
 
 There was a pause. Mrs. Hilary stitched: Hilary ob- 
 served that the day was fine. 
 
 "Now," I pursued carelessly, "even Miss Phyllis here 
 has been known to deceive her parents." 
 
 "Oh, let the poor child alone, anyhow," said Mrs. 
 Hilary. 
 
 "Haven't you?" said I to Miss Phyllis. 
 
 I expected an indignant denial. So did Mrs. Hilary, 
 for she remarked with a sympathetic air, 
 
 "Never mind his folly, Phyllis dear." 
 
 "Haven't you, Miss Phyllis?" said I. 
 
 Miss Phyllis grew very red. Fearing that I was caus- 
 ing her pain, I was about to observe on the prospects of 
 a Dissolution when a shy smile spread over Miss Phyllis's 
 face. 
 
 "Yes, once," said she, with a timid glance at Mrs. 
 Hilary, who immediately laid down her embroidery. 
 
 "Out with it," I cried triumphantly. "Come along, Miss 
 Phyllis. We won't tell, honour bright!" 
 
 Miss Phyllis looked again at Mrs. Hilary. Mrs. Hilary 
 is human. 
 
 "Well, Phyllis dear," said she, "after all this time I 
 shouldn't think it my duty 
 
 "It happened only last summer," said Miss Phyllis. 
 
 Mrs. Hilary looked rather put out. 
 
 "Still," she began. 
 
 "We must have the story," said I. 
 
 Little Miss Phyllis put down the sock she had been 
 knitting. 
 
THE STORY EMERGES FROM DIALOGUE 35 
 
 "I was very naughty," she remarked. "It was my last 
 term at school." 
 
 "I know that age," said I to Hilary. 
 
 "My window looked out towards the street. You're 
 sure you won't tell ? Well, there was a house oppo- 
 site 
 
 "And a young man in it," said I. 
 
 "How did you know that?" asked Miss Phyllis, blush- 
 ing immensely. 
 
 "No girls' school can keep up its numbers without one," 
 I explained. 
 
 "Well, there was one, anyhow," said Miss Phyllis. 
 "And I and two other girls went to a course of lectures 
 at the Town Hall on literature or something of that kind. 
 We used to have a shilling given us for our tickets." 
 
 "Precisely," said I. "A hundred pounds!" 
 
 "No, a shilling," corrected Miss Phyllis. "A hundred 
 
 pounds! How absurd, Mr. Carter! Well, one day I 
 j " 
 
 "You're sure you wish to go on, Phyllis?" asked Mrs. 
 Hilary. 
 
 "You're afraid, Mrs. Hilary," said I, severely. 
 
 "Nonsense, Mr. Carter. I thought Phyllis might 
 
 "I don't mind going on," said Miss Phyllis, smiling. 
 "One day I I lost the other girls." 
 
 "The other girls are always easy to lose," I observed. 
 
 "And on the way there, oh, you know, he went to 
 the lectures." 
 
 "The young dog," said I, nudging Hilary. "I should 
 think he did!" 
 
 "On the way there it became rather rather foggy." 
 
 "Blessings on it !" I cried ; for Miss Phyllis's demure 
 but roguish expression delighted me. 
 
 "And he he found me in the fog." 
 
 "What are you doing, Mr. Carter ?" cried Mrs. Hilary, 
 angrily. 
 
 "Nothing, nothing," said I. I believe I had winked at 
 Hilary. 
 
 "And and we couldn't find the Town Hall." 
 
36 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 "9h, Phyllis!" groaned Mrs. Hilary. 
 
 Little Miss Phyllis looked alarmed for a moment. Then 
 she smiled. 
 
 "But we found the confectioner's," she said. 
 
 "The Grand Prix," said I, pointing my ringer at Hilary. 
 
 "He had no money at all," said Miss Phyllis. 
 
 "It's ideal !" said I. 
 
 "And and we had tea on on " 
 
 "The shilling?" I cried in rapture. 
 
 "Yes," said little Miss Phyllis, "on the shilling. And 
 he saw me home." 
 
 "Details, please," said I. 
 
 Miss Phyllis shook her head. 
 
 "And left me at the door." 
 
 "Was it still foggy?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes, or he wouldn't have " 
 
 "Now what did he ?" 
 
 "Come to the door, Mr. Carter," said Miss Phyllis, 
 with obvious wariness. "Oh, it was such fun!" 
 
 "I'm sure it was." 
 
 "No, I mean when we were examined in the lectures. 
 I bought the local paper, you know, and read it up, and 
 I got top marks easily, and Miss Green wrote to mother 
 to say how well I had done." 
 
 "It all ends most satisfactorily," I observed. 
 
 "Yes, didn't it?" said little Miss Phyllis. 
 
 Mrs. Hilary was grave again. 
 
 "And you never told your mother, Phyllis ?" she asked. 
 
 "No-no, Cousin Mary," said Miss Phyllis. 
 
 I rose and stood with my back to the fire. Little Miss 
 Phyllis took up her sock again, but a smile still played 
 about the corners of her mouth. 
 
 "I wonder," said I, looking up at the ceiling, "what 
 happened at the door?" Then, as no one spoke, I 
 added, 
 
 "Pooh ! I know what happened at the door." 
 
 "I'm not going to tell you anything more," said Miss 
 Phyllis. 
 
 "But I should like to hear it in your own " 
 
THE STORY EMERGES FROM DIALOGUE 37 
 
 Miss Phyllis was gone ! She had suddenly risen and 
 run from the room. 
 
 "It did happen at the door," said I. 
 
 "Fancy Phyllis !" mused Mrs. Hilary. 
 
 "I hope," said I, "that it will be a lesson for you." 
 
 "I shall have to keep my eye on her," said Mrs. Hilary. 
 
 "You can't do it," said I in easy confidence. I had no 
 fear of little Miss Phyllis being done out of her recrea- 
 tions. "Meanwhile," I pursued, "the important thing is 
 this : my parallel is obvious and complete." 
 
 "There is not the least likeness," said Mrs. Hilary, 
 sharply. 
 
 "As a hundred pounds are to a shilling, so is the Grand 
 Prix to the young man opposite," I observed, taking my 
 hat, and holding out my hand to Mrs. Hilary. 
 
 "I am very angry with you," she said. "You've made 
 the child think there was nothing wrong in it." 
 
 "Oh, nonsense!" said I. "Look how she enjoyed tell- 
 ing it." 
 
 Then, not heeding Mrs. Hilary, I launched into an 
 apostrophe. 
 
 "O divine House Opposite!" I cried. "Charming 
 House Opposite! What is a man's own dull, uneventful 
 home, compared with that Glorious House Opposite! 
 If only I might dwell for ever in the House Opposite!" 
 
 "I haven't the least notion what you mean," remarked 
 Mrs. Hilary, stiffly. "I suppose it's something silly- 
 
 I looked at her in some puzzle. 
 
 "Have you no longing for the House Opposite?" I 
 asked. 
 
 Mrs. Hilary looked at me. Her eyes ceased to be abso- 
 lutely blank. She put her arm through Hilary's and 
 answered gently, 
 
 "I don't want the House Opposite." 
 
 "Ah," said I, giving my hat a brush, "but maybe you 
 remember the House when it was Opposite?" 
 
 Mrs. Hilary, one arm still in Hilary's, gave me her hand. 
 
 She blushed and smiled. 
 
38 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 "Well," said she, "it was your fault : so I won't scold 
 Phyllis." 
 
 "No, don't, my dear," said Hilary, with a laugh. 
 
 As for me, I went downstairs, and, in absence of mind, 
 bade my cabman to drive to the House Opposite. But I 
 never got there. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 GATHERING MATERIAL FOR STORIES 
 
 In the exercises of the first five chapters you have been 
 gradually approaching the field of narrative writing. In 
 the exercises on page 20, sound and motion, and again 
 on pages 22-26, studies in inference, the story behind the 
 picture has almost burst through the thin partition that 
 divides description from narration. In the Studies in 
 Dialogue (pages 31-33) the story has actually begun to 
 show signs of organic life. 
 
 If you are a born story-teller you have already begun 
 to feel that inner urge to break forth from the bonds of 
 the chrysalis stage and try your wings as a full-fledged 
 weaver of tales. But many of those who never feel this 
 inner urge possess the rudimentary instincts of the story- 
 teller lying dormant and undeveloped within them. 
 
 Due to our highly organized and ultramechanical age 
 too little has been done to develop and bring this instinct 
 out into the light. Moreover, the very exigencies of our 
 present-day educational program which aims to enlarge 
 the boundaries of the individual's experience by com- 
 municating to him the accumulated stores of human 
 experience of the past has well nigh smothered in him 
 whatever artistic impulse he may have originally pos- 
 sessed. In the face of the wealth and richness of this 
 second-hand experience, the individual tends to lose sight 
 of his own immediate contacts and it is these immediate 
 contacts with life his own personal reactions to his sur- 
 
 39 
 
40 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 roundings that differentiate the real artist, and inciden- 
 tally the real story-teller, from the rest of human kind. 
 
 It is the purpose of this chapter to re-open for you those 
 closed avenues of approach which may lead to a direct 
 contact with life. It will not be necessary for you to 
 leave your college and to go forthwith and live in the 
 slums, or go and sail to the South Sea islands, or take a 
 trip through Europe to obtain this direct contact with life. 
 While a period of travel and varied experiences may be 
 of considerable value to a writer, it is by no means 
 essential. Every one has within his own reach an abun- 
 dance of ready-made material for story writing, provided 
 he understands just what to look for in the life about him. 
 The so-called "literary genius" is usually nothing more 
 than the man who has the power of seeing the dramatic 
 in the trivial little incidents of life, and, in addition to 
 that, the power of putting what he sees into words. What 
 you should try to cultivate at this stage, then, is the power 
 of seeing the dramatic in the life about you. As the sun's 
 white light may be separated by means of the prismatic 
 lens into the seven colors of the rainbow, so we shall find 
 that what is vaguely called "the dramatic in life" can be 
 separated into five dramatic elements. - When thus divided 
 we shall find it much more easily comprehended. Take 
 an inventory, then, of the extent of the power you may 
 possess of observing the dramatic elements in life. 
 
 First of all, there is ACTION. Anything which moves 
 has the germ of drama in it. Are you interested in travel, 
 mountain-climbing, exploring, hunting, sailing the seven 
 seas? Do you stop and stare when crowds pour in or 
 out of a great coliseum, or when the troops go marching 
 up the avenue, or when wild horses go dashing over the 
 plain ? 
 
GATHERING MATERIAL FOR STORIES 41 
 
 If you love action you possess the power of seeing the 
 first, albeit the most elementary, of the dramatic elements 
 of life. Scott and Cooper possessed this power to a great 
 degree. Among short story writers we naturally think 
 of Stevenson, O. Henry, Jack London, and Kipling. 
 Adventure stories are built on action. 
 
 Second comes CONCENTRATION. Are you inter- 
 ested in seeing life at its intense moments? When the 
 boy gets his first pair of trousers, when he earns his first 
 dollar, when he wins his first promotion; when the girl 
 delivers the Gettysburg Address before the whole village, 
 when she gets her first love letter, her first proposal of 
 marriage; when the man sees bankruptcy staring him in 
 the face ; when the criminal faces disclosure of his crime ; 
 when the hero faces death for his country all these are 
 dramatic moments, and furnish excellent material for 
 fiction. Writers who possessed to an almost uncanny 
 degree the power of seeing the concentrated moments in 
 life are Poe, Hawthorne, Maupassant, Conrad, Dostoiev- 
 sky, and Hugo. 
 
 Third comes CAUSE and EFFECT. When you see 
 an old woman coming from a dark prison building with 
 tears in her eyes, does your mind start bridging the gap 
 between those tears and the cause of those tears? When 
 you see two men whispering together on a street corner 
 do you try to fgrrst out their secret? When you see a 
 silent man appearing day after day in the same room of 
 an art gallery without brush or sketching pad, what do 
 you infer? Until you see the chain that connects cause 
 and effect and lifts the little trivial things of life into 
 larger significance you have not the story-writing instinct. 
 Things are never dramatic because they just happen. To 
 be truly dramatic they must proceed from known causes 
 
42 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 by logical, although often recondite, steps to logical, al- 
 though often surprising, results. 
 
 Perhaps no writers possessed this power to greater 
 degree than A. Conan Doyle and Poe, among short-story 
 writers, and George Eliot and Hardy among novelists. 
 
 Fourth comes HUMAN INTEREST. Anything 
 which is human, which reveals character in a living, 
 human way, is dramatic. Do old memories stir within 
 you when you pass a school at recess time and see the 
 boys and girls marching out, when you pass an old swim- 
 ming hole in summer, or see a family group gather round 
 the hearth on a winter's night ? The little boy who builds 
 an Indian wigwam in his back-yard, the old grandmother 
 who sits and sews in the chimney corner, the young man 
 who loves to fall in love, but cannot make his love stay 
 put, all are sources more or less of human interest. ' 
 
 The study of human foibles and fancies and human 
 weaknesses makes good material from which the dramatic 
 fiction of the milder type is spun. All character writers 
 and local-color writers stress this side of the dramatic. 
 Mark Twain, Bret Harte, Charles Dickens, in both the 
 novel and the short story, illustrate this dramatic element 
 at its best. 
 
 Fifth and most important of all comes CONFLICT. 
 Do you love a fight, even a dog fight or a chicken fight? 
 Do you feel an impulse to crowd up on the outer fringe 
 of the circle and see how a scrap between two newsboys 
 turns out? Do you like contests of physical skill, such 
 as the out-of-door games and sports of your college? 
 Above all, are you interested in the struggle of two wills? 
 In business, in love, in war, in a thousand different forms 
 such struggles are to be found on every hand. When man 
 is not struggling with some one else for mastery, he may 
 
GATHERING MATERIAL FOR STORIES 43 
 
 be engaged in a struggle between two contending motives 
 or forces within himself. A maiden with a divided 
 allegiance between duty to her parents and love for her 
 sweetheart; a young man with a struggle between his 
 desire for wealth, and desire for justice these and count- 
 less other examples of inner conflicts make the very es- 
 sence of the drama and hence of the short story. Hugo, 
 Shakespeare, and Dumas furnish excellent samples of this 
 element of conflict. Among short-story writers we think 
 of Jack London and Rex Beach. 
 
 It would be well at this stage for the student to arm 
 himself with a "familiar note book" and spend a week 
 jotting down ideas for plots. There is no need to draw 
 distinctions between the various dramatic elements; any- 
 thing that has the seed of drama in it should be grist 
 falling to his mill. There are three sources from which 
 he may draw almost endless numbers of plots. 
 
 First, the autobiographical source. Many men have 
 definitely prepared themselves for fiction writing by 
 jotting down sketches of their own lives. Anthony Trol- 
 lope says that two things made him a novelist : one the 
 habit of day dreaming ; the other, the habit of keeping a 
 journal without cessation throughout most of his life. 
 Daudet consciously prepared for his life-work by writing 
 his "Boyhood Sketches." Arnold Bennett affirms that all 
 the greatest novels are autobiographical in nature. 
 TurgeniefFs "Sportsman's Sketches" were a direct pre- 
 lude to his fiction writing. 
 
 Second, personal observation. William Dean Howells 
 has been accused of sitting in his study and taking down, 
 verbatim, the conversation of his wife and her callers in 
 the adjoining room. Hawthorne kept notebooks of his 
 
44 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 observations; Dickens took notes of what he saw in his 
 journeys. Professional writers are always taking notes 
 of what they see, and the more notes one takes the more 
 he sees. 
 
 Third, the newspapers. If one wishes to go beyond 
 the range of his own personal experience and his own 
 personal observations, he will find that the newspaper will 
 furnish him all the range he needs. This does not mean 
 to imply that youthful writers should cultivate the news- 
 paper reading habit. Nothing is less conducive to good 
 writing than the habit of wasting time over a newspaper. 
 But an occasional hour spent in going through newspaper 
 files, looking for ideas for plots, will usually prove very 
 fruitful in results. O. Henry got many of his ideas for 
 plots from the newspaper. Browning took the theme of 
 his "Ring and the Book" from a newspaper bought at an 
 Italian bookstall. Observe this caution, however: go to 
 the newspapers for plots but not for style. One of the 
 faults of our present-day fiction is due to the fact that 
 too many of our story writers have received their only 
 training as newspaper reporters. 
 
 EXERCISES IN GATHERING IDEAS FOR STORIES 
 
 I. Material drawn from personal experience. 
 
 A. Jot down a reminder of five incidents in your life which 
 were marked by action. 
 
 1. A walking trip. 
 
 2. An automobile journey. 
 
 3. Hunting or fishing. 
 
 4. An exciting game. 
 
 5. Climbing a mountain. 
 
 B. Jot down five incidents in your life which were marked 
 by intense concentration. 
 
GATHERING MATERIAL FOR STORIES 45 
 
 1. A night alone in a thunderstorm. 
 
 2. Your most serious accident. 
 
 3. The first time you thought you were in love. 
 
 4. Your most serious fright. 
 
 5. Your most thrilling triumph. 
 
 C. Make a note of three situations in your life where a 
 result definitely followed from a distinct cause. 
 
 1. The time when your long habit of procrastination 
 
 led to a serious "con" in math. 
 
 2. When your hobby of reading on the side everything 
 
 you could find on a certain subject led to your 
 being prepared for an unusual emergency. 
 
 3. When you met a man in college you had known in 
 
 childhood. 
 
 4. When something you had been working for and 
 
 dreaming about came true. 
 
 D. Cite five incidents drawn from your own life filled with 
 human interest. 
 
 1. An incident which reveals you as a mischievous boy, 
 
 2. As a bashful lover 
 
 3. As a typical college freshman. 
 
 4. As a conceited prig. 
 
 5. As a loyal friend or a devoted son. 
 
 E. Cite five examples of conflict. 
 
 1. When your road lay between desire and duty. 
 
 2. When you fought your boyhood rival. 
 
 3. When you played in the football game. 
 
 4. When you wrested the leadership of the class. 
 
 5. The most serious struggle you ever fought. 
 
 NOTE: The list under each assignment is merely to stimulate the stu- 
 dent's memory and speed him along this first and very important assignment 
 in plot gathering. The student should be warned that in this assignment 
 not mere "topics" are wanted, but complete sentences that give a clear and 
 SUGGESTIVE reminder of the event he wishes to record. For instance 
 under a walking trip he might write "A tramp I took at age of fifteen 
 from St. Paul to La Crosse was in late autumn when the odor of new 
 mown hay filled the air, and a camp fire felt good at night." 
 
46 ' THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 II. Material drawn from observation of others. 
 Cite an example of each of the dramatic elements drawn 
 from personal observation, especially of conflict, concentra- 
 tion and human interest. 
 
 III. Material drawn from newspapers. 
 From newspaper accounts select examples of each of 
 the dramatic elements, especially of conflict, concentration 
 and human interest. 
 
 To THE TEACHER: While the students are occupying themselves outside 
 of the recitation hours gathering material for stories, it might be profitable 
 to make use of the class periods for some impromptu assignments from the 
 list at close of Chapter XI. To the average student who has not yet a very 
 firm command of English style I am inclined to recommend one or two 
 studies in narrative movement. After a student has found his material, 
 and selected his plot, the big problem is how to make his narrative 
 "njgrch." 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 THE STORY FROM CHARACTER 
 
 "She was one of those pretty and charming girls who 
 are sometimes, as if by a mistake of destiny, born in a 
 family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no 
 means of being known, understood, loved, wedded, by any 
 rich and distinguished man ; and she let herself be married 
 to a little clerk at the Ministry of Public Instruction. 
 
 "She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, 
 but she was as unhappy as though she had really fallen 
 from her proper station ; since with women there is neither 
 caste nor rank ; and beauty, grace, and charm act instead 
 of family and birth. Natural fineness, instinct for what 
 is elegant, suppleness of wit, are the sole hierarchy, and 
 make from women of the people the equals of the very 
 greatest ladies. 
 
 "She suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born for all the 
 delicacies and all the luxuries. She suffered from the 
 poverty of her dwelling, from the wretched look of the 
 walls, from the worn-out chairs, from the ugliness of the 
 curtains. All those things, of which another woman of 
 her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured 
 her and made her angry. The sight of the little Breton 
 peasant who did her humble house-work aroused in her 
 regrets which were despairing, and distracted dreams. 
 She thought of the silent antechambers hung with 
 Oriental tapestry, lit by tall bronze candelabra, and of 
 the two great footmen in knee-breeches, who sleep in the 
 big arm-chairs, made drowsy by the heavy warmth of the 
 hot-air stove. She thought of the long salons fitted up 
 with ancient silk, of the delicate furniture carrying price- 
 less curiosities, and of the coquettish perfumed boudoirs 
 made for talks at five o'clock with intimate friends, with 
 
 47 
 
48 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 men famous and sought after, whom all women envy and 
 whose attention they all desire. 
 
 "When she sat down to dinner, before the round table 
 covered with a table-cloth three days old, opposite her 
 husband, who uncovered the soj^-tuieen and declared with 
 an enchanted air, 'Ah, the good pot-au-feu ! I don't know 
 anything better than that/ she thought of dainty dinners, 
 of shining silverware, of tapestry which peopled the walls 
 with ancient personages, and she thought of delicious 
 dishes served on marvellous plates, and of the whispered 
 gallantries which you listen to with a sphinx-like smile, 
 while you are eating the pink flesh of a trout or the wings 
 of a quail. 
 
 "She had no dresses, no jewels, nothing. And she 
 loved nothing but that ; she felt made for that. She would 
 so have liked to please, to be envied, to be charming, to be 
 sought after." 
 
 From "The Necklace'' by Maupassant. 
 
 A careful study of the above description, which is in 
 many respects the most perfect description of a character 
 in the history of the short story, will satisfy you that here 
 ia_a_character which, if placed in a suitable situation, 
 would almost of necessity make a story. The writer of 
 such a description would be in the position similar to 
 that of the little boy who stands at the top of a hill with a 
 handful of snow in his hand with which he wishes to make 
 a giant snowball. All he needs to do is to give it a push 
 and the law of gravitation will do the rest. 
 
 For a person who has the least trace of the story- 
 telling instinct the task of writing a character story, then, 
 is very simple, provided that he can find the right kind of 
 character to put into it. ^ 
 
 But what constitutes the "rj^htJcind^LcJiaracter'' ? A 
 careful study of the passage quoted above will help to 
 make this clear. Maupassant has shown us by this ex- 
 
THE STORY FROM CHARACTER 49 
 
 ample that we should have our Jeading character dom- 
 inated by some great desire or ambition or passion,. or, to 
 , state what has become a commonplace among writers on 
 short story technique, we should give him a dominant 
 trait. Maupassant also shows us that if this dominant 
 frait can be in ^ contrast with his surroundings all the 
 better. Contrast is the life of fiction. A cannon ball 
 flying through the air unchecked has no story to tell. 
 But as soon as it meets an obstacle "something happens." 
 
 It is a mistake to think, however, that this obstacle must 
 always be outside of the character. Sometimes this ele- 
 ment of contrast can better be supplied in the character 
 himself. In fact, I know of nothing that .can better help 
 the novice to give an impression of individuality and 
 reality to a character than to give his leading character 
 as a sort of counter-irritant or an antidote to his dominant 
 V trait a striking contradiction. It safeguards the novice 
 against making his leading character a pure idealization 
 on the one hand or a caricature on the other. It rounds 
 him out and gives him that little touch of nature that 
 makes us all akin. It injects that little mite of human 
 contradiction that adds so much to the humanness and 
 interestingness of all of us. 
 
 It has been said that all heroes of tragedy have been 
 noble men with some imperfection, often a very incon- 
 spicuous little trait, but which was large enough to serve 
 for their undoing. Even Achilles had his vulnerable heel. 
 Therefore, I say, if you wish to give an impression of 
 reality and of individuality to your characters, look first 
 for the dominant trait, and then search long and patiently 
 for that vulnerable heel. If an old gentleman is kind and 
 generous toward everyone, warp his humanitarianism 
 just a trifle by giving him an inordinate prejudice against 
 
50 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 men who wear monocles and drop their r's. If you have 
 a villain totally depraved, save him from complete carica- 
 ture by giving him a tender feeling for little children. 
 If your heroine persists in being beautiful, mar her beauty 
 just a bit by a dash of freckles or a snub nose. If your 
 hero falls into copy-book lines, give him something to 
 worry about if it is nothing more than an inherited fear 
 of cats or an insatiable and undignified appetite for choco- 
 late nut-sundaes. 
 
 But having chosen a character and having endowed him 
 with a dominant trait and a striking contradiction is not 
 enough. Before you can put him successfully into a story 
 you must know him like a book. You must live with your 
 character, eat with him, stroll with him, find out all that 
 you can about his past, his family, the people who influ- 
 enced him most, his likes and his dislikes, and his little 
 mannerisms and tricks of conversation. Not until you 
 have a clear conception of the man can you hope to convey 
 a clear conception to others. 
 
 Turn to the great writers of fiction who have excelled 
 in character drawing and you will find that many of the 
 best ones wrote biographies of their characters before 
 they put them into books. This was the habitual practice 
 of Turgenieff, Ibsen, Jane Austen, and Arnold Bennett. 
 These biographies were of course intended only for the 
 author's eyes. Turgenieff, however, frequently put his 
 bodily into his books. Tolstoy, Victor Hugo, Dickens, 
 Thackeray and George Eliot frequently put what amounted 
 to pretty complete dossiers of their characters right into 
 their novels. 
 
 "Nothing that Turgenieff had to say could be more 
 interesting than his talk about his own work, his manner 
 
THE STORY FROM CHARACTER 51 
 
 of writing. What I have heard him tell of these things 
 was worthy of the beautiful results he produced ; of the 
 deep purpose, pervading them all, to show us life itself. 
 The germ of a story, with him, was never an affair of plot 
 that was the last thing he thought of : it was the repre- 
 sentation of certain persons. The first form in which a 
 tale appeared to him was as the figure of an individual, or 
 a combination of individuals, whom he wished to see in 
 action, being sure that such people must do something 
 very special and interesting. They stood before him 
 definite, vivid, and he wished to know, and to show, as 
 much as possible of their nature. The first thing was 
 to make clear to himself what he did know, to begin with ; 
 and to this end, he wrote out a sort of biography of each 
 of his characters, and everything that they had done and 
 that had happened to them up to the opening of the story. 
 He had their dossier, as the French say, and as the police 
 has that of every conspicuous criminal. With this mate- 
 rial in his hand he was able to proceed ; the story all lay 
 in the question, What shall I make them do?" 
 
 Henry James, "Partial Portraits" 
 
 Nothing furnishes better material for fiction than biog- 
 raphies of actual men and women. "The only sort of 
 reading I count as indispensable to a young writer," says 
 Fanny Kemble Johnson in "Best College Short Stories" 
 (Stratford Press), "is the sort that makes him genuinely 
 familiar with the great Biographies, Autobiographies, 
 Letters and Diaries of literature. And that because it 
 forms a super-course in Human Nature, which is the 
 proper study for a young writer." Nothing could fur- 
 nish you better practice for fiction writing than the habit 
 of keeping a little notebook into which you would reg- 
 ularly write each day a character sketch of someone you 
 had met, or of some imaginary character you had been 
 thinking about. 
 
52 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 In fact, if you were planning to devote a year to the 
 study of short-story writing, I should recommend that 
 you devoted the first half of that year to the study of 
 character. Not only would such a study make you a 
 better writer, but it would increase your understanding 
 of human nature, and would enlarge your sympathies and 
 enrich your life. 
 
 EXERCISES 
 
 I. THE ELABORATE STUDY OF A CHARACTER 
 
 In the following exercise you will be asked to subject 
 your character to three processes before he is "ripe" for 
 your story. The first process, that of making out the 
 "dossier," is perhaps the most tedious and mechanical, 
 but if well done it should result in a page of information 
 that will enable you to proceed with a clearness of eye 
 and a sureness of touch when you come to the later 
 stage which you could not get in any other way. The 
 second process is that of visualizing the character in your 
 own imagination. This will also take some time,, but will 
 not require any writing. The last process, that of making 
 the finished character sketch suitable for actual use in 
 your story, should take much less time. At least the first 
 draft may be written with a certain speed and abandon. 
 This depends of course upon the amount of time and 
 thought you have given to the preliminary processes. 
 It is worth while to remember, however, the advice given 
 earlier in this book that what is written in hot blood 
 must be revised in cold blood. In fact, I do not know 
 of any type of writing that improves so much under 
 frequent re- writing as does the describing of character. 
 
THE STORY FROM CHARACTER 53 
 
 A. FIRST PROCESS: THE DOSSIER OF THE CHARACTER. 
 
 Choose a character, either from those discussed in this 
 chapter or one of your own creation, and answer the follow- 
 ing questions about him: 
 
 1. Where was he born and reared? In city, country, 
 
 small town, east, west? Near mountains, sea, 
 woods, prairie? 
 
 2. Parents? Type New England, Southern, Western 
 
 ranchman? Father's profession, mother's charac- 
 ter, etc.? Any peculiar idiosyncrasies likely to 
 influence the child? 
 
 3. Significant facts of childhood life? Types of books 
 
 he liked best, or games, girls, playmates? What 
 he wanted to make of himself? In some epochal 
 event we may find cause for reversal of law of 
 heredity. 
 
 4. Is he earnest and sympathetic, or flippant and cyni- 
 
 cal? Cheerful or melancholy? Independent and 
 original, or conservative and conventional ? Posi- 
 tive in his opinions? A man of high ideals? 
 
 5. State in large letters his dominant trait, and his 
 
 most striking contradiction. 
 
 B. SECOND PROCESS: VISUALIZING THE CHARACTER. 
 Having completed your catalogue of details read it over 
 
 again, trying hard to realize just what your character would 
 look like. Then close your eyes and visualize him, noting 
 especially manner, tricks of expression or gesture: 
 
 1. As he is visiting with friends by the open fireplace. 
 
 2. In his office or field at work. 
 
 3. Leaning on a gate talking to his little sister or 
 
 mother. 
 
 4. Alone in his room reading a book, or thinking hard. 
 In which attitude did you find you could visualize him best? 
 This process is not to be written. 
 
54 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 c. THIRD PROCESS: DESCRIBING THE CHARACTER. 
 
 Now you are ready to put him into story. Selecting the 
 dominant trait, the unifying fact about him, write a descrip- 
 tion that you think would do for the first paragraph in a 
 story. Two or three rapid attempts at this may be necessary 
 before you are thoroughly satisfied. Make either an ex- 
 ternal description of him, or make it more subjective an 
 exposition of his inner motives and feelings. It may prove 
 helpful to glance over some of the descriptions in the short 
 stories in Part II to find successful methods of procedure. 
 
 II. FURTHER STUDIES IN CHARACTER DRAWING 
 
 "He was of middle height, sinuous, muscular, and 
 slightly round-shouldered, dressed in a coarse blue blouse 
 full of paint spots and girded by a leather strap ; his 
 trousers, bespattered with paint, he wore tucked into his 
 tall boots. Kostovsky had the appearance of a common 
 workman, with long muscular hands, like those of a 
 gorilla, and of great strength ; his far from good-looking, 
 but very characteristic face, with its prominent cheek 
 bones, and long reddish mustaches breathed of power. 
 From under knitted brows gloomily, and at the same time 
 good-naturedly, looked out a pair of large blue eyes. 
 The main peculiarity of his face was an expression of 
 impetuousness and energy ; his left eye was embellished 
 with a large discoloration, the mark of a well-aimed blow 
 and his coarse reddish locks bristled rebelliously in all 
 directions. On the whole, Kostovsky impressed one as a 
 bold, untamable being." Petrov. 
 
 A careful examination of the above description will 
 disclose to you that one of the most widely useful prin- 
 ciples of emphasis in character drawing is for the most 
 striking detail, possibly of color or of movement, to come 
 first; and for the most significant detail, as of feature or 
 of mannerism or the like, to be saved for the last. 
 
THE STORY FROM CHARACTER 55 
 
 A. CHARACTERS TAKEN FROM REAL LIFE. 
 
 Making use of the principle illustrated in the description 
 above (as well as in the description of Mathilde at first of 
 chapter) write a paragraph description of some person that 
 you have observed in real life, who, you think, would make 
 a suitable character for a story. 
 
 B. A LIST OF CHARACTERS THAT WOULD MAKE STORIES. 
 
 Select one of the following and write a paragraph descrip- 
 tion suitable for the opening of a story : 
 
 1. A man, brutal and brusk as to character and man- 
 
 ner, but who is constantly doing good in secret 
 ways. 
 
 2. A neighborhood gossip who says exceedingly criti- 
 
 cal things to every one's face as though it were 
 her personal right, but who will not allow any 
 one else to do so, at least behind their backs, and 
 who is, in fact, true gold, with a heart as big as 
 a mountain. 
 
 3. A cabaret dancer with whom all the young bloods 
 
 are infatuated, who bitterly hates her work, loves 
 Browning, Shakespeare, and the ideals of home. 
 
 4. A street laborer or lumber jack who has once re- 
 
 ceived a Harvard degree. What is his dominant 
 trait? 
 
 5. A janitor who once led in a great charge which re- 
 
 sulted in his receiving the decoration of the 
 Legion of Honor. What is his dominant trait? 
 
 6. A shoemaker or carpenter who possesses a myste- 
 
 rious past and who is even rumored to have 
 come from a noble Hungarian family. 
 
 7. A man of twenty-five or thirty who always scoffed 
 
 at love, suddenly subjected to an attack of the 
 malady in its most acute form. 
 
 8. A girl pledged to the suffragette cause and an 
 
 avowed manhater suddenly in the toils of love in 
 
56 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 its most hopeless, or humiliating or sentimental 
 form. 
 
 9. A judge, cold and scrupulously honest, but obsessed 
 by an abnormal affection for a scapegrace nephew 
 who bears his name. 
 
 10. A member of a family, who is the family pride and 
 
 pet among many brothers and sisters, but who 
 possesses one weakness or fault (which does not, 
 however, arouse disgust or hostility). 
 
 11. A daring, brutal criminal, whose one saving grace 
 
 is his love for little children, and who knows 
 from experience just what to do when a little 
 one is afflicted with croup in the dead of night. 
 
 12. A minister, who, in spite of Puritan upbringing, 
 
 possesses unusual dramatic ability, and secretly 
 loves dime novels and melodrama. 
 
 13. A village roustabout who believes in the adage, 
 
 "When in doubt, tell the truth," but who has a 
 habit since boyhood of rarely being in doubt. 
 
 14. A village loafer whose conversation in the village 
 
 store, without his knowing it, has been for years 
 following the most approved lines of logic and 
 public speaking, a man liked by all but generally 
 considered hopelessly good for nothing. 
 
 15. A man very ambitious to make an impression in 
 
 society, but whose early life has been spent 
 among users of slang and profanity. 
 
 16. An old woman, over threescore and ten, who is 
 
 more innately progressive and open to new ideas 
 than any one in the village. 
 
 17. A man possessed of unusual physical courage a 
 
 hunter or an athlete but who possesses an un- 
 reasoning fear of barking dogs. 
 
 18. A very over-particular person who is habitually 
 
 careless of one thing. 
 
 19. A very selfish person who forgets himself onl> 
 
THE STORY FROM CHARACTER 57 
 
 under one circumstance. Have a friend try to 
 make that circumstance in his life habitual. 
 
 20. A woman in a prosaic situation whose love of mys- 
 
 tery and romance are counterbalanced by no sense 
 of humor. 
 
 21. A proud, strict woman of great reserve, who is 
 
 secretly hungry for the impulsive unreasoning 
 affection of young people. 
 
 22. A leader of a choir who cannot himself sing. 
 
 III. THE PLOT-BUILDING GAME 
 A. USING CHARACTERS FROM LITERATURE. 
 
 Divide the class into two divisions and to one division 
 assign one of the men described below, and to the other 
 division assign the other man. To both divisions assign 
 the description of the woman at the beginning of this 
 chapter. If the teacher desires he may add other charac- 
 ters to this list. Have each student take the characters 
 thus assigned and outline a plot for a story, using the 
 following questions as a basis: 
 
 1. Conceive that circumstances have thrown these two 
 
 characters together in a rather unusual situation, 
 in such a way that they are forced to become very 
 intimately acquainted. Which character would 
 dominate the other? 
 
 2. What spirit would be uppermost love, antipathy, 
 
 hate? 
 
 3. Probable outcome. 
 
 4. In a sketchy way outline the development of such a 
 
 story. 
 
 (i) "When Presley reached Annixter's ranch house, 
 he found young Annixter himself stretched in his ham- 
 mock behind the mosquito-bar on the front porch, reading 
 
58 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 "David Copperfield" and gorging himself with dried 
 prunes. 
 
 "Annixter after the two had exchanged greetings 
 complained of terrific colics all the preceding night. His 
 stomach was out of whack, but you bet he knew how 
 to take care of himself; the last spell he had consulted 
 a doctor at Bonneville, a gibbering busyface who had 
 filled him up to the neck with a dose of some hog- wash 
 stuff that had made him worse a healthy lot the doctors 
 knew, anyhow. His case was peculiar. He knew ; prunes 
 were what he needed, and by the pound. 
 
 "Annixter, who worked the Quien Sabe ranch some 
 four thousand acres of rich clay and heavy loams was 
 a very young man, younger even than Presley, like him 
 a college graduate. He looked never a year older than 
 he was. He was smooth-shaven and lean built. But 
 his youthful appearance was offset by a certain male 
 cast of countenance, the lower lip thrust out, the chin 
 large and deeply cleft. His university course had hard- 
 ened rather than polished him. He still remained one 
 of the people, rough almost to insolence, direct in speech, 
 intolerant in his opinions, relying upon absolutely no 
 one but himself; yet, with all this, of an astonishing 
 degree of intelligence, and possessed of an executive 
 ability little short of positive genius. He was a ferocious 
 worker, allowing himself no pleasure, and exacting the 
 same degree of energy from all his subordinates. He 
 was widely hated, and as widely trusted. Every one 
 spoke of his crusty temper and bullying disposition, in- 
 variably qualifying the statement with a commendation 
 of his resources and capabilities. The devil of a driver, 
 a hard man to get along with, obstinate, contrary, can- 
 tankerous; but brains! No doubt of that; brains to his 
 boots. One would like to see the man who could get 
 ahead of him on a deal. Twice he had been shot at, 
 once from an ambush on Osterman's ranch, and once 
 by one of his own men whom he had kicked from the 
 sacking platform of his harvester for gross negligence. 
 At college, he had specialized on finance, political economy, 
 
THE STORY FROM CHARACTER 59 
 
 and scientific agriculture. After his -graduation (he stood 
 almost at the very top of his class) he had returned and 
 obtained the degree of civil engineer. Then suddenly 
 he had taken a notion that a practical knowledge of law 
 was indispensable to a modern farmer. In eight months 
 he did the work of three years, studying for his bar 
 examinations. His method of study was characteristic. 
 He reduced all the material of his text-books to notes. 
 Tearing out the leaves of these note-books, he pasted 
 them upon the walls of his room; then, in his shirt- 
 sleeves, a cheap cigar in his teeth, his hands in his pockets, 
 he walked around and around the room, scowling fiercely 
 at his notes, memorizing, devouring, digesting. At in- 
 tervals he drank great cupfuls of unsweetened, black 
 coffee. When the bar examinations were held, he was 
 admitted at the very head of all the applicants, and was 
 complimented by the judge. Immediately afterwards he 
 collapsed with nervous prostration, his stomach "got out 
 of whack," and he all but died in a Sacramento boarding- 
 house, obstinately refusing to have anything to do with 
 doctors, whom he vituperated as a rabble of quacks, dos- 
 ing himself with a patent medicine and stuffing himself 
 almost to bursting with liver pills and dried prunes. 
 
 "He had taken a trip to Europe after this sickness to 
 put himself completely to rights. He intended to be gone 
 a year but returned at the end of six weeks, fulminating 
 abuse of European cooking. Nearly his entire time had 
 been spent in Paris ; but of this sojourn he had brought 
 back but two souvenirs, an electro-plated bill-hook and an 
 empty bird cage which had tickled his fancy immensely." 
 Frank Norris, "The Octopus/' 
 
 (2) "The first face in the appearance of the younger 
 man which might have struck the observer was, that his 
 
 fravity, though conspicuous in the expression of his 
 matures, and evidently springing from the mind was not 
 indicated by his person. Gravity is not inconsistent with 
 passion, which it exalts by purifying it; but the idea 
 of gravity could with difficulty be associated with an 
 exterior remarkable above all for personal beauty. Being 
 
60 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 in the holy orders, he must have, been at least four and 
 twenty, but he seemed scarcely more than eighteen. He 
 possessed those gifts at once in harmony with, and in 
 opposition to, each other, a soul which seemed created 
 for exalted passion and body created for love. He was 
 fair, rosy- fresh, slim and elegant in his severe attire, 
 and he had the cheeks of a young girl, and delicate hands. 
 His movements were natural and lively, though subdued. 
 Everything about him was pleasing, elegant, almost volup- 
 tuous. The beauty of his expression served to correct 
 this excess of personal attraction. His open smile, which 
 showed his teeth, regular and white as those of a child, 
 had something in it pensive, even devotional. He had 
 the gracefulness of a page, mingled with the dignity of 
 a bishop. 
 
