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U BOSE HEYWARD, with his wife, Dorothy, is spending the summer at the MacDowell Colony, Peterboro, New Hampshire. There he is at work on a new novel to follow, next year, the publication of "Porgy" this autumn. A new long poem of his on Negro life will soon appear in "The American Mercury". RUTH GUTHRIE

HARDING is the wife of a prominent lawyer. She lives in Englewood, New Jersey. A poet and essayist who learned her craft under Mr. Bierce, she was finally persuaded after years of silence to write of this curiously withdrawn figure in American letters. HAL BORLAND is the author of "Rocky Mountain Tepee Tales", and of several short stories. He is a former cowboy, now living in New York City with his wife, and determined to write instead of throwing the lariat.

GRANT OVERTON, fiction editor of "Collier's", has appeared in these columns with such frequency that it is difficult to think of nice praiseworthy anecdotes about him. He follows current fiction more religiously than any other man we know, and writes a lot besides. KENNETH LAUB, of the Detroit "News", styles himself as a loyal European of American nativity. Born in Washington, D. C.; contributes generously to the support of a fond family of a wife and three children; would rather win the national amateur golf championship than the Nobel Prize for Literature; and considers his chances of winning either remote. LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE, of Baltimore, Maryland, is one of America's best known and most loved poets. Her years of school teaching have given her a gentleness rather than astringency, and she is one of the gayest and wisest of our literary folk. ANNE CARROLL MOORE says that York City is the best place in the world to spend the summer and has carried out her

belief this year.

She is at work on a book on George Washington, and her department in the "Herald-Tribune", "The Three Owls", continues to please.

MERIDA WILDE is a teacher in the middle west who has paragraphs accepted for a column in a local newspaper, and who takes hiking and camping trips with her car for diversion. CARL LAMSON CARMER is a professor of English in the University of Alabama. He was graduated from Hamilton College in the same class as John V. A. Weaver, and has taught at various colleges. For the past three years he has been conducting an interesting course in the writing of verse at Alabama, and those who have observed it tell us that the results are excellent.

ELIOT FITCH BARTLETT is the small son of a mother who finds time amid her domestic duties for the writing of poetry. ARNOLD PATRICK postcards us from Algiers that he has interviewed several foreign his writing is so poor that we can't make out whether it is poets or potentates. RUTH LAMBERT JONES of Haverhill, Massachusetts, reports that her chief interest during the summer months has been tinkering with her car. DR. JUNE E. DOWNEY is an eminent psychologist. She attained a great reputation with her "Will Temperament Test", when it was published, and has recently been selected by the National Research Council to do an important piece of investigation. ELIZABETH LEITZBACH is a short story writer who has only recently turned to poetry. LOUIS BROMFIELD, author of "The Green Bay Tree", and of a new novel, will probably spend next year in Europe, where all successful young American authors go.

MABLE HOLMES PARSONS, of Portland, Oregon, has worked with the American Indians for years, and numbers many of them



among her intimate friends. She was born in Saginaw, Michigan, and is a member of the English faculty of the University of Oregon (Portland Centre). She has written short stories and verse for various magazines, and last summer went to England to work upon a most interesting book of an archæological nature. GRACE Z. BROWN, who says that she prefers to be known as a resident of Coronado, Colorado, was for a time editor of the Woman's Page of the Akron, Ohio, “Times". She is the author of a published one act play of entertaining qualities called "The Society Editor". She writes that she will wear her hair bobbed if she lives to be ninety, and says further: "My observation has taught me that a man's love for radio is comparable only to that of a freshman under domination of his first love."

LAWRENCE LEE, who has deserted Virginia for New York City, has published verse in various periodicals and is on the staff of a local magazine. WILLIAM ROSE BENET is associate editor of "The Saturday Review", and, with occasional ventures in poetry, is

devoting his time now to the writing of a children's book. JOSEPH COLLINS, author of "Taking the Literary Pulse", has recently sailed for London, after completing the manuscript of his "The Doctor Looks at Biography". WINIFRED KATZIN, a young Russian girl living in America, was the translator of the plays of Lenormand, recently published, one of which, "The Failures", was given in New York by the Theatre Guild.

LOUIS UNTERMEYER, the American poetry critic and poet, after a year in Germany, is devoting himself entirely to his writing and editing. He is living in New York City and is about to see published a revised and enlarged edition of his larged edition of his "Modern British Poetry". GAMALIEL BRADFORD will have a new book, "Wives”, on the autumn lists. He is at work in his home at Wellesley Hills, Massachusetts, on a full length biography of great importance. T. R. COWARD, squash champion and litterateur, is, at present writing, a New York representative for the Bobbs-Merrill Company.

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The purpose of this section of THE BOOKMAN is to acquaint readers with the publishing activities of George H. Doran Company and their authors.

