"Moira!" His voice sent shivers down my back. "You're crazy—you're mad—you mean—you mean—you love someone you've never met—someone you can't see?" She nodded.

"I've loved him always," she said. "All my life I've known him for ever and ever—I know him more than anything in the world—from the time I could think he has lived in my heart—I didn't know him until now—I only suffered when he wasn't there, and went wandering and searching for him—and you've kept me from him—for I didn't know—"

"Moira," he called to her in his pain, "don't think these things—don't feel these things—"

But she only looked at him kindly and as if she were a long way off.

"I love him," she said, "better than life."

He stared at her then, and I saw what was in his mind. He thought she was crazy—stark, staring crazy. Next he said, "Good night, Moira—my darling, Moira." And he stumbled out into the fog like a man that's been struck blind.

But I knew she wasn't crazy. Maybe 't was living with Mis' MacFarland made me believe things like that. Maybe 't was Moira herself. But I didn't feel she was any more crazy than I do when I've heard folks recite, "I know that my Redeemer liveth."

But this isn't the end—this isn't the strangest part! Listen to what happened next.

There was a storm after the fog and strange vessels came into the port—and Moira came to Mis' MacFarland and her eyes were starry and says she:

"I'm going to get 'em to put me aboard that vessel," and she points to a bark which is a rare thing to see nowadays in these waters.

"He's out there," says she.

I didn't doubt her—I didn't doubt her any more than if she'd said the sun was shining when my own eyes were blinded by the light of it.

"Go, then," says Mis' MacFarland.

I tell you Moira was dragged out of that house as by a magnet. The sky had cleared and lay far off and cold, and the wrack of the broken clouds was burning itself up in the west when I saw a dory cast off from the vessel.

It was a queer procession came up our path, some foreign-looking sailors, and they carried a man on a sort of stretcher, and Moira walked alongside of him. I saw three things about him the same way you see a whole country in a flash of lightning.

One was that he was the strangest, the most beautiful man I had ever looked on, and I saw that he was dying.

Then in the next breath I knew he belonged to Moira more than anyone on earth ever had or would. Then all of a sudden it was as if a hand caught hold of my heart and squeezed the blood from it like water out of a sponge, for all at the same time I saw that they hadn't been born at the right time for each other and that they had only a moment to look into each other's faces—before the darkness of death could swallow him.

I couldn't bear it. I wanted to cry out to God that this miracle had come to pass only to be wiped out like a mark in the sand. He was as different from anyone I'd ever seen as Moira was. How can I say to you what I saw and felt. I knew that he belonged to Moira and Moira belonged to him. If I'd have met him at the ends of the earth I'd have known that they belonged together. We all dream about things like this when we're young—about there being a perfect love for us somewhere on earth—but there isn't, because we're not good enough.

The perfect flower can't bloom in most gardens. What these two had was love beyond love—the thing that poor, blundering mankind's been working for and straining toward all down the ages.

Love was what they had, not dimmed and tarnished, not the little flicker that comes for a moment and is gone, like in most of our lives, but the pure fire. The love that mankind tries to find in God—the final wonder. Some of us, at most, have a day or hour—a vision that's as far off and dim as northern lights.

Mis' MacFarland and me looked at each other and, without saying anything, we walked from the room. I saw tears streaming down her face and then I realized that I couldn't see for my own, I was crying the way you may do twice in your life, if you're lucky, because you've seen something so beautiful, poor, weak human nature can't bear it.

After a long time Mis' MacFarland spoke.

"It has to happen on earth, once in a while," she said, "the heart's desire to millions and millions of people living and dead—the dream of all who know the meaning of love. Sometimes it must come true."

That's how it made me feel, and I've always wanted to be a witness to what I saw—but there aren't many to whom you dare to tell it.

After a time we went back and he was lying there, his face shining like Moira's had when she'd found him in the dark spaces where she'd had to search for him. His hair was like dark silver, and his eyes were young like Moira's and blue as the sea at dawn. Wisdom was what was in his face, and love—and he lay there, quiet, holding Moira's hand in his.

But even as I looked a change came over him and I saw the end wasn't far away, and Moira saw it and clung fast to him.

"Take me with you," she said. "I have found you and can't leave you. I've looked for you so often and I couldn't find you. We lost each other so many times and the road together was so blind."

"It's all the same," he said, "she knows." He nodded to Mis' MacFarland. "It's all the same."

Mis' MacFarland motioned to me and I came to her and I was trembling like a leaf.

"It's only walking into another room," she said.

Moira sat beside him, his hand in hers, pleading with her eyes. He turned to Mis' MacFarland—"You make her understand," he said, "we all have to wait our turn. You make her understand that we're all the same."

And we knew that he was talking about life and death. And then, as I watched, I saw the life of him was ebbing out and saw that Moira knew it. And then he was gone, just like the slow turning out of a light.

Moira turned to Mis' MacFarland and looked at her, and then I saw she'd gotten to the other side of grief, to where Mis' MacFarland was—to the place where there wasn't any death.