 "His fair hair, so fair and golden as to be almost 
 effeminate, clustered over his white forehead, which was 
 high and well formed. A slight double line between his 
 eyebrows, awakened associations with studious thought. 
 
 "Those who saw him felt themselves in the presence 
 of one of those natures, benevolent, innocent and pure, 
 whose progress is in the inverse sense with that of vulgar 
 minds; natures whom illusion renders wise, and whom 
 experience makes enthusiasts." 
 
 Hugo, "Toilers of the Sea." 
 
 B. USING CHARACTERS FROM CLASS THEMES. 
 
 Divide the class into two divisions and have one division 
 bring to class an original description of a young woman 
 suitable for a story, and have the other division bring 
 an original description of a young man. When the class 
 assembles have students exchange their descriptions with 
 those written by students in the other division. With the 
 character drawn and the character of his own description 
 as starting points, have each student plan a story in the 
 class period, according to the plan outlined above. 
 
THE STORY FROM CHARACTER 61 
 
 IV. STEPS IN WRITING AN ORIGINAL STORY FROM 
 CHARACTER 
 
 A. Read "The Spurious One" on page 109 and take 
 warning from it to avoid the pitfalls of the conventional, 
 hackneyed character types. Then choose a character 
 from your list of original sketches that is "new" or 
 original enough to make a story. If you have not yet 
 described such a character try to conceive of one. Write 
 a dossier of the character thus chosen, if you have not 
 already done so. 
 
 B. Read "The Gay Old Dog" and the constructive 
 criticism that accompanies it. Then make a story outline 
 suitable to develop the character that you have chosen. 
 
 C. Using the character selected in A above, and using 
 the plan worked out in B write an original character 
 story of from 1500 to 2500 words. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE STORY WHICH BEGINS WITH 
 COMPLICATION 
 
 The making of a plot is nothing more nor less than 
 taking the experiences of a life and arranging them in 
 a logical order. If you know a very interesting character 
 who has had some varied and interesting experiences you 
 can make a very fascinating narrative by arranging his 
 unrelated experiences into some sort of definite, logical 
 order. 
 
 The simplest of all known methods of doing this is to 
 find a problem and a solution, and arrange all events in 
 such a way as to lead from one to the other. 
 
 The first thing necessary in the opinion of most teachers 
 of short-story writing is a problem to solve or an obstacle 
 to overcome. The bigger the problem or the obstacle, 
 other things being equal, the easier it is to make an 
 interesting story. While the experienced writer will 
 find it possible to construct a story out of a very slender 
 plot, the beginner will find it advisable to do his practicing 
 on complications that obviously are complications. While 
 Maupassant can produce a masterpiece of fiction using 
 as his starting point a piece of string, you will find it 
 more satisfactory to use as your motivating force a 
 mysterious ring or a woman's glove that is, if it is the 
 situation you are after, and not the character. 
 
 How these problems or obstacles should be handled 
 can best be indicated by doing a little plot building of 
 
 62 
 
THE STORY WITH COMPLICATION 63 
 
 our own. Let us take a complication where the problem 
 is obviously a big one. A man who has been wrongly 
 accused of a crime has been confined in a dungeon for 
 ten years. Every day he expects to hear that a pardon 
 has been granted him; but the days continue to go by 
 and no pardon comes. Finally he determines to take the 
 matter into his own hands and escape. How will he do 
 it? Here are two solutions typical of a student's first 
 attempts at plot building: 
 
 First solution : As the man awakes one morning, a 
 bright idea strikes him. He carefully rips open the mat- 
 tress upon which he has been sleeping all these years, 
 extracts a file and a coil of wire and but what makes you 
 smile at that ? Let us try another. 
 
 Second solution : He awakes one morning at the sound 
 of the jailor's key rattling in the lock. As he arises, he 
 is confronted, not by the jailor, but by the officer in 
 charge of the dungeon. "Mr. Brown," says the officer 
 in stentorian tones, "I come to announce to you that 
 His Majesty, having had the matter of your commitment 
 brought to his attention at last, and having satisfied him- 
 self that there was an error in the record, does hereby 
 grant you a full and complete pardon." 
 
 But clearly there is something wrong with that ending. 
 Now, what is the matter with these two solutions? The 
 one is absurd, the other uninteresting. Or, using more 
 discriminating terms, the trouble with the first solution 
 is that it is not plausible; with the second that it lacks 
 suspense. Or to state it in still other words : The writing 
 of successful stories narrows down to a matter of stating 
 a problem, then solving it in a way that is logical but not 
 perfectly obvious. 
 
 Inasmuch as the solution should meet two such im- 
 
64 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 portant requirements, would it not be an advantage to 
 find a solution first, and then find a problem to fit, rather 
 than to reverse the process as is the general custom? 
 Poe insists that this should be the rule saying that all 
 good stories are worked out backwards. Miss Ida A. R. 
 Wylie, who in 1919 had more distinctive short stories 
 to her credit published in American magazines than any 
 other English writer, told the writer that she hardly ever 
 began a story till she could see the last sentence. Mr. 
 Willard E. Hawkins, a professional critic and teacher 
 of short story writers, editor of the Student Writer, is 
 also a strong advocate of "the solution first" method. 
 
 As an illustration of the effective plotting he cites the 
 following example from The American Boy magazine. 
 A boy, taking pictures at low tide, allows his foot to 
 become caught fast in a rocky crevice which holds him 
 helpless in a cave while the water slowly rises over his 
 head. How can he save himself is the problem. If he 
 should work his foot loose the solution would be too 
 obvious; if the tide should fail to reach its usual height 
 the situation would not be logical. The writer in handling 
 this situation solved it by having the lad put the bulb 
 of the camera in his mouth, while he held the open end 
 of the rubber tube above the surface of the water. Thus 
 he was able to sustain life till rescue came. There is 
 very little doubt but that the author got his cue for this 
 story by noting, perhaps by accident, the peculiar simi- 
 larity between a camera tube and a diving apparatus. In 
 other words, he followed Poe's advice and worked from 
 the climax backward. 
 
 Any clever student can, by looking through the Scien- 
 tific American or Popular Science Monthly, discover any 
 number of striking solutions for possible problems. 
 
THE STORY WITH COMPLICATION 65 
 
 "As a means of stimulating 'a writer's invention," 
 writes Mr. Hawkins, "the advice is sometimes given: 
 'Let your characters fall into difficulties, then set your 
 wits to extricate them.' This method sometimes works 
 very well ; but more often the result is commonplace. 
 Many somehow ineffective stories that have come to my 
 desk were obviously developed by this method. The 
 author has put characters into a situation which at once 
 captures the reader's interest; but the climax, or solution, 
 is a bare working out of details which reveal only mod- 
 erate powers of invention. It is usually forced, obvious, 
 and mediocre. 
 
 "The relative importance of the two elements of plot 
 would be better indicated if we phrased our definition : 
 Plot is the solution of a problem. For the solution is 
 the all-important thing. When an editor returns your 
 story with the comment : 'A well written tale, but it lacks 
 a novel twist,' he means that you have solved the problem 
 in a familiar way. The reader knows the answer before 
 it is given. The best possible plot material is a new de- 
 vice for solving a problem. Have your climax^the solu- 
 tion to start with, then devise a problem to fit it. 
 
 "In testing a plot idea, consider chiefly the possibilities 
 for a striking climax. Almost every germinal idea may 
 be used either for the opening situation the problem 
 or for the solution. By all means, however, let it serve 
 as your climax." 
 
 It will profit the beginner to heed this advice. 
 
 The ideal way of constructing a complication story' 
 is to have in mind from the beginning the kind of solu- 
 tion you intend to use, but all the while you are writing 
 the story to be on the lookout for a still more startling 
 or unexpected ending. Unexpected forces may enterl 
 into your stories to bring about a surprise even to the 
 writer. Such upsets are frequent even with great writers, 
 and the usual cause is the unexpected unfolding of some \ 
 
66 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 character in the story, as illustrated in "The Spurious 
 One" on page 109. 
 
 Here is an example: You are writing a story of a 
 delicate young college boy who has been sent by his par- 
 ents to spend a year on a western ranch. He finds him- 
 self universally looked down upon as a weakling by the 
 cowboys, who make him the butt of all their practical 
 jokes. One day he discovers that every year this ranch 
 matches its best runner against the champion of another 
 ranch. This discovery suggests an idea to him, and he 
 determines to turn the tables on the others and become 
 the "cock of the walk." He allows them to see a medal 
 his roommate had won in a hundred yard dash one 
 of his numerous victories in big eastern meets. They 
 are deceived into thinking that the medal was won by 
 himself. He allows himself to become their champion. 
 His purpose is to get even with them by enjoying their 
 homage until nearly time for the race to come off, and 
 then, on some faked up telegraphic message to be sent 
 by his roommate, to leave them suddenly before his deceit 
 becomes known. 
 
 Let us assume that you have worked out a clever 
 solution before you begin, say something like this : The 
 young chap is gradually to become softened by the kindly 
 treatment he receives at the hands of the cowboys who 
 do his chores for him and save him from every incon- 
 venience, and he finally decides to telegraph for his room- 
 mate to come out and run the race for him. He can 
 easily withdraw on some trumped up excuse of a sprained 
 ankle, or attack of appendicitis. 
 
 As the story proceeds, however, the young college boy 
 shows signs of developing into a "real person." Like 
 
THE STORY WITH COMPLICATION 67 
 
 the "Minor Character" he begins x to put ginger and spice 
 into the story. The writer becomes interested in him. 
 The boy's strength improves under the training. And 
 here as you write your story a new solution occurs to 
 you. Just as the boy is trying to think of some clever 
 way to make a pretense at spraining an ankle, the famous 
 runner, his former roommate, arrives suddenly, himself 
 on crutches. Without any ruse at all, the wrong fellow 
 has had a real accident. 
 
 It is now too late to find a plausible excuse for running 
 away. If he races and makes a miserable showing, he 
 hardly knows what he may have to expect from the cow- 
 boys who have bet heavily on him. They are all quick 
 on the trigger. A critical moment of decision arrives. 
 He finally decides to risk all on the race. 
 
 The ill-fated day arrives. The tenderfoot finds himself 
 at last lined up beside his opponent. His roommate ori 
 crutches gives him some final advice: 
 
 "When you crouch in your holes, take a deep breath. 
 Pump it out with the crack of the gun, and then grab 
 another lung full, and hold it to the tape. Run all the 
 way on one breath if you can. Don't look to right or 
 left but keep your eyes on me. I'll be at the finish to 
 catch you. Remember, old boy, you are doing this for 
 old Yale. Keep your head well down and chin thrust 
 out, and don't look back!" 
 
 Then let him win. 
 
 Thus you have turned your fake hero into a real hero 
 a greater accomplishment than either of the other solu- 
 tions, provided that you can make it appear logical. At 
 any rate, no one can criticize this plot for being "too 
 obvious." 
 
68 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 EXERCISES 
 
 I. STUDIES IN PROBLEMS AND SOLUTIONS 
 A. FIVE PROBLEMS. FIND SOLUTIONS TO FIT. 
 
 1. A woman has just returned from a two weeks' 
 house party when her telephone bell rings. She lifts 
 the receiver to hear a voice which she recognizes as her 
 sister's asking, "Are you back safely? How do you 
 feel?" 
 
 "Terribly," she replies, "I never spent two such tire- 
 some weeks in my life." 
 
 "Is that so?" comes the voice, which she now recog- 
 nizes with horror to be that of her recent hostess, "I am 
 very sorry." And she hears the receiver hung up at the 
 other end. 
 
 How can you get this woman out of her predicament ? 
 
 (The Black Cat once offered a prize for the answer 
 to this problem.) 
 
 2. A young law student arranges to have his fiancee, 
 a college girl, spend a couple of weeks at his own home 
 so that she may get acquainted with his parents, whom 
 she has never seen. The mother who is not strong 
 enough to entertain a guest as she would like to, wires 
 at once to her brother, who lives in the same city where 
 her son is attending law school, asking him to send down 
 at once an experienced Irish cook. Word is sent as to 
 the exact trains each will arrive on, but the cook takes 
 the train ahead of time, and the girl misses hers. When 
 they arrive, each is taken for the other. 
 
 3. A young man who has been attending a ball with 
 his sister tarries a few minutes at the doorway talking 
 to his chum. When he reaches the curbing only one 
 cab is standing there. He gives the driver the address, 
 and leaps in. At the farther end of the cab sits a girl. 
 Both are wrapped up in their own thoughts until, at a 
 
THE STORY WITH COMPLICATION 69 
 
 crossroad, he leans forward and lights a match to see 
 the time. The girl moves slightly, and utters a scream, 
 as the match goes out. 
 
 He gives an ejaculation and lights another match 
 
 "Who are you?" she cries. 
 
 "My^God!" he exclaims, "I thought you were my 
 sister." 
 
 What is the outcome? 
 
 4. A telegraph operator at a little station falls asleep 
 at his post. He awakes to hear the wires clicking 
 urgently, "Stop the westbound express the president's 
 special has left here going east." He hurries to the 
 door just in time to see the westbound express leaping 
 out into the darkness toward the terrible catastrophe 
 that awaits it unless it can be stopped. He returns to 
 his office stunned and stupefied. He looks about him, and 
 suddenly an idea strikes him. What is it? 
 
 5. Four miners are working in a shaft when a pile 
 of slate falls and shuts off their escape. Find a solution. 
 
 B. FIVE SOLUTIONS. FIND PROBLEMS TO FIT. 
 
 1. A very commonplace man finds himself suddenly 
 placed in a position of terrible danger and great respon- 
 sibility, and instead of feeling fear, he feels a great joy, 
 the joy of his life, in both the danger and the responsi- 
 bility, and by his zest and fearlessness brings triumph 
 out of almost certain defeat. 
 
 Find a problem or opening situation which would make 
 an ordinary man welcome such an opportunity in just 
 such a way. 
 
 2. A plain and simple girl, seemingly without much 
 charm, surprises everyone by marrying a brilliant man 
 who was commonly thought to be the property of the 
 belle of the town. How did she do it? 
 
 3. A vaudeville contortionist has the gift of throwing 
 every joint of his body out of place at his own will so 
 
70 - THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 cleverly as to defy all bone-setters. He also has the gift 
 of throwing his joints all back again, one at a time. 
 Find an obstacle or problem where such an accomplish- 
 ment would offer a solution. 
 
 4. A common back-store loafer, who has done nothing 
 but talk all his life, bears a striking resemblance to the 
 governor of the state. 
 
 Find a problem, to solve which this coincidence might 
 be useful. 
 
 5. A very miserly farmer is suspended by a rope and 
 bucket in a well while his meek little wife refuses to 
 draw him up until he promises to get her the dress she 
 has long since needed. 
 
 How did she get him there ? 
 
 II. EXERCISES IN THE THIRTY-SIX ORIGINAL 
 PLOT SITUATIONS 
 
 Read over carefully the thirty-six original plot situa- 
 tions on pages 234-246, and find how many of these 
 come within the range of your own personal experience. 
 Select five of these and restate them in terms of some 
 definite problem and some definite solution. 
 
 III. THE PLOT-BUILDING GAME 
 A. BASED ON GOZZl's ORIGINAL PLOTS.* (See Part III.) 
 
 1. From a hat draw one of the thirty-six original plots. 
 
 Express this in terms of a concrete problem and 
 a definite solution. 
 
 2. From another hat draw one of the three characters 
 
 discussed in Chapter VII. Show briefly how such 
 a character confronted with such a situation would 
 carry it through. 
 
 3. What would be the outcome? If possible suggest a 
 
 "surprise" ending. 
 
 * For other exercise? based on the Thirty-six Original Plot Situations, 
 see page 249. 
 
THE STORY WITH COMPLICATION 71 
 
 B. BASED ON SUCCESSFUL STORIES OF 'GREAT WRITERS. 
 
 1. Read to the class the first three-fourths of an O. 
 Henry story and let the class write the conclusion ac- 
 cording to their own ideas of how it should turn out. At 
 the next meeting of the class the rest of the story may be 
 read and the best solutions of the students read and dis- 
 cussed. 
 
 2. Read "The Lady or the Tiger" and have the class 
 write a conclusion. 
 
 IV. STEPS IN WRITING AN ORIGINAL STORY FROM COMPLICATION. 
 
 A. Read the "Cop and the Anthem" and the creative 
 criticism that accompanies it. 
 
 B. Select a plot including the problem and the solu- 
 tion. Jot down one or two little incidents or hints which 
 would be useful or necessary for preparing the reader 
 for the outcome. Insert one or two suggestions for in- 
 creasing the interest of the reader by arousing his 
 curiosity and holding him in suspense. 
 
 C. Write the story, giving chief attention to the points 
 of emphasis the beginning and the ending. Make the 
 beginning "pregnant with action," and the conclusion 
 snappy and climactic. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 THE STORY FROM SETTING 
 
 Two types of stories take their genesis from setting: 
 the local color story, and the atmosphere story. These 
 two types are frequently combined in one, but not neces- 
 sarily. 
 
 Local color, as the term implies, makes its appeal 
 largely to the eye of the reader. Atmosphere on the 
 other hand makes its appeal almost entirely to the emo- 
 tions. One is objective, the other subjective. One must 
 be true to fact, the other true to d given mood either of 
 the author, or of his creature, the leading character. 
 Local color attempts to harmonize the details of setting 
 and character with the actual conditions of a given time 
 and place ; atmosphere attempts to harmonize setting and 
 character with the feelings of a character in a certain 
 time and place. Thus it will be seen that the one is 
 usually perceived by the intellect, the other by the emo- 
 ions. The two usually work hand in hand, as local 
 color, as seen through the eyes of a character, is the chief 
 element in awakening the emotional response in the heart 
 of the reader. 
 
 To develop the art of using local color you must prac- 
 tice describing scenes that are familiar to you. While 
 Mrs. Gerould, who has never seen Africa, has succeeded 
 in giving a marvelously vivid illusion of Africa, and 
 Miss I. R. A. Wiley, who has never seen Russia, has 
 
 72 
 
THE STORY FROM SETTING 73 
 
 achieved a similar success in treating the local color of 
 Russia, nevertheless I have yet to find in my experience 
 as a teacher of composition, a single student who could 
 describe convincingly a background which he himself had 
 not seen. An amateur may wander afar for characters 
 and plots, finding success in the unfamiliar and the gro- 
 tesque, but in use of setting he is almost entirely de- 
 pendent upon that which is familiar to him. In addition, 
 one who desires to be successful in writing atmosphere 
 stories must feel deeply and sympathize deeply. All 
 great atmospherists were of this type, Poe, Hawthorne, 
 Conrad, Hardy, and Stevenson. 
 
 Local color, no matter with how heavy a brush it is 
 put on, is nearly always a mere means to some larger end, 
 either of character, plot or theme. Atmosphere, on the 
 other hand, while . usually holding a subordinate position 
 may at times rise to the point where it dominates the 
 whole story. In some instances, especially frequent in 
 Poe,, the characters are relegated to the function of mere 
 puppets, while the atmosphere monopolizes the role of 
 chief character. "In Stevenson," writes Pitkin, "Nature 
 is often the leading lady ; in Poe, Conrad, and Hardy, and 
 most atmospherists, it is the villain; and in Hawthorne 
 it is sometimes the hero's silhouette." 
 
 Such personification of atmosphere is seen at its best 
 in the opening paragraph of "The Fall of the House of 
 Usher," probably the greatest atmosphere story ever 
 written. 
 
 "During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day 
 in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung op- 
 pressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, 
 on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of coun- 
 try; and at length found myself, as the shades of the 
 
74 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House 
 of Usher. I know not how it was, but, with the first 
 glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom 
 pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling 
 was unrelieved by any of that half -pleasurable, because 
 poetic, sentiment with which the mind usually receives 
 even the sternest natural images of the desolate or ter- 
 rible. I looked upon the scene before me upon the 
 mere house, and the simple landscape features of the 
 domain, upon the bleak walls, upon the vacant eye-like 
 windows, upon a few rank sedges, and upon a few white 
 trunks of decayed trees with an utter depression of 
 soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more 
 properly than to the after-dream of the reveler upon 
 opium: the bitter lapse into every day life, the hideous 
 dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sink- 
 ing, a sickening of the heart, an unredeemed dreariness 
 of thought which no goading of the imagination could 
 torture into aught of the sublime. What was it I paused 
 to think what was it that so unnerved me in the con- 
 templation of the House of Usher? It was a mystery 
 all insoluble; nor could I grapple with the shadowy 
 fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered. I was 
 forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion, 
 that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very 
 simple natural objects which have the power of thus 
 affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among 
 considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I re- 
 flected, that a mere different arrangement of the par- 
 ticulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, would 
 be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate, its 
 capacity for sorrowful impressions; and acting upon this 
 idea, I reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a 
 black and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled luster by the 
 dwelling, and gazed down but with a shudder even 
 more thrilling than before upon the remodeled and in- 
 verted images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree- 
 stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows." 
 
THE STORY FROM SETTING 75 
 
 EXERCISES' 
 
 I. STUDIES IN LOCAL COLOR 
 
 Let your mind run back over the scenes of your child- 
 hood and early youth and jot down a list suitable for 
 use in a local color story. Then describe two of these. 
 Follow directions given for the studies in visualization 
 in the first part of this book. Employ the methods you 
 learned there in regard to emphasis on the individualizing 
 detail and the use of the four senses other than sight. 
 
 The following lists are chiefly for suggestion. Make 
 a list of your own. 
 
 A. SCENES THAT A COUNTRY BOY MIGHT RECALL. 
 
 1. The cows standing knee-deep in the creek. 
 
 2. The muddy calf-yard after a shower. 
 
 3. The old pump surrounded by thirsty geese and 
 
 chickens. 
 
 4. The cows in the stanchions at milking time. 
 
 5. The odor of the hay field at the close of harvest. 
 
 6. The old horse in the stall swishing flies with his tail. 
 
 7. The landscape in winter described so as to make the 
 
 reader shiver with cold. 
 
 B. SCENES THAT MIGHT COME BACK VIVIDLY TO THE BOY 
 
 REARED IN A SMALL TOWN. 
 
 1. The station platform filled with onlookers when the 
 
 fast mail comes puffing in. 
 
 2. The corner drug store where the high school boys 
 
 gather to talk over the latest game. 
 
 3. The creek by the edge of the town. 
 
 4. The restaurant where everything is served in slap- 
 
 dash manner. 
 
 5. The village commons. 
 
 6. A church supper. 
 
 7. The village square. 
 
76 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 C. SCENES THAT A BOY REARED IN A BIG CITY MIGHT RECALL. 
 
 1. The rattle of big trucks over the cobblestones. 
 
 2. The boulevard where the autos forever speed by. 
 
 3. The sounds of a great railroad union station at night 
 
 when the yards are jammed with outgoing and in- 
 coming trains. 
 
 4. The sounds and sights of a factory running at top 
 
 speed. 
 
 5. The "great white way." 
 
 6. The city as seen in the distance as one approaches it 
 
 on the train. 
 
 7. A great department store. 
 
 II. STUDIES IN ATMOSPHERE 
 A. DESCRIPTIONS OF NATURE TO HARMONIZE WITH A MOOD. 
 
 "One thing in life calls for another; there is a fitness 
 in events and places. One place suggests work, another 
 idleness, a third early rising and long rambles in the 
 dew. The effect of night, of any flowing water, of 
 lighted cities, of the peep of day, of ships, of the open 
 ocean, calls up in the mind an army of anonymous de- 
 sires and pleasures. Something, we feel, should happen ; 
 we know not what, yet we proceed in quest of it. And 
 many of the happiest hours of life fleet by us in this 
 vain attendance on the genius of the place and moment. 
 It is thus that tracts of young fir, and low rocks, that 
 reach into deep soundings, particularly torture and de- 
 light me. Something must have happened in such places, 
 and perhaps ages back, to members of my race ; and when 
 I was a child I tried in vain to invent appropriate games 
 for them, as I still try, just as vainly, to fit them with the 
 proper story. Some places speak distinctly. Certain 
 dank gardens cry aloud for a murder ; certain old houses 
 demand to be haunted; certain coasts are set apart for 
 shipwreck." Stevenson, "Gossip on Romance" 
 
THE STORY FROM SETTING 77 
 
 In writing the following exercises, select only such 
 details as will harmonize with the pervading spirit of 
 the scene and reject all others that are "dissonant in 
 mood." Preferably make your description from the view 
 point of an actor or a participant, as atmosphere can 
 be presented best through the medium of the emotions 
 of one speaking in the first person. Have the character 
 through whose viewpoint you write dominated by the 
 setting. Note that the list below has been drawn with 
 few modifications from Stevenson's suggestions above. 
 
 1. Describe a city street in such a way as to convey an 
 
 impression of bustle and confusion and "busyness." 
 (Work.) 
 
 2. Describe the coming of a peaceful summer night in / 
 
 the country in such a way as to fill the reader with 
 feelings of peace and tranquillity. (Idleness.) 
 
 3. Describe a bit of street so as to convey as strong an 
 
 impression as possible of deep darkness. (Effect 
 of night.) 
 
 4. Describe a river in autumn in such a way as to 
 
 "awaken an army of anonymous desires and pleas- 
 ures." (Flowers and stream.) 
 
 5. Describe a valley as it would appear just before sun- 
 
 rise if viewed from a hill so as to impress the 
 reader with the sweetness and freshness of the 
 scene. (The peep of day.) 
 
 6. Describe the coming of a clear summer night in the 
 
 sea making much use of color words. (The green 
 ocean.) 
 
 7. Describe a "dank garden" that cries aloud for 
 
 murder. 
 
 8. Describe a certain old house at twilight that "de- 
 
 mands to be haunted." 
 
 9. Describe a coast that is "set apart for shipwreck." 
 
;8 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 B. Read a narrative that is distinguished for its com- 
 pactness and brevity, such as a parable of Jesus or a 
 fable by ^Esop, and write a description rich in atmosphere, 
 of some scene mentioned in the narrative. 
 
 III. THE PLOT-BUILDING GAME 
 
 A. When the instructor returns one of your studies in 
 atmosphere or local color describe (in the class hour) 
 a character that could adequately "interpret" such a setting 
 either by reason of "harmonizing with the pervading spirit 
 of the scene" or because of dramatic contrast with it. 
 
 B. From a hat draw a number corresponding to one of 
 the settings below. Then from another hat draw a num- 
 ber corresponding to one of the three characters in Chap- 
 ter VII. State in a paragraph how the setting would 
 dominate or shape the character. 
 
 1. A western farm in harvest time. 
 
 2. A beautiful lake every scene to occur when the 
 
 moon is high. 
 
 3. A little college of many traditions and associations 
 
 but small endowment and old buildings. 
 
 4. A little village of New England type in the Middle 
 
 West. 
 
 5. A little village in Massachusetts where the belief 
 
 holds sway that civilization ends at the foot of 
 the Alleghenies. 
 
 6. A camp among the lumber jacks of northern 
 
 Minnesota. 
 
 7. With a gang of Italians laying new steel rails on 
 
 the railroad. 
 
 8. Among the four hundred of New York. 
 
 9. The slums of the East Side tenements. 
 10. Along the wharves of a large city. 
 
THE STORY FROM SETTING 79 
 
 11. In the trenches in Flanders. 
 
 12. A Mississippi River metropolis, noted for being u a 
 
 wide open town." 
 
 13. A large university in a large city. 
 
 14. A department store. 
 
 15. A desert island. 
 
 16. A shoe-shining shop. 
 
 17. A Mexican mezza. 
 
 1 8. A jungle in India. 
 
 19. Among the mountains. 
 
 20. A lonely wood, at the time of the year when winds 
 
 howl through the branches. 
 
 21. A cozy little cottage. 
 
 22. A large city hospital. 
 
 IV. STEPS IN WRITING AN ORIGINAL STORY OF 
 ATMOSPHERE OR LOCAL COLOR 
 
 A. Read "Greater Love Hath No Man" and the con- 
 structive criticism accompanying it. 
 
 B. Select a setting and write a few tentative descrip- 
 tions of it. The best way to write an atmosphere story 
 or story of local color is to begin weeks ahead, writing 
 down little paragraph descriptions or, better still, sen- 
 tence descriptions that flash the exact impression you 
 wish to make upon the reader. No type of story requires 
 such painstaking care in selecting the right word and the 
 suggestive phrase, such condensing and economy of lan- 
 guage. For nothing bores one more quickly than a 
 mediocre, conventionally phrased atmosphere story and 
 a good one always ranks as one of the gems of literature. 
 
 C. Write your story after first putting yourself into 
 the mood you wish to convey to your readers. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 THE STORY THAT GROWS FROM A THEME 
 
 When Jack London remarked that the two essentials 
 of a successful writer were first the ability to work hard, 
 and second, the possession of a "philosophy of life," he 
 was not hitting very wide of the mark. While the first 
 is very necessary for success in any line of writing the 
 second is absolutely indispensable for the writer who 
 wishes to do creditable work with the story of idea. It 
 does not matter for literary purposes whether his phi- 
 losophy agrees with the generally accepted creeds and 
 cults. But it is essential that the writer of the idea-story 
 should believe in something, and the more vigorously he 
 jlieves in it the better. ^ 
 
 story that emphasizes idea is either the hardest 
 story to write or the easiest. If it is merely a story with 
 a "moral," it is comparatively easy of composition. A 
 piece of didactic writing in narrative form is merely a 
 string of incidents strung together in such a way as to 
 make the moral idea clear. But such a story sacrifices 
 literary qualities in order to make the moral obvious. If, 
 however, you aim at presenting a truth through artistic 
 effect, you are undertaking a far different thing. 
 
 In the strongest stories of idea, there is usually a de- 
 cisive moment where the character has to decide between 
 one of two issues. An entirely different set of conse- 
 quences will follow each act. This is the crux of the 
 story, and upon the way it is handled the strength of the 
 
 80 
 
STORY THAT GROWS FROM A THEME Bi 
 
 story depends. Sometimes the writer chooses to make 
 the teaching as clear-cut as in the purely didactic narra- 
 tive or in the story with a moral. At other times he 
 solves the problem so impartially that the reader can 
 only get by implication the writer's own true feelings 
 in the matter. Sometimes, as in "The Lady or the Tiger," 
 he does not solve it at all. Of the three methods, the 
 second is the most artistic and in most cases the one to 
 select. In other words, the method to be chosen in writ- 
 ing the story of idea should be one whereby the effect 
 upon the reader is made not through the reason and in- 
 tellect, but through the imagination and emotions. 
 
 As a matter of fact every story embodies a theme, no 
 matter whether we call it a story from setting or a story 
 from complication or a story from character. For no 
 story can be written that is not more or less based upon 
 some reality of life, upon some truth of human existence. 
 But for that matter, all stories make use of setting, 
 character and complication as well. For our purposes 
 we shall classify as stories "from idea only those stories 
 whose purpose is to emphasise the theme more than to 
 emphasize the plot or the character, v . __ 
 
 EXERCISES 
 
 I. STUDIES IN EXPOSITORY BEGINNINGS 
 
 Kipling in his earlier writing adopted a method of 
 introducing his stories with an introductory essay of one 
 or two paragraphs. As he grew in artistry and power he 
 gradually discarded this method, but the vogue that he 
 started continued. O. Henry was the most successful 
 imitator of Kipling in the use of the "philosophical 
 overture." Through these two popular writers this form 
 
82 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 received great currency in this country, and today a great 
 many of the best story-writers in current magazines em- 
 ploy it. But it is not the best way to write a thematic 
 story. Because of its seeming popularity and because it 
 does have some value in helping the beginner to fix his 
 attention at once on the central theme the writer wishes 
 to fix in the reader's mind, it deserves careful considera- 
 tion before we leave it. Like the back-hand stroke in 
 tennis, no harm will be done and a great deal of good 
 may be accomplished, by trying it out occasionally in 
 practice, although care should be taken to avoid it as 
 much as possible in the real game. 
 
 A. Referring to the examples given under B, below, and 
 using them as models, write a philosophical overture suitable 
 for the beginning of a story on one of the following themes. 
 Make it terse, individual and interesting. Take care to pre- 
 vent it from becoming dull and preachy. 
 
 1. God made the world for lovers; all others are in- 
 
 truders. 
 
 2. Westward the course of empire takes its way. 
 
 3. A little child shall lead them. 
 
 4. Mercy is like the gentle dew from heaven. 
 
 5. Order is heaven's first law. 
 
 6. Opportunity knocks but once. 
 
 7. It is better to have loved and lost than never to have 
 
 loved at all. 
 
 If more topics are desired see Book of Proverbs, Poor Richard's Almanac 
 and sEsop's Fables. 
 
 B. Read the story from which one of the following phil- 
 osophical overtures has been taken and then write a one- 
 sentence beginning to substitute for the expository beginning. 
 
 "To rear a boy under what parents call the 'sheltered life 
 system' is, if the boy must go into the world and fend for 
 himself, not wise. Unless he be one in a thousand he has 
 
STORY THAT GROWS FROM A THEME 83 
 
 certainly to pass through many urfnecessary troubles; and 
 may, possibly, come to extreme grief simply from ignorance 
 of the proper proportions of things. 
 
 "Let a puppy eat the soap in the bathroom or chew a 
 newly blacked boot. He chews and chuckles until, by and 
 by, he finds out that blacking and Old Brown Windsor made 
 him very sick; so he argues that soap and boots are not 
 wholesome. Any old dog about the house will soon show him 
 the unwisdom of biting big dogs' ears. Being young, he re- 
 members and goes abroad, at six months, a well-mannered 
 little beast with a chastened appetite. If he had been kept 
 away from boots, and soap, and big dogs till he came to the 
 trinity full-grown and with developed teeth, consider how 
 fearfully sick and thrashed he would be ! Apply that notion 
 to the 'sheltered life/ and see how it works. It does not 
 sound pretty, but it is the better of two evils. 
 
 "There was a Boy once who had been brought up 
 under the 'sheltered life' theory; and the theory killed him 
 dead. . . ." From Kipling's "Thrown Away." 
 
 "East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to 
 Calif ornians. Californians are a race of people; they are 
 not merely inhabitants of a State. They are the Southerners 
 of the West. Now, Chicagoans are no less loyal to their city ; 
 but when you ask them why, they stammer and speak of lake 
 fish and the new Odd Fellows Building. But Californians go 
 into detail. 
 
 "Of course, they have in the climate an argument that is 
 good for half an hour while you are thinking of your coal 
 bills and heavy underwear. But as soon as they come to 
 mistake your silence for conviction, madness comes upon 
 them, and they picture the city of the Golden Gate as the 
 Bagdad of the New World. So far, as a matter of opinion, 
 no refutation is necessary. But, dear cousins all (from 
 Adam and Eve descended), it is a rash one who will lay 
 his finger on the map and say: Tn this town there can be 
 
84 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 no romance what could happen here ?' Yes, it is a bold and 
 rash deed to challenge in one sentence history, romance, and. 
 Rand McNally." 
 
 From O. Henry's "A Municipal Report'' 
 
 II. STUDIES IN STORIES OF THEME 
 
 A. Read "The Fat of the Land," by Anzia Yezierska, 
 which Mr. O'Brien considers the best short story in his col- 
 lection of the "Best Short Stories of 1919." Do, you think it 
 deserves such high rank? Jot down one or two thematic 
 situations which could be developed by a plan similar to that 
 of this story, i. e., dividing a life into two parts giving two 
 contrasting incidents separated by a long lapse of time, in the 
 life of a leading character. 
 
 B. "The Dark Hour," by Wilbur Daniel Steele, is 
 ranked by O'Brien in his collection of "Best Short Stories 
 of 1918" as the best short story that has come out of the 
 war. Now that the war is over plan a situation whereby 
 the moral of the war as finished as you see it, could be 
 best presented. 
 
 If you are interested you might read Alice Brown's "Flying 
 Teuton," published in Harper's for August, 1917, which 
 O'Brien considered the best war story of that year, and also 
 "England to America," by Margaret Prescott Montague, 
 which was ranked by a group of critics as the best short 
 story of 1919. This story may be found in The Atlantic 
 Monthly and reprinted in Current Opinion for March, 1920. 
 
 C. Read "The Citizen" by James Francis Dwyer in 
 O'Brien's collection of "Best Short Stories for 1915" and then 
 plan a story in whicn some one listens to a speaker and 
 while listening lives over some dramatic incident in his life. 
 Use the first and last paragraphs of the speech as a "frame" 
 for the story. Speeches that would be easily adapted to such 
 an end would be : 
 
STORY THAT GkOWS FROM A THEME 85 
 
 Abraham Lincoln's Second Inaugural Address. 
 Woodrow Wilson's Address : "Make the World Safe for 
 
 Democracy." 
 
 Henry Grady's "The New South." 
 
 In planning such a story care must be taken to select the 
 right person through whose point of view the story should 
 be written. 
 
 D. Read Daudet's "The Last Class" and then plan a story 
 sequel to it, forty years later, using one of following theme 
 situations : 
 
 1. The little boy's return now a general or a teacher 
 
 to the little schoolhouse to re-open it with the 
 "first class." 
 
 2. The last class of a kind old German school teacher, 
 
 a man untouched by militarism, who preaches a 
 valedictory address on the mistakes and moral 
 breakdown of his own nation which led to the 
 return of Alsace-Lorraine to the French. 
 
 III. A STORY-BUILDING GAME 
 
 I. Draw from a hat numbers corresponding to one of the 
 themes listed below. Then select a character, and plan a 
 story in class that would illustrate this truth. 
 
 A. THEMES OF LOVE. 
 
 I. Only one love is true and. great; we are gods but 
 
 once. 
 
 . 2. Love is an art, not a science. We can be taught a 
 science but we learn an art by trying. 
 
 3. When love dies, we die; from then on until we are 
 
 buried we only exist. 
 
 4. Though love is essential to life, there is a hidden 
 
 instinct in the heart of every man and woman to 
 destroy it. 
 
 5. Sin is not purged by prayer, fasting and self-mutila- 
 
 tion, but by love. 
 
86 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 6. The only dangerous heretics are those who doubt 
 
 love. 
 
 7. As soon as a woman thinks herself loved, she makes 
 
 herself lovable. 
 
 8. It is singular that a woman is charitable toward the 
 
 man who would ruin her, and so exacting toward 
 the man who worships her. 
 
 9. No man finds himself until he loves a woman. 
 
 10. The soul of man is journeying from chaos to law; 
 and the road is love. 
 
 B. HUMOROUS THEMES. 
 
 The following statements might be elaborated into humorous 
 overtures : 
 
 1. Some men actually know a few of the things they 
 
 believe. 
 
 2. Love is a great help to the girl who wants to make 
 
 herself miserable. 
 
 3. It takes any man longer to make a garden than it 
 
 takes an old hen to unmake it. 
 
 4. A man is never the same after his first baby, after 
 
 his first automobile, and after his name has been 
 mentioned favorably in the newspaper. 
 
 5. Common sense is very uncommon. 
 
 Horace Greeley. 
 
 6. If you do not wish a man to do a thing, you had 
 
 better get him to talk about it; for the more men 
 talk, the more likely they are to do nothing. 
 
 Carlyle. 
 
 7. Be good and you'll be lonesome. 
 
 Mark Twain. 
 
 8. Curiosity is one of the forms of feminine bravery. 
 
 Hugo. 
 
 9. There are few wild beasts more to be dreaded than 
 
 a communicative person having nothing to com- 
 municate. 
 
STORY THAT GROWS FROM A THEME 87 
 
 10. A very uncivil person may be able to pass a Civil 
 Service Examination. 
 
 C. GENERAL THEMES. 
 
 1. No sensible person ever made an apology. 
 
 Emerson. 
 
 2. If you always live with those who are lame, you 
 
 yourself will learn to limp. 
 
 From the Latin. 
 
 3. He who sings frightens away his ills. 
 
 Cervantes. 
 
 4. In great straits; and when hope is small, the boldest 
 
 counsels are the safest. Livy. 
 
