he sensed some new wonder in nature every morning, and applied it so as to make the day happier. One frosty October morning he remarked: "This starts Mr. Possum for the persimmon tree and the wild grapes along the river bank."

Joel Chandler Harris brought into his stories a type of animal life of which descriptions had been attempted before but without success. Having spent his early days on a farm in south Georgia, he learned at first hand the habits of Brer Fox, Rabbit, Possum, and others; about these lonely and hunted creatures he has woven characteristics both poetic and beautiful. They live and act as human; the master shows us the secret of their souls and forever hereafter these dumb animals will possess a personality which no other writer could have given them. About their lowly and simple existence there hangs a weird charm, full of romantic adventure.

But after all it is in intimate knowledge of the oldtime Negro life and delineation of the Negro character that the master excels; upon it his reputation will stand. Fortunately he lived through a period which took in the old and the new-the antebellum days and the years of reform which followed the war. This gave him a broad sweep of vision; he saw and understood the Negro of the south, both old and new, as perhaps no other writer ever did.

His treatment of the oldtime Negro developed all that was best in Mr. Harris as a writer. Here was a character somewhat new in the world of romance. Here was a character he knew and understood and a character he loved, because of fine traits which had never been described. He looked back to the war period and saw the faithfulness of the trusted darky, taking care of his master's home and family while the master was away in the thick

of the fight. Such a character had rarely, if ever, been known in the annals of history. His faithfulness deserved recognition, and about the whitened head of the old slave our "Uncle Joe" wove a halo of fame and glory. With this simple character Mr. Harris played; he drew from the Negro's strange philosophy some of the most charming incidents in all his books. The superstition of Uncle Remus worked like a charm with the weird theories of his dumb animal characters. For instance, in the goodnatured story of "Why Brer Possum Loves Peace", we learn: "I don't mind fightin' no mo dan you doz, sez 'ee, but I declar' if I kin stan' ticklin'. And down ter dis day", continued Uncle Remus, "down ter dis day, Brer Possum's boun' ter s'render, when you tech him in do short ribs."

In all these stories, dealing with the life of the lowly, there is mixed the indefinable charm of nature, her melodies and her secrets. The narrator knows the note of every songbird, the prophecy of every breeze that blows, the far away glory of the summer clouds, the secrets of migrating fowls and birds; he paints with consummate artistry a Georgia landscape, the wonder and mystery of night when the moon hangs full over harvest fields; he knows the secret of frost, the mysteries of the swamp with its evergreen trees and vines, the hedgerows of briers and sumac, and a thousand other wonders which belong to the limitless world of nature. To one who has lived in the country his pictures are true in every detail. Moreover, he never fails to show you the poetic rainbow of promise that hangs about the most commonplace things. Herein lies his greatest achievement.

A vast amount of fine work done by Mr. Harris has never appeared in book form. The old files of the Atlanta

"Constitution", upon which he toiled for years, contain much of his best writing, done when he was in his prime. His editorials were masterpieces of literary craftsmanship, just as were those of the lamented Henry Grady, and they burned with a fierce wish for healing the wounds between the north and the south. But outside this loss to the reading world, he left enough that was fine, enough that glowed with inspirational fire, and enough that was in the highest sense poetic to make his place safe in the hall of literary worthies.

WHY "O. HENRY"? By Edward Larocque Tinker

MANY

ANY secrets lie hidden in port cities. Ships from every shore and trains from every direction are continually stranding in their streets, nervous strangers fleeing from crimes committed or troubles too great to bear. Of New Orleans this is particularly true, for she is the gateway to those picturesque and wicked little Central American countries whose boundaries are a bar to the laws of extradition. Sydney Porter was one of this stream of fear ridden fugitives; and he left in that city, as did many others, the answer to a secret about himself a secret which has long baffled the public.

It is now common knowledge that a Texas grand jury indicted him for alleged complicity in the embezzlement of the funds of a bank, and that he boarded a train with every intention of going to the county seat to give himself up. It is equally well known that during this journey he fell a victim to his own marvelous imagination, which tortured him with frightful pictures of trial, cross examination, conviction,

disgrace, shame, and the penitentiary, until his determination was sapped. When the train finally arrived at the county seat, he did not have enough will power to get out. He continued to ride, dully, on and on until he reached the end of the line-New Orleans.