HROUGH the city now come the great of the world of print on their various ways to vacation, heralded by the newspapers with notice according to their rank, and pointed to whatever part of the world contains their hobby. Sometimes the very great slip in and out of New York with the quiet assurance of princes incognito; stopping to chat with their publishers and to mention casually plans for a month here and a month there, and perhaps an interpolated jaunt to Siberia. Then the aforesaid publishers sigh, saying that they have always wanted to go just there (or anywhere), but that publishing is after all a fascinating business. The two weeks will be spent somewhere nearby, so that train travel will not take all their time, and where there will be crude unlettered persons to talk to, and not a book to read in bed.

Many writers are going abroad, perhaps (to paraphrase Michael Arlen's remark) to see some of their American friends. It is curious to notice how many of the younger men have adopted the Continent as their workshop, returning only to attend to their marketing or to marry. But a writer has his tools with him, especially now that the standard makes of typewriter are everywhere, and he loses no time in commuting from the office to his home. A man who had known Richard Harding Davis in Mexico told me that he invariably, perhaps even a trifle ostentatiously, sat down to his work at ten-thirty in camp, hotel or aboard ship. It has a tempting sound; for his publishers no doubt sat down as regularly at nine, and no mention is made of that in the most meticulous history.

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by RED ASHES this month; it will have appeared on the stands almost simultaneously with this issue of "The Bookman". RED ASHES is one of the books whose manuscripts arrive like an answer to prayer, for unless there occurs an event such as listed under "Acts of Providence" on the freight lading-bills, it is assured of a fine and immediate popularity. Indeed, the recent earthquakes, which would free any freight company of all liability, have had no effect whatever on the advance sales. Apparently the title will take a place on the best-seller lists almost at once.

Yet for all her fame as a writer, little seems to be known in America about Mrs.

Pedler, the person. Partly that is due to her reticence and partly to her foreign residence; for she is in Italy or traveling on the Continent much of the time, and in England stays hidden deep in Devonshire. She is a sportswoman, is fonder of dancing and tennis and music than most Americans are of anything, and according to Arnold Patrick collects earrings for a hobby. As a girl she studied for opera, but gave up the plan of a professional career when her stories began to make their way. But music is still her second interest, and she has composed a number of things.

For a thumbnail sketch that must do; and for all its being only a small picture, it would seem to represent a wonderfully interesting life to lead. Few people possess more than half these activities and yet have no spare time. I believe that Mrs. Pedler wrote this most recent letter partly as an apology for not coming to America this year; perhaps next year, she says; but now she is settled for a little while at Cernobbie on Lake Como, where the sky is very blue.

RED ASHES is a story with a curiously attractive quality. Mary Roberts Rinehart's novels have that same quality, which people describe with one adjective or another, floundering about until they end lamely on

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"humanness" or some such word.

Just as I am floundering now; but whatever that quality may be, it is close to genius. There is no doubt that the ability to please so many readers is a special genius of itself, although this has been denied by many adroit critics. However, this speculation will bring us squarely up against a definition of literature in a moment or two. Which is not for publishers to do.

I have asked a number of friends what they thought of RED ASHES, sending them advance copies and galleys and proofs. Practically all of them agreed that the most remarkable feature of Mrs. Pedler's work was her ability to present a situation which might well occur, peopled by characters which might well be ourselves. Then, in the direct course of the narrative, the adventures and romances of her characters might conceivably be our own. And we are left at the end satisfied with ourselves and the world.

This would seem perhaps a small point, an unenthusiastic criticism. Yet I think that if one considers, he will find this a major element in successful writing. Was it Woodrow Wilson who said that after surviving the adventures in a detective story, his own troubles seemed small when he emerged? Probably it was someone else; former Secretary Hughes is a devourer of mysteries and it may have been he. Yet the fact remains, there is a vital quality to RED ASHES; it possesses a story too good to be recast here; and it is written well.

* * * *

MONG THE most interesting events in

A publishing house is the preparation of

a big campaign. This that we are getting ready for THE RED LAMP, by Mary Roberts Rinehart, is one of the most striking that we have ever done. The book is to be released on the fourteenth of August.

First, a hundred thousand copies of the book will be made. Meanwhile the sales

made up and printed. Window displays, consisting of various objects involved in the mystery, are under preparation. And “The Murray Hill Gazette", the private newspaper of the house, is devoting its entire space to a RED LAMP issue, in readiness to go to its entire circulation of six thousand (unpaid).