 5. Man is born barbarous he is ransomed from the 
 
 conditions of beasts only by being cultivated. 
 
 Lamartine. 
 
 For other suggestions see Book of Proverbs, Poor Richard's Almanac, 
 and jEsop's Fables. 
 
 '-TV. STEPS IN WRITING A STORY FROM THEME 
 
 A. Read "The Dark Hour" and the criticism that accom- 
 panies it. 
 
 B. Then select a theme that you would like to develop 
 into a story and outline the general plan. 
 
 C. Read some expository material essays and sermons, 
 etc. that bears upon your theme. In other words, get the 
 idea well developed in your own mind before you begin. 
 
 D. Then write your story, avoiding as far as possible all 
 suggestion of the didactic. Try to present your truth through 
 artistic effect rather than pointed moral. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 SOME QUESTIONS ANSWERED 
 
 If you have faithfully worked out the exercises in 
 plot building in the last four chapters you will have found 
 that the writing of a short story is not such an impossible 
 task as you may have first thought. You are now ready 
 to make a choice of complications, characters and setting 
 and write a short story of your own. As you proceed 
 in the writing, however, you are likely to be brought up 
 against some questions that have not been anticipated 
 in the last four chapters, and it is the purpose of this 
 chapter to answer the most important of these questions 
 in the order in which they will probably occur to you. 
 
 PROBLEM I. WHERE SHALL I BEGIN? 
 
 This is very easily answered. Start as near to the 
 climax as you can. If you are describing your hero's 
 climbing of Pike's Peak, start when he is halfway up. 
 If your tale is concerned with an avalanche, begin when 
 the avalanche is halfway down. That is to say, plunge 
 in medias res. 
 
 As one important function of the beginning of a story 
 is to set the tone of the story, a beginner could well 
 profit by the method of Poe as described by Clayton 
 /Hamilton: "Poe began a story of setting with a descrip- 
 tion ; a story of character with a remark made by or about 
 the leading character; and a story of action with a sen- 
 tence pregnant with potential incident." 
 
 88 
 
SOME QUESTIONS ANSWERED 89 
 
 Another very important function of the beginning of 
 a story is to catch the interest of the reader. There is 
 probably nothing more interesting to the average reader 
 than action. Therefore, if you are not sure which of the 
 four types your story will belong to, you will be safe 
 by commencing with an incident. If this incident may 
 be made to reveal, at the same time, the leading character, 
 the setting and the central theme, you will accomplish 
 one thing the economizing of the reader's attention. 
 
 PROBLEM II. WHAT SHALL BE MY POINT OF VIEW? 
 
 This matter of viewpoint is the least understood of 
 all the technical features of short story writing. The 
 best way to make the matter clear to you will be to show 
 you the same situation treated from various viewpoints, 
 and indicate the advantage and limitations of each and let 
 you take your choice. 
 
 I. The External Viewpoint. 
 
 The viewpoint of a spectator. The action may be 
 presented as it would appear to an audience in a theatre. 
 
 "Nina!" A shrill voice was calling, "This is the third 
 time I've called you to wash them dishes!" The back 
 door slammed. 
 
 "Them plagued dishes!" exclaimed Tomboy Turner, 
 as with a deep sigh she dropped to the ground from the 
 limb of the apple tree where she had been sitting. "Gee, 
 how lazy mother is getting," she said as she pulled up 
 her stocking and started slowly, limping around the 
 chicken coop. From time to time she stopped to mop 
 her face with an old bandanna handkerchief. Her arms 
 hung lifelessly at her side. Once she stopped and ex- 
 amined with care a skinned place on her knee. When 
 
90 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 she reached the house she pressed her hands against her 
 temples and leaned against the door jamb. 
 
 "Did you put the water on, ma?" 
 
 "No," snapped the mother. "Now get busy. This 
 isn't an ordinary day. Something different maybe is 
 going to happen." 
 
 Nina looked at her mother, her eyes now open wide. 
 Her hair was tousled and she made a pretty picture as 
 she stood in the doorway. She asked no further ques- 
 tions, and, filling a pan set it on the back of the stove ; 
 then, with a quick glance at her mother whose back was 
 turned, she slipped through the door and hastened to her 
 room where a moment later she could have been found 
 with her face buried in a much thumbed book, bearing 
 the title, "Three Eagle Feathers, or The Adventures of 
 Cowboy Dick." 
 
 The disadvantage of this method is that the reader 
 can not enter into the story as directly as when the per- 
 sonal viewpoint is used. We can say that Nina looked 
 at her mother with wide open eyes, but we can only let 
 the reader draw inferences as to what she was thinking. 
 We can say that the mother turned with a frown, but we 
 can not state with authority that Nina saw it. 
 
 It depends entirely upon visualization, and for that rea- 
 son is excellent practice, but allows practically no opportu- 
 nity for showing the emotions or feelings of the char- 
 acters, excepting by inference, and therefore is practically 
 useless for giving atmosphere. For these reasons I should 
 not advise students to use it often. 
 
 2. The viewpoint of an actor in the story. 
 
 "Nina !" It was my mother's voice. "This is the third 
 time I've called you to wash them dishes!" The back 
 door slammed suggestively. 
 
 "Them plagued dishes!" I thought, as I slid down out 
 
SOME QUESTIONS ANSWERED 91 
 
 of the apple trees. How lazy mother was getting! I 
 pulled up my stocking and started slowly around the 
 chicken coop. Gee, how that sore knee did hurt ! It was 
 getting so hot and my head ached and my arms felt as 
 if they were going to fall out. That skinned place on 
 my knee must be pretty bad the way it burned. When 
 I reached the house I had to stop and rest at the door- 
 way. My, how my head did ache! 
 
 "Did you put the water on, ma?" I asked. 
 
 "No," she snapped, "Now get busy; this isn't an ordi- 
 nary day. Something different maybe is going to 
 happen." 
 
 "I wonder if Uncle Bill is going to come, that old 
 grouchy guy," I thought, "I suppose that is what make ; 
 ma so cranky." Well anyway, I wasn't going to hurry 
 on his account. So I filled a pan and set it on the stove 
 far from the spot which I knew was hottest, and when 
 ma wasn't looking I slipped out and up to my room to 
 read another chapter in that most interesting tale, "Three 
 Eagle Feathers or The Adventures of Cowboy Dick." 
 
 This method has obvious advantages in stories of 
 atmosphere where the setting and actions must har- 
 monize with the emotions of some character. It has 
 distinct disadvantages if the one telling the story is going 
 to be the hero or heroine, for braggadocio is distasteful 
 to any reader. It should be recommended for use in all 
 stories of atmosphere or mystery. 
 
 j. Over-the-Shoulder Viewpoint. 
 
 For stories other than atmosphere or mystery, the 
 third person viewpoint is preferable. In this viewpoint 
 the writer looks over the shoulder of one of the char- 
 acters. Such a method may be obtained by taking the 
 first person viewpoint and changing nothing but the pro- 
 nouns. 
 
92 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 "Nina!" It was her mother's voice. "Nina!" The 
 back door slammed suggestively. 
 
 Tomboy Turner sighed profoundly and dropped to the 
 ground. How lazy her mother was getting! She pulled 
 up her stocking and started slowly around the chicken 
 coop limping painfully on a sore toe. It was getting hot 
 and her head ached and her arms felt as if they were 
 going to fall out. That skinned place on her knee must 
 be pretty bad, from the way it burned. When she reached 
 the house she pressed her hands to her temples, and 
 leaned wearily against the door jamb. 
 
 "Did you put the water on, ma?" 
 
 "No," snapped the other, "Now get busy, this isn't 
 an ordinary day. Something different maybe is going 
 to happen." 
 
 "I wonder if that old grouch, Uncle Bill, is going to 
 come," thought Nina, "I suppose that is what makes ma 
 so cranky." Well anyway, she wasn't going to hurry 
 on his account. So she filled a pan and set it on the 
 stove, far from the spot which she knew was hottest, 
 and when her mother was not looking, she slipped out 
 and up to her room to read another chapter of that most 
 interesting tale, "Three Eagle Feathers or The Adven- 
 tures of Cowboy Dick." 
 
 In this kind of story the writer lives the life of the 
 viewpoint character. It is the simplest form and the 
 best for the writer who is as yet uncertain of his tech- 
 nique. Care should be taken not to witness anything 
 that the viewpoint character does not see; nor to enter 
 into the thoughts of any other character. If the writer 
 neglects this warning, discrepancies are bound to occur. 
 
 4. The Shadow Viewpoint. 
 
 This viewpoint, which is midway between the over- 
 the-shoulder viewpoint and the external viewpoint, 
 combining the best of each, is a discovery, I believe, of 
 
SOME QUESTIONS ANSWERED 93 
 
 Willard E. Hawkins, editor of the Student Writer. It 
 is excellent for a writer who wants greater leeway than 
 the personal viewpoint allows, as it gives him the privi- 
 lege of telling not only what the characters saw and 
 thought, but also how they looked. 
 
 "Nina !" It was her mother's voice. "This is the third 
 time I've called you to wash them dishes!" The back 
 door slammed suggestively. 
 
 Tomboy Turner sighed profoundly and dropped to the 
 ground. How lazy her mother was getting ! She pulled 
 up her stockings and started slowly around the chicken 
 coop, limping on a sore toe. It was getting hot and her 
 head ached and her arms felt as if they were going to 
 fall out. That skinned place on her knee must be pretty 
 bad the way it burned. When she reached the house she 
 leaned wearily against the door jamb. As she stood 
 there silhouetted against the dark green of the orchard, 
 her hair rumpled, with two or three stray leaves still 
 loosely clinging in it, she made a pretty picture. 
 
 "Did you put the water on, ma?" 
 
 "No," snapped the other. "Now get busy, this isn't 
 an ordinary day. Something different maybe is going 
 to happen." 
 
 "I wonder if Uncle Bill is going to come, that old 
 grouch," she thought, but nothing in the austere manner 
 of her mother revealed what she knew. Great would 
 have been Nina's consternation had she known the real 
 reason for all this haste, but only the crumpled telegram 
 concealed in her mother's apron pocket would have re- 
 vealed the news to her, and this her mother had taken 
 pains to keep from her sight, etc. 
 
 Mr. Hawkins describes this as the viewpoint of the 
 character's subjective or astral self. He says further: 
 
 "For fictional purposes we assume that this shadowy 
 double-self exists and that the story is told from its 
 
94 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 viewpoint. Consider its properties and limitations. As 
 an extension of the man himself it reaches beyond him, 
 yet is a part of him. It thinks in unison with the man 
 to which it belongs, yet can look at him as an outsider, 
 can see events that he may be too preoccupied to notice. 
 It can observe threatening dangers which he may not 
 realize, but can not warn him unless he is in a very 
 passive state. It has no separate existence and can not 
 ordinarily witness events that are entirely out of his 
 range; still, it has a definitely wider vision than he pos- 
 sesses. It can not enter into the thoughts of any character 
 other than the man it overshadows. 
 
 "This may sound like a very difficult and complex view- 
 point, yet it is that which the majority of writers instinc- 
 tively employ. They enter into close accord with the 
 viewpoint character, but do not actually confine themselves 
 to his or her limitations." 
 
 Its advantage is that it permits the writer to paint a 
 picture that is rich in atmosphere and at the same time, 
 rich in details. This method permits us to tell what Nina 
 thought, how she looked and to include mention of some 
 things within the range of the "shadow" viewpoint of 
 which she had no knowledge whatever. It combines the 
 virtue of the objective viewpoint of keeping the reader 
 guessing, and gives opportunity of the personal view- 
 point for purposes of atmosphere. 
 
 It must not be confused with the shifting viewpoint, 
 however, as the writer must not stray further away from 
 the central character than the length of his own shadow, 
 so to speak. Otherwise the impression of unity of effect 
 would be dissipated. 
 
 5. The Shifing Viewpoint. 
 
 If he should choose to use this viewpoint the writer 
 would be permitted to describe first the receiving of 
 
SOME QUESTIONS ANSWERED 95 
 
 the telegram by Mrs. Turner in 'the kitchen, and then 
 shift to the orchard where Nina was eating green apples 
 and shirking her morning responsibility. The impracti- 
 cability of such a viewpoint for the short story is so 
 obvious that I need give no further discussion of it here. 
 The fact that it is frequently used by successful maga- 
 zine writers is no evidence whatever that their stories 
 would not have been more successful without it. It 
 does give evidence, however, that viewpoint like all the 
 other rules of short story writing is a means to an 
 end and is not the most important thing in the world 
 in itself. 
 
 PROBLEM III. HOW SHALL I MAKE MY STORY MOVE? 
 
 A narrative is a living thing, like a stream of water; 
 it flows toward a single definite impression that is to be 
 made upon the reader. In some stories this stream should 
 flow slowly, in others rapidly, in still others, and these 
 the majority, it should start 'slowly and increase by a 
 gradually accelerated movement until at the climax the 
 movement is the most rapid and the interest the highest. 
 
 Slow movement is used most frequently in stories of 
 character or atmosphere ; rapid action is used in compli- 
 cation stories and sometimes in thematic stories ; while 
 accelerated action is found in all. 
 
 Here is an example of slow action : 
 
 "From Bleymard after dinner, although it was already 
 late, I set out to scale a portion of the Lozere. An ill- 
 marked stony drove-road guided me forward ; and I met 
 nearly half-a-dozen bullock-carts descending from the 
 woods, each laden with a whole pine-tree for the winter's 
 firing. At the top of the woods, which do not climb 
 very high upon this cold ridge, I struck leftward by a 
 path among the pines, until I hit on a dell of green turf, 
 
96 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 where a streamlet made a little spout over some stones 
 to serve me for a water-tap. 'In a more sacred or se- 
 questered bower nor nymph nor faunus haunted.' The 
 trees were not old, but they grew thickly round the 
 glade: there was no outlook, except north-eastward upon 
 distant hill-tops, or straight upward to the sky; and the 
 encampment felt secure and private like a room. By the 
 time I had made my arrangements and fed Modestine, 
 the day was already beginning to decline. I buckled 
 myself to the knees into my sack and made a hearty 
 meal; and as soon as the sun went down, I pulled my 
 cap over my eyes and fell asleep. . . . 
 
 "As I thus lay, between content and longing, a faint 
 noise stole towards me through the pines. I thought, 
 at first, it was the crowing of cocks or the barking of 
 dogs at some very distant farm ; but steadily and gradu- 
 ally it took articulate shape in my ears, until I became 
 aware that a passenger was going by upon the highroad 
 in the valley, and singing loudly as he went. There was 
 more of good-will than grace in his performance; but 
 he trolled with ample lungs; and the sound of his voice 
 took hold upon the hillside and set the air shaking in 
 the leafy glens. I have heard people passing by night 
 in sleeping cities; some of them sang; one, I remember, 
 played loudly on the bag-pipes. I have heard the rattle 
 of a cart or carriage spring up suddenly after hours of 
 stillness, and pass, for some minutes, within the range 
 of my hearing as I lay abed. There is a romance about 
 all who are abroad in the black hours, and with some- 
 thing of a thrill we try to guess their business. But here 
 the romance was double : first, this glad passenger, lit 
 internally with wine, who sent up his voice in music 
 through the night ; and then I, on the other hand, buckled 
 into my sack, and smoking alone in the pine-woods 
 between four and five thousand feet towards the stars." 
 Robert Louis Stevenson's "A Night Among the Pines." 
 
 Note the tendency to loose sentences and the skillful 
 use of adjectives. 
 
SOME QUESTIONS ANSWERED 97 
 Here is an example of swift action: 
 
 "The merchants closed their shops, and came out to 
 swell the general chorus of alarm and clamor. Women 
 rushed to the churches, and crowded the chapels, and 
 knelt and prayed on the flags and steps. The dull sound 
 of the cannon went on rolling, rolling. Presently, car- 
 riages with travelers began to leave the town, galloping 
 away by the Ghent barrier. The prophecies of the French 
 partisans began to pass for facts. 'He has cut the armies 
 in two/ it was said. 'He is marching straight on Brus- 
 sels. He will overpower the English, and be here to- 
 night.' Thackeray, ''Vanity Fair." 
 
 Note short sentences, concrete nouns and verbs of / 
 action. 
 
 Here is an example of mixed action; starting with 
 slow movement, the movement gradually increasing in 
 speed until at the close the action is very rapid: 
 
 "The Kettle, growing mellow and musical, began to 
 have irrepressible gurglings in its throat, and to indulge 
 in short vocal snorts, which it checked in the bud, as 
 if it hadn't quite made up its mind yet to be good com- 
 pany. Now it was, that after two or three such vain 
 attempts to stifle its convivial sentiments, it threw off all 
 moroseness, all reserve, and burst into a stream of song 
 so cozy and hilarious, as never maiidlin nightingale yet 
 formed the least idea of. 
 
 "And here, if you like, the Cricket did chime in with 
 a chirrup, chirrup, chirrup, of such magnitude, by way 
 of chorus, with a voice so astoundingly disproportionate 
 to its size as compared with the Kettle (Size! you 
 couldn't see it!) that if it had then and there burst 
 itself like an overcharged gun, if it had fallen a victim 
 on the spot, and chirruped its little body into fifty pieces, 
 it would have seemed a natural and inevitable conse- 
 quence, for which it had expressly labored. 
 
98 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 "There was all the excitement of a race about it. 
 Chirp, chirp, chirp! Cricket a mile ahead. Hum, hum, 
 hum m m ! Kettle making play in the distance, like a 
 great top. Chirp, chirp, chirp! Cricket round the cor- 
 ner. Hum, hum, hum m m ! Kettle sticking to him in 
 his own way; no idea of giving in. Chirp, chirp, chirp! 
 Cricket fresher than ever. Hum, hum, hum m m! 
 Kettle slow and steady. Chirp, chirp, chirp ! Cricket 
 going in to finish him. Hum, hum, hum m m ! Kettle 
 not to be finished. Until, at last, they got so mumbled 
 together in the hurry-skurry, helter-skelter of the match, 
 that whether the Kettle chirped and the Cricket hummed, 
 or the Cricket chirped and the Kettle hummed, or they 
 both chirped and both hummed, it would have taken a 
 clearer head than yours or mine to decide with anything 
 like certainty." Dickens' "The Chimes'' 
 
 Slow movement should be used in writing narratives 
 on such topics as the following : 
 
 Sights seen on a street car. 
 
 A walk in the woods. 
 
 The loves of old Aunt Chloe. 
 
 Rapid movement would naturally be used in such 
 themes as the following: 
 
 Chased by a mad dog. 
 
 When the wolf was cornered. 
 
 The four-oared boat race. 
 
 Accelerated movement would be used in such themes 
 as the following: 
 
 Fishing for a gigantic trout. 
 
 Playing with mother's clothes while she was away. 
 
 The night of the rescue. 
 
 There is nothing that will help the student attain 
 mastery over narrative movement more than a well de- 
 
SOME QUESTIONS ANSWERED 99 
 
 veloped sense of rhythm. If he 'is so fortunate as to 
 possess this instinct he should by all means make the 
 most of it, letting his ideas come as it were in 'thought- 
 waves," and writing as though he were composing to 
 music. The ebb and flow of these thought waves may 
 be speeded up for fast, exciting, tense passages, and 
 slowed down for calm and placid passages. 
 
 PROBLEM IV. HOW CAN I CONNECT THE EPISODES? 
 
 One of your first tasks should be to reduce the number 
 of episodes to as few in number as possible. Every joint 
 in your pipe is subject to leakage. The leaks in your 
 story will be found at the points of juncture. Three 
 fresh beginnings strain the limit of any story. If your 
 story is naturally episodic, remedy the situation by 
 Dinding together the earlier episodes into one continu- 
 ous happening. Then treat the concluding episodes in 
 a similar manner. If you find that you cannot do this 
 I should advise you to throw aside the plot as one im- 
 possible to use. There are, however, a few exceptions > 
 to this rule. Stories which emphasize character sometimes 
 require more episodes and longer lapses of time between 
 them, in order to record the development of the indi- 
 viduals that are the center of the story. Compare in 
 this respect the number of episodes and the big lapses 
 of time in "The Necklace," and "The Gay Old Dog," 
 with the single continuous episodes in "The Cop and the 
 Anthem," and the "Last Class." Only an artist of as 
 long experience as Maupassant or Edna Ferber could 
 have riveted together so many "links of pipe" without 
 having his stories fall to pieces, figuratively speaking, in 
 clouds of smoke. 
 
TOO THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 ta 
 
 
 If you find it absolutely impossible to bridge the gap 
 between certain parts of your story, don't be afraid to be 
 honest with your readers. You owe it in common hon- 
 
 ty to reveal the sharpness of the break, if necessary 
 even typographically. A row of asterisks in the middle 
 
 f a story is not the best form of transition by any means, 
 
 ut it is one way, and often by no means the worst way. 
 
 PROBLEM V. HOW CAN I MAKE MY CLIMAX 
 SEEM PLAUSIBLE? 
 
 In a story this simply means that all the stage prop- 
 erties should be on the stage before the performance be- 
 gins. A splendid example of this forehandedness is seen in 
 Stevenson's "Treasure Island." Here we are told how 
 kind the first mate was, and as an example of his gener- 
 osity we learn of his having brought on board a barrel 
 of apples. At the time we think of this as a device for 
 showing the character of the mate, but some time later, 
 when the barrel is all but empty, and the little boy crawls 
 into it to eat the last apple and take a nap while sheltered 
 from the rays of the sun, we see suddenly the relation 
 of all this to the plot of the story. 
 
 But if forehandedness is necessary in preparing stage 
 properties, even more is it needed for introducing char- 
 acter qualities. If your hero is to toss the villain over 
 the quarterdeck on the last page, you should give us an 
 example of his athletic prowess in one of the early pages. 
 Such forehandedness is especially necessary where you 
 plan to have things happen which would tax your reader's 
 credulity. For instance, if a loafer is going to rise on a 
 sudden occasion and deliver an eloquent address which 
 leads to his election to Congress by being mistaken for 
 
SOME QUESTIONS ANSWERED V'fttt/. 
 
 the governor, he should be revealed to us, earlier in the 
 story, picking up methods of skilled orators in his dis- 
 cussions around the old stove in the village store. An 
 excellent example of this preparation is found in the 
 description of the mother on the first page of "They 
 Know Not What They Do," by Wilbur Daniel Steele. 
 But this point leads directly to the next problem of the 
 short story. 
 
 PROBLEM VI. HOW CAN I INCREASE THE SUSPENSE 
 IN MY STORY? 
 
 When we see a man walking slowly toward an open 
 well, we think nothing of it, but when we discover by 
 the second glance that he is blind, we become intensely 
 interested in the outcome. When we discover by a third 
 glance that he is our own grandfather, our interest is 
 increased to the breaking point. And when finally some- 
 thing occurs to hinder our stopping him from advancing 
 toward what seems certain death, our excitement grows 
 very intense indeed. 
 
 This situation illustrates the three laws of suspense. 
 In the first place find an intensely dramatic situation 
 where, in order to prevent disaster, everything depends 
 upon a certain thing happening within a certain limit of 
 Mime. The Zenda and Graustark stories stress this 
 method. Excellent examples of this are "The Cop and 
 the Anthem," and "The Lady or the Tiger ?" 
 
 Second, invest your characters with the sympathetic 
 interest of the reader by whatever means at your dis- 
 posal. If you can make us feel toward him as we would 
 feel toward our own brother, then a very trivial matter 
 will hold us in suspense. Arnold Bennet, Jane Austen, 
 William Dean Howells, stress this method. Examples 
 
KS2. THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 in short stories are "The Gay Old Dog" and "The Last 
 Class." 
 
 Third, give the impression of a considerable length of 
 time elapsing between the discovery by the reader of the 
 character in his precarious position and the solution. 
 Such an impression may be given by using one of the 
 following devices: 
 
 a. The writer may offer scientific explanations of the 
 
 danger, keeping the reader on tenter-hooks await- 
 ing the outcome. This was done in "The Lady 
 or the Tiger." 
 
 b. Another method is to delay action by revealing the 
 
 thoughts and emotions of the viewpoint character. 
 Nowhere is this better done than in "The Coward." 
 
 c. Another way is to shift to some other part of the 
 
 story and leave the character dangling in the air 
 until we come back to him later. This method, 
 frequently used in novels, implies the shifting 
 viewpoint and is therefore not desirable for short 
 stories. 
 
 The chief thing is to work for time for the full signifi- 
 cance of the impending disaster to sink deeply into the 
 reader's mind. The writer should be careful not to pro- 
 long this retarding of action to the point where it may 
 vitiate the effect of the climax that is coming. 
 
 PROBLEM VII. HOW CAN I GIVE MY STORY AN 
 EFFECTIVE CLIMAX? 
 
 From the conventional plot point of view what is the 
 secret of a strong climax? If I should put the answer 
 into one word I should say Surprise. This surprise must 
 be, of course, compounded of materials that have already 
 
SOME QUESTIONS ANSWERED 103 
 
 entered into the story; in other words it must be, as I 
 have reiterated elsewhere, plausible and logical. 
 
 What are some of the ways by which this surprise can 
 be achieved? Perhaps the most effective methods are 
 the following: 
 
 1. Have the character do exactly what we should 
 expect but in a delightfully novel, unusual way, just as 
 only that particular character would do it. In other 
 words, have the surprise not in what he does, but in the 
 way he does it. Who is not thrilled by the climax of 
 'The Last Class?" 
 
 2. Have the character, stirred outside himself by 
 some unexpected climactic event, do exactly the opposite 
 of what he and every reader thinks he would do in such 
 a crisis. See O. Henry's "The Proof of the Pudding" 
 for a unique example of this. 
 
 3. Omit some little step in the story, as, for instance, 
 the forbearance of Madame Loisel from telling Mathilde 
 that the beads which she was selecting with such childish 
 pleasure were paste, and save this for a revelation at 
 the close of the story. This, of course, is the chief 
 method of detective and mystery stories. 
 
 4. Perhaps the most effective surprise climax for a 
 plot story is achieved by introducing a sub-plot which is 
 kept hidden throughout most of the story, and re-enters 
 near the close, long enough to give an entirely new turn 
 to events. In "The Gay Old Dog" the early love affair 
 of Jo Hertz and Emily, so long submerged that it has 
 been forgotten by the reader, emerges at an unexpected 
 moment in such a way as to give a strong climax to the 
 story. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS STUDIES IN SHORT 
 STORY WRITING 
 
 These exercises are intended for oral reports, class dis- 
 cussions, or impromptu written assignments in the classroom. 
 It is not intended that they should encroach on time required 
 for the proper preparation of other assignments in this book. 
 
 I. STUDIES IN THE BEGINNING OF A STORY 
 
 1. Select almost any story of Hawthorne and write an- 
 other beginning for it. Hawthorne's beginnings are noto- 
 riously weak. In fact, in structure of the story Hawthorne 
 is as weak as Poe is strong; his style, however, is superior 
 to that of any living writer and deserves careful attention. 
 
 2. Try writing four original beginnings, employing in 
 turn the four methods described on page 88, the introductory 
 incident, the leading character, the theme and the setting. 
 If you prefer you may write four different beginnings for 
 the same story. 
 
 3. Try writing an introductory paragraph which will in- 
 troduce all four elements of the story simultaneously. 
 
 II. STUDIES IN THE POINT OF VIEW 
 
 1. Cut from a magazine a story which has been told 
 in the first person, paste or string the story together so that 
 it will not fall apart, and then change all the first person 
 pronouns to third person, and write a one-page discussion of 
 the advantage of the one form over the other. 
 
 2. After the same manner alter a story told in the third 
 person to the first person form. 
 
 3. Plan writing a story from the over-the-shoulder view- 
 point of one character, and then of another. 
 
 For further studies in viewpoint see IV below. 
 
 104 
 
STUDIES IN SHORT STORY WRITING 105 
 
 III. STUDIES IN NARRATIVE MOVEMENT 
 
 1. Slow Movement: Write an account, 100 to 300 words 
 in length, on one of the following topics or on one of your 
 own choosing: 
 
 Hunting with a camera. 
 
 A walking trip. 
 
 Uncle Tom takes a ride in the street car. 
 
 Take time to visualize the pictures you see, as you write, 
 and strive to bring in much specific detail that will add to the 
 vividness of the picture, even at the risk of slowing up the 
 action. While striving for variety in sentence structure 
 something, by the way, you always should strive for lean 
 somewhat toward the long sentences, not avoiding the loose 
 construction if you know how to use it. Before writing this 
 sketch read a paragraph from Stevenson to catch his rhythm 
 and grace of movement. 
 
 2. Rapid Movement: Write an account in 100 to 300 
 words on one of the following topics, or on one of your 
 own choosing: 
 
 When Dave came to bat. 
 
 The fire in Garrow's Hotel. 
 
 Chased by a mad bull. 
 
 When old Burdick lost his temper. 
 
 Use shorter sentences than in slow action. Keep your 
 nouns concrete and specific, and above all strive to find "verbs 
 of action" to economize the reader's attention and to lend 
 force to the narrative. For instance say "women rushed to 
 the churches" rather than "went to the churches." Before 
 writing this you will find it helpful to read a page from an 
 exciting chapter in one of Victor Hugo's novels. 
 
 3. Accelerated Movement: Write an account in 150 to 
 400 words on one of the following topics or on one of your 
 own choosing, employing the style you used in Exercise I 
 
106 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 above for the first part, and ending with the style you used 
 in 2: 
 
 Before and after n o'clock on Armistice Day. 
 The coming of the hurricane to Carver City. 
 Gill appears for the mile run. 
 
 It is an interesting study and excellent practice to attempt 
 to move by gradual stages from slow movement to rapid 
 movement when the incidents in the narrative allow it. This 
 is one of the best exercises to prepare one for the business 
 of story writing. 
 
 IV. STUDIES IN SELECTION AND ARRANGEMENT 
 OF EPISODES 
 
 1. Read "The Shot/' by Pushkin. This is told in three 
 episodes which are not arranged in chronological order. Plan 
 writing this in chronological order and from the impersonal 
 over-the-shoulder viewpoint of the leading character instead 
 of from the first person viewpoint of a minor character. In 
 doing this use "The Necklace" as your model. 
 
 What would be gained and what would be lost by this 
 alteration ? 
 
 2. Using the order of incidents and viewpoint of "The 
 Shot" as a model, make the following alterations in "The 
 Necklace" : Have an intermediate incident come first : i. e., 
 Mathilde scrubbing floors in a back garret. Have story told 
 through viewpoint of a minor character a new character 
 who occupies the same tenement and whose curiosity is 
 aroused by seeing such a woman doing such menial work. 
 Have the first part of her life told by Mathilde to this person 
 as the second episode of the story, and then have the latter be 
 present in some way at the denouement and relate what 
 she saw. 
 
 Discuss the advantages and disadvantages of such a change. 
 
STUDIES IN SHORT STORY WRITING 107 
 
 V. STUDIES IN PLAUSIBILITY 
 
 1. Cut out a magazine story which introduces very skill- 
 fully the necessary materials and furnishes the motivation for 
 the concluding episodes. Make comments in the margins 
 directing attention to the best examples of this and bring to 
 the class. 
 
 2. After a similar fashion bring a story to class which is 
 deplorably weak in motivation and in preparation for the 
 final solution. 
 
 3. Point out the deplorably illogical places in "The Spuri- 
 ous One." 
 
 VI. STUDIES IN SUSPENSE 
 
 A. Indicate in which of the following situations suspense 
 must be created by intensifying the interest in the characters, 
 and in which by intensifying the interest in the situation: 
 
 1. Johnny spills molasses on the table-cloth at Mr. 
 
 Gordon-Jones' party. 
 
 2. Mrs. Smith buys a can-opener from the agent only 
 
 to find she has been duped. 
 
 3. Mr. Brown discovers that the shares in Brown's 
 
 Harvester Company have dropped three points. 
 
 4. Mark Dolan slips on the glacier edge. 
 
 5. Robert McCord finds after starting on his first aero- 
 
 plane flight that he has forgotten the way to alight. 
 
 B. Write in class a one-page sketch based on one of the 
 following : 
 
 1. Dawson was to be hung at high noon. It was now 
 
 five minutes of the hour, and still no reprieve had 
 come. 
 
 2. The doctor washed his hands in preparation for the 
 
 operation. 
 
 3. "In five minutes the boss wants to see you," she told 
 
 me. Seeing that all in the room were looking at 
 
io8 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 me, I bent my head down over my work. But for 
 the life of me I could not concentrate my thoughts 
 upon the task before me. 
 
 4. I knew that in five minutes I should be under the 
 
 enemies' fire. In order to calm my beating heart 
 I began to reason very scientifically about it. In 
 the first place . . . 
 
 5. I looked ahead one hundred yards to where stood the 
 
 old gnarled tree and safety ! Then I glanced back 
 over my shoulder to where the wolf pack came 
 charging only thirty yards away with death 
 gleaming from their yellow eyes and blood-red lips ! 
 Cpuld I make it? 
 
 VII. STUDIES IN CLIMAX 
 
 1. Read "The Lady and the Tiger" and write a climax 
 according to your own interpretation of the lady's motives. 
 This sometimes makes an interesting impromptu class assign- 
 ment when the instructor reads the story aloud at the begin- 
 ning of the hour. 
 
 2. Read "Riding the Rim Rock" by Dallas Lore Sharp in 
 Atlantic Narratives, and recast the last part of the story so 
 as to have a climax instead of a philosophical discussion. 
 
 3. Discuss the ending of "The Gay Old Dog" and com- 
 pare with the ending of "The Necklace." 
 
 4. Conceive a situation where some character who has 
 been abused, scorned and looked down upon throughout the 
 story arises in justifiable indignation and volcanoes forth his 
 wrath at his persecutors in such a way as to make him the 
 dominant character in the situation. 
 
 5. Conceive of a situation where a character does just the 
 opposite of what we might have expected him to do. 
 
STUDIES IN SHORT STORY WRITING 109 
 
 VIII. DISCUSS THE MORAL" IMPLIED IN THE 
 FOLLOWING STORY: 
 
 THE SPURIOUS ONE * 
 
 BY GERTRUDE BROOKE HAMILTON 
 
 Putting up a white hand to brush back a curl that the 
 wind had blown across her temple, the Heroine sighed, 
 "But the storm will come and all our beautiful day will 
 be spoiled." 
 
 The Hero's clean-cut face glowed. "Yes, it will rain.'" 
 
 "How can it," broke in the Minor Character, "when 
 there's not a cloud in the sky?" Her hair, unlike the 
 Heroine's, had become in the salt air perfectly straight. 
 The Hero seemed to note the contrast. Again he glowed. 
 
 "It will rain," cooed the Heroine. 
 
 The Minor Character shook her head. "Where are 
 the clouds?" 
 
 The Heroine smiled. Aside, she whispered fiercely, 
 "To give me my big scene it must rain." 
 
 And it rained. A flooding downpour that drove the 
 Heroine and the Hero and the Minor Character along 
 the beach, and sent stinging handfuls of sand into their 
 faces. Against the fury of the winds, the Hero walked 
 in silent strength; but the Heroine faltered. Her hair, 
 loosened from its shining coils, fell heavily upon her 
 shoulders. 
 
 "I am afraid," she stammered, "for you!" 
 
 "For me!" he cried. "Then you 
 
 She flung out warning hands. "Hush ! We have no 
 right- 
 He straightened. "Out here, let us face ourselves, 
 the real selves. Let us be true. Conventionalities that 
 bind and fetter 
 
 "This is. all very fine," interrupted the Minor Char- 
 acter peevishly, "but I am getting wet." 
 
 * Copyright, 1919, by the Editor Magazine Company. 
 
no THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 "Be still !" hissed the Heroine. "Do you want to spoil 
 our best scene ?" And then to him : "No ! no ! I must 
 not listen!" 
 
 The Minor Character seated herself upon a rock and 
 began kicking it with her unshapely feet. Her hair hung 
 about her eyes like snakes, her face was pale and her 
 nose red. She was a sorry spectacle and she knew it ! 
 
 The storm was now magnificent; across the western 
 sky-line faint flickers of lightning lived and died, and 
 the thunder rumbled incessantly. The Heroine was very 
 serious. "Voices of the storm," she brooded. "What 
 are they saying to you to me to the world?" 
 
 "Love," he analyzed. "Look!" a flame went across 
 the heavens "that is love playing upon two souls, light- 
 ing doubts with naked truth. Listen!" the thunder 
 broke "That is love defying the world. Voices of the 
 storm! Can't you hear them?" 
 
 She breathed unevenly. A blinding rent, a crash that 
 shook the earth, brought them to their feet. "The end !" 
 she wailed. 
 
 "The storm," contradicted the Minor Character. "I 
 knew what would come of this idiotic business. Now, 
 what are we going to do?" 
 
 The Hero stretched his arms. "Die, gloriously!" 
 
 "Not for mine," retorted the Minor Character. "I see 
 a boat coming, anyway." 
 
 It was true. Across the swirling waters, flashed upon 
 by vivid bolts, rescue was nearing them. When the 
 craft drew up, a man wrapped in a flowing cape came 
 rapidly forward. 
 
 "There is yet time," he muttered. 
 
 The Hero interposed with, "Sir, your name." 
 
 "What matters that?" 
 
 "Your name, or profession, before we move an inch." 
 
 "If you must have it," the stranger said sulkily, "I 
 am the Villain. This lady's hair" he waved a hand 
 towards the Heroine "needs no explanation but the 
 third persoii?" 
 
 "A minor character," the Hero said indifferently. 
 
STUDIES IN SHORT STORY WRITING in 
 
 The Villain raised his brows. "Rather unusual, having 
 her here at this climax." 
 
 "It had to be done," sighed the Heroine, "to get me 
 here." 
 
 "It had to be done because I wouldn't stay out," re- 
 torted the Minor Character. 
 
 The Villain turned and stared at her. "A piece of 
 impertinence, upon my life!" 
 
 "She is simply unbearable," snapped the Heroine. 
 
 The Minor Character stuck out her tongue. "Oh, 
 chase yourself !" 
 
 "Be still," the Hero commanded. "And, to go on with 
 the story : Dear Love, let me carry you over these sharp 
 rocks." 
 
 The storm had abated somewhat, and the party pro- 
 ceeded in silence. The Villain led the way, followed 
 by the Hero, who carried the Heroine as lightly as if she 
 were a baby. "And as if she didn't weigh a hundred and 
 sixty pounds!" reflected the Minor Character bitterly, as 
 she, unnoticed, picked her way along. 
 
 On reaching the boat, the Villain sprang to the prow. 
 Needless to say, the Hero was there before him. The 
 Heroine sank, moaning, into the stern. By a violent 
 effort, the Minor Character scrambled aboard, and they 
 shot out over the boiling, violet tinted waters. 
 
 Before they had gone many yards, the Minor Char- 
 acter grasped the Hero's arm. "Look!" she cried. "Some 
 one left on shore. A man ! Go back !" 
 
 The Hero's lips set. "Impossible." 
 
 "He's not in the book," frowned the Villain. 
 
 "But only look ! Swimming to us ! Against this tide !" 
 The Minor Character made a funnel of her hands, and 
 shrieked: "Hurry! Hurry!" 
 
 The man was now plainly discernible. He waved long 
 arms, startling them all by the wildness of his eye. 
 "Wait !" he yelled. "Let me on." 
 
 "Impossible," shouted the Hero. 
 
 "You're not one of us," bellowed the Villain. 
 
 The Heroine added her voice. "We don't like the 
 
H2 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 way you cut your hair or your clothes! But " her 
 face suddenly changed "you might marry the Minor 
 Character." 
 
 "What!" shrieked the stranger, rising manfully to the 
 waves. "Marry the Minor Character! . . . Me! . . . 
 I am the Author !" 
 
 Stunned silence. The party stared at one another. 
 Never, in all the course of their eventful lives, had such 
 a thing occurred. The Hero's hand fell from the prow; 
 the Heroine uttered a faint cry; the Villain, forgetting 
 himself, laughed sillily. The Minor Character alone re- 
 tained any presence of mind. She brought the boat to a 
 standstill, and the Author climbed in. 
 
 "What do you mean by this?" he stormed, shaking his 
 fists madly and jumping up and down. "Paying no at- 
 tention to me, walking off when and where you please ! 
 You'll die in the next chapter the whole of you !" 
 
 At these terrible words, they shrank back, petrified 
 all but the Minor Character. She put her hands on her 
 hips and retorted airily, "Gee! a fine author! Gets us 
 into a mess like this, and then blames us for the way we 
 act. What do you want us to do drown?" 
 