Here he hung around, aimlessly, for a time until fear drove him to further flight and he took ship to Honduras. He was now safe, to be true, from the law, but not from that far more implacable force-nostalgia. He became so homesick that he finally decided to go back and face the charges. Arrived again in New Orleans, he once more weakened; and he stayed on, always promising himself that he would start the very next day on that journey which ended so disastrously in the penitentiary.

It was during one of these visits, I do not know which, that Porter left in the memory of one man the key to that question which has always been so obscure why he chose his nom de plume.

C. A. Smith in his biography of O. Henry has said, "The pen name, 'O. Henry', may have been thought of when he was in New Orleans; it may have been suggested by the names in a New Orleans daily, the 'Times-Democrat' or the 'Picayune'; 'O. Henry', I believe, is reported to have said as much. But the evidence is that he did not adopt and use the name until he found himself in prison."

It is quite true that the name was suggested to him while he was in New Orleans, but it came about in a very different way. There used to be a very popular barroom there on the corner of Gravier Street and Bank Place, which rejoiced in the picturesque title of the Tobacco Plant Saloon and was owned by a certain Mrs. Brand. There was a great deal of drinking then and, as a natural result, many big busi

ness deals were consummated or, at least, celebrated in saloons. It was therefore easy for a smart barkeeper, with keen ears, to pick up many scraps. of information most useful to newspaper men. Henry, the barkeeper of the Tobacco Plant, was particularly clever at that sort of thing. Reporters from all the different newspapers used to stop so often for a drink and to see if Henry had any new tips, that the place came to be considered a sort of newspaper club.

It is not surprising that "Sid" Porter, himself a writer and a steady drinker, should have gravitated to the Tobacco Plant and become on intimate terms with its habitués.

One morning when he stopped in he found Ernest Hepner, an artist for the "Times-Democrat", and Billy Ball, a bright young reporter, standing at the bar.

Porter joined them in a drink and after some desultory talk turned to the barkeeper and said, "Oh, Henry! Set 'em up again." While they were waiting, he pulled a manuscript from his pocket and remarked, "See here, boys, here's something I've written. I don't want to sign my own name, what'll I write instead?"

A quizzical smile raised the corners of Hepner's mouth and he said in his quiet way, "Why don't you sign it 'O. Henry'? God knows you say that often enough!"

Porter laughed goodnaturedly at this palpable hit, slipped the manuscript back into his pocket, and promptly

forgot all about the incident—for a time.

Sydney Porter was sitting inside a grimy little cube of monotonous gloom called a cell in a penitentiary. He had just finished writing the last page of one of his inimitable short stories, vivid with all the life and freedom and warmth of human comradeship for which he was aching. He was staring at the partly blank page before him, racking his brain for a name which would serve to hide his identity and, with it, his disgrace. Suddenly, by that strange trick which memory so often plays upon us, a picture of the cheerful barroom of the Tobacco Plant flashed into his consciousness - so real that the remembered smell of whisky and tobacco made his tongue parch and his throat go dry. His desire for the human warmth and conviviality of the place stung him with a pain as searing as that of burning flesh. Faces, flushed and laughing, of the men he had known there came back to him; but most alive of all there appeared a vision of Henry, his starched white jacket almost glistening in contrast to the dull red glow of the mahogany bar, a smile of welcome breaking his face into shrewd little humorous wrinkles round his eyes, his right hand mechanically polishing the surface of the bar with a wet towel. . . . Porter's hand reached out to the sheet of paper before him and his pencil traced the letters-"O. Henry".

THE BEST SHORT STORIES

The following ten short stories are selected for special mention as mirroring the best elements in current fiction as it has appeared between February and April. When the stories selected are not by American authors they are, nevertheless, the work of writers who are important influences upon our own creative effort.

Six Dollars. W. D. Steele. PIC-
TORIAL REVIEW, March.
Blocker Locke. Barry Benefield.
CENTURY, February.

The Last Card. John Galsworthy.
RED BOOK, February.

The Last Visit. Conrad Aiken. DIAL, April.

A Working Man's Wife. Sheila Kaye-Smith. WOMAN'S HOME COMPANION, March.

The Dime. Zona Gale. CENTURY, April.

A Captain Out of Etruria. A. R. Leach. HARPER'S, April.