Any novel by Mrs. Rinehart is certain to be a best-seller at once. Curiously, she is known all over the country as the writer pre-eminent of mystery novels, yet she has not written one for eleven years. THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE, THE MAN IN LOWER TEN, THE AFTER HOUSE, all were before 1914. Of course THE BAT came after the war, but that was a play. It is running yet, somewhere. The most remarkable feature of THE RED LAMP is the style in which it is written. of it is in the words of one William A. Porter, a professor of English literature and a gentleman of considerable culture and poise. And after reading a few pages one becomes immersed in this delightful personality, this man of quiet taste and whimsy who finds himself involved suddenly in an extraordinary adventure. Reading the book through, I found not one single word or phrase that would not satisfy a purist, nor any deviation from the integrity of the character. It is amazing to know that it was written by a


But with THE RED LAMP we on Murray Hill played a very tantalizing trick: a copy was sent to every member of the book trade, an advance copy complete save for the last chapter, and prizes were offered for the best solution of the mystery. Many conjectures have come in, some good, and some wild, and not a few frantic appeals for the remaining pages. But as far as I know, no one has had it exactly correct, nor will anyone, probably, unless he is clairvoyant. We have kept the secret well.


force is out selling it from dummies thin NEWS COMES from England that BRAVE

replicas of the binding and jacket containing a few pages. Here in the office advertisements are being prepared for newspapers and magazines the country over, and photographs of the author, news stories, interviews, material for the critics, are all being

EARTH, by Alfred Tresidder Sheppard, is creating a sensation there. The beauty of the writing and the historical accuracy of the scenes has marked it as at least an important item in the stabler literature of the time. Already a new edition is under way.

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Sheppard, in a recent letter, writes an amusing account of himself. His ancestors included a prince, cousin of an Austrian Emperor of an early day, and a New England Sears. This latter was supposed to have arrived on these shores in the Mayflower, but "I don't think there was room for him in the Mayflower, which cannot have had the capacity of Noah's Ark," writes Sheppard.

He has done seven novels, among the better known of which are THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JUDAS ISCARIOT, RUNNING HORSE JIM, THE RED CRAVAT, and THE RISE OF LEDGAR DUNSTAN. The second of these was heralded widely when it appeared nineteen years ago, and the critics awaited another novel with considerable interest. But a breakdown in health forced a ten years' period of inaction; for thirteen years he worked in an insurance office "like Eden Philpotts", he says.

As to the man: "I went in for everything years ago, and all pretty badly. Smashed up a van in Regent's Park while riding and was run away with in Madeira. Mobbed by Moors while taking photographs in Tangier. Nearly blew a man's ear off while firing in Kent. Nearly drowned while bathing." All in all, a modest man and a brilliant writer.



to postpone his visit to America until spring. James Montgomery Flagg, the artist, is on his way to Maine, reading proofs of his journal of a motor trip as he rides. BOULEVARDS ALL THE WAY MAYBE! is the gay title, while the story is the hilarious adventure of his bride and himself as they went to the Coast last summer. Will Crawford, another artist, came in from his lonely cabin in the wilds of New Jersey to present his illustrations for SKUNNY WUNDY AND OTHER INDIAN FOLK TALES, a book for children by an adopted Indian, Arthur C. Parker. The jacket is designed on real birch-bark, which will be photographed onto paper.

Thomas Burke in England, author of LIMEHOUSE NIGHTS and of that exquisite autobiography, THE WIND AND THE RAIN, is

at work on the longest novel he has yet undertaken. Mrs. Jessica G. Cosgrave, famous head of the Finch School in New York, is on her way abroad after finishing MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS, a brilliant study of modern girls, for autumn publication. Her book of small gardens for amateurs is already in manufacture. Cyril Hume, whose CRUEL FELLOWSHIP is now so talked of, has returned from his Italian home following the tragic death of his young wife. And the first third of what promises to be a very fine novel has come from Raymond Weaver, author of that astonishing book, HERMAN MELVILLE, MARINER AND MYSTIC. The title of the new one is probably to be THE LOST APHRODITE; its setting, Japan.

Dr. Joseph Collins is abroad while the finishing touches are being put to THE DOCTOR LOOKS AT BIOGRAPHY. Having looked at literature and taken the literary pulse, he has turned to a field even more popular, the mental peculiarities of great men and women as diagnosed from their lives.



QUOTE here from the biographical article sent me by Corey Ford, author of the "Rover Boys" parodies running in "Life." These articles, together with a series of literary adventures which will take the famous Boys into THE BOOKMAN, will be published in the autumn under the title THREE ROUSING CHEERS. This fragment of biography appears at the end of the article:

"Three cheers for Corey Ford!" cried the Rollo Boys, tossing the newcomer in the air and shouting lustily. Owing to the fact that Mr. Ford was writing the article, the cheers were given with a will; but the contents of that will, and how it affected the fortunes not only of Mr. Ford, but also of his publishers, will not be related until the appearance of Mr. Ford's new book in the fall, to be entitled: THREE ROUSING CHEERS FOR THE ROLLO Boys; or, The Parody Adventure of our Boyhood Heroes.

"And here, while we still have a chance, let us say Good-By.



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