 Her words seemed to further enrage him. "A fine 
 minor character," he shouted. "What are you doing 
 here, anyway? You belong back in the ball room." 
 
 "Maybe I do, smarty; but I'm not going back." Sud- 
 denly the Minor Character became serious. "I know 
 what's the matter with you," she said. "You're afraid 
 the publishers won't look at your book. Lord! I 
 wouldn't blame them. I'm sick to death of it. Kill me 
 in the next chapter; I'll be glad to get out of the whole 
 thing, even with a paragraph. I'm tired of that freaky 
 villain. I'm tired to death of that silly heroine. I'm 
 tired of that copy-book hero. Why don't you get some- 
 thing original, ninny?" 
 
 The Author began to stutter. "Kill my sale my 
 popularity " 
 
 "Resurrect it," she retorted calmly ; "it's dead already." 
 Then she walked over to him and held out her hands. 
 
STUDIES IN SHORT STORY WRITING 113 
 
 "See here, I'll tell you what to do. 'Make me the Heroine, 
 and I'll make a best seller. Don't laugh your face looks 
 too ugly cracked up like that. Make me the Heroine. 
 I've got it in me. Just give me a chance." Conviction 
 was in her voice, born of obtruding persistently upon a 
 hundred and fifty pages. 
 
 The Author turned to his principals. The Hero was 
 gracefully guiding the boat with one hand and supporting 
 with the other the flower-like form of the Heroine, whose 
 beauty shone with unruffled brilliancy. 
 
 Then the Author turned and looked searchingly at the 
 Minor Character; her pale, wicked eyes, her straight 
 hair, her large defiant mouth, the whole awkward liveli- 
 ness of her. "When I began to write this book," he 
 groaned, "you were a shapeless bit of dough. I never 
 liked you. You have forced yourself into every im- 
 portant scene, ruined climaxes, outshone the heroine, 
 developed wit Why? Oh, why?" 
 
 "Because I'm something that's never been done before. 
 I'm new!" 
 
 The words had no sooner fallen from her lips than 
 the Heroine was in the back seat; the Hero beside her; 
 the Villain in front of him ; and at the prow, dominating 
 them all, shooting the boat forward with such swift ac- 
 tion that they gasped for breath, was the Minor Character. 
 
 The Author glared, open-mouthed. "I don't blame 
 them," he cried wrathfully, "I detest you." 
 
 Her hair blowing in the wind and her eyes agleam, the 
 Minor Character laughed back. "When something like 
 me comes along," she cried, "what do you count? I'm 
 new! I'm new! Hold on to your hats we're going 
 some!" 
 
 The Author started to retort. Instead, with a sudden 
 sparkle in his eye and wildness of manner, he grabbed 
 up his pen again and began to write. 
 
PART II 
 
 "CREATIVE CRITICISM" OF FOUR 
 SHORT STORIES 
 
READ THIS PAGE BEFORE YOU READ 
 THE STORIES 
 
 In reading the storier on the following pages try to 
 put yourself in the writer's attitude of mind. Assume 
 that you yourself have written the stories or that you 
 are in the process of writing them. To help you get 
 this creative attitude of mind read several confessions of 
 successful authors who have revealed their methods of 
 work. Poe's explanation as to how he wrote "The 
 Raven" is quite illuminative. Mrs. Dorothy Canfield 
 Fisher has written an interesting essay entitled, "How 
 Flint and Fire Started and Grew." But of all the infor- 
 mation that authors have furnished in regard to their 
 methods I know of none that will prove more helpful or 
 more stimulating to beginners in story writing than the 
 interview with James Oppenheim which is reprinted on 
 the following pages. 
 
 Read it over carefully. 
 
 117 
 
AN INTERVIEW WITH JAMES OPPENHEIM * 
 
 BY WILLARD D. PRICE 
 
 The swift hum of the typewriter in the next room 
 ceased as I asked for Mr. Oppenheim, and a moment later 
 he stood in the doorway. 
 
 "So you don't believe," I said, "that one must work 
 with a soft pencil and at the dead of night to produce a 
 satisfactory short story?" 
 
 "I used to think something of the sort," he confessed, 
 as we passed into the story workshop. 
 
 "I used to wait until the fever caught me, and then 
 write a story complete in one night; and be laid up for 
 two days after it. Now I do my best work in the early 
 morning and rarely turn out more than a thousand words 
 at a sitting. I don't write as many stories as I did under 
 the old system. But the work is more carefully done." 
 
 "How do you get the idea for a story in the first place ?" 
 
 "I eet at a story in three different ways. First, through 
 a certain character. When I see someone a trifle different 
 from most people, I often picture a story around him. 
 Second, through some dramatic situation that I witness or 
 hear about. Third, through the idea or theme itself ; for 
 instance, I might take the theme of child labor and work 
 out the story from that beginning." 
 
 "When you build a story around a character, do you use 
 the character about as you find him in real life?" 
 
 "Practically never. Things and people as they are in 
 real life won't do for short stories. They are only starting 
 points, spring boards. It is to ^t away from the dull and 
 monotonous in life that people read short stories. There- 
 fore only the high points in human experience can be used 
 effectively by the story writer." 
 
 * Copyright, 1912, by Editor Magazine Company. 
 
 118 
 
AN INTERVIEW WITH JAMES OPPENHEIM 1 19 
 
 "It is so hard to make a character really live and 
 breathe," I suggested, "to make him seem an actual flesh- 
 and-blood person instead of a dry scrap of the author's 
 own imagination." 
 
 "Yes, it is hard," granted Mr. Oppenheim. "I always 
 insist upon knowing my character thoroughly before I 
 write a word about him. That helps me. I must decide 
 who his father and mother were, where he was born, how 
 he spent his childhood, what education he had, whether 
 he has any brothers and sisters, who his friends are, and 
 so forth. I may not mention one of these details in the 
 story. Probably I will not state that he was born on a 
 farm in Maine in 1887 of plain, industrious parents, 
 attended the village school, showed a great liking for 
 reading and drawing but despised arithmetic, and so on. 
 But to have all these things in mind helps me form a clear 
 picture of my character and makes him stand out con- 
 vincingly in my story. Knowing him intimately gives me 
 a sense of assurance in writing about him that I couldn't 
 have otherwise." 
 
 "Then how do you attempt to describe your char- 
 acter?" 
 
 "The great danger, I think, is in describing him too 
 much. I generally try to give one sharp flash that leaves 
 a clear impression. Too many details are apt to blur the 
 picture rather than make it clearer. 
 
 "I remember Balzac in one of his novels tells of a tall 
 woman who comes striding panther-like into the room 
 she was a dark beauty dressed in red and instantly I had 
 a picture of her. Perhaps it was not Balzac's picture, 
 but it was mine, and it would have been sufficient for me 
 throughout the story. But Balzac, not content, went on 
 for a page and half adding one item after another to the 
 description until the picture I had first formed gradually 
 broke up and was lost. As a rule I think one quick flash 
 is enough in introducing a character. Other details, if 
 really essential, can be woven in later during the course 
 of the story." 
 
 "One more question about character. Do you ever use 
 
120 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 the shifting viewpoint; working through one character 
 for a while and then through another?" 
 
 "No. I have seen that done very effectively, but I 
 don't like to do it myself. I prefer the French method. 
 I choose only one character to act as my spokesman. 
 Then I write the entire story through him. I see, feel, 
 describe everything through him, not directly." 
 
 "You do that for the sake of unity r ; 
 
 "Yes. It concentrates the whole thing on one person. 
 Then, too, I think you get a more vivid, realistic story 
 if you try to see the whole action through the eyes of one 
 character." 
 
 "These principles and rules are so interesting and so 
 valuable," I said. "But back of them all there must be 
 vision? And inspiration?" 
 
 "Well, perhaps," parried Mr. Oppenheim, "though in 
 my case I should rather call it a mood than inspiration. 
 The mood I am in at the time is the biggest influence in 
 determining the sort of story I write. Each mood begets 
 a certain style, a certain manner of expressing things. 
 The mood of my story 'Meg/ for instance, was the result 
 of a walk through the dying autumn woods. 
 
 "Then after mood comes rhythm. I do my best work 
 when a certain melody beats through my mind. With me, 
 each piece of writing has its own rhythm. 'Meg' was in 
 the staccato: 'Sharply at six the factory whistle loosed a 
 long blast through the rainstorm.' I can't write anything 
 real unless I feel it strongly. And strong feeling always 
 accompanies, with me, a rhythm." 
 
 "But aren't there times when you sit down to write 
 without any strong, new impression in mind? What do 
 you do then?" 
 
 "I think it is often possible to induce a new impression 
 just by intense application." 
 
 Mr. Oppenheim placed his hand on the back of the 
 chair that stood before his typewriter. "I always hate 
 to sit down on that chair," he said, smiling. "It is always 
 hard work for me to start writing. It is hard to quit, too. 
 
AN INTERVIEW WITH JAMES OPPENHEIM 121 
 
 But the beginning of a story is always the most difficult 
 part for me to write." 
 
 "Do you make an outline of your story before you 
 begin, or do you just let it 'evolve'?" 
 
 "I am helped by laying out a rough synopsis. For 
 example, to refer to 'Meg' again, the synopsis shouldn't 
 be developed in too much detail, for then one is apt to 
 follow it mechanically. But the main incidents in the 
 story I plan out to the very end. I know exactly what 
 the climax and conclusion are to be before I begin." 
 
 "Then how should the story begin?" 
 
 "The main thing in commencing a story is to get some- 
 thing different, unique. I think it doesn't matter much 
 whether it is dialogue, action or meditation. Only it must 
 be something unusual, something out of the beaten track." 
 
 "When you write a story, do you become engrossed in 
 it? Or can you keep yourself apart from it and watch it 
 dispassionately as you write?" 
 
 "As I get into the story, there are times when I become 
 so absorbed that for fifteen minutes or so at a time the 
 critic side of me is completely out of working order. If 
 during one of those periods of forgetfulness someone 
 should break down the door, I might not notice it. Then, 
 when I reach a natural pause in the action, my critic 
 emerges and goes back over what I have written." 
 
 "And does the critic discover much that has to be 
 changed ?" 
 
 "When I first began to write, he did. But he doesn't 
 find so much now. Story-writing is so largely a matter 
 of practice. A good many things begin to take care of 
 themselves after a time." 
 
THE SELF-INVENTORY OF THE WRITER 
 OF STORIES 
 
 Bearing in mind Mr. Oppenheim's methods of writing, 
 read the stories on the following pages, trying to trace 
 the steps taken by the writers as they wrote them. Before 
 you read the stories glance over the following questions 
 and assume that each writer submitted himself to some 
 such catechism before he wrote his story. 
 
 1. Who is to be my leading character in this story? 
 Do I know him thoroughly before I write a word about 
 him? What is to be his dominant trait? 
 
 2. What is to be the problem, and what is to be the 
 solution in this story ? Is the solution surprising, dra- 
 matic, character-revealing, full of human interest or 
 otherwise worth while? Did I think of the problem first 
 or of the solution? 
 
 3. What is to be the setting? Am I personally familiar 
 with the details of local color? Can I enter into the 
 emotional "feel" of the atmosphere? 
 
 4. What is to be the theme or moral? Can it be re- 
 vealed through artistic means, or will it burden down the 
 story with its didacticism? 
 
 5. What shall be the action of the narrative move- 
 ment: rapid, slow or cumulative? Does "a certain mel- 
 ody beat through my mind" as I write? 
 
 6. Can I achieve my purpose best by choosing "only 
 one character to act as my spokesman" and "write the 
 entire story through him?" In this case should he be 
 the leading character or a minor character? Should he 
 relate the story in the first person or should I use the 
 over-the-shoulder viewpoint ? Or would the shadow view- 
 point or shifting viewpoint better serve my purpose? 
 
 122 
 
THE SELF-INVENTORY OF THE WRITER 123 
 
 7. Where shall I begin ? Can lorig descriptions of char- 
 acter and setting be absorbed in the action or deferred 
 until later in the story? Where is the very latest point 
 preceding the climax that I can begin ? 
 
 8. What should be the chief climatic episode toward 
 which everything in the story should point? How many 
 other episodes dare I use, and how few can I use? How 
 shall I weave them together? 
 
 9. Is anything going to take place in my story 
 that will tax my reader's credulity? If so, how can I 
 prepare him for the event by introducing the necessary 
 hints, clues, premonitory allusions and character motiva- 
 tion to make it seem plausible? How can I make my 
 character appear consistent and yet do unu. c ual things? 
 
 10. Is the problem to be solved sufficiently novel, un- 
 usual or otherwise interesting so as to catch the interest 
 of the reader early in the story and arouse his curiosity 
 as to the outcome? Is the leading character sufficiently 
 unusual, comical, pathetic, heroic or otherwise fascinating 
 as to win the reader's interest and put him in a state of 
 suspense as to what is going to befall him? 
 
 11. How can I make my climax strong? Can I make 
 the leading character do just the opposite from what the 
 reader expects him to do? Can I make him do exactly 
 what the reader expects but in a delightfully unusual, 
 unexpected way ? Can I withhold some clue some neces- 
 sary link in the chain of action which may be revealed 
 at the very end to give the story a novel twist? Can I 
 manage to have a sub-plot run a subterranean course 
 through the story and reappear at the end long enough to 
 give a new turn to events? 
 
THE GAY OLD DOG* 
 
 BY EDNA FERBER 
 
 Those of you who have dwelt or even lingered in 
 Chicago, Illinois (this is not a humorous story), are 
 familiar with the region known as the Loop. For those 
 others of you to whom Chicago is a transfer point between 
 New York and San Francisco there is presented this brief 
 explanation : 
 
 The Loop is a clamorous, smoke-infested district em- 
 braced by the iron arms of the elevated tracks. In a city 
 boasting fewer millions, it would be known familiarly as 
 downtown. From Congress to Lake Street, from Wabash 
 almost to the river, those thunderous tracks make a com- 
 plete circle, or loop. Within it lie the retail shops, the 
 commercial hotels, the theaters, the restaurants. It is the 
 Fifth Avenue (diluted) and the Broadway (deleted) of 
 Chicago. And he who frequents it by night in search 
 of amusement and cheer is known, vulgarly, as a loop- 
 hound. 
 
 Jo Hertz was a loop-hound. On the occasion of those 
 sparse first nights granted the metropolis of the Middle 
 West he was always present, third row, aisle, left. When 
 a new loop cafe was opened, Jo's table always commanded 
 an unobstructed view of anything worth viewing. On 
 entering he was wont to say, "Hello, Gus," with careless 
 cordiality to the head-waiter, the while his eye roved 
 expertly from table to table as he removed his gloves. 
 
 Copyright, 1917, by the Metropolitan Magazine Company. Copyright, 
 1918, by Edna Ferber. 
 
 - J.24 
 
THE GAY OLD DOG 125 
 
 He ordered things under glass, so that his table, at mid- 
 night or thereabouts, resembled a hot-bed that favors the 
 bell system. The waiters fought for him. He was the 
 kind of man who mixes his own salad dressing. He liked 
 to call for a bowl, some cracked ice, lemon, garlic, paprika, 
 salt, pepper, vinegar and oil, and make a rite of it. People 
 at near-by tables would lay down their knives and forks 
 to watch, fascinated. The secret of it seemed to lie in 
 using all the oil in sight and calling for more. 
 
 That was Jo a plump and lonely bachelor of fifty. 
 A plethoric, roving-eyed and kindly man, clutching vainly 
 at the garments of a youth that had long slipped past him. 
 Jo Hertz, in one of those pinch- waist belted suits and a 
 trench coat and a little green hat, walking up Michigan 
 Avenue of a bright winter's afternoon, trying to take the 
 curb with a jaunty youthfulness against which every one 
 of his fat-encased muscles rebelled, was a sight for mirth 
 or pity, depending on one's vision. 
 
 The gay-dog business was a late phase in the life of 
 Jo Hertz. He had been a quite different sort of canine. 
 The staid and harassed brother of three unwed and selfish 
 sisters is an under dog. The tale of how Jo Hertz came 
 to be a loop-hound should not be compressed within the 
 limits of short story. It should be told as are the photo- 
 plays, with frequent throw-backs and many cut-ins. To 
 condense twenty-three years of a man's life into some five 
 or six thousand words requires a verbal economy amount- 
 ing to parsimony. 
 
 At twenty-seven Jo had been the dutiful, hard-working 
 son (in the wholesale harness business) of a widowed and 
 gummidging mother, who called him Joey. If you had 
 looked close you would have seen that now and then a 
 double wrinkle would appear between Jo's eyes a wrinkle 
 
126 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 that had no business there at twenty-seven. Then Jo's 
 mother died, leaving him handicapped by a death-bed 
 promise, the three sisters and a three-story-and-basement 
 house on Calumet Avenue. Jo's wrinkle became a fixture. 
 
 Death-bed promises should be broken as lightly as they 
 are seriously made. The dead have no right to lay their 
 clammy fingers upon the living. 
 
 "Joey," she had said, in her high, thin voice, "take care 
 of the girls." 
 
 "I will, ma," Jo had choked. 
 
 "Joey," and the voice was weaker, "promise me you 
 won't marry till the girls are all provided for." Then as 
 Jo had hesitated, appalled: "J oev > it's my dying wish. 
 Promise !" 
 
 "I promise, ma," he had said. 
 
 Whereupon his mother had died, comfortably, leaving 
 him with a completely ruined life. 
 
 They were not bad-looking girls, and they had a certain 
 style, too. That is, Stell and Eva had. Carrie, the 
 middle one, taught school over on the West Side. In 
 those days it took her almost two hours each way. She 
 said the kind of costume she required should have been 
 corrugated steel. But all three knew what was being 
 worn, and they wore it or fairly faithful copies of it. 
 Eva, the housekeeping sister, had a needle knack. She 
 could skim the State Street windows and come away 
 with a mental photograph of every separate tuck, hem, 
 yoke, and ribbon. Heads of departments showed her the 
 things they kept in drawers, and she went home and 
 reproduced them with the aid of a two-dollar-a-day 
 seamstress. Stell, the youngest, was the beauty. They 
 called her Babe. She wasn't really a beauty, but some 
 one had once told her that she looked like Janice Meredith 
 
THE GAY. OLD DOG 127 
 
 (it was when that work of fiction was at the height of 
 its popularity). For years afterward, whenever she went 
 to parties, she affected a single, fat curl over her right 
 shoulder, with a rose stuck through it. 
 
 Twenty-three years ago one's sisters did not strain at 
 the household leash, nor crave a career. Carrie taught 
 school, and hated it. Eva kept house expertly and com- 
 plainingly. Babe's profession was being the family 
 beauty, and it took all her spare time. Eva always let 
 her sleep until ten. 
 
 This was Jo's household, and he was the nominal head 
 of it. But it was an empty title. The three women 
 dominated his life. They weren't consciously selfish. If 
 you had called them cruel they would have put you down 
 as mad. When you are the lone brother of three sisters, 
 it means that you must constantly be calling for, escorting, 
 or dropping one of them somewhere. Most men of Jo's 
 age were standing before their mirror of a Saturday night, 
 whistling blithely and abstractedly while they discarded a 
 blue polka-dot for a maroon tie, whipped off the maroon 
 for a shot-silk in favor of a plain black-and-white, because 
 she had once said she preferred quiet ties. Jo, when he 
 should have been preening his feathers for conquest, was 
 saying : 
 
 "Well, my God, I am hurrying! Give a man time, 
 can't you? I just got home. You girls have been laying 
 around the house all day. No wonder you're ready." 
 
 He took a certain pride in seeing his sisters well 
 dressed, at a time when he should have been reveling in 
 fancy waistcoats and brilliant-hued socks, according to 
 the style of that day, and the inalienable right of any 
 unwed male under thirty, in any day. On those rare 
 occasions when his business necessitated an out-of-town 
 
128 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 trip, he would spend half a day floundering about the 
 shops, selecting handkerchiefs, or stockings, or feathers, 
 or fans, or gloves for the girls. They always turned out 
 to be the wrong kind, judging by their reception. 
 
 From Carrie, "What in the world do I want of a fan !" 
 
 "I thought you didn't have one," Jo would say. 
 
 "I haven't. I never go to dances." 
 
 Jo would pass a futile hand over the top of his head, 
 as was his way when disturbed. "I just thought you'd 
 like one. I thought every girl liked a fan. Just," feebly, 
 "just to to have." 
 
 "Oh, for pity's sake!" 
 
 And from Eva or Babe, "I've got silk stockings, Jo." 
 Or, "You brought me handkerchiefs the last time." 
 
 There was something selfish in his giving, as there 
 always is in any gift freely and joyfully made. They 
 never suspected the exquisite pleasure it gave him to select 
 these things; these fine, soft, silken things. There were 
 many things about this slow-going, amiable brother of 
 theirs that they never suspected. If you had told them 
 he was a dreamer of dreams, for example, they would 
 have been amused. Sometimes, dead-tired by nine o'clock, 
 after a hard day downtown, he would doze over the 
 evening paper. At intervals he would wake, red-eyed, 
 to a snatch of conversation such as, "Yes, but if you get 
 a blue you can wear it anywhere. It's dressy, and at the 
 same time it's quiet, too." Eva, the expert, wrestling with 
 Carrie over the problem of the new spring dress. They 
 never guessed that the commonplace man in the frayed 
 old smoking- jacket had banished them all from the room 
 long ago ; had banished himself, for that matter. In his 
 place was a tall, debonair, and rather dangerously hand- 
 some man to whom six o'clock spelled evening clothes. 
 
THE GAY OLD DOG 129 
 
 The kind of a man who can lean up against a mantel, 
 or propose a toast, or give an order to a man-servant, 
 or whisper a gallant speech in a lady's ear with equal ease. 
 The shabby old house on Calumet Avenue was trans- 
 formed into a brocaded and chandeliered rendezvous for 
 the brilliance of the city. Beauty was there, and wit. 
 But none so beautiful and witty as She. Mrs. er Jo 
 Hertz. There was wine, of course ; but no vulgar display. 
 There was music ; the soft sheen of satin ; laughter. And 
 he the gracious, tactful host, king of his own domain 
 
 "Jo, for heaven's sake, if you're going to snore go to 
 bed !" 
 
 "Why did I fall asleep?" 
 
 "You haven't been doing anything else all evening. A 
 person would think you were fifty instead of thirty." 
 
 And Jo Hertz was again just the dull, gray, common- 
 place brother of three well-meaning sisters. 
 
 Babe used to say petulantly, "Jo, why don't you ever 
 bring home any of your men friends? A girl might as 
 well not have a brother, all the good you do." 
 
 Jo, conscience-stricken, did his best to make amends. 
 But a man who has been petticoat-ridden for years loses 
 the knack," somehow, of comradeship with men. He ac- 
 quires, too, a knowledge of women, and a distaste for 
 them, equaled only, perhaps, by that of an elevator-starter 
 in a department store. 
 
 Which brings us to one Sunday in May. Jo came home 
 from a late Sunday afternoon walk to find company for 
 supper. Carrie often had in one of her school-teacher 
 friends, or Babe one of her frivolous intimates, or even 
 Eva a staid guest of the old-girl type. There was always 
 a Sunday night supper of potato salad, and cold meat, 
 and coffee, and perhaps a fresh cake. Jo rather enjoyed 
 
130 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 it, being a hospitable soul. But he regarded the guests 
 with the undazzled eyes of a man to whom they were 
 just so many petticoats, timid of the night streets and 
 requiring escort home. If you had suggested to him that 
 some of his sisters' popularity was due to his own pres- 
 ence, or if you had hinted that the more kittenish of these 
 visitors were palpably making eyes at him, he would have 
 stared in amazement and unbelief. 
 
 This Sunday night it turned out to be one of Carrie's 
 friends. 
 
 "Emily," said Carrie, "this is my brother, Jo." 
 
 Jo had learned what to expect in Carrie's friends. 
 Drab-looking women in the late thirties, whose facial lines 
 all slanted downward. 
 
 "Happy to meet you," said Jo, and looked down at a 
 different sort altogether. A most surprisingly different 
 sort, for one of Carrie's friends. This Emily person was 
 very small, and fluffy, and blue-eyed, and sort of well, 
 crinkly looking. You know. The corners of her mouth 
 when she smiled, and her eyes when she looked up at you, 
 and her hair, which was brown, but had the miraculous 
 effect, somehow, of being golden. 
 
 Jo shook hands with her. Her hand was incredibly 
 small, and soft, so that you were afraid of crushing it, 
 until you discovered she had a firm little grip all her own. 
 It surprised and amused you, that grip, as does a baby's 
 unexpected clutch on your patronizing forefinger. As Jo 
 felt it in his own big clasp, the strangest thing happened 
 to him. Something inside Jo Hertz stopped working for 
 a moment, then lurched sickeningly, then thumped like 
 mad. It was his heart. He stood staring down at her, 
 and she up at him, until the others laughed. Then their 
 hands fell apart, lingeringly. 
 
THE GAY OLD DOG 131 
 
 "Are you a school-teacher, Emily?" he said. 
 
 "Kindergarten. It's my first year. And don't call me 
 Emily, please." 
 
 "Why not? It's your name. I think it's the prettiest 
 name in the world." Which he hadn't meant to say at all. 
 In fact, he was perfectly aghast to find himself saying it. 
 But he meant it. 
 
 At supper he passed her things, and stared, until every- 
 body laughed again, and Eva said acidly, "Why don't you 
 feed her?" 
 
 It wasn't that Emily had an air of helplessness. She 
 just made you feel you wanted her to be helpless, so that 
 you could help her. 
 
 Jo took her home, and from that Sunday night he began 
 to strain at the leash. He took his sisters out, dutifully, 
 but he would suggest, with a carelessness that deceived 
 no one, "Don't you want one of your girl friends to come 
 along? That little What's-her-name Emily, or some- 
 thing. So long's I've got three of you, I might as well 
 have a full squad." 
 
 For a long time he didn't know what was the matter 
 with him. He only knew he was miserable, and yet 
 happy. Sometimes his heart seemed to ache with an 
 actual physical ache. He realized that he wanted to do 
 things for Emily. He wanted to buy things for Emily 
 useless, pretty, expensive things that he couldn't afford. 
 He wanted to buy everything that Emily needed, and 
 everything that Emily desired. He wanted to marry 
 Emily. That was it. He discovered that one day, with 
 a shock, in the midst of a transaction in the harness busi- 
 ness. He stared at the man with whom he was dealing 
 until that startled person grew uncomfortable. 
 
 "What's the matter, Hertz?" 
 
132 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 "Matter?" 
 
 "You look as if you'd seen a ghost or found a gold 
 mine. I don't know which." 
 
 "Gold mine," said Jo. And then, "No. Ghost." 
 
 For he remembered that high, thin voice, and his 
 promise. And the harness business was slithering down- 
 hill with dreadful rapidity, as the automobile business 
 began its amazing climb. Jo tried to stop it. But he 
 was not that kind of business man. It never occurred 
 to him to jump out of the down-going vehicle and catch 
 the up-going one. He stayed on, vainly applying brakes 
 that refused to work. 
 
 "You know, Emily, I couldn't support two households 
 now. Not the way things are. But if you'll wait. If 
 you'll only wait. The girls might that is, Babe and 
 Carrie " 
 
 She was a sensible little thing, Emily. "Of course I'll 
 wait. But we mustn't just sit back and let the years go 
 by. We've got to help." 
 
 She went about it as if she were already a little match- 
 making matron. She corraled all the men she had ever 
 known and introduced them to Babe, Carrie, and Eva 
 separately, in pairs, en masse. She arranged parties at 
 which Babe could display the curl. She got up picnics. 
 She stayed home while Jo took the three about. When 
 she was present she tried to look as plain and obscure as 
 possible, so that the sisters should show up to advantage. 
 She schemed, and planned, and contrived, and hoped; 
 and smiled into Jo's despairing eyes. 
 
 And three years went by. Three precious years. 
 Carrie still taught school, and hated it. Eva kept house, 
 more and more complainingly as prices advanced and 
 allowance retreated. Stell was still Babe, the family 
 
THE GAY OLD DOG 133 
 
 beauty; but even she knew that the time was past for 
 curls. Emily's hair, somehow, lost its glint and began to 
 look just plain brown. Her crinkliness began to iron out. 
 
 "Now, look here!" Jo argued, desperately, one night. 
 "We could be happy, anyway. There's plenty of room 
 at the house. Lots of people begin that way. Of course, 
 I couldn't give you all I'd like to at first. But maybe, 
 after a while " 
 
 No dreams of salons, and brocade, and velvet-footed 
 servitors, and satin damask now. Just two rooms, all 
 their own, all alone, and Emily to work for. That was 
 his dream. But it seemed less possible than that other 
 absurd one had been. 
 
 You know that Emily was as practical a little thing as 
 she looked fluffy. She knew women. Especially did she 
 know Eva, and Carrie, and Babe. She tried to imagine 
 herself taking the household affairs and the housekeeping 
 pocketbook out of Eva's expert hands. Eva had once 
 displayed to her a sheaf of aigrettes she had bought with 
 what she saved out of the housekeeping money. So then 
 she tried to picture herself allowing the reins of Jo's house 
 to remain in Eva's hands. And everything feminine and 
 normal in her rebelled. Emily knew she'd want to put 
 away her own freshly laundered linen, and smooth it, and 
 pat it. She was that kind of woman. She knew she'd 
 want to do her own delightful haggling with butcher and 
 vegetable peddler. She knew she'd want to muss Jo's 
 hair, and sit on his knee, and even quarrel with him, if 
 necessary, without the awareness of three ever-present 
 pairs of maiden eyes and ears. 
 
 "No ! No ! We'd only be miserable. I know. Even 
 if they didn't object. And they would, Jo. Wouldn't 
 they?" 
 
134 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 His silence was miserable assent. Then, "But you do 
 love me, don't you, Emily?" 
 
 "I do, Jo. I love you and love you and love you. 
 But, Jo, I can't." 
 
 "I know it, dear. I knew it all the time, really. I just 
 thought, maybe, somehow " 
 
 The two sat staring for a moment into space, their 
 hands clasped. Then they both shut their eyes, with a 
 little shudder, as though what they saw was terrible to 
 look upon. Emily's hand, the tiny hand that was so 
 unexpectedly firm, tightened its hold on his, and his 
 crushed the absurd fingers until she winced with pain. 
 
 That was the beginning of the end, and they knew it. 
 
 Emily wasn't the kind of a girl who would be left to 
 pine. There are too many Jo's in the world whose hearts 
 are prone to lurch and then thump at the feel of a soft, 
 fluttering, incredibly small hand in their grip. One year 
 later Emily was married to a young man whose father 
 owned a large, pie-shaped slice of the prosperous state 
 of Michigan. 
 
 That being safely accomplished, there was something 
 grimly humorous in the trend taken by affairs in the old 
 house on Calumet. For Eva married. Of all people, 
 Eva ! Married well, too, though he was a great deal older 
 than she. She went off in a hat she had copied from a 
 French model at Field's, and a suit she had contrived with 
 a home dressmaker, aided by pressing on the part of the 
 little tailor in the basement over on Thirty-first Street. 
 It was the last of that, though. The next time they saw 
 her, she had on a hat that even she would have despaired 
 of copying, and a suit that sort of melted into your gaze. 
 She moved to the North Side (trust Eva for that), and 
 Babe assumed the management of the household on 
 
THE GAY OLD DOG 135 
 
 Calumet Avenue. It was rather a -pinched little household 
 now, for the harness business shrank and shrank. 
 
 "I don't see how you can expect me to keep house 
 decently on this !" Babe would say contemptuously. 
 Babe's nose, always a little inclined to sharpness, had 
 whittled down to a point of late. "If you knew what 
 Ben gives Eva." 
 
 "It's the best I can do, Sis. Business is something 
 rotten." 
 
 "Ben says if you had the least bit of " Ben was 
 
 Eva's husband, and quotable, as are all successful men. 
 
 "I don't care what Ben says," shouted Jo, goaded into 
 rage. "I'm sick of your everlasting Ben. Go and get a 
 Ben of your own, why don't you, if you're so stuck on 
 the way he does things." 
 
 And Babe did. She made a last desperate drive, aided 
 by Eva, and she captured a rather surprised young man 
 in the brokerage way, who had made up his mind not to 
 marry for years and years. Eva wanted to give her her 
 wedding things, but at that Jo broke into sudden rebellion. 
 
 "No, sir ! No Ben is going to buy my sister's wedding 
 clothes, understand? I guess I'm not broke yet. I'll 
 furnish the money for her things, and there'll be enough 
 of them, too." 
 
 Babe had as useless a trousseau, and as filled with 
 extravagant pink-and-blue and lacy and frilly things as 
 any daughter of doting parents. Jo seemed to find a 
 grim pleasure in providing them. But it left him pretty 
 well pinched. After Babe's marriage (she insisted that 
 they call her Estelle now) Jo sold the house on Calumet. 
 He and Carrie took one of those little flats that were 
 springing up, seemingly over night, all through Chicago's 
 South Side. 
 
136 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 There was nothing domestic about Carrie. She had 
 given up teaching two years before, and had gone into 
 Social Service work on the West Side. She had what 
 is known as a legal mind, hard, clear, orderly, and she 
 made a great success of it. Her dream was to live at 
 the Settlement House and give all her time to the work. 
 Upon the little household she bestowed a certain amount 
 of grim, capable attention. It was the same kind of 
 attention she would have given a piece of machinery 
 whose oiling and running had been entrusted to her care. 
 She hated it, and didn't hesitate to say so. 
 
 Jo took to prowling about department store basements, 
 and household goods sections. He was always sending 
 home a bargain in a ham, or a sack of potatoes, or fifty 
 pounds of sugar, or a window clamp, or a new kind of 
 paring knife. He was forever doing odd little jobs that 
 the janitor should have done. It was the domestic in him 
 claiming its own. 
 
 Then, one night, Carrie came home with a dull glow 
 in her leathery cheeks, and her eyes alight with resolve. 
 They had what she called a plain talk. 
 
 "Listen, Jo. They've offered me the job of first assist- 
 ant resident worker. And I'm going to take it. Take it ! 
 I know fifty other girls who'd give their ears for it. 
 I go in next month." 
 
 They were at dinner. Jo looked up from his plate, 
 dully. Then he glanced around the little dining-room, 
 with its ugly tan walls and its heavy dark furniture (the 
 Calumet Street pieces fitted cumbersomely into the five- 
 room flat). 
 
 "Away? Away from here, you mean to live?" 
 
 Carrie laid down her fork. "Well, really, Jo! After 
 all that explanation." 
 
THE GAY OLD DOG 137 
 
 "But to go over there to live ! * Why, that neighbor- 
 hood's full of dirt, and disease, and crime, and the Lord 
 knows what all. I can't let you do that, Carrie." 
 
 Carrie's chin came up. She laughed a short little 
 laugh. "Let me! That's eighteenth-century talk, Jo. 
 My life's my own to live. I'm going." 
 
 And she went. Jo stayed on in the apartment until 
 the lease was up. Then he sold what furniture he could, 
 stored or gave away the rest, and took a room on Michigan 
 Avenue in one of the old stone mansions whose decayed 
 splendor was being put to such purpose. 
 
 Jo Hertz was his own master. Free to marry. Free 
 to come and go. And he found he didn't even think of 
 marrying. He didn't even want to come or go, par- 
 ticularly. A rather frumpy old bachelor, with thinning 
 hair and a thickening neck. Much has been written about 
 the unwed, middle-aged woman ; her f ussiness, her prim- 
 ness, her angularity of mind and body. In the male that 
 same fussiness develops, and a certain primness, too. But 
 he grows flabby where she grows lean. 
 
 Every Thursday evening he took dinner at Eva's, and 
 on Sunday noon at Stell's. He tucked his napkin under 
 his chin and openly enjoyed the home-made soup and the 
 well-cooked meats. After dinner he tried to talk business 
 with Eva's husband, or Stell's. His business talks were 
 the old-fashioned kind, beginning: 
 
 "Well, now, looka here. Take, f'rinstance, your raw 
 hides and leathers." 
 
 But Ben and George didn't want to take f'rinstance 
 your raw hides and leathers. They wanted, when they 
 took anything at all, to take golf, or politics, or stocks. 
 They were the modern type of business man who prefers 
 to leave his work out of his play. Business, with them, 
 
138 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 was a profession a finely graded and balanced thing, 
 differing from Jo's clumsy, downhill style as completely 
 as does the method of a great criminal detective differ 
 from that of a village constable. They would listen, 
 restively, and say "Uh-hur" at intervals, and at the first 
 chance they would sort of fade out of the room, with a 
 meaning glance at their wives. Eva had two children 
 now. Girls. They treated Uncle Jo with good-natured 
 tolerance. Stell had no children. Uncle Jo degenerated, 
 by almost imperceptible degrees, from the position of 
 honored guest, who is served with white meat, to that of 
 one who is content with a leg and one of those obscure 
 bony sections which, after much turning with a bewildered 
 and investigating knife and fork, leave one baffled and 
 unsatisfied. 
 
 Eva and Stell got together and decided that Jo ought 
 to marry. 
 
 "It isn't natural," Eva told him. "I never saw a man 
 who took so little interest in women." 
 
 "Me!" protested Jo almost shyly. "Women!" 
 
 "Yes. Of course. You act like a frightened school 
 boy." 
 
 So they had in for dinner certain friends and acquaint- 
 ances of fitting age. They spoke of them as "splendid 
 girls." Between thirty-six and forty. They talked aw- 
 fully well, in firm, clear way, about civics, and classes, 
 and politics, and economics, and boards. They rather 
 terrified Jo. He didn't understand much that they talked 
 about, and he felt humbly inferior, and yet a little resent- 
 ful, as if something had passed him by. He escorted 
 them home, dutifully, though they told him not to bother, 
 and they evidently meant it. They seemed capable, not 
 only of going home quite unattended, but of delivering a 
 
THE GAY OLD DOG 139 
 
 pointed lecture to any highwayman or brawler who might 
 molest them. 
 
 The following Thursday Eva would say, "How did 
 you like her, Jo?" 
 
 "Like who?" Jo would spar feebly. 
 
 "Miss Matthews." 
 
 "Who's she?" 
 
 "Now, don't be funny, Jo. You know very well I mean 
 the girl who was here for dinner. The one who talked 
 so well on the emigration question." 
 
 "Oh, her! Why, I liked her, all right. Seems to be 
 a smart woman." 
 
 "Smart! She's a perfectly splendid girl." 
 
 "Sure." Jo would agree cheerfully. 
 
 "But didn't you like her?" 
 
 "I can't say I did, Eve. And I can't say I didn't. 
 She made me think a lot of a teacher I had in the fifth 
 reader. Name of Himes. As I recall her, she must 
 have been a fine woman. But I never thought of her as 
 a woman at all. She was just Teacher." 
 
 "You make me tired," snapped Eva impatiently. "A 
 man of your age. You don't expect to marry a girl, 
 do you? A child!" 
 
 "I don't expect to marry anybody," Jo had answered. 
 
 And that was the truth, lonely though he often was. 
 
 The following year Eva moved to Winnetka. Any one 
 who got the meaning of the Loop knows the significance 
 of a move to a north shore suburb, and a house. Eva's 
 daughter, Ethel, was growing up, and her mother had an 
 eye on society. 
 
 That did away with Jo's Thursday dinner. Then 
 Stell's husband bought a car. They went out into the 
 country every Sunday. Stell said it was getting so that 
 
140 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 maids objected to Sunday dinners, anyway. Besides, they 
 were unhealthy, old-fashioned things. They always 
 meant to ask Jo to come along, but by the time their 
 friends were placed, and the lunch, and the boxes, and 
 sweaters, and George's camera, and everything, there 
 seemed to be no room for a man of Jo's bulk. So that 
 eliminated the Sunday dinners. 
 
 "Just drop in any time during the week," Stell said, 
 "for dinner. Except Wednesday that's our bridge night 
 and Saturday. And, of course, Thursday. Cook is 
 out that night. Don't wait for me to 'phone." 
 
 And so Jo drifted into that sad-eyed, dyspeptic family 
 made up of those you see dining in second-rate restau- 
 rants, their paper propped up against the bowl of oyster 
 crackers, munching solemnly and with indifference to the 
 stare of the passer-by surveying them through the brazen 
 plate-glass window. 
 
 And then came the War. The war that spelled death 
 and destruction to millions. The war that brought a 
 fortune to Jo Hertz, and transformed him, over night, 
 from a baggy-kneed old bachelor whose business was a 
 failure to a prosperous manufacturer whose only trouble 
 was the shortage in hides for the making of his product 
 leather ! The armies of Europe called for it. Harnesses ! 
 More harnesses ! Straps ! Millions of straps ! More ! 
 More! 
 