Bewitched. Edith Wharton. PIC-
TORIAL REVIEW, March.

V. Lydiat. L. Adams Beck. AT-
LANTIC MONTHLY, February.
'Thea Zell. Booth Tarkington. RED
Book, April.

VER since that notable day in 1640

when Stephen Daye struck off the "Bay Psalm Book" at his press in Cambridge, the American imagination has manifested an ethical bent. The trait has persisted in spite of all discouragement. Denied light and nourishment, it has often grown up white, lean, and waxlike, as a potato sprout will in a dark bin. Denied, in our

call it (with that pleasant hyperbole peculiar to editors) being "helpful" or "vital". But their fiction is highly ethical, nevertheless, deeply concerned with problems of conduct. In short, a large group of editors and writers have conspired to this end; they will often amuse us, often entertain us, often give us glimpses of an ideal and romantic world, but they are awfully concerned with setting our feet right upon the solid earth of this present world. I call attention to this state of affairs purely as a phenomenon or characteristic. I am not entering any sort of judgment at the moment.

Particularly is the path of matrimony set with warnings. "Husbands and Wives" (Designer, April) by Mae Foster Jay sets forth that one man's meat is another man's poison. Stan and Minnie got on well by bickering. It stimulated them. But June and Peter were very happy in agreeing perfectly. Then June got worried about her individuality. It appeared that she had submerged it as the price of her happiness. June set out immediately to

become individual, but succeeded only in becoming unhappy. It all came out right, however, when she learned that what was good for Stan and Minnie wouldn't promote success in life for her and Peter. It all comes out right, too, when Fannie Kilbourne treats of gossip (American Magazine, March) in the story of that name. One is forced to the inevitable conclusion that a great many of the world's woes exist because someone's tongue wagged too freely.

Sometimes the short story writers delve into the psychology of tangled human relationships to produce their lesson. Barty and Jacko got started wrong in "The Good Little Pal" (Munsey's, April) by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding. Jacko was both a sensible girl and a modern one. She insisted upon a secret marriage because it happened to be the politic thing for them to do. Jacko's ambition was to be a real pal, a comrade, self effacing and stimulating. Then Jacko had to learn the hard lesson that Barty did not want a sensible comrade for a wife. He wanted someone to serve and protect. And so, because Jacko was such a sensible girl, Barty got what he wanted.

A short story that throws light upon marital heresy is "Twin Roofs" (Munsey's) by Anna Brownell Dunaway. An effective but unobtrusive satire is played upon the spirit of modern matrimonial experiment at least when it gets a little too theoretical. Caroline set up her lares and penates in the country. Her Joe remained in town, near his work. It seemed an ideal arrangement, so free, so modern, so harmonious with the intellectual and social movements she apprehended perhaps somewhat dimly. At any rate she found the world, in the person of an amorous salesman, crude and literal. The salesman misunderstood

Caroline's emo

and made advances.
tions reacted to clarify her mind.

Mella Russell McCallum deals with the subject of the neglected wife in "Something Special" (Munsey's, April). Scott Bartow was trying so hard to get ahead in the world that he and Lucie got out of step. Lucie formed the sort of friendship with Tom Navarre of which it is often written that the relationship "rapidly ripened into something deeper". Just as Lucie prepared to take French leave with. Tom and let Scott get ahead by himself, she made this discovery: that most of the parties to newspaper scandals are convinced that their case is higher, cleaner, "something different". And Lucie, too, joined the long list of current heroines who have discovered that ardent feeling is no substitute for clear thinking. (P.S. Scott got the job.)

Another estranged wife who shared the same experience was Adelaide Macdonald. Her revolt from error didn't come until she was alone in a hotel room with the wealthy bachelor who was to become her second husband, her first being as yet unaware that his successor had been picked.

"She was a fool", so the narrative goes, "to feel dread at the thought of giving herself to another man while Ware was living. That wasn't the modern attitude, and whatever else she might be surely she was modern!" But the mildly satirical author, Elizabeth Newport Hepburn, stops Adelaide in time, so "The Blue Counterpane" (Cosmopolitan, February) comes to naught but a happy, if plainly didactic, ending.

In May Edginton's "This Happens Every Day" (Pictorial Review, February) there is a broader mood, almost that of farce. The same values are involved, though it is a man who is