 The musty old harness business over on Lake Street 
 was magically changed from a dust-covered, dead-alive 
 concern to an orderly hive that hummed and glittered with 
 success. Orders poured in. Jo Hertz had inside infor- 
 mation on the War. He knew about troops and horses. 
 He talked with French and English and Italian buyers 
 
THE GAY OLD DOG 141 
 
 noblemen, many 01 them commissioned by their coun- 
 tries to get American-made supplies. And now, when he 
 said to Ben or George, "Take f'rinstance your raw hides 
 and leathers," they listened with respectful attention. 
 
 And then began the gay dog business in the life of 
 Jo Hertz. He developed into a loop-hound, ever keen 
 on the scent of fresh pleasure. That side of Jo Hertz 
 which had been repressed and crushed and ignored began 
 to bloom, unhealthily. At first he spent money on his 
 rather contemptuous nieces. He sent them gorgeous fans, 
 and watch bracelets, and velvet bags. He took two ex- 
 pensive rooms at a downtown hotel, and there was some- 
 thing more tear-compelling than grotesque about the way 
 he gloated over the luxury of a separate ice- water tap in 
 the bathroom. He explained it. 
 
 "Just turn it on. Ice-water! Any hour of the day 
 or night." 
 
 He bought a car. Naturally. A glittering affair; in 
 color a bright blue, with pale-blue leather straps and a 
 great deal of gold fittings and wire wheels. Eva said it 
 was the kind of a thing a soubrette would use, rather than 
 an elderly business man. You saw him driving about in 
 it, red- faced and rather awkward at the wheel. You saw 
 him, too, in the Pompeiian room at the Congress Hotel 
 of a Saturday afternoon when doubtful and roving-eyed 
 matrons in kolinsky capes are wont to congregate to sip 
 pale amber drinks. Actors grew to recognize the semi- 
 bald head and the shining, round, good-natured face loom- 
 ing out at them from the dim well of the parquet, and 
 sometimes, in a musical show, they directed a quip at him, 
 and he liked it. He could pick out the critics as they 
 came down the aisle, and even had a nodding acquaintance 
 with two of them. 
 
142 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 "Kelly, of the Herald," he would say carelessly. "Bean, 
 of the Trib. They're all afraid of him." 
 
 So he frolicked, ponderously. In New York he might 
 have been called a Man About Town. 
 
 And he was lonesome. He was very lonesome. So 
 he searched about in his mind and brought from the dim 
 past the memory of the luxuriously furnished establish- 
 ment of which he used to dream in the evenings when he 
 dozed over his paper in the old house on Calumet. So 
 he rented an apartment, many-roomed and expensive, with 
 a man-servant in charge, and furnished it in styles and 
 periods ranging through all the Louis. The living room 
 was mostly rose color. It was like an unhealthy and 
 bloated boudoir. And yet there was nothing sybaritic or 
 uncleanly in the sight of this paunchy, middle-aged man 
 sinking into the rosy-cushioned luxury of his ridiculous 
 home. It was a frank and naive indulgence of long- 
 starved senses, and there was in it a great resemblance 
 to the rolling-eyed ecstasy of a school-boy smacking his 
 lips over an all-day sucker. 
 
 The War went on, and on, and on. And the money 
 continued to roll in a flood of it. Then, one afternoon, 
 Eva, in town on shopping bent, entered a small, exclusive, 
 and expensive shop on Michigan Avenue. Exclusive, 
 that is, in price. Eva's weakness, you may remember, 
 was hats. She was seeking a hat now. She described 
 what she sought with a languid conciseness, and stood 
 looking about her after the saleswoman had vanished in 
 quest of it. The room was becomingly rose-illumined 
 and somewhat dim, so that some minutes had passed 
 before she realized that a man seated on a raspberry 
 brocade settee not five feet away a man with a walking 
 stick, and yellow gloves, and tan spats, and a check suit 
 
THE GAY OLD DOG 143 
 
 was her brother Jo. From him Eva's wild-eyed glance 
 leaped to the woman who was trying on hats before one 
 of the many long mirrors. She was seated, and a sales- 
 woman was exclaiming discreetly at her elbow. 
 
 Eva turned sharply and encountered her own sales- 
 woman returning, hat-laden. ''Not to-day/' she gasped. 
 "I'm feeling ill. Suddenly." And almost ran from the 
 room. 
 
 That evening she told Stell, relating her news in that 
 telephone pidgin-English devised by every family of 
 married sisters as protection against the neighbors and 
 Central. Translated, it ran thus: 
 
 "He looked straight at me. My dear, I thought I'd die ! 
 But at least he had sense enough not to speak. She was 
 one of those limp, willowy creatures with the greediest 
 eyes that she tried to keep softened to a baby stare, and 
 couldn't, she was so crazy to get her hands on those hats. 
 I saw it all in one awful minute. You know the way I 
 do. I suppose some people would call her pretty ; I don't. 
 And her color ! Well ! And the most expensive-looking 
 hats. Aigrettes, and paradise, and feathers. Not one of 
 them under seventy-five. Isn't it disgusting! At his 
 age! Suppose Ethel had been with me!" 
 
 The next time it was Stell who saw them. In a restau- 
 rant. She said it spoiled her evening. And the third 
 time it was Ethel. She was one of the guests at a theater 
 party given by Nicky Overton II. You know. The 
 North Shore Overtons. Lake Forest. They came in 
 late, and occupied the entire third row at the opening 
 performance of "Believe Me!" And Ethel was Nicky's 
 partner. She was glowing like a rose. When the lights 
 went up after the first act Ethel saw that her Uncle Jo 
 was seated just ahead of her with what she afterward 
 
144 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 described as a Blonde. Then her uncle had turned 
 around, and, seeing her, had been surprised into a smile 
 that spread genially all over his plump and rubicund face. 
 Then he had turned to face forward again, quickly. 
 
 "Who's the old bird?" Nicky had asked. Ethel had 
 pretended not to hear, so he had asked again. 
 
 "My uncle," Ethel answered, and flushed all over her 
 delicate face, and down to her throat. Nicky had looked 
 at the Blonde, and his eyebrows had gone up ever so 
 slightly. 
 
 It spoiled Ethel's evening. More than that, as she told 
 her mother of it later, weeping, she declared it had 
 spoiled her life. 
 
 Eva talked it over with her husband in that intimate, 
 kimonoed hour that precedes bedtime. She gesticulated 
 heatedly with her hair brush. 
 
 "It's disgusting, that's what it is. Perfectly disgusting. 
 There's no fool like an old fool. Imagine! A creature 
 like that. At his time of life." 
 
 There exists a strange and loyal kinship among men. 
 "Well, I don't know," Ben said now, and even grinned 
 a little. "I suppose a boy's got to sow his wild oats 
 some time." 
 
 "Don't be any more vulgar than you can help," Eva 
 retorted. "And I think you know, as well as I, what it 
 means to have that Overton boy interested in Ethel." 
 
 "If he's interested in her," Ben blundered, "I guess the 
 fact that Ethel's uncle went to the theater with some one 
 who wasn't Ethel's aunt won't cause a shudder to run up 
 and down his frail young frame, will it?" 
 
 "All right," Eva had retorted. "If you're not man 
 enough to stop it, I'll have to, that's all. I'm going up 
 there with Stell this week." 
 
THE GAY OLD DOG 145 
 
 They did not notify Jo of their coming. Eva tele- 
 phoned his apartment when she knew he would be out, 
 and asked his man if he expected his master home to 
 dinner that evening. The man had said yes. E^a ar- 
 ranged to meet Stell in town. They would drive to Jo's 
 apartment together, and wait for him there. 
 
 When she reached the city Eva found turmoil there. 
 The first of the American troops to be sent to France 
 were leaving. Michigan Boulevard was a billowing, 
 surging mass: Flags, pennants, bands, crowds. All the 
 elements that make for demonstration. And over the 
 whole quiet. No holiday crowd, this. A solid, deter- 
 mined mass of people waiting patient hours to see the 
 khaki-clads go by. Three years of indefatigable reading 
 had brought them to a clear knowledge of what these boys 
 were going to. 
 
 "Isn't it dreadful!" Stell gasped. 
 
 "Nicky Overton's only nineteen, thank goodness." 
 
 Their car was caught in the jam. When they moved 
 at all it was by inches. When at last they reached Jo's 
 apartment they were flushed, nervous, apprehensive. But 
 he had not yet come in. So they waited. 
 
 No, they were not staying to dinner with their brother, 
 they told the relieved houseman. Jo's home has already 
 been described to you. Stell and Eva, sunk in rose- 
 colored cushions, viewed it with disgust, and some mirth. 
 They rather avoided each other's eyes. 
 
 "Carrie ought to be here," Eva said. They both smiled 
 at the thought of the austere Carrie in the midst of those 
 rosy cushions, and hangings, and lamps. Stell rose and 
 began to walk about, restlessly. She picked up a vase 
 and laid it down ; straightened a picture. Eva got up, too, 
 
146 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 and wandered into the hall. She stood there a moment, 
 listening. Then she turned and passed into Jo's bedroom. 
 And there you knew Jo for what he was. 
 
 This room was as bare as the other had been ornate. 
 It was Jo, the clean-minded and simple-hearted, in revolt 
 against the cloying luxury with which he had surrounded 
 himself. The bedroom, of all rooms in any house, reflects 
 the personality of its occupant. True, the actual furniture 
 was paneled, cupid-surmounted, and ridiculous. It had 
 been the fruit of Jo's first orgy of the senses. But now 
 it stood out in that stark little room with an air as incon- 
 gruous and ashamed as that of a pink tarleton danseuse 
 who finds herself in a monk's cell. None of those wall- 
 pictures with which bachelor bedrooms are reputed to be 
 hung. No satin slippers. No scented notes. Two plain- 
 backed military brushes on the chiffonier (and he so 
 nearly hairless!). A little orderly stack of books on the 
 table near the bed. Eva fingered their titles and gave a 
 little gasp. One of them was on gardening. "Well, of 
 all things!" exclaimed Stell. A book on the War, by an 
 Englishman. A detective story of the lurid type that lulls 
 us to sleep. His shoes ranged in a careful row in the 
 closet, with shoe-trees in every one of them. There was 
 something speaking about them. They looked so human. 
 Eva shut the door on them, quickly. Some bottles on 
 the dresser. A jar of pomade. An ointment such as a 
 man uses who is growing bald and is panic-stricken too 
 late. An insurance calendar on the wall. Some rhubarb- 
 and-soda mixture on the shelf in the bathroom, and a 
 little box of pepsin tablets. 
 
 "Eats all kinds of things at all hours of the night," 
 Eva said, and wandered out into the rose-colored front 
 room again with the air of one who is chagrined at her 
 
THE GAY OLD DOG 147 
 
 failure to find what she has sought. Stell followed her, 
 furtively. 
 
 " Where do you suppose he can be?" she demanded. 
 "It's" she glanced at her wrist, "why, it's after six!" 
 
 And then there was a little click. The two women sat 
 up, tense. The door opened. Jo came in. He blinked 
 a little. The two women in the rosy room stood up. 
 
 "Why Eve! Why, Babe! Well! Why didn't you 
 let me know?" 
 
 "We were just about to leave. We thought you weren't 
 coming home." 
 
 Jo came in, slowly. "I was in the jam on Michigan, 
 watching the boys go by." He sat down, heavily. The 
 light from the window fell on him. And you saw that 
 his eyes were red. 
 
 And you'll have to learn why. He had found himself 
 one of the thousands in the jam on Michigan Avenue, as 
 he said. He had a place near the curb, where his big 
 frame shut off the view of the unfortunates behind him. 
 He waited with the placid interest of one who has sub- 
 scribed to all the funds and societies to which a pros- 
 perous, middle-aged business man is called upon to 
 subscribe in war time. Then, just as he was about to 
 leave, impatient at the delay, the crowd had cried, with a 
 queer dramatic, exultant note in its voice, "Here they 
 come! Here come the boys!" 
 
 Just at that moment two little, futile, frenzied fists 
 began to beat a m'ad tattoo on Jo Hertz's broad back. 
 Jo tried to turn in the crowd, all indignant resentment. 
 "Say, looka here !" 
 
 The little fists kept up their frantic beating and pushing. 
 And a voice a choked, high little voice cried, "Let me 
 
148 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 by! I can't see! You man, you! You big fat man! 
 My boy's going by to war and I can't see ! Let me 
 by!" 
 
 Jo scrooged around, still keeping his place. He looked 
 down. And upturned to him in agonized appeal was the 
 face of little Emily. They stared at each other for what 
 seemed a long, long time. It was. really only the fraction 
 of a second. Then Jo put one great arm firmly around 
 Emily's waist and swung her around in front of him. 
 His great bulk protected her. Emily was clinging to his 
 hand. She was breathing rapidly, as if she had been 
 running. Her eyes were straining up the street. 
 
 "Why, Emily, how in the world !" 
 
 "I ran away. Fred didn't want me to come. He said 
 it would excite me too much." 
 
 "Fred?" 
 
 "My husband. He made me promise to say good-by 
 to Jo at home." 
 
 "Jo?" 
 
 "Jo's my boy. And he's going to war. So I ran away. 
 I had to see him. I had to see him go." 
 
 She was dry-eyed. Her gaze was straining up the 
 street. 
 
 "Why, sure," said Jo. *"Of course you want to see 
 him." And then the crowd gave a great roar. There 
 came over Jo a feeling of weakness. He was trembling. 
 The boys went marching by. 
 
 "There he is," Emily shrilled, above the din. "There 
 
 he is! There he is! There he " And waved a 
 
 futile little hand. It wasn't so much a wave as a clutch- 
 ing. A clutching after something beyond her reach. 
 
 "Which one? Which one, Emily?" 
 
THfe GAY OLD DOG 149 
 
 "The handsome one. The handsome one. There!" 
 Her voice quavered and died. 
 
 Jo put a steady hand on her shoulder. "Point him 
 out," he commanded. "Show me." And the next instant, 
 "Never mind. I see him." 
 
 Somehow, miraculously, he had picked him from among 
 the hundreds. Had picked him as surely as his own 
 father might have. It was Emily's boy. He was march- 
 ing by, rather stiffly. He was nineteen, and fun-loving, 
 and he had a girl, and he didn't particularly want to go 
 to France and to go to France. But more than he had 
 hated going, he had hated not to go. So he marched by, 
 looking straight ahead, his jaw set so that his chin stuck 
 out just a little. Emily's boy. 
 
 Jo looked at him, and his face flushed purple. His 
 eyes, the hard-boiled eyes of a loop-hound, took on the 
 look of a sad old man. And suddenly he was no longer 
 Jo, the sport; old J. Hertz, the gay dog. He was Jo 
 Hertz, thirty, in love with life, in love with Emily, and 
 with the stinging blood of young manhood coursing 
 through his veins. 
 
 Another minute and the boy had passed on up the 
 broad street the fine, flag-bedecked street just one of 
 a hundred service-hats bobbing in rhythmic motion like 
 sandy waves lapping a shore and flowing on. 
 
 Then he disappeared altogether. 
 
 Emily was clinging to Jo. She was mumbling some- 
 thing over and over. "I can't. I can't. Don't ask me 
 to. I can't let him go. Like that. I can't." 
 
 Jo said a queer thing. 
 
 "Why, Emily! We wouldn't have him stay home, 
 would we? We wouldn't want him to do anything dif- 
 
150 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 ferent, would we? Not our boy. I'm glad he volun- 
 teered. I'm proud of him. So are you, glad." 
 
 Little by little he quieted her. He took her to the car 
 that was waiting, a worried chauffeur in charge. They 
 said good-by, awkwardly. Emily's face was a red, 
 swollen mass. 
 
 So it was that when Jo entered his own hallway half 
 an hour later he blinked, dazedly, and when the light from 
 the window fell on him you saw that his eyes were red. 
 
 Eva was not one to beat about the bush. She sat 
 forward in her chair, clutching her bag rather nervously. 
 
 "Now, look here, Jo. Stell and I are here for a reason. 
 We're here to tell you that this thing's got to stop." 
 
 "Thing? Stop?" 
 
 "You know very well what I mean. You saw me at 
 the milliner's that day. A.nd night before last, Ethel. 
 We're all disgusted. If you must go about with people 
 like that, please have some sense of decency." 
 
 Something gathering in Jo's face should have warned 
 her. But he was slumped down in his chair in such a 
 huddle, and he looked so old and fat that she did not 
 heed it. She went on. "You've got us to consider. 
 Your sisters. And your nieces. Not to speak of your 
 own " 
 
 But he got to his feet then, shaking, and at what she 
 saw on his face even Eva faltered and stopped. It wasn't 
 at all the face of a fat, middle-aged sport. It was a face 
 Jovian, terrible. 
 
 "You !" he began, low-voiced, ominous. "You !" He 
 raised a great fist high. "You two murderers! You 
 didn't consider me, twenty years ago. You come to me 
 with talk like that. Where's my boy ! You killed him, 
 
THE GAY OLD DOG 151 
 
 you two, twenty years ago. And now he belongs to 
 somebody else. Where's my son that should have gone 
 marching by to-day?" He flung his arms out in a great 
 gesture of longing. The red veins stood out on his fore- 
 head. "Where's my son? Answer me that, you two 
 selfish, miserable women. Where's my son?" Then, as 
 they huddled together, frightened, wild-eyed: "Out of 
 my house! Out of my house! Before I hurt you!" 
 
 They fled, terrified. The door banged behind them. 
 
 Jo stood, shaking, in the center of the room. Then he 
 reached for a chair, gropingly, and sat down. He passed 
 one moist, flabby hand over his forehead and it came 
 away wet. The telephone rang. He sat still. It 
 sounded far away and unimportant, like something for- 
 gotten. I think he did not even hear it with his conscious 
 ear. But it rang and rang insistently. Jo liked to answer 
 his telephone when at home. 
 
 "Hello !" He knew instantly the voice at the other end. 
 
 "That you, Jo?" it said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How's my boy?" 
 
 "I'm all right." 
 
 "Listen, Jo. The crowd's coming over to-night. I've 
 fixed up a little poker game for you. Just eight of us." 
 
 "I can't come to-night, Gert." 
 
 "Can't! Why not?" 
 
 "I'm not feeling so good." 
 
 "You just said you were all right." 
 
 "I am all right. Just kind of tired." 
 
 The voice took on a cooing note. "Is my Joey tired? 
 Then he shall be all comfy on the sofa, and he doesn't 
 need to play if he doesn't want to. No, sir." 
 
152 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 Jo stood staring at the black mouth-piece of the tele- 
 phone. He was seeing a procession go marching by. 
 Boys, hundreds of boys, in khaki. 
 
 "Hello! Hello!" the voice took on an anxious note. 
 "Are you there?" 
 
 "Yes," wearily. 
 
 "Jo, there's something the matter. You're sick. I'm 
 coming right over." 
 
 "No !" 
 
 "Why not? You sound as if you'd been sleeping. 
 Look here " 
 
 "Leave me alone !" cried Jo, suddenly, and the receiver 
 clacked onto the hook. "Leave me alone. Leave me 
 alone." Long after the connection had been broken. 
 
 He stood staring at the instrument with unseeing eyes. 
 Then he turned and walked into the front room. All the 
 light had gone out of it. Dusk had come on. All the 
 light had gone out of everything. The zest had gone out 
 of life. The game was over the game he had been 
 playing against loneliness and disappointment. And .he 
 was just a tired old man. A lonely, tired old man in a 
 ridiculous, rose-colored room that had grown, all of a 
 sudden, drab. 
 
CREATIVE CRITICISM OF A STORY OF 
 CHARACTER 
 
 "A GAY OLD DOG," BY EDNA FERBER 
 
 1. Character. 
 
 Edna Ferber knew her leading character well before 
 she ever touched her pen to paper to write the story. She 
 must have worked out an elaborate dossier of the minutest 
 phases of his life, whether she ever put it down on paper 
 or not. As a matter of fact a large part of this dossier 
 appears in the first part of the story. This character is 
 revealed as a common middle-class man of exceedingly 
 mediocre qualities. And yet we become so well acquainted 
 with him that we become deeply interested in him before 
 the story is finished. 
 
 2. Complication. 
 
 The complication was selected to fit the character 
 or rather was a logical outgrowth of events that almost 
 inevitably would happen to such a character. Stated in 
 the form of problem and solution it might read, How can 
 a man, dominated by his environment, with such lack of 
 initiative, rise superior to the events and environment 
 which surrounded him?. 
 
 This story begins with a death -bed promise which in- 
 volves Situation 23 (Self-sacrifice for kinsmen). This 
 soon transforms itself into Situation n (Obstacles to 
 love), which remains dominant until it reaches a climax 
 in Situation 4 ( Revolt ) . In the meanwhile another thread 
 of action, less vital but more conspicuous, leads us by way 
 
 153 
 
154 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 of business adventure through Situations 16 and 19 (In 
 the clutches of misfortune, and Obtaining). 
 
 3. Setting. 
 
 The setting was the city of Chicago. Edna Ferber 
 knows it like a book. The detached touches of local 
 color are excellent, and might serve as models for any 
 beginner. 
 
 4. Theme. 
 
 The theme may have been as much in mind as the 
 character when the story was first conceived, but the 
 character very shortly assumed first place as the story 
 progressed. 
 
 5. Movement. 
 
 This story is a good example of cumulative action. 
 
 6. Viewpoint. 
 
 The author uses the shifting viewpoint. Desiring to 
 present the life and the personality of Jo Hertz from 
 all angles a life affected by many characters and 
 incidents Miss Ferber chose not to be circumscribed by 
 the usual limitations of the short-story writer. But while 
 she, as in this case, was successful, the novice had better 
 keep to a narrower trail. Contrast the viewpoint used 
 in this story with the single viewpoint method in "The 
 Necklace." 
 
 7. Where shall I begin? 
 
 Miss Ferber opens her story with a short description of 
 the Loop. This is put there merely to serve as an aid in 
 the description of Jo Hertz, the loop-hound, the character 
 about whom the story is to be woven. It would be interest- 
 
CRITICISM OF A STORY OF CHARACTER 155 
 
 ing here, again, to compare the opening with that of "The 
 Necklace," another character story. 
 
 8. How many episodes shall I have and how shall I con- 
 nect them? 
 
 Edna Ferber has done in this story what Maupassant 
 has done in "The Necklace" something which I should 
 caution all students not to attempt. She has introduced 
 a great number of episodes. Jo Hertz is shown as the 
 creature of circumstances as was Mathilde Loisel 
 hence a sufficient number of circumstances must be given 
 to show this character in all his phases. It is in the 
 handling of these transitions that Miss Ferber shows 
 unusual skill. In spite of the fact that long lapses of 
 time often occur between intervening events she weaves 
 the events together so that it is only with difficulty that 
 we can see the breaks. Careful study should be made 
 of the sentences which serve as threads to weave the 
 various episodes together. 
 
 9. How can I make my story seem plausible? 
 
 Here again Miss Ferber shows excellent craftsmanship. 
 
 After accepting the early version of Jo the downtrodden 
 
 and imposed upon a necessary wrench must be made 
 
 upon the reader's credulity at Jo's sudden awakening and 
 
 assumption of leadership, his idealism and strength of 
 
 purpose at the end unless the road is carefully prepared. 
 
 The following situations help to prepare for the climax: 
 
 Jo is in the downtrodden harness business which 
 
 later, because of the war, becomes a source of great 
 
 wealth. 
 
 Jo is shown in love with Emily, but failing to have 
 initiative or money enough to marry her. But his 
 very failure leaves a raw spot on his soul which never 
 
156 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 quite heals over, and which ultimately precipitates the 
 emotional climax. 
 
 10. How can I increase the suspense? 
 
 The interest the reader is made to feel in Jo Hertz 
 not the thrill of any dramatic incidents is the means the 
 writer uses to increase our suspense. Moreover, having 
 seen Jo downtrodden so long, the reader begins to hope 
 against hope for just such a climax as finally occurs. 
 
 11. How can I make an effective climax? 
 
 The climax deserves study. Jo's speech to his sisters, 
 which reveals his transformation, is a remarkable example 
 of emotional climax. Such climaxes when well handled 
 constitute the best climaxes in literature. "The door 
 banged." A less realistic writer would have closed the 
 story here. Which method of ending stories do you 
 prefer; that of Maupassant or of Ferber? 
 
THE COP AND THE ANTHEM * 
 "o. HENRY" (s. w. PORTER). 
 
 On his bench in Madison Square, Soapy moved un- 
 easily. When wild geese honk high of nights, and when 
 women without sealskin coats grow kind to their hus- 
 bands, and when Soap movco unnnnily nn hi? hcashjn 
 
 you may know that winter is near at hand. 
 
 A dead leaf fell in Soapy's lap. That was Jack Frost's 
 card. Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison 
 Square, and gives fair warning of his annual call. At the 
 corners of four streets he hands his pasteboard to the 
 North Wind, footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, 
 so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready. 
 
 Soapy's mind became eegniz&nt of the fact that the 
 time had come for him to resolve himself into a singular 
 Committee ,of Ways and Means /to provide against the 
 coming rjgnr. N And tlieicfoic he-moved tmeasily on his 
 bench. 
 
 The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the 
 highest. In them there were no considerations of Medi- 
 terranean rriii"r~V|rif nnpnrifie Sntithnrn-Skies or Drifting 
 in the Vesuvian Kay. Three months on the Island was 
 what his soul craved; Three months of assured board and 
 bed and congenial company, ^s^fems-Saeea^^d^Mu^, 
 ^SPfc 8 .* seemed to ^Soapv the essence of things desirable. 
 
 For years the hospitable Blackwell's had been his winter 
 quarters. Just as his more foffunate fellow New Yorkers 
 
 * Copyright, 1910, by Doubleday, Page and Company. 
 
 157 
 
158 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera 
 each winter, so Soapy had made his humbler arrangements 
 for his annual W6gifa to the Island. And nowthe time 
 was come. QnTK^previou night t^iree 5i)]^^ news- 
 papers, distributed beneath hisVpat, abfyit his ankles^nd 
 over his lap, hadNfeileck to repuHse the Oold ak roe sltept 
 
 on his hprirh. nmr flnn ^ 
 
 So the Island loomed big and timely in Soapy 's 
 mmd. VHe scorned the provisions macte in tnNe name of 
 charity if or the city's\deplmdente. Iti^Soapy^opmion 
 ^tl^^aVN^asN^or* >b^iigV ^arX^hlkrHhi^y. There 
 was an endless round of institutions, municipal and elee- 
 jaos^naty, on which he might set out and receive lodging 
 and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of 
 Soapy's proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. 
 If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for 
 every benefit received at the hands of philanthropy. As 
 Caesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have its 
 toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a 
 private and personal inquisition. Wherefore it is better 
 to be a guest of the law, which, though conducted by 
 rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman's private 
 affairs. 
 
 Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set 
 about accomplishing his desire. There were many easy 
 ways of doing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuri- 
 ously at some expensive restaurant ; and then, after de- 
 claring insolvency-, be handed over quietly and without 
 uproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate 
 would do the rest. 
 
 Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and 
 across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth 
 Avenue flow together. Up Broadway he turned, and 
 
THE COP AND THE ANTHEM 159 
 
 halted at a glittering cafe, *k* -*** gati-w 
 nightly/tho ohoiGGOt pi'oduelj u LliL guyu, UlK silkworm 
 ml Hit piutuplajn* 
 
 Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button 
 of his vest upward. He was shaven, and his coat was 
 decent and his neat black, ready-tied four-in-hand had 
 been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanks- 
 giving Day. If he could reach a table in the restaurant 
 unsuspected, success would be his. The portion of him 
 that would show above the table would raise no doubt in 
 the waitePs mind. A roasted roaM&Fd duck, 
 -Sd3y, would be about the thing with a bottle of 
 and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar. One 
 dollar for the, cigar would be enough. The total) would 
 not be so high| as to call forth any supreme manifestation 
 of revenge from the cafe management ; and yet the meat 
 would leave him rilled and happy for the journey to his 
 winter refuge. 
 
 But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the 
 head waiter's eye fell upon his frayed trousers and 
 decadent shoes. Strong and ready hands turned him 
 about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the side- 
 walk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced- mallard. 
 
 Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route 
 to the coveted Island was not to be an epicurean <?one. 
 Some other way of-eftteptn^-limbo must be thought of. 
 
 At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cun- 
 ningly displayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop 
 window conspicuous. Soapy took a cobblestone and 
 dashed it through the glass. People came running around 
 the corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, 
 with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of 
 brass buttons. 
 
160 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 "Where's the man that done that?" inquired the officer 
 
 "Don't you figure out that I might have had something 
 to do with it?" said Soapy, not withont-sarcasm^ but 
 -rieTTdly, as one who fleets goed-4ortune. 
 
 The policeman's mind refused to accept Soapy even 
 as a clue. Men who smash windows do not remain to 
 parley with the law's minions. They take to their heels. 
 The policeman saw a man half-way down the block run- 
 ning to catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the 
 pursuit. Soapy, with disgust in his heart, loafed along, 
 twice unsuccessful. 
 
 On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of 
 no great pretensions. It catered to large appetites and 
 modest purses. Its crockery and atmosphere were thick ; 
 its soup and napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his 
 accusive shoes and telltale trousers without challenge. At 
 a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flapjacks, dough- 
 nuts and pie. And then to the waiter he betrayed the 
 fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers. 
 
 "Now, get busy and call a cop," said Soapy. "And 
 don't keep a gentleman waiting." 
 
 "No cop for youse," said the waiter, with a voice like 
 butter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan 
 cocktail. "Hey, Con!"/ 
 
 Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two 
 waiters pitched Soapy. He arose, joint by joint, as a 
 carpenter's rule ./(pens, and beat the dust from his clothes. 
 Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island seemed very 
 far away. /A policeman who stood before a drug store 
 two doors away laughed and walked down the street. 
 ******* 
 
 A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchant- 
 
THE COP AND THE ANTHEM 161 
 
 ment had rendered him immune^ to 'arrest. The thought 
 brought a little of panic upon it, and when he came upon 
 another policeman lounging grandly in front of a tran- 
 splendent theater he caught at the immediate straw of 
 "disorderly conduct." 
 
 On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish 
 at the top of his harsh voice. He danced, howled, raved 
 and otherwise disturbed the welkin. 
 
 The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy 
 and remarked to a citizen : 
 
 " 'Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin' the goose egg 
 they give to Hartford College. Noisy; but no harm. 
 We've instructions to lave them be." 
 
 Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. 
 Would never a policeman lay hands on him? In his 
 fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia. He 
 buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind. 
 
 In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a 
 cigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set 
 by the door on entering. Soapy stepped inside, secured 
 the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The man 
 at the cigar light followed hastily. 
 
 "My umbrella," he said, sternly. 
 
 "Oh, is it?" sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit 
 larceny. "Well, why don't you call a policeman? I 
 took it. Your umbrella! Why don't you call a cop? 
 There stands one on the corner." 
 
 ^sThe umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did like- 
 f wise, with a presentiment that luck would again run 
 V^against him^(jhe policeman looked at the two curiously^ 
 
 "Of course, said the umbrella man "that is well, 
 you know how these mistakes occur I if it's your 
 umbrella I hope you'll excuse me I picked it up this 
 
162 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 morning in a restaurant If you recognize it as yours, 
 why I hope you'll 
 
 "Of course it's mine," said Soapy, viciously. 
 
 The ex-umbrella man retreated. T^he ^^ce 
 rieti to assist a tall blonde m an -trpern .clonk across the 
 street 4n front,, of a street car that was approaching two 
 blocks >way. 
 
 Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by 
 improvements. He hurled the umbrella wxathfnlly into 
 an excavation. He muttered against the men who wear 
 helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall into 
 their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who 
 could do no wrong. 
 
 At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the 
 east where the glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set 
 hb fnrc Howa thi" toward/0 Madison Square, for the 
 homing instinct survives even when the home is a park 
 bench. 
 
 But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a 
 standstill. Here was an old church, quaint and rambling 
 and gabled. "'Through one violet-stained window a soft 
 light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over 
 the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming 
 Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to^Soapy's ears 
 sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against 
 the convolutions of the iron fence. 
 
 The moon was above, lustrous and serene ; vehicles and 
 pedestrians were few; sparrows twittered sleepily in the 
 eaves for a little while the scene might have been a 
 country churchyard. And the anthem that the organist 
 played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had 
 known it well in the days when his life contained such 
 
THE COP AND THE ANTHEM 163 
 
 things as mothers anH <*fljrs and ambitions and friends 
 and immaculate thoughts and collars. 
 
 The conjunction of Soapy 's receptive state^o4- mind 
 and the influences about the old church wrou^it a sudden 
 and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed with swift 
 horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded 
 days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wj^aeke^-iiiGuttics 
 and base motives that made up his existence. 
 
 And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly 
 to this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse 
 moved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would 
 pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of 
 himself again; IIP MinuliJ LUUI.JLILI [In. ijil LlUl li id iul.i.u 
 possession of him. There was time; he was compara- 
 tively young yet ; he would resurrect his old eager ambi- 
 tions and pursue them without faltering. Those solemn 
 but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him. 
 To-morrow he would go into the roaring downtown dis- 
 trict and find work. A fur importer had once offered him 
 a place as driver. He would find him to-morrow and ask 
 for the position. He would be somebody in the world. 
 He would 
 
 Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly 
 around into the broad face of a policeman. 
 "What are you doin' here?" asked the officer. 
 
 "Nothin'," said Soapy. 
 
 "Then come along," said the policeman. 
 
 "Three months on the Island," -said the^Magistratejfn 
 the Police Court I the next morning. S 
 
CREATIVE CRITICISM OF A COMPLICATION 
 STORY 
 
 "THE COP AND THE ANTHEM," BY o. HENRY 
 
 1 . Complication : 
 
 O. Henry had had opportunity in his eventful life to 
 realize just what a problem the coming of winter meant 
 to the typical vagabond who lived by his legs and his wits. 
 It occurred to him to have one of these denizens of the 
 underworld make a deliberate attempt to select one of the 
 ostafp penal in|flflitinns for his winter headquarters. This 
 raised "the" problem : How to commit a crime just big 
 enough to get him his goal, and yet not so big as to 
 warrant a more severe and dangerous punishment. As 
 he turned this plot over in his mind O. Henry doubtless 
 saw the opportunity of surprising the reader by having 
 the tramp discard his ambition at the end for a higher 
 purpose in life. And then, with typical O. Henry in- 
 genuity, he gave the reader a second surprise by getting the 
 tramp into the penal institution after all. 
 
 This story begins with a suggestion of Situation 16 
 (In the clutches of misfortune), receives its motivation 
 from Situation 5 (An audacious attempt), finally reaches 
 by a surprise route Situation 27 (Remorse) and ends 
 unexpectedly in Situations 26 and 2 (Erroneous judg- 
 ment and Vengeance pursuing crime). 
 
 2. Character. 
 
 For his purpose O. Henry selected a typical tramp, the 
 type he knew from A to Z. No doubt he knew all the 
 
 164 
 
CRITICISM OF A tOMPLICATION STORY 165 
 
 past experiences in the tramp's life, before he began to 
 write, but as the "plot was the thing" he brought little or 
 nothing of this into the story. As it is a typical compli- 
 cation story the character might have been an automaton 
 and still not ruin the story. However, there are a few 
 little touches that help to individualize the tramp and 
 make him a little different from the whole tribe of the 
 underworld. 
 
 x 3. Setting. 
 
 O. Henry selected a setting to fit the plot naturally 
 a large city where such penal institutions are found a 
 city every detail of which was familiar to O. Henry him- 
 self. He kept the reader reminded of the surroundings 
 by the barest amount of descriptive matter possible. 
 
 4. Theme. 
 
 As for a theme, he may have had a "moral" in mind 
 from the very start, but I doubt it. If he did, it could 
 be summed up in the phrase, "About the time you stop 
 wanting a thing you are sure to get it." 
 
 - 5. Movement. 
 
 As befitting the rapid succession of situations, the 
 humorous theme, and the light-weight character of Soapy, 
 the action should be rapid from the start. Note the verbs 
 of action and the short sentences throughout. O. Henry 
 employs here what Oppenheim would probably call the 
 "staccato rhythm." 
 
 6. Viewpoint. 
 
 For the sake of brevity and unity O. Henry decided not 
 to depart far away from the person of the chief character. 
 As atmosphere and emotion had very small place to play, 
 and as no mystery or detective element need enter in, he 
 
166 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 wisely avoided the unnecessary first person. He saw only 
 what Soapy must have seen or what a man looking over 
 his shoulder might have seen. O. Henry lived through 
 Soapy's experiences with him, and consequently caused 
 the reader to follow sympathetically the hero's trials and 
 failures. 
 
 7. Where shall I begin? 
 
 "On his bench in Madison Square, Soapy moved un- 
 easily." True to O. Henry's style the opening sentence 
 throws the reader into the story. In a few short para- 
 graphs the tone is set and the interest is centered, not 
 upon Soapy as a character, but upon his plot to gain 
 winter quarters. 
 
 8. How many episodes shall I have and how shall I 
 connect them? 
 
 This story is an example, as are "The Last Class" and 
 the"Sire De Maletroit'sDoor,"of the three unities action, 
 time and place. The entire action of the story takes place 
 within a few hours. A rapid succession of a few closely 
 connected episodes composes the plot. There are, roughly 
 speaking, seven episodes, and as they are very briefly 
 treated, the transition from one to the other is worthy of 
 attention. In fact, next to point of view there is nothing 
 that causes the amateur more trouble than connecting his 
 episodes. O. Henry makes no use of the hackneyed, trite 
 phrases so useful to the college freshman : "then," "next," 
 "on his second trial," "having failed in this," etc. Instead, 
 he says almost abruptly "Soapy left his bench and 
 strolled out of the Square," etc. ; "A sudden fear seized 
 Soapy that some dreadful enchantment," etc. ; "In a cigar 
 store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar"; "At 
 length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east." 
 
CRITICISM OF A COMPLICATION STORY 167 
 
 Perhaps newspaper writing cultivates skill in handling 
 transitions. At any rate this story and "The Gay Old 
 Dog" of Edna Ferber are models of economy in this 
 matter. 
 
 9. How can I make my story seem plausible? 
 
 When Soapy, after his unsuccessful campaign, returns 
 to his park bench home, it is the beginning of preparation 
 for the climax. In the next few paragraphs the short 
 description of the churchyard, the hearing of the anthem 
 by Soapy and his reflections the stage is carefully pre- 
 pared by O. Henry for the climax. As one does not read 
 a story of this type in a too-critical mood the climax 
 appears logical and plausible enough to the average reader. 
 The longer the critical reader ponders over it the larger 
 looms the question : Would Soapy, after all these years, be 
 susceptible to such emotions at sound of a church organ? 
 And would a cop arrest a man for hanging about a 
 church ? 
 
 10. How can I increase the suspense? 
 
 O. Henry depends only to a very slight degree upon 
 our personal interest in Soapy. On the other hand, he 
 achieves suspense to a very striking extent by means of 
 the rapidly occurring succession of episodes and Soapy 's 
 constant failures to gain his end until his success seems 
 well nigh hopeless. In other words, suspense lies in the 
 incidents not in the character. 
 
 11. How can I give my story an effective climax? 
 
 As stated elsewhere, an effective climax practically 
 means a surprise climax. The method used here is a vari- 
 ant of method 2, suggested on page 103. The character 
 accomplishes exactly what he set out in the beginning 
 
168 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 of the story to accomplish, all of which should arouse no 
 surprise. But the surprise is that the reader is sur- 
 prised. Soapy, having exhausted all the means that a 
 clever ingenuity could devise to attain a certain object, 
 unexpectedly finds that his desire to attain that object 
 has given place to a desire for something entirely differ- 
 ent; and at this very moment of self -revelation, the object 
 which he has renounced comes to him. 
 
GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN * 
 
 BY BEATRICE WALKER 
 
 He was a breaker boy and his name was Billy Twist. 
 At least every one had always called him Billy, and a keen- 
 eyed tourist who had once noticed the boy as he had held 
 off a derisive mob of fellow breaker boys had added the 
 Twist. And Billy Twist he had remained. For Billy 
 Twist was a hunchback, and his soul for even breaker 
 boys have souls was as dwarfed and stunted as his body. 
 
 He had been a breaker boy ever since he could remem- 
 ber, and although he was only eleven it seemed to him 
 that he could look back upon a century made up of days 
 just alike days of climbing up the narrow creaking 
 stairs of the breaker, flight after flight up to the very 
 sky. Day after day of sitting cramped up on the narrow 
 bench, bent hour after hour over the endless chain that 
 swept below him, mechanically picking out the slate from 
 the coal ; day after day of this, with only a brief hour 
 at noon snatched for his hard lunch, and back to work. 
 At night, going to the place he called home, to Mark 
 Scanlon's shack, too tired to eat the greasy supper or to 
 pay any attention to the scant remarks that Mark Scanlon 
 and his slatternly wife threw at each other; then going 
 to bed in a corner of the one room too tired to sleep, 
 his tired body aching in every bone and his mind filled 
 only by a dull listlessness, that in a vague way took in 
 
 *From The Gateway Magazine. Published by the Cen Rune of the 
 American College Quill Club. 
 
 169 
 
170 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 the ghostly rustle of the wind around the corner of the 
 shack and the creaking rattle of the machinery of the 
 breaker. This sound did not bother him, but the cessa- 
 tion of it would have startled him like a clap of thunder. 
 
 And then had come Big Tom McGregor. He was a 
 light-haired young giant fresh from a Technical School, 
 with a world peopled with beautiful ideals. Billy Twist 
 had first noticed him one noon when, with the other 
 breaker boys, he had hung out of the narrow slit-like 
 windows of the breaker high above the entrance of the 
 mine to watch the men pour out of the shaft. From 
 that height they looked like ants pouring out of a hole 
 down which some one had thrust a straw. 
 
 There was something different about this tall young 
 man who towered above the others. Billy watched him 
 from a distance, trying to classify him. Yes, he was 
 different. Billy could not place the difference, but he felt 
 it and waited with a sickening dread for the time to come, 
 as he had seen it come with so many others, when the 
 breaker would have marked him for its own, would have 
 bowed that erect head, changed that stride to the hopeless 
 shufHe, and brought to his eyes the dull stare that he 
 knew so well. 
 
 He watched him closely, fascinated with the fascination 
 that the physically perfect always hold for the deformed. 
 He could see the impression the town and its inhabitants 
 made upon Tom McGregor. He saw the instinctive 
 tightening of the engineer's lips and the hardening of the 
 eyes when he looked at the sordid little town. For it was 
 sordid and terrible. Billy Twist did not realize how ter- 
 rible because he had never known anything" else. 
 
 It was a typical breaker town, well-named, for, as in 
 all villages that bear that name, the breaker towered over 
 
GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN 171 
 
 all the little shacks that surrounded it. It was like a 
 huge spider, grim, black and sprawling, watching with its 
 dull, smoke-grimed eyes for any chance straggler that 
 it might gather in and mark for its own. Farther and 
 farther it extended its sway even beyond the heaps of 
 rubbish and tin cans that marked the end of the straggling 
 street. In winter the filthy snow and in summer the sooty 
 pall, blotting out the growth of even the weeds, proclaimed 
 the domain of the breaker. 
 
 The sooty pine shacks, clustered around its base, were 
 miniature copies of the breaker itself, for the unpainted 
 pine boards were quick to take on the color of their 
 surroundings. 
 
 Billy Twist had noticed strangers' seeming distaste for 
 the conditions and he could not help noticing that Tom 
 McGregor felt the same way. He tried to decide what 
 had made a young man of his type choose such a place 
 in which to begin his engineering experience if he hated 
 it so. It was so evident that he hated it, yet he never 
 seemed to try to avoid the breaker or the town. Duty 
 never called the engineers into the breaker itself with its 
 whirring machinery and flying dust. But this engineer 
 was often to be seen standing about, unnoticed by the 
 workers whose sullen smoke-colored eyes could see 
 nothing but the coal by which their whole lives were 
 colored. 
 
 But Billy Twist noticed and wondered. He wondered 
 still more when, one noon, he clambered up the steep 
 stairs to avoid the other breaker boys who made the noon 
 hour unbearable to him, and found Tom McGregor on 
 the incline, examining the belts and benches. He looked 
 up, nodded casually, and started on down the stairs. 
 
 The other breaker boys soon clattered up, and work 
 
172 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 started as usual. But Billy Twist's thoughts were in a 
 tumult. No one ever climbed all those steep steps except 
 on business, for the cupola was not a pleasant spot. 
 People were wont to come up, stay only as long as nec- 
 essary, and go down as soon as possible. No engineer 
 had ever come up there before, engineers were not paid 
 for that sort of thing. Then it dawned on Billy: This 
 engineer must be paid for it, paid by some one to look 
 at workings of the breaker and the men. An inspector! 
 Well, he would not tell. He would not even let Tom 
 McGregor know that he knew. 
 
 On his way home that evening, Billy was hemmed in 
 by four men who were making sport of him, and he was 
 replying with his usual mixture of profanity and bald 
 truth. Billy did not mind much, he knew that he gave 
 back as good as the others gave him, andj besides, he was 
 accustomed to it. But Big Tom McGregor was not ac- 
 customed to seeing grown men bait a child and he stopped. 
 It did not take many words to send the men about their 
 business, because for the safety of their jobs it was 
 better not to bandy words with the new engineer. So 
 they slunk off feeling rather more abused than ashamed. 
 
 Tom McGregor looked down at the bent little figure 
 before him. He had noticed the boy often before. Billy 
 Twist's shrunken form and old face would make anyone 
 look twice. At first he had merely pitied the boy, but 
 later, after once or twice watching him hold off a crowd 
 of young tormentors, he had begun to feel a certain 
 admiration for the agile mind that must dwell within 
 the big head enabling him to hold his own against the 
 horde of young hoodlums who amused their lunch hour 
 by tormenting him. The queer little waif must have a 
 valiant spirit, he thought, to bear up under his deformity 
 
GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN 173 
 
 and not be utterly crushed by the jibes, blows and jeers 
 that made up his usual fare. But when he had overheard 
 the remarks by which Billy held off his tormentors, his 
 grudging admiration increased, for the vocabulary of 
 this dwarfed eleven -year-old was such as to make the 
 oldest mule driver or miner blush and give up all hope 
 of achieving. Tom was accustomed to the language of 
 the mining camps, but he had never heard anyone swear 
 with such picturesque force and enthusiasm as this un- 
 canny child. He thought of his own sheltered happy 
 childhood, and shuddered. But then, he thought, how 
 could one judge? The kid had never had a chance and it 
 certainly showed cleverness to use the only weapon he 
 possessed, and the never ending pluck of the queer child 
 fascinated him. 
 
 So tonight he welcomed the chance to talk to the boy 
 in order to find out, if possible, just what went on inside 
 that queer top-heavy head of his. 
 
 Billy Twist was startled. He was startled clear out 
 of his accustomed self-possession. He had had someone 
 to defend him for the first time in his eleven years, and 
 the experience was so new that he did not know quite 
 what to do. The big man grinned down at him. 
 
 "Are you going my way, kid?" 
 
 This experience was as overpowering as the other. He 
 had never had anything but jeers and taunts all his life, 
 and he could not but believe that this was some sort of 
 a game to make sport of him in a new guise. But no 
 one should be able to say that he was a coward, so he 
 gathered his quick wits together to meet whatever form 
 the attack might take, and muttering an unintelligible 
 assent, he fell in beside the tall engineer. 
 
 Tom shortened his stride to try to keep pace with the 
 
174 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 odd shuffling step of the queer little figure beside him. 
 He felt the same surging pity that always brought a 
 lump to his throat at sight of a wounded or wronged 
 animal. And this child had been wronged, he had been 
 robbed of his chance for a clean, healthy, normal child- 
 hood. He would try to be a good angel to the little fel- 
 low, would give him something to read and try to improve 
 that uncanny mind that knew too much for its years. 
 
 "You all don't think we-uns know how t' run this 
 mine, do yuh? Yer goin' t' tell them that this here 
 breaker's a back number." 
 
 The shrill voice broke in upon his complacent musing. 
 Good Heavens ! Did this child really have second sight ? 
 No one except the actual government officials that em- 
 ployed him knew that besides being the new engineer he 
 was also a government employee to report whether or not 
 the mine and breaker were being run according to law 
 and for the safety of its employees instead of the illegiti- 
 mate profit of its owners. 
 
 He looked at the boy with new interest. The child 
 was shrewd all right; it took quick wits to put the right 
 construction on his unusual interest for an engineer in 
 the conditions of the mine and breaker. He had evidently 
 known for some time and had never caused his discharge 
 by telling. The superintendent and owners had never 
 guessed at the reason. 
 
 If his mind had had any chance, what a boy he'd be! 
 And then and there started their friendship, the dog-like 
 devotion of the little hideous, starved breaker boy and 
 the brotherly helping love of the big, handsome engineer. 
 They spent every minute of their spare time together. 
 
 One day they were eating their lunch at their usual 
 place at the back of the breaker, where on the slopes of 
 
GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN 175 
 
 the surrounding hills one could see' the green of spring 
 beginning to show, for it takes a few weeks for even 
 a breaker to blot out the coming of spring. The pent-up 
 love of beauty in the child's heart burst its bonds sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "It's kinda pretty, ain't it, Tom?" he said shyly. Billy 
 was learning fast. But even yet he was abashed at this 
 sudden demonstrativeness, and turned to see what effect 
 it would have on his companion. It needed but one look 
 to show Billy that Tom had not heard a word. He was 
 not looking at the hills, but was staring down at the drab 
 valley, full of its eternal cloud of settling smoke. His 
 mouth was hard, yet his eyes had a tender, far-away look 
 that told Billy that he saw none of its ugly sordidness. 
 
 "Tom," he said suddenly, pulling the arm next him, 
 "what do you think about when you look down there and 
 kinda grin with your eyes??" 
 
 McGregor looked around with a start. 
 
 He hesitated a moment and then seemed to come to a 
 decision and said suddenly, "Kid, you're rather old for 
 your years and maybe you can help me. You see you'll 
 have to put yourself in my place. If you loved the finest 
 and truest girl in the world and she loved you too, would 
 you bring her up here to live in this God- forsaken hole 
 when you wouldn't have anything better to offer for a 
 good many years, or would you ask her to keep on waiting 
 for you?" 
 
 Billy's newly found world clattered about his ears. A 
 girl! His hero in love with a girl! He thought of all 
 the girls and women he knew, and could see nothing in 
 them to attract wonderful Big Tom McGregor. 
 
 Tom felt the hesitancy and attributed it to a different 
 cause. 
 
176 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 "You see, kid," he hastened to explain, "it won't make 
 any difference between you and me. She knows all about 
 you and she says you must come to live with us. Do you 
 want to see her?" pulling out his watch. "Now, don't 
 you believe that she's the sweetest girl in the world?" 
 
 Again Billy's world swam. This radiant creature a 
 girl ! He thought over all the drab, slatternly, dull-eyed 
 creatures that he called "girls," and decided silently that 
 they had nothing in common with this bright-eyed angel 
 with dainty features and fluffy hair. But while he did 
 not know much about girls, he did know human nature. 
 He knew that with the coming of this creature, things 
 would not be the same between Tom and him, and that 
 anyone as much in love with a person as Tom McGregor 
 showed himself to be would have very little time to waste 
 on a hunch-backed waif. But while he knew this, he knew 
 better than to say so to Tom. And so the days the 
 most wonderful of his life for Billy went on as usual. 
 
 One day he was at work high up in the tower of the 
 breaker, as usual, when the machinery suddenly stopped. 
 All the boys knew what had happened, it meant some 
 accident in the mine beneath. They waited a minute, 
 expecting the machinery to start, but when it did not, 
 they hurried to the narrow windows to see what was 
 happening below them. 
 
 The lift came up the shaft hurriedly as they watched, 
 unloaded a crowd of excited men, made a quick descent 
 and came up again with another load of choking, gasping 
 humanity. Evidently this was something serious, not one 
 of the ordinary minor accidents that often interrupted 
 the work of the mine. With one accord the crowd of 
 breaker boys turned and clattered down the rickety stairs 
 like a herd of stampeding ponies. 
 
GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN 177 
 
 When they reached the entrance 'of the shaft, a puff 
 of acrid-smelling, yellow smoke belched out. Men were 
 running dazedly about, shouting hoarse, confused direc- 
 tions, while the lift still kept up its tireless journey up 
 and down, bringing up a load of half unconscious men, 
 who were hauled out unceremoniously, while the lift 
 returned for more. 
 
 As they stood there, a hoarse crash followed by a 
 steady roar seemed to sound from the depths of the 
 earth. There was a shout from below. The last load. 
 Billy's heart stood still as the stupefied men tumbled 
 out. Tom was not among them. He sidled through the 
 crowd until he could grasp the sleeve of the superin- 
 tendent. The man looked down impatiently. 
 
 "Tom," he gasped, "he didn't come up." 
 
 The superintendent gave a quick glance around. 
 "Men," he shouted above the tumult, "has anyone seen 
 Big Tom McGregor?" 
 
 A hubbub of voices answered. "He was on the second 
 level when the cave-in came !" he made out at last. "He 
 went down to the third level to help dig the men out," 
 gasped one. 
 
 "Hasn't he come up?" thundered the boss. No one 
 answered. "Boys," he said again, "will any of you 
 volunteer to go down with me to get McGregor? We 
 may be able to save him yet." 
 
 Nearly a dozen men sprang into the lift, and among 
 them no one noticed Billy Twist. 
 
 The air at the bottom of the shaft was horrible. They 
 bent close to the ground and crawled along like worms, 
 peering through the murky gleam with aching eyes. The 
 gas-filled air seemed to lie like a heavy weight upon their 
 lungs. They crawled down one nassage at the end of 
 
i;8 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 which a red gleam was growing more and more ominous. 
 
 "No use going any further," choked the boss. "This 
 corridor is all closed up where the timbers fell. The 
 flames are back there. Tom!" he called. "Tom Mc- 
 Gregor !" 
 
 A crash nearly deafened them, and the red gleam grew 
 blinding. 
 
 "We'll have to get out of this," he cried, staggering 
 back. They all turned to make their way back toward 
 the shaft. But with a shrill cry a shadow broke away 
 from the group. 
 
 "Who w r as it?" they all cried, their benumbed senses 
 alert for an instant. 
 
 "It was the crooked one, Billee," said a young Italian, 
 "he came down with us." 
 
 A blast of hot gas-laden air choked them. 
 
 "Come out of this. We can't sacrifice twelve men for 
 one and a half." Hard? No, it was merely the stern 
 stoicism of men to whom the nearness of death is all in 
 the day's work. 
 
 Billy plunged forward blindly. He crawled through 
 a small opening in the fallen timbers and came out upon 
 a roaring furnace. 
 
 "Tom !" he called. "Tom!" 
 
 "Here!" answered a faint voice. Billy dodged around 
 a huge beam the other end of which was already on fire. 
 The red light made the murkiness thick and uncanny. 
 Tom McGregor lay pinned under a fallen beam. "Kid," 
 he cried eagerly, "have you brought help?" 
 
 "Hurry, hurry up, Tom, there's still time to get back 
 the way I came in. We'll be in time yet." 
 
 "Are you alone?" Tom's voice was dull and lifeless. 
 "You see, I can't move without someone strong enough 
 
GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN 179 
 
 to lift this timber off me, and besides, I guess my leg's 
 done for." 
 
 Billy flew at it and tugged with all the frenzied strength 
 given him by desperation, but it would have taken the 
 combined strength of three men to move the beam. And 
 in spite of his wiry strength, Billy Twist was only eleven. 
 
 "It's no use, Boy; hurry back or you'll be shut in too. 
 Go to Alice," he said thickly, "tell her I loved her, take 
 care of her, kid. I'm not afraid to go." 
 
 "She'd be mighty glad to see me if I came back without 
 you, wouldn't she? I'm going to stay here with you." 
 
 "Why you little fool, don't you realize that you can't 
 live here ten minutes? Get out of here. I tell you, I'll 
 make you go." Tom's desperation gave him strength 
 to drag himself to a sitting posture. "Get out of here, 
 I say." Billy stood stubbornly silent. There was a flash 
 of blinding light, a roaring crash, and the beams that 
 held up the level above caved in blocking the passage. 
 
 "Now," said .Billy Twist, his face strangely trans- 
 figured; "I can't go! Do you hear me? You can't make 
 me go!" 
 
 "Forgive me," gasped the man hoarsely, his voice 
 breaking. . . . "Kid, you're a MAN !" 
 
 And hand in hand they awaited the end. 
 
 Five days later after the fire was smothered, when the 
 mine was again unsealed, they brought up the two charred 
 bodies. And the sad-eyed girl from another state, when 
 asked concerning the body of the man she had loved, 
 cried out : 
 
 "Oh, let me take them both. Who am I to separate 
 two friends that even death was not strong enough to 
 part?" 
 
CREATIVE CRITICISM OF STORY OF 
 ATMOSPHERE 
 
 "GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN," BY BEATRICE WALKER 
 
 1. Character. 
 
 As this story starts out with a description of the chief 
 character some might consider it more of a character 
 story than story of atmosphere. But as the little boy 
 is dominated even as to the shape of his body and 
 lineations of his soul and mind by the setting in which 
 he is living it properly belongs to the story of atmos- 
 phere or setting. Billy Twist is used, in a way, as the 
 means to interpret the setting. His dominant trait at 
 the beginning of the story is his shrewd, almost uncanny 
 ability to see into motives of others and his ability to 
 take care of himself in rough-and-tumble word battles. 
 His striking contradiction is his love for the big engi- 
 neer ; in this case the contradiction assumes the propor- 
 tions of a dominant trait before the story progresses far. 
 
 2. Complication. 
 
 Only sufficient complication was needed to bring out 
 the setting and its effects upon the leading character. 
 In this case the problem (in Billy's mind) is: How can 
 I show my love for my big friend ? Bearing this in mind 
 you will see that the ending is not a tragedy but a tri- 
 umph. 
 
 The action in this story begins with Situation 16 (In 
 the clutches of misfortune), receives its motivation from 
 Situation 17 (The Savior), moves by means of character 
 
 1 80 
 
CRITICISM OF STORY OF ATMOSPHERE 181 
 
 contrast to a dramatic climax built .up out of Situation 5 
 (An audacious attempt), and 23 (Self-sacrifice for a 
 friend). 
 
 3. Setting. 
 
 In a student theme the writer of this story wrote a 
 description of an actual breaker town which she had 
 lived in. Later she strove to find characters and plot 
 to interpret this setting, and the story grew out of this 
 attempt. The original description, greatly shortened, was 
 inserted in the story not at the beginning, but as soon 
 as the interest of the reader was sufficiently aroused; 
 "It was a typical breaker town," etc. and through the 
 following paragraph. But not depending upon this single 
 block of description, the writer by means of constant 
 little touches words or phrases keeps the setting con- 
 stantly before the reader's eye. 
 
 4. Theme. 
 
 The title of the story might imply that the story was 
 primarily a story with a moral. A careful reading will, 
 however, show that both setting and character are more 
 dominant than the theme. 
 
 5. Movement. 
 
 A story in which setting and character are as promi- 
 nent as in this should necessarily march with a slower 
 movement than a story of complication such as "The Cop 
 and the Anthem." You will note that the movement flows 
 in a much more leisurely manner than in the O. Henry 
 story. As this story moves toward its emotional climax 
 the rhythm or movement gradually changes giving us an 
 excellent example of "cumulative movement." 
 
182 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 6. What shall be the viewpoint? 
 
 The over-the-shoulder viewpoint is used with Billy 
 Twist the center, with one or two modifications. One 
 of these modifications is where we are admitted into 
 McGregor's thoughts when he looks down upon the bent 
 figure of Billy, holding the men at bay who were bandy- 
 ing words with him. Another is where we get the words 
 of McGregor's sweetheart after Billy is dead. For ob- 
 vious reasons essential to the plot these deviations from 
 the strict single person viewpoint were permissible. 
 
 7. Where shall I begin? 
 
 The story begins with a description of Billy Twist in 
 the center of his lonely, sordid surroundings of the 
 Breaker Town. It is a good example of that type of 
 description which describes the surroundings and the ef- 
 fect of the surroundings upon the person even more 
 clearly than it describes the character himself. Thus the 
 character and the setting of the story are established in 
 the reader's mind at one and the same time. 
 
 8. How many episodes and how shall I connect them? 
 There are four episodes in this story. A beginner 
 
 should rarely attempt more. In the first one Billy ob- 
 serves McGregor. In the second McGregor notices Billy 
 and they become friends. In the third they are shown 
 as fast friends of greatly contrasted types. In the 
 fourth they enter upon the Great Adventure together. 
 The first three episodes are woven together so as to lead 
 to the main incident the sacrifice of Billy Twist for 
 the engineer. As in the two preceding stories the transi- 
 tions are skillfully handled, especially for a beginner 
 and deserve careful scrutiny. "And then had come Big 
 
CRITICISM OF STORY OF ATMOSPHERE 183 
 
 Tom McGregor." "He wondered still more when, one 
 noon, he clambered up the steep stairs to, etc." "One 
 day they were eating their lunch in their usual place at 
 the back of the breaker." "One day he was at work 
 high up in the tower of the breaker as usual when the 
 machinery suddenly stopped." 
 
 9. How can I make my climax seem plausible? 
 
 The problem of plausibility centers upon th event of 
 Billy Twist's sacrifice. This is made plausible by reason 
 of the picturing of his starved and stunted life in the 
 cold breaker town, his own limited future without the 
 engineer, his great craving for love, and his idealization 
 of McGregor. 
 
 10. How can I increase the suspense? 
 
 Suspense is prepared first by arousing the interest 
 of the reader in the chief character. Contrast the love 
 which the reader inevitably experiences for the little 
 stunted boy with the more removed interest one feels in 
 Soapy. Suspense is also achieved by means of the very 
 unsolvable problem of how to rescue Big Tom at the 
 climax. 
 
 11. How can I give my story an effective climax? 
 The surprise here lies in the fact that he is not rescued 
 
 at all. It is made effective through emotion. It is the 
 kind of "surprise" permitted in college magazines but not 
 very popular among the big best selling magazines that 
 boast of large circulations. 
 
THE DARK HOUR* 
 
 BY WILBUR DANIEL STEELE 
 
 The returning ship swam swiftly through the dark; 
 the deep, interior breathing of the engines, the singing 
 of wire stays, the huge whispering rush of foam stream- 
 ing the water-line made up a body of silence upon which 
 the sound of the doctor's footfalls, coming and going 
 restlessly along the near deck, intruded only a little a 
 faint and personal disturbance. Charging slowly through 
 the dark, a dozen paces forward, a dozen paces aft, his 
 invisible and tormented face bent forward a little over his 
 breast, he said to himself, 
 
 "What fools ! What blind fools we've been !" 
 
 Sweat stood for an instant on his brow, and was gone 
 in the steady onrush of the wind. 
 
 The man lying on the cot in the shelter of the cabin 
 companionway made no sound all the while. He might 
 have been asleep or dead, he remained so quiet; yet he 
 was neither asleep nor dead, for his eyes, large, wasted, 
 and luminous, gazed out unwinking from the little dark- 
 ness of his shelter into the vaster darkness of the night, 
 where a star burned in slow mutations, now high, now 
 sailing low, over the rail of the ship. 
 
 Once he said in a washed and strengthless voice 
 "That's a bright star, doctor." 
 
 If the other heard, he gave no sign. He continued 
 charging slowly back and forth, his large dim shoulders 
 hunched over his neck, his hands locked behind him, his 
 
 * Reprinted from The Atlantic Monthly by permission of the author and 
 oublisher. Copyright 1918 and 1919. 
 
 184 
 
THE DARK HOUR 185 
 
 teeth showing faintly gray between -the fleshy lips which 
 hung open a little to his breathing. 
 
 "It's dark!" he said of a sudden, bringing up before 
 the cot in the companionway. "God, Hallett, how dark 
 it is !" There was something incoherent and mutilated 
 about it, as if the cry had torn the tissues of his throat. 
 "I'm not myself to-night," he added, with a trace of shame. 
 
 Hallett spoke slowly from his pillow. 
 
 "It wouldn't be the subs to-night? You're not that 
 kind, you know. I've seen you in the zone. And we're 
 well west of them by this, anyhow; and as you say, it's 
 very dark." 
 
 "It's not that darkness. Not that!" 
 
 Again there was the same sense of something tearing. 
 The doctor rocked for a moment on his thick legs. He 
 began to talk. 
 
 "It's this war ' His conscience protested : "I ought 
 not to go on so it's not right, not right at all talking 
 so to the wounded the dying I shouldn't go on so to 
 the dying And all the while the words continued 
 
 to tumble out of his mouth. "No, I'm not a coward not 
 especially. You know I'm not a coward, Hallett. You 
 know that. But just now, to-night, somehow, the whole 
 black truth of the thing has come out and got me 
 jumped out of the dark and got me by the neck, Hallett. 
 Look here ; I've kept a stiff lip. Since the first I've said, 
 'We'll win this war.' It's been a matter of course. So 
 far as I know, never a hint of doubt has shadowed my 
 mind, even when things went bad. 'In the end,' I've 
 said, 'in the end, of course, we're bound to win.' " 
 
 He broke away again to charge slowly through the 
 dark with his head down, butting; a large, overheated 
 animal endowed with a mind. 
 
i86 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 "But do we want to win?" 
 
 Hallett's question, very faint across the subdued 
 breathings and showerings of the ship, fetched the doctor 
 up. He stood for a moment, rocking on his legs and 
 staring at the face of the questioner, still and faintly 
 luminous on the invisible cot. Then he laughed briefly, 
 shook himself, and ignored the preposterous words. He 
 recollected tardily that the fellow was pretty well gone. 
 
 "No," he went on. "Up to to-night I've never doubted. 
 No one in the world, in our part of the world, has 
 doubted. The proposition was absurd to begin with. 
 Prussia, and her fringe of hangers-on, to stand against 
 the world to stand against the very drift and destiny 
 of civilization? Impossible! A man can't do the im- 
 possible ; that's logic, Hallett, and that's common sense. 
 They might have their day of it, their little hour, because 
 they had the jump but in the end! in the end! But 
 look at them, will you ! Look at them ! That's what's 
 got me to-night, Hallett. Look at them! There they 
 stand. They won't play the game, won't abide at all 
 by the rules of logic, of common sense. Every day, 
 every hour, they perform the impossible. Not once since 
 the war was a year old have they been able to hang out 
 another six months. They'd be wiped from the earth; 
 their people would starve. They're wiped from the 
 earth, and they remain. They starve and lay down their 
 skinny bodies on the ground, and they stand up again 
 with sleek bellies. They make preposterous, blind boasts. 
 They say, 'We'll over-run Roumania in a month.' Fan- 
 tastic! It's done! They say, 'Russia! New-born Rus- 
 sia? Strong young boy-Russia? We'll put him out of 
 it for good and all by Christmas.' That was to cheer 
 up the hungry ones in Berlin. Everybody saw through 
 
THE DARK HOUR 187 
 
 it. The very stars laughed. It's done! God, Hallett! 
 It's like clockwork. It's like a rehearsed and abominable 
 programme 
 
 "Yes a programme." 
 
 The wounded man lay quite still and gazed at the 
 star. When he spoke, his words carried an odd sense 
 of authenticity, finality. His mind had got a little away 
 from him, and now it was working with the new, oracular 
 clarity of the moribund. It bothered the doctor inex- 
 plicably tripped him up. He had to shake himself. 
 He began to talk louder and make wide, scarcely visible 
 gestures. 
 
 "We've laughed so long, Hallett. There was Mittel- 
 europa! We always laughed at that. A wag's tale. To 
 think of it a vast, self-sufficient, brutal empire laid 
 down across the path of the world ! Ha-ha ! Why, even 
 if they had wanted it, it would be " 
 
 "If they wanted it, it would be inevitable" 
 
 The doctor held up for a full dozen seconds. A kind 
 \-f anger came over him and his face grew red. He 
 couldn't understand. He talked still louder. 
 
 "But they're doing it ! They're doing that same pre- 
 posterous thing before our eyes, and we can't touch them, 
 and they're Hallett! They're damn near done! Behind 
 that line there, you know the line I mean, who of us 
 doesn't know it? That thin line of smoke and ashes and 
 black blood, like a bent black wire over France? Behind 
 that line they're at work, day by day, month after month, 
 building the empire we never believed. And Hallett, 
 it's damn near done! And we can't stop it. It grows 
 bigger and bigger, darker and darker it covers up the 
 sky like a nightmare 
 
 "Like a dream!" said Hallett softly; "a dream." 
 
188 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 The doctor's boot-soles drummed with a dull, angry 
 resonance on the deck. 
 
 "And we can't touch them ! They couldn't conceivably 
 hold that line against us against the whole world long 
 enough to build their incredible empire behind it. And 
 they have! Hallett! How could they ever have held it?" 
 
 "You mean, how could we ever have held it?" 
 
 Hallett's words flowed on, smooth, clear-formed, un- 
 hurried, and his eyes kept staring at the star. 
 
 "No, it's we have held it, not they. And we that have 
 got to hold it longer than they. Theirs is the kind of 
 a Mitteleuropa that's been done before; history is little 
 more than a copybook for such an empire as they are 
 building. We've got a vaster and more incredible empire 
 to build than they a Mitteleuropa, let us say, of the 
 spirit of man. No, no, doctor ; it's we that are doing the 
 impossible, holding that thin line." 
 
 The doctor failed to contain himself. 
 
 "Oh, pshaw, pshaw! See here, Hallett! We've had 
 the men, and there's no use blinking the truth. And 
 we've had the money and the munitions." 
 
 "But back of all that, behind the last reserve, the last 
 shell-dump, the last treasury, haven't they got something 
 that we've never had?" 
 
 "And what's that?" 
 
 "A dream." 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "A dream. We've dreamed no dream. Yes let me 
 say it! A little while ago you said, 'nightmare,' and I 
 said, 'dream.' Germany has dreamed a dream. Black 
 as the pit of hell, yes, yes, but a dream. They've seen 
 a vision. A red, bloody, damned vision, yes, yes, but 
 
THE DARK HOUR 189 
 
 a vision. They've got a programme, even if it's what 
 you called it, a 'rehearsed and abominable programme.' 
 And they know what they want. And we don't know 
 what we want!" 
 
 The doctor's fist came down in the palm of his hand. 
 
 "What we want? I'll tell you what we want, Hallett. 
 We want to win this war!" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "And by the living God> Hallett, we will win this war ! 
 I can see again. If we fight for half a century to come; 
 if we turn the world wrong-side-out for men, young men, 
 boys, babes; if we mine the earth to a hollow shell for 
 coal and iron; if we wear our women to ghosts to get 
 out the last grain of wheat from the fields we'll do it! 
 And we'll wipe this black thing from the face of the 
 earth forever, root and branch, father and son of the 
 bloody race of them to the end of time. If you want a 
 dream, Hallett, there's a " 
 
 "There's a nightmare. An over- weening muscular 
 impulse to jump on the thing that's scared us in the 
 dark, to break it with our hands, grind it into the ground 
 with our heels, tear ourselves away from it and wake 
 up." 
 
 He went on again after a moment of silence. 
 
 "Yes, that's it, that's it. We've never asked for any- 
 thing better; not once since those terrible August days 
 have we got down on our naked knees and prayed for 
 anything more than just to be allowed to wake up and 
 find it isn't so. How can we expect, with a desire like 
 that, to stand against a positive and a flaming desire? 
 No, no! The only thing to beat a dream is a dream 
 more poignant. The only thing to beat a vision black 
 
190 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 as midnight is a vision white as the noonday sun. We've 
 come to the place, doctor, where half a loaf is worse than 
 no bread." 
 
 The doctor put his hands in his pockets and took them 
 out again, shifted away a few steps and back again. He 
 felt inarticulate, handless, helpless in the face of things, 
 of abstractions, of the mysterious, unflagging swiftness 
 of the ship, bearing him willy-nilly over the blind surface 
 of the sea. He shook himself. 
 
 "God help us," he-said. 
 
 "What God?" 
 
 The doctor lifted a weary hand. 
 
 "Oh, if you're going into that " 
 
 "Why not? Because Prussia, doctor, has a god. Prus- 
 sia has a god as terrible as the God of conquering Israel, 
 a god created in her own image. We laugh when we 
 hear her speaking intimately and surely to this god. I 
 tell you we're fools. I tell you, doctor, before we shall 
 stand we shall have to create a god in our own image, and 
 before we do that we shall have to have a living and 
 sufficient image." 
 
 "You don't think much of us," the doctor murmured 
 wearily. 
 
 The other seemed not to hear. After a little while he 
 said, 
 
 "We've got to say black or white at last. We've got 
 to answer a question this time with a whole answer." 
 
 "This war began so long ago," he went on, staring at 
 the star. "So long before Sarajevo, so long before 'bal- 
 ances of power' were thought of, so long before the 
 'provinces' were lost and won, before Bismarck and the 
 lot of them were begotten, or their fathers. So many, 
 many years of questions put, and half-answers given in 
 
THE DARK HOUR 191 
 
 return. Questions, questions : questions of a power -loom 
 in the North Counties ; questions of a mill-hand's lodging 
 in one Manchester or another, of the weight of a head- 
 tax in India, of a widow's mass for her dead in Spain; 
 questions of a black man in the Congo, of an eighth-black 
 man in New Orleans, of a Christian in Turkey, an 
 Irishman in Dublin, a Jew in Moscow, a French cripple 
 in the streets of Zabern; questions of an idiot sitting on 
 a throne; questions of a girl asking her vote on a Hyde 
 Park rostrum, of a girl asking her price in the dark 
 of a Chicago door- way whole questions half -answered, 
 hungry questions half -fed, mutilated fag-ends of ques- 
 tions piling up and piling up year by year, decade after 
 decade. Listen! There came a time when it wouldn't 
 do, wouldn't do at all. There came a time when the son 
 of all those questions stood up in the world, final, unequiv- 
 ocal, naked, devouring, saying, 'Now you shall answer 
 me. You shall look me squarely in the face at last, and 
 you shall look at nothing else ; you shall take your hands 
 out of your pockets and your tongues out of our cheeks, 
 and no matter how long, no matter what the blood and 
 anguish of it, you shall answer me now with a whole 
 answer or perish !' ' 
 
 "And what's the answer?" 
 
 The doctor leaned down a little, resting his hands on 
 the foot of the cot. 
 
 The gray patch of Hallett's face moved slightly in the 
 dark. 
 
 "It will sound funny to you. Because it's a word that's 
 been worn pretty thin by so much careless handling. 
 It's 'Democracy!'" 
 
 The doctor stood up straight on his thick legs. 
 
 "Why should it sound funny?" he demanded, a vein 
 
192 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 of triumph in his tone. "It is the answer. And we've 
 given it. 'Make the world safe for democracy!' Eh? 
 You remember the quotation?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, that's good. But we've got to do more than 
 say it, doctor. Go further. We've got to dream it in a 
 dream; we've got to see democracy as a wild, consuming 
 vision. If the day ever comes when we shall pronounce 
 the word 'democracy' with the same fierce faith with' 
 which we conceive them to be pronouncing 'autocracy' 
 that day, doctor " 
 
 He raised a transparent hand and moved it slowly 
 over his eyes. 
 
 "It will be something to do, doctor, that will. Like 
 taking hold of lightning, It will rack us body and soul ; 
 belief will strip us naked for a moment, leave us new- 
 born and shaken and weak as weak as Christ in the 
 manger. And that day nothing can stand before us. 
 Because, you see, we'll know 'what we want." 
 
 The doctor stood for a moment as he had been, a large, 
 dark troubled body rocking slowly to the heave of the 
 deck beneath him. He rubbed a hand over his face. 
 
 "Utopian!" he said. 
 
 "Utopian !" Hallett repeated after him. "To-day we are 
 children of Utopia or we are nothing. I tell you, doc- 
 tor, to-day it has come down to this Hamburg to Bag- 
 dad or Utopia !" 
 
 The other lifted his big arms and his face was red. 
 
 "You're playing with words, Hallett. You do nothing 
 but twist my words. When I say Utopian, I mean, 
 precisely, impossible. Absolutely impossible. See here! 
 You tell me this empire of theirs is a dream. I give you 
 that. How long has it taken them to dream it? Forty 
 years. Forty years! And this wild, transcendental em- 
 
THE DARK HOUR 193 
 
 pire of the spirit you talk about, so much harder, so 
 many hundreds of times more incredible, will you have 
 us do that sort of a thing in a day? We're a dozen races, 
 a score of nations. I tell you it's it's impossible !" 
 
 "Yes. Impossible." 
 
 The silence came down between them, heavy with all 
 the dark, impersonal sounds of passage, the rythmical 
 explosions of the waves, the breathing of engines, the 
 muffled staccato of the spark in the wireless room, the 
 note of the ship's bell forward striking the hour and 
 after it a hail, running thin in the wind: "Six bells, sir, 
 and all's well!" 
 
 "All's well!" 
 
 The irony of it ! The infernal patness of it, falling 
 so in the black interlude, like stage business long re- 
 hearsed. 
 
 "All's well!" the doctor echoed with the mirthless laugh- 
 ter of the damned. 
 
 Hallett raised .himself very slowly on an elbow and 
 stared at the star beyond the rail. 
 
 "Yes, I shouldn't wonder. Just now to-night some- 
 how I've got a queer feeling that maybe it is. Maybe 
 it's going to be. Maybe it's going to be; who knows? 
 The darkest hour of our lives, of history, perhaps, has 
 been on us. And maybe it's almost over. Maybe we're 
 going to do the impossible, after all, doctor. And maybe 
 we're going to get it done in time. I've got a queer sense 
 of something happening something getting ready." 
 
 When he spoke again, his voice had changed a little. 
 
 "I wish my father could have lived to see this day. He's 
 in New York now, and I should like " 
 
 The doctor moved forward suddenly and quietly, say- 
 ing: "Lie down, Hallett. You'd better lie down now." 
 
194 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 But the other protested with a gray hand. 
 
 "No, no, you don't understand. When I say well 
 it's just the shell of my father walking around and talk- 
 ing around, these ten years past. Prison killed his heart. 
 He doesn't even know it, that the immortal soul of him 
 has gone out. You know him, doctor. Ben Hallett; the 
 Radical 'the Destroyer,' they used to call him in the 
 old days. He was a brave man, doctor; you've got to 
 give him that ; as brave as John the Baptist, and as mad. 
 I can see him now, to-night, sitting in the back room 
 in Eighth Street, he and old Radinov and Hirsch and 
 O'Reilly and the rest, with all the doors shut and the 
 windows shut and their eyes and ears and minds shut 
 up tight, trying to keep the war out. They're old men, 
 doctor, and they must cling to yesterday, and to to- 
 morrow. They mustn't see to-day. They must ignore 
 to-day. To-day is the tragic interruption. They too ask 
 nothing but to wake up and find it isn't so. All their 
 lives they've been straining forward to see the ineffable 
 dawn of the Day of Man, calling for the Commune and 
 the red barricades of revolution. The barricades ! Yes- 
 terday, it seems to them now, they were almost in sight 
 of the splendid dawn the dawn of the Day of Barri- 
 cades. And then this war, this thing they call a 'rich 
 man's plot' to confound them, hold them up, turn to 
 ashes all the fire of their lives. All they can do is sit 
 in a closed room with their eyes shut and wait till this 
 meaningless brawl is done. And then, to-morrow to- 
 morrow some safely distant to-morrow (for they're old 
 men), to-morrow, the barricades! And that's queer. 
 That's queer." 
 
 "Queer?" 
 
 "It seems to me that for days now, for weeks and 
 
THE DARK HOUR 195 
 
 months now, there's been no sound to be heard in all 
 the length and breadth of the world but the sound of 
 barricades." 
 
 The voice trailed off into nothing. 
 
 To the doctor, charging slowly back and forth along 
 the near deck, his hands locked behind him and his face 
 bent slightly over his breast, there came a queer sense of 
 separation, from Hallett, from himself, his own every- 
 day acts, his own familiar aspirations, from the ship 
 which held him up in the dark void between two conti- 
 nents. 
 
 What was it all about ? he asked himself over and over. 
 Each time he passed the shadow in the companion-way 
 he turned his head, painfully, and as if against his will. 
 Once he stopped squarely at the foot of the cot and stood 
 staring down at the figure there, faintly outlined, mo- 
 tionless and mute. Sweat stood for a moment on his 
 brow, and was gone in the steady onrush of the wind. 
 And he was used to death. 
 
 But Hallett had fooled him. He heard Hallett's whisper 
 creeping to him out of the shadow: 
 
 "That's a bright star, doctor." 
 
CREATIVE CRITICISM OF A THEMATIC STORY 
 "THE DARK HOUR," BY WILBUR DANIEL STEELE 
 
 I. Character. 
 
 As the theme was by all odds the chief consideration 
 in this story, the author's task was to select a character 
 that would be the most representative as well as the 
 most authoritative mouthpiece for expressing the ideals 
 and hopes of the people of the great democracies that were 
 engaged in the World War. With true artist's insight 
 he chose a wounded, dying soldier returning to his coun- 
 try, a soldier who, because he had given his all for the 
 cause of democracy, had a right to speak, and with some 
 show of authority, in behalf of the great principles for 
 which he had given his life. 
 
 As only one other character is to appear in the story, 
 he is very naturally the doctor, the only man likely to 
 be alone with the soldier at that time of night. This 
 doctor represents the discouraged and depressed spirit 
 of what was at that time probably the state of mind of 
 millions all over the world. 
 
 These two men, like the two divisions of the Greek 
 chorus, the strophe and antistrophe, carry on a dialogue 
 in behalf of the entire world. Naturally the chief danger 
 in handling such a situation is that the characters might 
 very possibly become mere types and lose all individu- 
 ality. Mr. Steele avoids this by observing the two prin- 
 ciples of good dialogue (see page 27) ; first, he knows 
 
 196 
 
CRITICISM OF THEMATIC STORY 197 
 
 his characters well, and second, he keeps his eye on them 
 when they talk. The reader is aware that Mr. Steele is 
 keeping his gaze upon the characters with hawklike in- 
 tensity and is quick to seize upon every characteristic 
 movement or gesture in order to prevent the long speeches 
 from becoming mere formal discourses, and his story 
 from becoming a didactic sermon. 
 
 As the story progresses and stray little details of the 
 soldier's past appear we begin to realize that the author 
 had his dossier pretty well in his mind before the story 
 began. 
 
 A rather striking character contradiction, but a very 
 plausible one, is that the weak and dying man is the one 
 possessed of the robust and conquering hope, whereas the 
 doctor, full of strength and vigor, is rilled with gloom 
 and forebodings.. 
 
 2. Complication. 
 
 This is a story without a complication as far as the 
 immediate characters are concerned. The great environ- 
 ing action of the World War envelopes the characters 
 completely, and when the story was first published was a 
 living vital thing for every reader. If we reduce it to 
 the conventional formula of a problem and a solution we 
 shall find the complication a very abstract one. The 
 question is raised, How shall the cause of democracy be 
 saved? and the answer is in the form of an appeal for 
 a more absolute faith and a more consistent practice of 
 democracy as we see it. Stated in terms of the thirty- 
 six original plot situations we can say that it starts 
 with Situation 30 (Disaster), proceeds immediately to 
 6 (The Enigma), and ends with effective use, not in 
 
THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 action but in dramatic eloquence, of 22 (Self -Sacrifice 
 for an Ideal). 
 
 3. Setting. 
 
 The symbolic use of setting in this story is noteworthy. 
 The dark night was chosen because it symbolized the 
 dark hour in the great World War. Through the dark- 
 ness, however, shines a star, a star not noticed by the 
 depressed doctor, but which holds the eye of the dying 
 soldier. The recurrence of the star to the reader's view 
 is always coincident with the passionate vision of de- 
 mocracy as revealed in the soldier's heart. 
 
 4. Theme. 
 
 The theme itself was big and deserved a setting with 
 epic proportions. Where could Mr. Steele have better 
 localized his story than upon this lonely, darkened vessel 
 pounding its way through a submarine-invested area, 
 where two men could talk alone standing between sea 
 and sky? The writer's use of local color is masterly. 
 It is a difficult thing to describe in 3 new way the old, 
 old story of a ship going through the waves. But the 
 author does it and so well that he dares put it in the 
 opening paragraph to seize and hold our attention. From 
 then on by means of little descriptive touches here and 
 there he never allows us to forget for one moment 
 the locale of the story. Mr. Steele has been familiar with 
 the sea from his earliest boyhood. 
 
 5. Movement. 
 
 This story is an example of slow movement. 
 
 6. Viewpoint. 
 
 The objective viewpoint is used throughout. We see 
 and hear the characters as actors upon a stage. We 
 
CRITICISM OF THEMATIC STORY 199 
 
 gather what they think and feel only from their spoken 
 words, their movements and gestures. 
 
 7. Where shall I begin? 
 
 The first paragraph gives us the setting, prepares the 
 stage so to speak for the actors to begin their speeches, 
 an excellent plan for a story made up almost entirely of 
 dialogue. Incidentally it sets the tone for the solemn 
 discourse that is to follow, much as the opening scene 
 on the platform at Elsinore sets the tone for the story of 
 Hamlet, and the witch scene on the lonely moor strikes 
 the tone for the play of Macbeth. 
 
 8. How many episodes and how shall I connect them? 
 
 This story, a story without action, has but one episode. 
 Other noteworthy stories which also illustrate the three 
 unities are 'The Sire De Maletroit's Door" and 'The Last 
 Class." Such stories are excellent models for students to 
 study as they illustrate how much dramatic material and 
 material of deep human interest can be packed into one 
 situation at one time and in one place. 
 
 9. How can I make my story seem plausible? 
 
 The only strain upon our credulity in a story of this 
 kind where a speaker here a soldier gives us so pro- 
 found and eloquent a message, arises from the question, 
 How could such a man be inspired to speak so deeply 
 and so truly? This is satisfactorily answered by the fact 
 that the speaker is a martyr for his country, who pauses 
 as it were a moment on the very brink of eternity to speak 
 to us. 
 
200 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 10. How can I increase the suspense? 
 
 The fact that one man is dying and another is depressed 
 and that a ship is running through the dark night in 
 momentary danger of a submarine's torpedo furnishes 
 a certain quality of suspense. But this external fact 
 fades into insignificance in the face of the colossal sus- 
 pense of an entire world locked in a life and death 
 grapple. Probably in all history the world has never 
 experienced a night of more overpowering suspense than 
 when, weak and worn by four years of war, it saw the 
 conquering German armies start their last great drive 
 upon Paris. It was at this moment in history that truth 
 could furnish material more dramatic than any fiction. 
 Wilbur Daniel Steele seized the moment and turned it 
 into a dramatic narrative that will probably rank for all 
 time as the greatest short story that has come out of the 
 World War. 
 
 11. How shall I give my story an effective climax? 
 
 The climax of this story is the peroration of the dying 
 soldier's last speech, the appeal for making our dream of 
 democracy a more living passionate dream. 
 
 It would be interesting to try to put the Gettysburg 
 address into the mouth of a soldier dying on the battle 
 field the night after the first day's fighting at Gettysburg, 
 when the cause of the North was in its dark hour. If 
 you note carefully you will see that some of the vital 
 qualities of the Gettysburg address, its timeliness as well 
 as its eternal verities, are found in the speech of the 
 dying soldier in "The Dark Hour." 
 
 No student of the short story can afford to be unfa- 
 miliar with the work of Wilbur Daniel Steele, undoubtedly 
 
CRITICISM OF THEMATIC STORY 201 
 
 America's greatest living short story writer. Those de- 
 siring to read a remarkable story of atmosphere are urged 
 to read "For They Know Not What They Do," and for 
 a study of character, "Footfalls." The complication and 
 the unique climax in each of these stories also deserve 
 attention. 
 
PART III 
 
 SOME SUGGESTIONS FOR MEETING THE 
 
 CHIEF PROBLEMS IN RHETORIC, 
 
 STYLE AND PLOT BUILDING 
 
I. FIRST AID IN REVISION 
 
 I. WORDS 
 
 We all have three vocabularies: one which we use in 
 reading, one which we use in writing and formal dis- 
 course, and one which we use in colloquial speech. Many 
 a student whose range of vocabulary, as betrayed by his 
 conversation, seems to end with "dope" and "guy" 
 and "swell" actually knows by sight, when he happens 
 to meet them, such words as "initiate," "accessible," 
 "adequate," "indicate," "convey" and "scope." 
 
 For every ten words he uses in talking, there are one 
 hundred which he uses in writing, and one thousand 
 with which he has a "bowing acquaintance" in his read- 
 ing. If any man could use accurately and expressively 
 in his writing and speaking one-fourth of the words which 
 he understands in his reading he would have one of the 
 most remarkable working vocabularies which a writer 
 ever possessed. The problem of diction resolves itself, 
 then, into this: HOW SHALL WE SWEEP INTO 
 THE CURRENT OF OUR WRITTEN AND ORAL 
 SPEECH THE VIRILE, EXPRESSIVE WORDS 
 WITH WHICH WE BECOME ACQUAINTED IN 
 OUR READING? 
 
 i. Wide reading in good books, supplemented by 
 frequent reading aloud. To get a timid, unexercised 
 word across the threshold of the lips by reading it out loud 
 will in many instances make that word, henceforth, a 
 
 205 
 
206 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 brave, self-reliant member of our more active vocabu- 
 lary. John Ruskin, who possessed a wonderful vo- 
 cabulary, said that he owed "all the best of his style in 
 literature to his mother's requiring him to read the Bible 
 through each year from cover to cover, pronouncing 
 every word aloud, hard names and all." 
 
 2. Listening to good speakers or conversationalists, 
 and using words they have used which impressed you as 
 being especially expressive or exact. This method has 
 been consciously or unconsciously employed by all great 
 writers who have grown up in homes of culture and 
 refinement. 
 
 3. The habit of looking up in the dictionary the exact 
 meaning of words. This is one of the best habits any 
 student can form. A profitable supplement to this is 
 the study of synonyms. Clearness is often merely a 
 matter of choice between synonyms. Every student 
 should have access to at least one of the following books : 
 
 Roget : Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases. 
 
 Soule : Dictionary of English Synonyms. 
 
 Crabb : English Synonyms. 
 
 Smith : Synonyms Discriminated. 
 
 Fernald: English Synonyms, Antonyms, and Prepo- 
 sitions. 
 
 March: Thesaurus Dictionary of the English Lan- 
 guage. 
 
 4. Making lists of words and idioms which are espe- 
 cially virile and expressive, and deliberately making a 
 practice of employing two or three of them a day until 
 you have increased your working vocabulary by one hun- 
 dred words. Here are some homely, virile words which 
 might serve to start you off: Antic, balk (v), blink, 
 brawl, budge, bungle, cant (n), chuckle, churl, clap, 
 
FIRST AID IN REVISION 207 
 
 cling, clog, clutch, curt, daft, daub, dawdle, dolt, drone (v), 
 drub, fag (v), fetch, foist, fume, fuss, gabble, gad, garble, 
 glib, glum, glut, grub (v), grudge, gulp, hag, haggle, 
 hearsay, heave, hoax, hobnob, hodge-podge, hood-wink, 
 huff, inkling, inglenook, jaunty, jeer, job, jog, jolt, ker- 
 nel, knack, lag, lank, leer, loll, lout, lug, makeshift, maul, 
 mope, mess, mumble, nag (v), new-fangled, niggardly, 
 nudge, odds, offset, outlandish, outstanding, pat (a), 
 peevish, pert, plod, prig, quack, qualm, quash, quirk, quit, 
 ram (v) rank (a), ransack, rant, rip, romp, rot, ruck, 
 sag, scrawl, scramble, scribble, scuffle, sham, shipshape, 
 shift, shirk, shred, slam, slink, slipshod, sluggard, smash, 
 smother, smug, sneak, snivel, sop, spurt, squabble, squat, 
 squeamish, stuff, sulk, tang, tawdry, tether, thrash, 
 trickle, tussle, twit, underling, vent, vixen, warp, wheedle, 
 wince, wrangle. In this connection read Palmer's essay 
 on "Self -Cultivation in English" and note the emphasis 
 he lays upon "audacity" in the use of words. 
 
 Here are some homely, virile idioms which you do not 
 use enough: By hook or crook, a dead lift, the quick and 
 the dead, a man of straw, touch and go, not worth his 
 salt, neither fish, flesh, nor fowl, on tenter-hooks, penny 
 wise and pound foolish, at odds over (something), tit 
 for tat, cheek by jowl, read between the lines, leave no 
 stone unturned, put a flea in his ear, wash your hands 
 of that, take him down a peg, hark back to that, make 
 a cat's paw of, mince matters, knuckle under, set one's 
 teeth on edge, draw in one's horn, have him on the hip, 
 turn tail, cast in one's teeth, make him sing another tune, 
 hug the shore, pay the piper, sit between two stools, he 
 has other fish to fry, there will be blood on the moon. 
 
208 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 II. THE SENTENCE 
 
 The student who regularly employs sentences that are 
 babyishly short, or, what is equally bad, uses sentences 
 that are long, rambling and incoherent, where the verbs 
 do not agree with their subjects and modifiers are far 
 separated from the words they modify, is not ready for 
 this book. Neither is the student who puts commas at 
 the end of sentences and periods at the end of clauses. 
 
 For all other students, no matter how brilliant their 
 writing may be, such a chapter as this is needed in a book 
 of this kind. For the sentence is the piece de resistance 
 of all students in college. In offering advice on the sen- 
 tence, care has been taken to select only the most im- 
 portant and fundamental matters upon the observation 
 of which depends the achievement of that finesse of style 
 which we all in our hearts desire. Emphasis throughout 
 this chapter is laid not upon the arbitrary rule, or the 
 external form, as much as upon the process of thought 
 which makes the particular rule psychologically logical 
 and necessary. Before we have rhythm, emphasis, antith- 
 esis, and climax in sentence structure we must have 
 rhythm, emphasis, antithesis and climax in thought. What 
 has made the rhetoric of sentence structure so difficult to 
 master in the past has been the tendency of authors of text 
 books to treat it as a body of abstract rules to be mem- 
 orized, instead of as an integral part of the creative 
 process. What we need is not a code, but a real psychol- 
 ogy of use; not many rules but a few principles which 
 will help us to express ourselves with greater clearness 
 and emphasis. We must remember that literature was 
 written long before text books were invented, and that 
 it is quite possible that one might become a successful 
 
FIRST AID IN REVISION 209 
 
 writer without ever having seen a rhetoric or memorized 
 a rule. 
 
 The first step to take in mastering the art of the sen- 
 tence is the following : 
 
 Try to cultivate a feeling for brevity, compactness and 
 unity in your style just as you strive to cultivate a feel- 
 ing for neatness in your personal appearance. Foster a 
 dislike for sentences with clumsy, slovenly phrasing, just 
 as you do for uncombed hair or an untied necktie. Try 
 to see in every sentence a single central idea, and try to 
 shape the phrasing so that that central idea will stand 
 out. Stevenson used the word "whittling" as applied to 
 style and that is a word which will serve us well here. 
 Whittle away the superfluous phraseology from your 
 sentences so that the central idea will emerge as keen and 
 sharp as the point of a pencil. To be more specific, 
 wherever possible reduce compound sentences to complex 
 sentences, and complex sentences to simple sentences. 
 Notice the way slovenliness gives place to order in the 
 sentences below: 
 
 Complex to simple: We visited cities which were smoky 
 and noisy. 
 
 We visited very smoky, noisy cities. 
 
 Compound to complex: To please his wife he entered 
 politics, and he did not relish notoriety in any form. 
 
 To please his wife he entered politics, although he did not 
 relish notoriety in any form. 
 
 Having made this attitude of mind your own you can 
 safely proceed to a more careful consideration of what 
 might be called the four post-graduate problems of the 
 sentence. I shall introduce these to you in the words of 
 
210 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 two of our leading teachers of rhetoric who have done 
 much to codify and clarify the intricacies of our English 
 language. "The finesse of style," writes Arlo Bates in 
 Talks on Writing English, "may be said to depend largely, 
 and indeed chiefly ... on the use made of participles, 
 particles and parallel construction." "In the whole range 
 of composition," writes J. F. Genung in The Working 
 Principles of Rhetoric, "there is no process oftener mis- 
 managed than the process of retrospective reference." 
 
 Let us consider each of these four problems in turn. 
 
 I. Participles. "The participle is the most delicate 
 part of speech in the language," writes Arlo Bates, "and 
 as such is the most frequently abused or misused." Its 
 misuse lies in failing to make it take the same subject 
 and time as the principal verb. A participle which has 
 lost the word upon which it should properly depend is 
 about the most helpless little thing in the English lan- 
 guage. Perhaps the easiest way to fix permanently in 
 your mind the rule governing the participle is to think 
 of the participle as a small child that is always accom- 
 panied by, and dependent on its mother. 
 
 Being so much in earnest, it is a pity to treat him slight- 
 ingly. (Here the poor child has lost its parent.) 
 
 Being so much in earnest, he should not be slighted. (Fam- 
 ily reunited at last.) 
 
 Confusing: He turned and fled from the crowd, squalling 
 and squawking. (He or the crowd were squalling and 
 squawking?) 
 
 Clear: Squalling and squawking, he fled from the crowd. 
 
 Confusing : He hardly spoke to me hurrying down town. 
 
 Clear: Hurrying down town, he hardly spoke to me. 
 
FIRST AID IN REVISION 211 
 
 By the above it is seen that it is safer to use the parti- 
 cipial phrase to introduce the sentence than to close it. 
 
 Because participial constructions are so frequent and 
 of such great service every student should take pains to 
 master the following principle: 
 
 THE PRESENT PARTICIPLE ALWAYS TAKES THE SAME 
 SUBJECT AS THE MAIN VERB AND REFERS TO THE SAME 
 TIME AS THE MAIN VERB. 
 
 II. Particles. A frequent habit of college students, 
 due possibly to the American mania for finding short 
 cuts, is the tendency to omit little words that are really 
 needed to make the thought clear. 
 
 Beloit is nearer Galesburg than Grinnell. 
 Than to Grinnell ? Than Grinnell is ? 
 The thin and fat man were coming up the steps. 
 Whether as a man, a husband, or poet, his steps led him 
 downward. 
 
 The tendency to omit the little articles "a" and "the" 
 is the most frequent form of breaking this rule. Another 
 frequent error is that of making a principal verb in one 
 part of a sentence serve in another when the same form 
 is not grammatical in both parts, as 
 
 He did what many others have and are doing. 
 
 The fundamental rule to observe here is : NO ESSENTIAL 
 
 WORD WHICH IS NOT SPECIFICALLY IMPLIED SHOULD BE 
 LEFT OUT OF THE SENTENCE. 
 
 III. Parallel Construction. Parallel structure is pe- 
 culiarly useful in public discourse and no one who hopes 
 to become a speaker should fail to master it. As a matter 
 of fact oral eloquence would be impossible without it. 
 Listen to the best speakers and mark well the use they 
 
212 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 make of this element of structure. Sharpen your eyes 
 for parallel structure by reading passages that exemplify 
 it and illustrate it. Here are a few examples for which 
 I am indebted to Professor Arlo Bates : 
 
 Meanwhile whether as a man, a husband, or a poet, his 
 steps led him downward. Stevenson: Some Aspects of 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 How many college students would have omitted that 
 last article and thus have sinned against the law of 
 parallelism ! Below we see parallelism in the use of the 
 preposition : 
 
 God is not the God of the dead, but of the living. 
 Matt, xxii : 32. 
 
 One would have to read over the following passage 
 very carefully to note all the delicate uses of parallel 
 structure employed therein. 
 
 A University is a place of concourse whither students come 
 from every quarter for every kind of knowledge. . . . All 
 the riches of the land, and of the earth, are carried up thither; 
 there are the best markets, and there the best workmen. It 
 is the center of trade, the supreme court of fashion, the 
 umpire of rival talents, and the standard of things rare and 
 precious. It is the place for seeing galleries of first-rate 
 pictures, and for hearing wonderful voices and performers 
 of transcendent skill. It is the place for great preachers, 
 great orators, great nobles, great statesmen. In the nature 
 of things, greatness and unity.go together ; excellence implies 
 a center. And such ... is a University. Newman. 
 
 The rule of parallel structure is this: ELEMENTS OF 
 
 THOUGHT THAT ARE PAIRED TOGETHER OR THAT ANSWER 
 TO EACH OTHER SHOULD MAKE CLEAR THAT RELATION- 
 SHIP BY SIMILARITY IN FORM. 
 
FIRST AID IN REVISION 213 
 
 For excellent examples of parallel structure see the 
 sections in MacCracken and Sandison's Manual of Good 
 English. For further discussion of particles, participles 
 and parallel structure the student is referred to Arlo 
 Bates, Talks on Writing English, Second Series. 
 
 IV. Reference. The reason why so many college stu- 
 dents are guilty of failing to make clear the antecedents of 
 the adverbs, pronouns and phrases of reference, which they 
 make such free use of, is due to a conflict between theory 
 and practice. The reference is theoretically to an idea, 
 but the laws of rhetoric demand that the reference should 
 always be to some particular word. 
 
 When George came in he asked him to .tell him why he had 
 been so late. 
 
 Do not feed the animals in this cage ; it is not permitted. 
 
 The horse is fast becoming extinct, which is a pity for they 
 are such beautiful animals. 
 
 Shakespeare's plays will live ; he presents human nature as 
 it is. 
 
 He was a brave man, and this made his daughter worry for 
 his safety. 
 
 To correct the faulty references above, all that is re- 
 quired is that we reduce theory to practice by supplying 
 the missing word. 
 
 When George came in his father asked him, "Why have 
 you been so late?" 
 
 Do not feed the animals in this cage. Such acts are not 
 permitted. (Or, Feeding the animals is not permitted.) 
 
 The horse is fast becoming extinct, which is a pity, for it is 
 such a beautiful animal. 
 
 The plays of Shakespeare are going to live forever, because 
 the writer has presented in them human nature as it is. 
 
 He was a brave man, and this fact made his daughter worry 
 for his safety. 
 
214 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 Professor Genung, who has singled out this problem 
 as the most serious one met by students of writing, offers 
 a rather interesting remedy. 
 
 "The mismanagement results not from ignorance, but from 
 haste and carelessness; the writer, in his ardor to continue 
 his thought, does not stay to look back, but trusts to chance 
 for accuracy, or puts the burden of interpretation on the 
 reader. It is of especial importance in this process to form 
 the habit, in the case of any backward referring word, of 
 looking back at once and making sure of its adjustments 
 before proceeding. Such a grammatical habit, once thor- 
 oughly established, does not check or retard the current of 
 the thinking, and will save much trouble of recasting after- 
 wards. ... As in a game the ball is not only played but left 
 in position for the next play, so in the phrasing of the thought 
 a word that is to be referred to should be so placed or treated 
 that the reader may naturally think back to it from the 
 referring word. The spontaneous effort to leave the ante- 
 cedent in favorable position is one of the results of the 
 grammatical habit mentioned above." 
 
 The rule of reference can be expressed as follows: 
 
 DO NOT USE A PRONOUN TO REFER TO A GENERAL IDEA; 
 SUPPLY A DEFINITE ANTECEDENT OR ABANDON THE PRO- 
 NOUN. 
 
 A sentence which illustrates every one of these four 
 problems of the sentence is given below. Note the par- 
 ticipial opening, the retrospective reference near the mid- 
 dle, the careful inclusion of the article in the last clause, 
 and the parallelism used three times. Then memorize 
 the sentence and tuck it away in the pigeon-holes of your 
 mind for ready reference whenever these problems come 
 up again. 
 
FIRST AID IN REVISION 215 
 
 "Speaking only of his command over language and metre, 
 I have a right to reaffirm, and to show by many illustrations, 
 that he is the most sovereign of rhythmists; and yet, never- 
 theless, as a thinker, a philosopher and a Christian he failed 
 miserably." 
 
 Variety in Sentence Structure 
 
 More important than the mastery of the various parts 
 of sentence structure is the use of variety of sentence 
 structure in your writing. "Be infinitely various," 
 counsels Stevenson. 
 
 Monotonous sentence structure in written composition, 
 just like monotonous inflection of the voice in conversa- 
 tion, wearies a reader or listener. But when a man talks 
 with "expression," as we call it, his conversation never 
 wearies. And likewise when a man writes with expres- 
 sion, that is to say with emphasis, his writing does not 
 weary. In short, the cure for monotony is emphasis. 
 
 What is the law of emphasis? "In the normally con- 
 structed sentence," writes Fulton, "the order of the con- 
 stituent parts is, subject, verb, object, and verb modi- 
 fiers; and when this order is followed, no especial em- 
 phasis is given to any one part. . . . Special emphasis 
 can be given to any particular part only by placing that 
 part in a position it would not normally occupy. Thus 
 a verb-modifier placed at the end of the sentence is only 
 slightly emphasized; placed at the beginning it is made 
 strongly emphatic. Hence the general rule to secure 
 emphasis in the sentence is, change the natural order of 
 the parts and bring the part emphasized to one or the 
 other of the naturally prominent positions in the sentence, 
 namely the beginning or the end." 
 
216 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 Variety in sentence structure will, therefore, be satis- 
 factorily attained in most cases if the writer carefully 
 attends to the placing of his emphasis. 
 
 The student should strive also to attain variety by a 
 judicious mingling of short and long sentences. As a 
 matter of fact one of the most effective ways of making 
 a point emphatic is to insert a short sentence among 
 several long ones. The short sentence is invaluable for 
 making an important point stand out, for summing up 
 some issue that has been discussed at length, for pointing 
 transitions. However, it is lacking in rhythm and sus- 
 tained power; it has no roll, no momentum. The long 
 sentence is especially adapted for giving details, expan- 
 sions, colorings, and shadings of thought already in the 
 reader's mind. It also can possess rhythm, climax, ca- 
 dence, massiveness, impressiveness. Combine the two 
 forms and the writer secures the crispness of the short 
 and the sustained momentum of the long. 
 
 Punctuation of the Sentence 
 
 You will find in A. S. Hill's Rhetoric thirty-six rules 
 given for the use of the comma. Following the plan of 
 reducing rules to those principles which are integral 
 parts of the creative process we shall find that there are 
 at the very most only four "rules" that deserve attention 
 and that these cover every known use of the comma. 
 
 i. Commas separate equal members in the sequence 
 of words or groups of words. 
 
 He was a tall, strong, courageous man. 
 He healed the sick, he relieved the poor, he made the blind 
 to see. 
 
FIRST AID IN REVISION 217 
 
 2. All non-essential clauses should be enclosed by 
 commas; essential clauses never. Stated in other words: 
 Any long parenthetic expression that can be omitted 
 without rendering the remainder of the sentence obscure, 
 and any short parenthetic expression of which the paren- 
 thetic nature is strongly marked, are set off by commas. 
 
 This power rests with the President, the head of the army. 
 (Appositive expression.) 
 
 Yes, Mr. Brown, I enjoyed it. (Vocative expression.) 
 
 Mr. Adams, who was president of the firm, put his veto 
 upon the order. (Non-restrictive relative clause.) 
 
 "Come on," he said; "we want you." (Words introducing 
 a quotation.) 
 
 Well, I shall consider it. (Mild interjection.) 
 
 It is of paramount importance that every student should 
 understand what is meant by restrictive and non-restric- 
 tive. The general principle is that whatever can not be 
 removed without destroying the sense of the statement 
 is restrictive and should not be pointed with punctua- 
 tion marks. Under non-restrictive we include all that 
 could be omitted without destroying the central mean- 
 ing. 
 
 Restrictive: The man across the street called to me. 
 Non-restrictive: Mr. Brown, who is very peculiar, called 
 to me. 
 
 This is by far the most important and difficult rule of 
 the comma and deserves careful study. 
 
 3. A comma may be used to set off words, phrases 
 or clauses that anticipate their natural order. As the 
 accepted order in a sentence is for the subject to come 
 first, this rule practically means that any phrase which 
 precedes the subject is ordinarily set off by commas. 
 
218 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 In spite of the fact that his daughter was very young, 
 Judge Smith insisted on sending her away to school. 
 If I can, I will tell him. 
 When daylight fades, the owl comes forth. 
 
 4. When the subject of the second part of a com- 
 pound sentence is different from the subject of the first 
 part, or if the sentence is very long, a comma is required 
 before the connecting and or or. But always requires 
 a punctuation mark, often the semi-colon. 
 
 The two millionaires left the inn, and the poor inn-keeper 
 breathed a sigh of relief. 
 
 The illness was not serious, but the doctor insisted that he 
 must remain in bed. 
 
 Rules 3 and 4 seem to be going out of fashion among 
 modern writers excepting where absolutely necessary to 
 make the meaning clear. For instance, in the following 
 sentences some writers would have commas, most would 
 not: 
 
 Hurrying to the gangway he called down to the men below. 
 
 Seeing that he was too late to stop the train he returned 
 home. 
 
 The book was published on the thirtieth and we sent out 
 our circulars on the twenty-fifth. 
 
 The Semi-colon. The semi-colon is like the utility 
 baseball player who can play equally well in the outfield 
 or the infield, depending upon the particular need of the 
 occasion. 
 
 A. As substitute for a comma when the writer wishes 
 to separate two or more co-ordinate members of a simple 
 or complex sentence when those members, or some of 
 them, have commas within themselves. 
 
FIRST AID IN REVISION 219 
 
 He said that he was ready to join the army; that his 
 mother, being very ill, he had delayed his reporting for serv- 
 ice before; and that he would consider it a personal favor if 
 he could be placed in one of the first units to be sent to France. 
 
 B. As a substitute for the period when the writer 
 wishes to group together into a compound sentence two or 
 more sentences that have a distinct and readily- felt unity. 
 
 He did not go to college; he went into business instead. 
 
 I came; I saw; I conquered. 
 
 Herodotus has written something better, perhaps, than the 
 best history; but he has not written a good history; he is, 
 from the first to the last chapter, an inventor. 
 
 The Colon. There is one principle governing the use of 
 the colon: the colon points forward to something which 
 is to come. 
 
 That which is to come may be merely the body of a 
 letter following the salutation, or a list of items on a bill 
 of lading; but, when skillfully used in literary composi- 
 tion, this looking forward is often dramatic in effect, 
 suggesting something of fulfillment, even of climax, as 
 illustrated by this descriptive line taken from a modern 
 novel: "To the left in the distance, she could see some- 
 thing shining: a broad disk of light in which narrow 
 shadows pivoted around like spokes in a wheel." 
 
 III. THE PARAGRAPH 
 
 Paragraphing, like punctuation, is an invention of the 
 moderns to enable readers to see at a glance the chief 
 breaks in the thought by means of graphic breaks for the 
 eye. If properly employed paragraphing gives as much 
 assistance in understanding a whole composition as punc- 
 tuation gives in understanding a sentence. 
 
220 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 An average paragraph in the best modern English 
 varies between 150 and 250 words. This matter of length 
 is very important and frequently determines for a writer 
 whether to develop a topic further, omit it altogether, or 
 combine it with another topic pertinent to it. 
 
 Paragraphing is used for the following purposes: 
 
 (a) Showing a change of thought or subject. 
 
 (b) Calling attention to a particularly important thought. 
 
 (c) Resting the eye, and breaking up a page to prevent its 
 
 assuming a formidable appearance. 
 
 (d) Indicating a change of speaker in conversation. 
 
 EXERCISES IN RHETORIC 
 
 For a student who is especially weak in the fundamentals of 
 rhetoric the following exercises are recommended: 
 
 1. Word-study : Require a student, weak in vocabulary, 
 
 to read "Clayhanger" and collect one hundred 
 simple idiomatic words and phrases that are clear, 
 accurate and suggestive. 
 
 2. Sentence Study : For exercises in sentence structure, 
 
 especially in sentence rhythm and variety of sen- 
 tence structure, see Exercises under Self Cultiva- 
 tion in Style, page 223. Study in Punctuation: 
 Require a student, weak in punctuation, to read the 
 selections on pages 225-232 and put above every 
 comma the number of the principle it illustrates, 
 and above every semi-colon the letter (A or B) 
 which indicates its use. 
 
 3. Paragraph Study : Read "The Dark Hour," and op- 
 
 posite each paragraph place the letter (a), (b), 
 (c) or (d) to indicate what purpose it serves. 
 
II. SELF-CULTIVATION IN STYLE 
 
 "James Russell Lowell says in his Essay on Chaucer 
 that a poet learns to write, just as a child learns to speak 
 by watching the lips of those who can speak better than 
 he can. It was so with Chaucer. Franklin tells us in 
 his Autobiography that he formed his own style by imi- 
 tating the Spectators of Addison and Steele. Dr. John- 
 son says in a passage which is not, but ought to be, fa- 
 miliar to every school boy: ''Whoever wishes to attain 
 an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant 
 but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the 
 volumes of Addison.' Lamb got his manner from Sir 
 Thomas Browne. Stevenson relates in detail how he 
 taught himself his trade by a multitude of monkey tricks 
 based on a list of authors ranging from Lamb to Hazlitt 
 and from Baudelaire to Obermann. Even Jack London 
 confesses that he acquired his style by studying modern 
 American magazines and newspapers nineteen hours a 
 day. 
 
 "Literature bristles with evidence that other writers 
 have done likewise. The Mneid is an imitation, a very 
 palpable imitation, of the Iliad and Odyssey. Dante 
 openly proclaims that Virgil was his master. In Paradise 
 Lost, by substituting Satan for yEneas, Eve for Dido, 
 and Hell for Africa, John Milton produced a parody 
 more impressive than his model, but still a parody. Ten- 
 nyson confesses that his epic, his King Arthur, consists 
 of faint Homeric echoes. It seems clear that ^Eschylus 
 learned from Pindar; Sophocles from yEschylus; Eu- 
 ripides from Sophocles; Racine, Corneille, and Milton 
 from all three. 
 
 ' 'Shakespeare himself, the imperial,' says Stevenson, 
 'proceeds directly from a school.' By judiciously imitat- 
 ing sporting Kyd on the one hand and on the other 
 
 221 
 
222 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 studying the cadences of 'Marlowe's mighty line/ he 
 learned to steer from grave to gay, from lively to severe, 
 in a fashion which overjoyed all his contemporaries except 
 Greene, who expressed his grief by calling the predatory 
 William 'an upstart crow beautified with our feathers/ 
 It was true. It is also true that Wilhelm Tell and Beket 
 remind one in countless ways of Macbeth and Hamlet. 
 Theocritus taught Virgil the art of writing bucolics, 
 Milton the plan of Lycidas, and Tennyson the melodies 
 of CEnone. The influence of Demosthenes is clear enough 
 in the Areopagitica; and the plan of Burke's Conciliation 
 is essentially the same as that of Cicero's Manilian Law. 
 'The more I wonder the less I can imagine/ wrote Francis 
 Jeffrey to Thomas B. Macaulay, 'where you picked up 
 that style/ If he had investigated a little more and 
 wondered a little less, he would have found the answer 
 in Demosthenes and Cicero, in Thucydides and Tacitus, 
 in Homer and Dante, in the King James Bible, in Milton, 
 Addison, and Burke. Macaulay's sentence structure has 
 been aped with some success by John Richard Green, John 
 Churton Collins, John Bach McMaster, James B. Angell, 
 and Sir George Otto Trevelyan, not to mention several 
 hundreds of less skillful disciples, while the admirable 
 construction of his framewords and the clearness of his 
 paragraph structures have influenced many other imitators, 
 including Francis Parkman and John Fiske. Even 
 Thomas Carlyle confesses that he got his style by imitating 
 his father's speech. Did Irving learn nothing from 
 Addison, Bryant from Wordsworth, Lowell from Tenny- 
 son, Whittier from Burns, or Holmes from Pope ? Think 
 of Burns's obligations to Spenser, Pope, and Fergusson. 
 Indeed, the only poets I am accustomed to think of as not 
 being imitators are Homer and Rudyard Kipling. But 
 has not the latter imitated Will Carleton and Bret Harte ? 
 And does not he somewhere sing of the former: 
 
 'When 'Omer smote 'is bloomin' lyre, 
 'E'd 'card men sing by land and sea; 
 
 And wot 'e thought 'e might require 
 'E went and took, the same as me/ 
 
SELF-CULTIVATION IN STYLE 223 
 
 "It would be easy to expand this catalogue, but it is 
 needless. The conclusion is irresistible. The way to 
 learn to write is to use models." Edwin L. Miller in 
 Notes on Teaching English Composition. 
 
 Benjamin Franklin and Robert Louis Stevenson are 
 the classic examples of writers who owe their style largely 
 to the imitative study of models. True, these two men, 
 like all the others mentioned above by Mr. Miller, ap- 
 proached their task with a purposeful initiative which 
 enabled them to assimilate their models and not allow 
 the models to assimilate them. The danger of a feeble, 
 flabby, indifferent attack upon the style of great writers 
 may be that the models may assimilate the student. By 
 that I mean the student may merely garner mannerisms 
 and faults, making his style affected instead of effective. 
 But such a danger is very slight and if the student care- 
 fully follows the directions which follow he will derive 
 only strength from the exercises. There is no other exer- 
 cise which will so increase a student's working vocabulary, 
 add rhythm and grace to his sentence structure and shake 
 him out of his ruts generally. 
 
 DIRECTIONS FOR EXERCISES IN STYLE 
 BUILDING 
 
 I. Read over each passage first for the subject matter, 
 jotting down a very brief outline of the thought, prefer- 
 ably a catch word for each individual sentence nothing 
 more. If he desires, the student may write the word 
 "long" or "short" after each catch word to indicate 
 whether the sentence is long or short. But this is not 
 necessary, as it is not the exact sentences that should be 
 reproduced, or the exact words, but rather the thought 
 
224 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 so that he may afterwards compare his attempt with the 
 original and see where he has fallen short or has improved 
 upon the model. After he has written a few of these 
 exercises the student may do away with the outline alto- 
 gether, as he will be able to make a mental outline of the 
 thought as he reads the passage. 
 
 2. Following the first reading there should be a second 
 reading, this time special attention being given to the 
 vocabulary, especially the new words or words used in 
 new and expressive combinations. 
 
 3. Before you write your transcript read the passage 
 a third time, this time aloud, giving yourself up com- 
 pletely to the measures, rhythms and cadences of the 
 sentences. 
 
 THEN SHUT THE BOOK AND WRITE DOWN THE PASSAGE 
 FROM MEMORY. 
 
SELF-CULTIVATION IN STYLE 225 
 
 I. "The rain was still falling, sweeping down from the 
 half -seen hills, wreathing the wooded peaks with a gray 
 garment of mist, and filling the valley with a whitish cloud. 
 "It fell around the house drearily. It ran down into 
 the tubs placed to catch it, dripped from the mossy pump, 
 and drummed on the upturned milk-pails, and upon the 
 brown and yellow beehives under the maple-trees. The 
 chickens seemed depressed, but the irrepressible blue jay 
 screamed amid it all, with the same insolent spirit, his 
 plumage untarnished by the wet. The barnyard showed 
 a horrible mixture of mud and mire, through which 
 Howard caught glimpses of the men, slumping to and fro 
 without more additional protection than a ragged coat and 
 a shapeless felt hat." Hamlin Garland: Main Travelled 
 Roads. 
 
226 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 2. "The deep woods have many moods in winter ; more, 
 perhaps, than in summer, or even in spring. But they 
 are never quite so beautiful as on this brilliant morning 
 after the first heavy snowfall. Now the underbrush is 
 bowed everywhere in slender hoops and arches of white. 
 Now the brooks are still unfrozen and have hollowed the 
 snow on their banks into rounded caps. Now the tree 
 trunks down the forest aisles are sharply divided like a 
 harlequin's costume into black and white, white on the 
 windward side, black on the leeward. Now the forest 
 overhead is one continuous roof of frosted fairy tracery, 
 dazzling where the sun shoots through, soft and feathery 
 in shadow. Down a glittering forest aisle a fern stands 
 up in the shelter of a rock, a vivid green above the white 
 carpet. About us in silence, as we walk, come down little 
 plops of snow from shaken branches. As the sun mounts 
 and its heat is felt, the tiny avalanches are sounding softly 
 all around us in the woods. By noon the fairy groins 
 and arches overhead, all this tracery as of elfin gothic gone 
 delightfully mad, will have fallen. The trees will stand 
 up naked above a snow carpet packing down for the first 
 layer of winter. But for one glorious morning we walk 
 in spangled aisles and count it the best day of the year." 
 Walter Prichard Eaton. 
 
SELF-CULTIVATION IN STYLE 227 
 
 3. The following is an interpretation of Mendelssohn's 
 Spring Song by describing the images it calls up to the 
 writer's mind: 
 
 "For from far away somewhere came the softest, sweet- 
 est song. A woman was singing, somewhere. Nearer and 
 nearer she came, over the hills, in the lovely early morning, 
 louder and louder she sang and it was the Spring-song! 
 Now she was with us young, clear-eyed, happy, bursting 
 into delicious flights of laughter between the bars. Her 
 eyes I know were gray. She did not run nor leap she 
 came steadily on, with a swift, strong, swaying, lilting 
 movement. She was all odorous of the morning, all vocal 
 with the spring. Her voice laughed even while she sang, 
 and the perfect, smooth succession of the separate sounds 
 was unlike any effect I have ever heard. Now she passed 
 she was gone by. Softer, fainter ah, was she gone? 
 No ; she turned her head, tossed us flowers and sang again, 
 turned, and singing, left us. One moment of soft echo 
 and then it was still." Josephine D. Daskam: Smith Col- 
 lege Monthly. 
 
228 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 4. "I went to Washington the other day and I stood on 
 the Capitol hill, and my heart beat quick as I looked at 
 the towering marble of my country's Capitol, and a mist 
 gathered in my eyes as I thought of its tremendous 
 significance, of the armies and the treasury, and the judges 
 and the President, and the Congress and the courts, and 
 all that was gathered there ; and I felt that the sun in all 
 its course could not look down on a better sight than that 
 majestic home of a Republic that had taught the world its 
 best lessons of liberty. And I felt that if honor and 
 wisdom and justice dwelt therein, the world would at 
 last owe that great house, in which the ark of the covenant 
 of my country is lodged, its final uplifting and its re- 
 generation. 
 
 "But a few days afterwards I went to visit a friend in 
 the country, a modest man, with a quiet country home. 
 It was just a simple, unpretentious house, set about with 
 great trees and encircled in meadow and field rich with 
 the promise of harvest ; the fragrance of the pink and the 
 hollyhock in the front yard was mingled with the aroma of 
 the orchard and the garden, and the resonant clucking of 
 poultry and the hum of bees. Inside was quiet, cleanli- 
 ness, thrift and comfort. 
 
 "Outside there stood my friend, the master, a simple, 
 independent, upright man, with no mortgage on his roof, 
 no lien on his growing crops master of his land and 
 master of himself. There was the old father, an aged and 
 
SELF-CULTIVATION IN STYLE 229 
 
 trembling man, but happy in the heart and home of his 
 son. And, as he started to enter his home, the hand of 
 the old man went down on the young man's shoulder, 
 laying there the unspeakable blessing of an honored and 
 honorable father, and ennobling it with the knighthood of 
 the fifth commandment. And as we approached the door 
 the mother came, a happy smile lighting up her face, while 
 with the rich music of her heart she bade her husband and 
 her son welcome to their home. Beyond was the house- 
 wife, busy with her domestic affairs, the loving helpmate 
 of her husband. Down the lane came the children after 
 the cows, singing sweetly, as like birds they sought the 
 quiet of cheir nest. 
 
 "So the night came down on that house, falling gently 
 as the wing of an unseen dove. And the old man, while 
 a startled bird called from the forest and the trees trilled 
 with the cricket's cry, and the stars were falling from the 
 sky, called the family around him and took the Bible from 
 the table and called them to their knees. The little baby 
 hid in the folds of its mother's dress while he closed the 
 record of that day by calling down God's blessing on that 
 simple home. While I gazed, the vision of the marble 
 Capitol faded; forgotten were its treasures and its maj- 
 esty; and I said, "Surely here in the house of the people 
 lodge at last the strength and the responsibility of this 
 government, the hope and the promise of this Republic." 
 H. W. Grady: "The New South." 
 
230 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 5. "One Sunday morning, a few months ago, I passed 
 along the sumptuous corridors of the Waldorf-Astoria 
 Hotel, New York, on my way to the writing-room, and 
 I came to a spacious scarlet hall, set about with plush 
 couches and little writing; desks. Exquisite and imperious 
 women sat in cozy flirtation with respectful young Amer- 
 icans, and there was a happy buzz of vanity, in the air. 
 Wealth, luxury, idleness, were all about me, purring and 
 sunning themselves in the electric light ; and yet, for some 
 unknown and doubtless trivial reason, I was sad. As I 
 look back I can only account for my sadness by the fact 
 that I was to sit answering week-old letters, while these 
 happy people flirted. A little reason is always the best 
 to give for a great sadness though, indeed, how could one 
 help being sad in the presence of so much marble and so 
 many millionaires? 
 
 "Well, at all events I was sad ; but suddenly, as I looked 
 about for an unoccupied desk, what was this voice of 
 ancient comfort speaking to me from a little group, one 
 reader and two listeners, a gray-haired, rather stern, old 
 man, a gray-haired old lady, a boy, not specially intent, 
 rich people, you would say, to look at them : 'Many waters 
 cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it ; if a 
 man would give all the substance of his house for love, 
 it would utterly be contemned.' 
 
 "It was a. New England father persisting in a private 
 morning service here among the triflers. 
 
 "I felt like those of whom one has read in Sunday- 
 school stories, who, passing the door of some little mission- 
 house one rainy night, heard a word or a hymn that 
 seemed miraculously intended for them. Surely that 
 stern old Puritan father had been led to read that par- 
 ticular chapter, that particular Sunday morning, more for 
 
SELF-CULTIVATION IN STYLE 231 
 
 my sake than, at all events, for the sake of his little boy, 
 who might quite reasonably and respectfully have com- 
 plained that he was too young as yet to comprehend 
 writing so profoundly beautiful and suggestive as the 
 Hebrew scriptures. 
 
 "Yes! it was evidently for the poor idealist in the 
 House of Astor that the message was intended. For the 
 boy weariness, for the mother platitude, for the father a 
 text for me a bird singing ; and all day long I kept 
 saying to myself, lonely there among the millionaires: 
 'Many waters shall not quench love, neither shall the floods 
 drown it; if a man would give all the substance of his 
 house for love, it would utterly be contemned.' 
 
 "If a wild rose had suddenly showered its petals down 
 from the ceiling, or a spring bubbled up through the floor, 
 or a dove passed in flight through the hall, the effect of 
 contrast could hardly have been more unexpected than 
 the surprising sound of those old words thus spoken at 
 that moment, in that place. They had for the ear the 
 same shock of incongruity, of willful transportation out 
 of one world into another quite alien, which Cleopatra's 
 Needle has for the eye amid the hansoms and railway 
 bridges of the Thames' embankment, or the still greater 
 shock of juxtaposition with which one looks upon the 
 Egyptian obelisk in Central Park. 
 
 "But there was this difference. The obelisks tell of 
 a dead greatness, of a power passed away, whereas those 
 words told of an ever-living truth, and bore witness, even 
 by their very quotation in such a context, to a power no 
 materialism can crush, no pessimism stifle, the deathless 
 idealism of the human spirit." Richard Le Gallienne: 
 "The Second Coming of the Ideal." 
 
232 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 6. "Night is a dead, monotonous period under a roof; 
 but in the open world it passes lightly, with its stars and 
 dews and perfumes, and the hours are marked by changes 
 in the face of Nature. What seems a kind of temporal 
 death to people choked between walls and curtains, is only 
 a light and living slumber to the man who sleeps afield. 
 All night long he can hear Nature breathing deeply and 
 freely ; even as she takes her rest she turns and smiles ; 
 and there is one stirring hour unknown to those who dwell 
 in houses, when a wakeful influence goes abroad over the 
 sleeping hemisphere, and all the outdoor world are on 
 their feet. It is then that the cock first crows, not this 
 time to announce the dawn, but like a cheerful watchman 
 speeding the course of night. Cattle awake on the 
 meadows; sheep break their fast on dewy hillsides, and 
 change to a new lair among the ferns ; and houseless men, 
 who have lain down with the fowls, open their dim eyes 
 and behold the beauty of the night." Stevenson: "A 
 Night Among the Pines." 
 
SELF-CULTIVATION IN STYLE 233 
 
 Further examples for reproduction-will be found in this 
 book : 
 
 7. Passage from Stevenson on page 96. 
 
 8. Passage from Maupassant on page 47. 
 
 9. Description of Nevis by Hearn on page u. 
 
 10. Description of "Eating a Peach" by Richardson 
 on page 16. 
 
 I know of no better method of mastering the art of the 
 short story and at the same time developing a style of your 
 own than to devote a month to the following exercises : 
 
 Copy "The Necklace," word for word, punctuation 
 marks and all. Do this twice. Then set the story aside 
 for several days and try writing the entire story from 
 memory. Finally, select a similar theme, place it in a 
 modern setting, and write an original story of your own. 
 
III. THE THIRTY-SIX ORIGINAL PLOT 
 SITUATIONS 
 
 "Gozzi maintained that there can be but thirty-six tragic 
 situations. Schiller took great pains to find more, but he was 
 unable to find even so many as Gozzi." Goethe. 
 
 No apology is needed for introducing these thirty-six 
 plot situations in a book of this kind. An explanation 
 might be in order, however, in regard to the way they 
 should be used. The student should turn to this list 
 whenever he desires to sharpen his eye for new plot 
 combinations, or feels the need of having his creative 
 imagination stimulated. The student will be disappointed 
 who comes to them expecting to find plots all ready for 
 his hand. He will find here inspiration rather than 
 information. 
 
 The order and arrangement are my own. I have divided 
 the plots into two grand divisions, one comprising those 
 situations that seem to take their rise from the solution 
 and the other comprising those that are the outgrowth 
 of the problem. It seemed to me that this arrangement 
 should render the situations more immediately suggestive 
 to the student who comes to them with the purpose of 
 having his power of invention stimulated. 
 
 CLASSIFICATION OF THE THIRTY-SIX PLOT SITUATIONS 
 
 A. The sixteen original plot situations that are stated in 
 the form of the problem. 
 
 234 
 
THIRTY-SIX ORIGINAL PLOT SITUATIONS 235 
 
 1. SUPPLICATION : 
 
 A situation in our day practically ignored. 
 Illustrative examples: The Suppliants, ^Eschylus 
 
 and also Euripides, Book of Esther (Bible). 
 Modern short stories: Making Port Richard 
 
 Mathews Hallet. O'Brien, Best Short Stories, 
 
 1916. 
 
 2. VENGEANCE PURSUING CRIME: 
 
 A theme very popular with Arabs, Spaniards, and 
 
 Israelites of the Old Testament. 
 Illustrative examples: End of both Homeric 
 
 Poems, Othello, Hamlet. 
 Modern short stories : The Red-Headed League, 
 
 A. Conan Doyle; The Blood Red One, M. S. 
 
 Burt; O'Brien, Best Short Stories, 1918. 
 
 3. THE PURSUED: 
 
 The converse of plot two. Shifts viewpoint and 
 sympathies from pursuer to pursued. 
 
 Illustrative examples : Brigands, Schiller ; Raffles, 
 Hornung ; An Enemy of the People, Ibsen. 
 
 Modern short stories : A Jury of Her Peers, Susan 
 Glaspel ; O'Brien Collection, 1917; The Riding of 
 Black Bill, O. Henry ; A Retrieved Reformation, 
 O. Henry. 
 
 4. REVOLT : 
 
 A splendid, virile theme. May be used as core of 
 solution as well as of problem. 
 
 Illustrative examples : Chanticleer, Rostand ; Wil- 
 liam Tell, Schiller; Doll's House, Ibsen; A Life 
 for a Life, Herrick. 
 
 Modern short stories : The Revolt of Mother, Mary 
 Wilkins Freeman; Buster, Katherine Holland 
 Brown; O'Brien, 1918; Dishes, A. M. Brownell, 
 O'Brien, 1919; The Fat of the Land, Anzia 
 Yezierska, O'Brien, 1919. 
 
236 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 5. AUDACIOUS ATTEMPT: 
 
 "Summarizes the poetry of war, of robbery, of sur- 
 prise, of desperate chance the poetry of clear- 
 eyed adventurers, of man beyond the restraints 
 of the artificial civilization, of Man in the orig- 
 inal acceptation of the term." Polti. 
 
 Illustrative examples: Toilers of the Sea, Hugo; 
 Henry V, Shakespeare; The Conquest of Mex- 
 ico, Prescott ; The Message to Garcia, Elbert 
 Hubbard. 
 
 Modern short stories: The Taking of Tungstun- 
 pen, Rudyard Kipling; The Taking of the Re- 
 doubt, Prosper Merimee. 
 
 6. THE ENIGMA : 
 
 Usually upon the solution of the enigma hangs a 
 reward, either of love or money, and upon its 
 failure some penalty, sometimes even the penalty 
 of death. 
 
 Illustrative examples: The Sphinx, Sophocles; 
 Queen of Sheba and Solomon; Portia's coffers 
 in Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Modern short stories: The Dilemma, S. Weir 
 Mitchell; The Gold Bug, Edgar Allan Poe; 
 The Lady or the Tiijer, Erank Stockton; What 
 Was It? A Mystery, Fitz James O'Brien; The 
 Damned Thing, Ambrose Bierce. 
 
 7. FATAL IMPRUDENCE: 
 
 This will always remain one of the most fascinating 
 of themes, for as in the case of the Enigma the 
 reader or spectator easily becomes as curious as 
 the imprudent character in the story. The 
 motives may be curiosity, credulity or jealousy. 
 
 Illustrative examples : Pandora and her box ; Eve 
 and the apple ; Bluebeard's wife and the closed 
 room; Wild Duck, Ibsen. 
 
THIRTY-SIX ORIGINAL PLOT SITUATIONS 237 
 
 Modern short stories: De Vilmarte's Luck, Mary 
 Heaton Vorse, O'Brien Collection, 1918; The 
 Necklace, Guy de Maupassant ; Maulbaum's Fever 
 Ward, George Gilbert, O'Brien, 1918; The Wed- 
 ding Jest, James Branch Cabell, O'Brien, 1919. 
 
 8. ENMITY OF KINSMEN OR FRIENDS: 
 
 Not an attractive theme, as it is based upon es- 
 trangement and hate. The chief difficulty will 
 be to find an element of discord powerful enough 
 to cause the breaking of the strongest human ties. 
 
 Illustrative examples : Cain, Byron ; Seven against 
 Thebes, yEschylus ; Four Horsemen of the Apoc- 
 alypse, Ibanez. 
 
 Modern short stories : Mrs. Drainger's Veil, H. M. 
 Jones O'Brien, 1919; The Fat of the Land, 
 Anzia Yezierska O'Brien, 1918. 
 
 9. RIVALRY OF KINSMEN OR FRIENDS: 
 
 War, love, business and adventure offer attractive 
 opportunities for this theme. 
 
 Illustrative examples: Pelleas and Melisande, 
 Maeterlinck; Adam Bede, George Eliot; Two 
 Gentlemen of Verona, Shakespeare; Two Noble 
 Kinsmen, Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 Modern short stories: The Confession, Guy de 
 Maupassant; A Light Man, Henry James; A 
 Cup of Tea, Maxwell Struthers Burt, O'Brien, 
 1917; The Love of Men, Nevil A. Henshaw, 
 Neal, Today's Short Stories Analyzed. 
 
 10. UNEQUAL RIVALRY: 
 
 This is and will always remain one of the most 
 popular plot situations in all literature. The poor 
 boy loves the little rich girl, and Cinderella loves 
 the prince. Its combinations are unlimited. 
 
 Illustrative examples : Toilers of the Sea, Hugo ; 
 
238 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 Cyrano de Bergerac, Rostand; Launcelot and 
 Elaine, Tennyson. 
 
 Modern short stories : The Boy in the Corner, 
 M. L. C. ; Rainbow Pete, Richard Mathews Hal- 
 let, O'Brien, 1917. 
 
 11. OBSTACLES TO LOVE: 
 
 So common a theme as to be the very quintessence 
 of the trite, and yet so broad and deep in its 
 appeal, and so varied in its possibilities, that it 
 still remains the greatest of all plots of romance. 
 
 Illustrative examples: All fairy tales with love 
 element, and half the love stories of today. 
 
 Modern short stories : In Maulbaum's Fever Ward, 
 George Gilbert, O'Brien Collection, 1918; M'liss, 
 Bret Harte ; On the Fever Ship, Richard Hard- 
 ing Davis; Blue Roses, Lisa Ysaye Tarleau; A 
 Rag-time Lady, Rhodes and Yates. 
 
 12. AN ENEMY LOVED: 
 
 This is a variation on situation n. Splendid op- 
 portunities for such a theme are presented by 
 the present war. 
 
 Illustrative examples : Romeo and Juliet, Shake- 
 speare; Duchess of Malfi, Webster; Monna 
 Vanna, Maeterlinck. 
 
 Modern short stories: Messengers, Calvin John- 
 son, O'Brien, 1919. 
 
 13. AMBITION : 
 
 Ambition, when once awakened in a man, is the 
 most powerful of passions and will continue to 
 dominate him till he dies. Strange to say, the 
 ancients never made use of this theme. 
 
 Illustrative examples: Cromwell, Hugo; W alien- 
 stein, Schiller ; Richard III, Shakespeare ; Julius 
 Ccesar, Shakespeare; Macbeth, Shakespeare. 
 
THIRTY-SIX ORIGINAL PLOT SITUATIONS 239 
 
 Modern short stories: A Cup of Tea, Maxwell 
 Struthers Burt; Three Arshins of Land, Lyof 
 Tolstoy; On the Stairs, Arthur Morrison; The 
 Path of Glory, Mary Brecht Pulver; The Ambi- 
 tious Guest, Hawthorne. 
 14. STRUGGLE AGAINST DESTINY OR GOD: 
 
 This theme, in contrast to the one preceding, was 
 the most popular one among the ancients, whereas 
 today it is rarely touched. 
 
 Illustrative examples: The Book of Job; Prome- 
 theus, yEschylus; Bacchantes, Euripides; Para- 
 dise Lost, Milton; Master Builder, Ibsen. 
 
 Modern short stories : Kitchen Gods, G. F. Aslop, 
 O'Brien, 1919; Caught, Mr. and Mrs. Haldermon 
 Julius ; In Maulbaum's Fever Ward, George Gil- 
 bert, O'Brien, 1918. 
 
 15. MISTAKEN IDENTITY: 
 
 Offers especially good opportunity for depiction of 
 the emotion of jealousy, also unlimited oppor- 
 tunities for farce. 
 
 Illustrative examples : Comedy of Errors, Shake- 
 speare; Cymbeline, Shakespeare; Prisoner of 
 Zenda, Anthony Hope. 
 
 Modern short stories: My Double and How He 
 Undid Me, Edward Everett Hale; Girl, O. 
 Henry; His Wedded Wife, Rudyard Kipling. 
 
 16. IN THE CLUTCHES OF CRUELTY OR MISFORTUNE: 
 
 A big theme giving only of its riches to the master 
 hand. A favorite of epic and Biblical literature. 
 Illustrative examples : The Princess Madeline, 
 Maeterlinck; Jews in Captivity, Negro in Amer- 
 ica; Prometheus Bound; Book of Job. 
 
 Modern short stories : Lonely Places, Francis Buz- 
 zell, O'Brien, 1917; The Last Class, Alphonse 
 Daudet. 
 
240 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 B. Plot Situations Stated in the Form of the Solution. 
 
 17. THE SAVIOR: 
 
 The "Unfortunate" may be a community starving 
 for inspiration and enlightenment, such as a 
 frontier village lost in drink and debauchery; 
 or it may be an old community befogged with 
 dogmatism or pessimism or mutual criticism, or 
 it may be an individual who is in dire distress. 
 The Rescuer may be a sweet, inexperienced 
 young woman leaving her college upon gradua- 
 tion for wider fields of service, a young minister, 
 a crippled soldier, a little child. This theme, 
 when divorced from medieval heroics and mod- 
 ern melodrama, is exactly the theme which this 
 age most profoundly needs. 
 
 Illustrative examples : Chivalrous legends where 
 the lady is saved by the knight ; Bluebeard, etc. ; 
 Sky Pilot, Connor; Little Shepherd of Kingdom 
 Come, Fox. 
 
 Modern short stories : The Luck of Roaring Camp, 
 Bret Harte ; The Idyll of Red Gulch, Bret Harte ; 
 His Majesty the King, Rudyard Kipling ; Feet of 
 Gold, Arthur Gordon Smith, O'Brien, 1916; 
 The White Battalion, Frances Gilchrist Wood, 
 O'Brien, 1916; Ching, Ching, Chinaman, Wilbur 
 Daniel Steele, O'Brien, 1917; Extra Men, Harri- 
 son Rhodes, O'Brien, 1918; Boys Will Be Boys, 
 Irvin S. Cobb, O'Brien, 1917; The Willow Pond, 
 Helen Ellwanger Hanford. 
 
 18. VENGEANCE TAKEN UPON KINDRED BY KINDRED: 
 
 This is chiefly a theme of the ancient Greeks. 
 When the avenger's action is prompted by the 
 wish of the dying victim, or the spirit of the 
 dead mysteriously appearing, professional duty 
 
THIRTY-SIX ORIGINAL PLOT SITUATIONS 241 
 
 or an imprudent promise, the dramatic possibil- 
 ities are enhanced. 
 
 Illustrative examples : Hamlet, Shakespeare ; Elec- 
 tra, Sophocles and Euripides; Libation Pourers, 
 
 Modern short stories s The Caller in the Night, 
 Burton Kline, O'Brien, 1917. 
 
 19. OBTAINING : 
 
 This is a popular theme today whether it is located 
 
 in the field of commerce or of love. 
 Illustrative examples : Philoctetes, Sophocles ; 
 
 Helen Reclaimed, Euripides. 
 Modern short stories : A Sisterly Scheme, H. C. 
 
 Bunner; Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford, George 
 
 Randolph Chester. 
 
 20. MADNESS : 
 
 Modern writers cannot find the literary possibilities 
 in insanity that the earlier writers found in it, 
 for the simple reason that modern science pro- 
 nounces it to be merely hereditary and patho- 
 logical where Greek writers considered it divine, 
 and medieval writers considered it demoniacal 
 two conceptions which gave it its literary posi- 
 tion. Shakespeare had an inordinate love for it. 
 The greatest short-story writer of today, Wilbur 
 Daniel Steele, has shown wonderful power in 
 depicting it. 
 
 Illustrative examples: Hedda Gabler, Ibsen; Her- 
 cules Fur ens, Euripides ; Ajax, Sophocles ; Saul, 
 Gide; Macbeth, Shakespeare. 
 
 Modern short stories : The Open Window, Charles 
 Caldwell Dobie, O'Brien, 1918; Laughter, Charles 
 Caldwell Dobie, O'Brien, 1917; The Cask of 
 Amontillado, Edgar Allan Poe; The T ell-Tale 
 Heart, Edgar Allan Poe; The Women at Seven 
 
242 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 Brothers, W. D. Steele; For They Know Not 
 What They Do, W. D. Steele; The Wrists on 
 the Door, Horace Fish, O'Brien, 1919. 
 
 21. SLAYING A KINSMAN UNRECOGNIZED: 
 
 This is a rarely used situation. Hugo had an 
 inordinate liking for it and bases most of his 
 dramas upon it. Shakespeare, on the other hand, 
 has not in a single instance employed it. 
 
 Illustrative examples : Sohrab and Rustum, Arnold. 
 
 Modern short stories : The Father's Hand, George 
 Humphrey, O'Brien, 1918; Tropics, Patrick 
 Casey, Neal's Today's Short Stories Analyzed. 
 
 22. SELF-SACRIFICE FOR AN IDEAL: 
 
 Like the Savior, this situation is just what we need 
 today. It easily becomes trite and "preachy" if 
 not handled in a new way. There is no neces- 
 sity, however, of choosing a hero of a too-perfect 
 type. 
 
 Illustrative examples: Jean Valjean, Joan of Arc, 
 Sir Launfal, Sir Galahad; The Doctor, Connor; 
 Luther, Werner; Resurrection, Tolstoy. 
 
 Modern short stories : A Certain Rich Man, Law- 
 rence Perry, O'Brien, 1917; The Emperor of 
 Elam, H. G. Dwight, O'Brien, 1917; The Knight's 
 Move, Katherine Fullerton Gerould, O'Brien, 
 1917; Messengers, Calvin Johnson, O'Brien, 
 1919. 
 
 23. SELF-SACRIFICE FOR KINDRED OR FRIENDS: 
 
 This also may easily become trite and didactic un- 
 less handled in a big way. It is one of the three 
 most popuiar plot situations used today. 
 
 Illustrative examples : Cyrano de Bergerac, Ros- 
 tand ; Great Expectations, Dickens ; Tale of Two 
 
THIRTY-SIX ORIGINAL PLOT SITUATIONS 243 
 
 Cities, Dickens; The Joy of Living, Zola; 
 Alcestis, Euripides. 
 
 Modern short stories: Onnie, Thomas Beer, 
 O'Brien, 1917; The Gay Old Dog, Edna Ferber, 
 O'Brien, 1917; The Bunker Mouse, Frederick 
 Stuart Greene, O'Brien, 1917; A Derelict, Rich- 
 ard Harding Davis; The Substitute, Franqois 
 Coppee; Tennessee's Partner, Bret Harte; None 
 So Blind, Mary Synon, O'Brien, 1917; For They 
 Know Not What They Do, W. D. Steele. 
 
 24. DISCOVERY OF THE DISHONOR OF A LOVED ONE: 
 
 If this comes as the solution to a plot, the story 
 must end in remorse, or hate at all events in 
 tragedy. If it comes at the beginning and 
 stands in the place of the problem then the 
 discoverer may try to help the sinner make 
 amends and live down the fault. 
 
 Illustrative examples : Allison's Lad (one-act play). 
 
 Modern short stories : Mateo Falcone, Prosper 
 Merimee; The Child Spy, Alphonse Daudet; 
 For They Know Not What They Do, W. D. 
 Steele. 
 
 25. ALL SACRIFICED FOR A PASSION: 
 
 This theme gives splendid opportunity for studying 
 nervous pathology, and consequently is one of 
 the most constantly treated themes of the French 
 writers of today. Not to be attempted until one 
 understands how to express emotion. 
 
 Illustrative examples : Antony and Cleopatra, 
 Shakespeare; Cleopatra, Sardou; Sapho, Dau- 
 det; Salome, Wilde; Herodias, Wilde. 
 
 Modern short stories : In Maulbaum's Fever Ward, 
 George Gilbert, O'Brien, 1918; L'Arrabiata, 
 Paul Heyse. 
 
244 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 26. ERRONEOUS JUDGMENT: 
 
 This has larger possibilities if placed at the begin- 
 ning of the story, as a problem to be worked out. 
 At the end the mistake leads only to tragedy. 
 
 Illustrative examples : The Brigands, Schiller ; 
 The Serpent Woman, Gozzi. 
 
 Modern short stories: The Piece of String, Guy 
 de Maupassant. 
 
 27. REMORSE : 
 
 "It is hardly necessary to call attention to the small 
 
 number, but the terrible beauty of the works of 
 
 literature that has dealt with this theme." Polti. 
 Illustrated examples : Orestes, Euripides ; Manfred, 
 
 Byron ; Madeline, Zola ; Werther, Goethe ; Ros- 
 
 mersholm, Ibsen; Bernice, Poe. 
 Modern short stories : Markheim, Robert Louis 
 
 Stevenson; Another Gambler, Paul Bourget; 
 
 Laughter, Charles Caldwell Dobie, O'Brien, 1917; 
 
 The Wrists on the Door, Horace Fish, O'Brien, 
 
 1919. 
 
 28. THE NECESSITY OF SACRIFICING LOVED ONES: 
 
 This situation as it stands will rarely be found in 
 
 modern literature. The beginner will have few 
 
 occasions to use it. 
 Illustrative examples : Abraham and Isaac ; Jeph- 
 
 tha's daughter; Iphigenia in Aulis, Euripides; 
 
 Monna Vanna, Maeterlinck. 
 Modern short stories: Kitchen Gods, G. F. Aslop, 
 
 O'Brien, 1919. 
 
 29. ABDUCTION. 
 
 This is a favorite theme of the French. In Amer- 
 ican literature a treasure box is often substi- 
 tuted for the girl. 
 
 Illustrative examples: The Abduction of Helen, 
 
THIRTY-SIX ORIGINAL PLOT SITUATIONS 245 
 
 Euripides; iphigenia in Tauris, Euripides; The 
 Sabine Women; Cassandra. 
 
 Modern short stories : The Ransom of Red Chief, 
 O. Henry ; In Maulbaum's Fever Ward, George 
 Gilbert, O'Brien, 1919. 
 
 30. DISASTER. 
 
 This theme, the ever-recurring refrain of the Bibli- 
 cal books, reverberating in immortal echoes 
 through Homer and the Greek dramatists, today 
 awaits a writer with sufficient sweep and scope of 
 imagination, with mind of sufficient Homeric pro- 
 portions, to re-incarnate this great epic in a 
 message for our own modern era. Europe has 
 furnished the material. Let him who can essay 
 the task. But when the great writer of this 
 theme arises he will not select for his medium 
 the short story. Only an epic will do it justice. 
 
 Illustrative examples : Last Days of Pompeii, 
 Bulwer Lytton; The Persians, ^schylus; La 
 Debacle, Zola; War of the Worlds, Wells; 
 Antony and Cleopatra, Shakespeare; War and 
 Peace, Tolstoy. 
 
 Modern short stories : Lodgings for a Night, Bret 
 Harte; The Ambitious Guest, Hawthorne. 
 
 31. THE RECOVERY OF A LOST ONE: 
 
 One of the perennially popular themes. Like all 
 such, it is a little threadbare, but deserving of 
 fresh treatment in new settings. 
 
 Illustrative examples : Winter's Tale, Shakespeare ; 
 Pericles, Shakespeare ; "The Stolen Child" situa- 
 tion; Prodigal Son, etc. 
 
 Modern short stories: The Mystery of the Red- 
 Haired Girl, Louise Kennedy Mabie; Messen- 
 gers, Calvin Johnson, O'Brien, 1919. 
 
246 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 32. THE Loss OF LOVED ONES: 
 
 Where this situation is used for the problem, it 
 presents opportunities for all types of plots; 
 where used as the solution it confines the writer 
 to an atmosphere of gloom and mourning not at 
 all popular today. 
 
 Illustrative examples : The Intruders, Maeterlinck ; 
 Niobe, ^Eschylus; The Seven Princesses, Mae- 
 terlinck. 
 
 Modern short stories: In the Open Code, Burton 
 Kline, O'Brien, 1918; Without Benefit of Clergy, 
 Rudyard Kipling ; The Unknown, A. P. Terhune, 
 Neal, Today's Short Stories Analyzed. 
 C. Four undesirable plot situations: 
 
 33. ADULTERY. 
 
 34. MURDEROUS ADULTERY. 
 
 35. CRIMES OF LOVE. 
 
 36. INVOLUNTARY CRIMES OF LOVE. 
 
 HOW TO USE THE THIRTY-SIX PLOT SITUATIONS 
 
 The following situations you can throw into the discard 
 as being practically useless unless occasionally employed 
 in a very secondary situation : 18 (Vengeance taken upon 
 kindred), 21 (Slaying a kinsman unrecognized), 8 (En- 
 mity of friends), and 28 (Necessity of sacrificing loved 
 ones). It is too difficult, almost impossible, to secure the 
 necessary motivation for such situations; furthermore 
 they are offensive to the average reader. 
 
 Next you can put down as exceedingly trite and there- 
 fore to be used only sparingly and in connection with 
 exceedingly vital, novel characters or unusual complica- 
 tions: 15 (Mistaken identity) and 29 (Abduction), the 
 two most frequently used movie plot situations today, 
 
THIRTY-SIX ORIGINAL PLOT SITUATIONS 247 
 
 and 31 (Recovery of a lost one). The only place where 
 it will be safe to use these is in minor episodes. 
 
 The situations which have the largest dramatic values 
 are 22, 23, 24 and 25 (Self -Sacrifice for an Ideal, Self- 
 Sacrifice for Friends, Discovery of the Dishonor of a 
 Loved One, and All Sacrificed for a Passion). Because 
 these situations are so rich in dramatic possibilities they 
 have been used a great deal ; therefore the following advice 
 is given in connection with them: In using 22 (Self- 
 Sacrifice for an Ideal) and 23 (Self -Sacrifice for Friends) 
 care should be taken to see. that the sentimental is avoided 
 and that the situations are plausible, vital and compelling. 
 The other two, 24 (Discovery of the Dishonor of a Loved 
 One) and 25 (All Sacrificed for a Passion), are better 
 when used as secondary situations. Situation 24 goes 
 well with 28 (Necessity of Sacrifice of Loved Ones), 
 about the only occasion when situation 28 may be safely 
 used. 
 
 The situations which have largest possibilities for action 
 are 2, 3, 4 and 5 (Vengeance Pursuing Crime, The Pur- 
 sued, Revolt, and the Audacious Attempt). In handling 
 these special care should be taken to avoid melodrama, 
 especially in 4 (Revolt), which is very effective if this 
 danger is avoided. Situation 3 (The Pursued) is good 
 in combination with 12 (An Enemy Loved) and 26 
 (Erroneous Judgment). Situation 5 (Audacious At- 
 tempt) makes an excellent basic action when combined 
 with 4 (Revolt) or 30 (Disaster). 
 
 The four love themes, 9, 10, u and 12 (Rivalry of 
 Friends, Unequal Rivalry, Obstacles to Love, and An 
 Enemy Loved), are always interesting if the characters 
 are real, and the action- is well motivated, and vital, but 
 9 (Rivalry of Friends) and 12 (An Enemy Loved) 
 
248 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 should be used for secondary situations rather than main 
 situations. 
 
 The situations that have been used the least of all and 
 therefore are deserving of careful study by students who 
 wish to find new plot situations are the following: 
 
 I. Supplication. Has been used so sparingly in the past 
 that it is practically an unworked field. Possibil- 
 ities, however, are limited. 
 
 6. The Enigma. Has rarely been used outside of detec- 
 
 tive stories. Has excellent possibilities. 
 
 7. Fatal Imprudence. Has excellent possibilities if the 
 
 character is novel and unusual. 
 
 13. Ambition. Has excellent possibilities where the 
 
 character is well drawn. 
 
 14. Struggle Against Destiny. Gives remarkable oppor- 
 
 tunity for atmosphere story, or story of introspec- 
 tion and emotion. 
 
 17. The Savior. This has been used often but has been 
 overused in only two types of plots : where the 
 rescuer saves some one who has been abducted 
 (the favorite movie topic), or where he is fault- 
 lessly good. Where the character is well drawn, 
 human and interesting, and where sentimentality 
 and melodrama are avoided, this situation has infi- 
 nite possibilities. 
 
 20. Madness. Presents its best opportunities when used 
 in connection with situation 7 (Fatal Imprudence) 
 or 25 (All Sacrificed for a Passion). 
 
 27. Remorse. Requires skillful treatment and knowledge 
 of human nature. Best fitted for stories of intro- 
 spection and emotion. 
 
 30. Disaster. Not effective unless the disaster is well 
 motivated. Would make good basis for atmos- 
 phere story. 
 
THIRTY-SIX ORIGINAL PLOT SITUATIONS 249 
 
 The majority of beginners' stories fail, from the plot 
 point of view, for one of the following reasons: 
 
 1. They begin well, but the solution falls flat. 
 
 2. They have an excellent climax, but are improperly 
 
 motivated at the beginning. 
 
 3. They have a well-drawn character, but the situation 
 
 he is placed in doesn't give him a chance to reveal 
 himself. 
 
 4. The plot is excellently developed, but it is hopelessly 
 
 trite. 
 
 Every one of these mistakes could have been avoided by 
 a careful study of the thirty-six original plot situations. 
 Perhaps the most valuable use you can make of these 
 situations is as follows : First select a starting point for 
 a story based upon your own experience. This may be 
 merely a character you have known, a setting you are 
 familiar with, a theme you wish to present in artistic 
 form, or a complication or solution that tempts you but 
 which you don't quite know how to develop. Then turn 
 to the thirty-six plot situations and study them carefully. 
 For purposes of reference, guidance and inspiration you 
 will find they are invaluable. 
 
 EXERCISES IN THE THIRTY-SIX PLOT 
 SITUATIONS 
 
 I. Read four of the following short stories and bring to 
 class a list of the plot situations used in them. See sec- 
 tion 2 in each of the analyses of the four short stories 
 printed in this book for models. This exercise is one of 
 the very best ways to train the sense of plot-building in 
 students : 
 
250 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 The Last Class (Daudet) England to America (Mar- 
 garet Prescott Montague 
 The Necklace (De Maupas- Making Port (Richard 
 
 sant) Mathews Hallett) 
 
 Sire De Maletroit's Door For They Know Not What 
 
 (Stevenson) They Do (W. D. Steele) 
 
 The Municipal Report (O. Footfalls (W. D. Steele) 
 
 Henry 
 The Man Who Would Be Twenty-three and a Half 
 
 King (Kipling) Hours' Leave (Mary 
 
 Roberts Rhinehart 
 
 II. Take a character that you would like to use in a story 
 and put him in each of the four love plots (Situations 9, 
 10, ii and 12) and write a paragraph abstract on each 
 one, outlining in a very general manner how the plot 
 would evolve. 
 
 III. In similar manner put him in each of the four 
 action plots (2, 3, 4 and 5). 
 
 IV. In similar manner put him in each of the four self- 
 sacrificing situations (22, 23, 24 and 25). 
 
 V. In similar manner put him in each of the nine situa- 
 tions described on page 248 as being the least trite (i, 6, 
 7, 13, 14, 17, 20, 27 and 30). 
 
 VI. Notice that the situations are summarized below in 
 two columns, the column to the left consisting of situa- 
 tions stated in form of a problem and the column to the 
 right consisting of situations stated in form of a solution. 
 From the first column select one situation (preferably 
 Ambition) as the problem and find ten solutions for it 
 in situations taken from the opposite column. Summarize 
 each of the plots thus formed definitely but briefly. 
 
THIRTY-SIX ORIGINAL PLOT SITUATIONS 251 
 
 VII. Select one situation from the solution side (pref- 
 erably The Savior) and then find ten problems in the 
 other column to serve as starting points or complications 
 for which this situation could be the solution. Summarize 
 the plots thus formed briefly, but as concretely and defi- 
 nitely as possible. 
 
 Sixteen Original Plot Solu- 
 tions stated in form of 
 PROBLEM 
 
 1. Supplication. 
 
 2. Vengeance pursuing 
 
 crime. 
 
 3. The pursued. 
 
 4. Revolt. 
 
 5. Audacious attempt. 
 
 6. The enigma. 
 
 7. Fatal imprudence. 
 
 8. Enmity of friends. 
 
 9. Rivalry of friends. 
 
 10. Unequal rivalry. 
 
 11. Obstacles to love. 
 
 12. An enemy loved. 
 
 13. Ambition. 
 
 14. Struggle against des- 
 
 tiny. 
 
 15. Mistaken identity. 
 
 1 6. In the clutches of mis- 
 
 fortune. 
 
 Sixteen Original Plot Solu- 
 tions stated in form of 
 SOLUTION 
 
 17. The savior. 
 
 1 8. Vengeance taken upon 
 
 kindred. 
 
 19. Obtaining. 
 
 20. Madness. 
 
 21. Slaying a kinsman un- 
 
 recognized. 
 
 22. Self-sacrifice for an 
 
 ideal. 
 
 23. Self-sacrifice fof 
 
 friends. 
 
 24. Discovery of dishonor 
 
 of a loved one. 
 
 25. All sacrificed for a pas- 
 
 sion. 
 
 26. Erroneous judgment. 
 
 27. Remorse. 
 
 28. The necessity of sacri- 
 
 ficing loved ones. 
 
 29. Abduction. 
 
 30. Disaster. * 
 
 31. Recovery of lost ones. 
 
 32. Loss of loved ones. 
 
252 THE SHORT STORY ART 
 
 VIII. A Plot-Building Game. 
 
 Divide the thirty-two original plot situations given above 
 into four groups. Then divide the class into four sections 
 and to each section give a group of plot situations. Then 
 select some particular phase of life that all are familiar 
 with, preferably college life, and require that every student 
 bring to class on the following day a definitely worked 
 out plot for each of the eight situations given to him. 
 
 When the class meets have these plots passed around 
 among the students until each paper has been read and 
 graded by five students. Then, beginning with situation I 
 (Supplication), read the three or four best developments 
 of this theme as applied to college life. Have the class 
 discuss these briefly and take a vote upon the best. In a 
 similar fashion take up each plot situation in turn. This 
 may require two or three full recitation hours. At the 
 end of these discussions the plot situations which were 
 chosen by vote as best should be neatly typewritten with 
 sufficient carbon copies so that the instructor shall have a 
 copy and several may be placed in library so that students 
 may have access to them. The class will find this a revela- 
 tion of what excellent work can be done in plot-building. 
 Two or three years' accumulation of such lists would 
 prove to be a veritable gold mine of material for an in- 
 structor in short story writing or for an instructor of 
 a Freshman English class which is studying narrative 
 writing. 
 
29Nov54PB 
 
 l6Dec'57MH 
 
 REC'D UD 
 
 8Apr59AB 
 
 ? 1959 
 23Martj3W-8- -, 
 
 

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