"THE FAT OF THE LAND"[21]

[Note 21: Copyright, 1919, by The Century Company. Copyright, 1920, by Anzia Yezierska.]

BY ANZIA YEZIERSKA

From The Century

In an air-shaft so narrow that you could touch the next wall with your bare hands, Hanneh Breineh leaned out and knocked on her neighbor's window.

"Can you loan me your wash-boiler for the clothes?" she called.

Mrs. Pelz threw up the sash.

"The boiler? What's the matter with yours again? Didn't you tell me you had it fixed already last week?"

"A black year on him, the robber, the way he fixed it! If you have no luck in this world, then it's better not to live. There I spent out fifteen cents to stop up one hole, and it runs out another. How I ate out my gall bargaining with him he should let it down to fifteen cents! He wanted yet a quarter, the swindler. Gottuniu! my bitter heart on him for every penny he took from me for nothing!"

"You got to watch all those swindlers, or they'll steal the whites out of your eyes," admonished Mrs. Pelz. "You should have tried out your boiler before you paid him. Wait a minute till I empty out my dirty clothes in a pillow-case; then I'll hand it to you."

Mrs. Pelz returned with the boiler and tried to hand it across to Hanneh Breineh, but the soap-box refrigerator on the window-sill was in the way.

"You got to come in for the boiler yourself," said Mrs. Pelz.

"Wait only till I tie my Sammy on to the high-chair he shouldn't fall on me again. He's so wild that ropes won't hold him."

Hanneh Breineh tied the child in the chair, stuck a pacifier in his mouth, and went in to her neighbor. As she took the boiler Mrs. Pelz said:

"Do you know Mrs. Melker ordered fifty pounds of chicken for her daughter's wedding? And such grand chickens! Shining like gold! My heart melted in me just looking at the flowing fatness of those chickens."

Hanneh Breineh smacked her thin, dry lips, a hungry gleam in her sunken eyes.

"Fifty pounds!" she gasped. "It ain't possible. How do you know?"

"I heard her with my own ears. I saw them with my own eyes. And she said she will chop up the chicken livers with onions and eggs for an appetizer, and then she will buy twenty-five pounds of fish, and cook it sweet and sour with raisins, and she said she will bake all her strudels on pure chicken fat."

"Some people work themselves up in the world," sighed Hanneh Breineh. "For them is America flowing with milk and honey. In Savel Mrs. Melker used to get shriveled up from hunger. She and her children used to live on potato peelings and crusts of dry bread picked out from the barrels; and in America she lives to eat chicken, and apple strudels soaking in fat."

"The world is a wheel always turning," philosophized Mrs. Pelz. "Those who were high go down low, and those who've been low go up higher. Who will believe me here in America that in Poland I was a cook in a banker's house? I handled ducks and geese every day. I used to bake coffee-cake with cream so thick you could cut it with a knife."

"And do you think I was a nobody in Poland?" broke in Hanneh Breineh, tears welling in her eyes as the memories of her past rushed over her. "But what's the use of talking? In America money is everything. Who cares who my father or grandfather was in Poland? Without money I'm a living dead one. My head dries out worrying how to get for the children the eating a penny cheaper."

Mrs. Pelz wagged her head, a gnawing envy contracting her features.

"Mrs. Melker had it good from the day she came," she said begrudgingly. "Right away she sent all her children to the factory, and she began to cook meat for dinner every day. She and her children have eggs and buttered rolls for breakfast each morning like millionaires."

A sudden fall and a baby's scream, and the boiler dropped from Hanneh Breineh's hands as she rushed into her kitchen, Mrs. Pelz after her. They found the high-chair turned on top of the baby.

"Gevalt! Save me! Run for a doctor!" cried Hanneh Breineh as she dragged the child from under the high-chair. "He's killed! He's killed! My only child! My precious lamb!" she shrieked as she ran back and forth with the screaming infant.

Mrs. Pelz snatched little Sammy from the mother's hands.

"Meshugneh! what are you running around like a crazy, frightening the child? Let me see. Let me tend to him. He ain't killed yet." She hastened to the sink to wash the child's face, and discovered a swelling lump on his forehead. "Have you a quarter in your house?" she asked.

"Yes, I got one," replied Hanneh Breineh, climbing on a chair. "I got to keep it on a high shelf where the children can't get it."

Mrs. Pelz seized the quarter Hanneh Breineh handed down to her.

"Now pull your left eyelid three times while I'm pressing the quarter, and you will see the swelling go down."

Hanneh Breineh took the child again in her arms, shaking and cooing over it and caressing it.

"Ah-ah-ah, Sammy! Ah-ah-ah-ah, little lamb! Ah-ah-ah, little bird! Ah-ah-ah-ah, precious heart! Oh, you saved my life; I thought he was killed," gasped Hanneh Breineh, turning to Mrs. Pelz. "Oi-i!" she sighed, "a mother's heart! always in fear over her children. The minute anything happens to them all life goes out of me. I lose my head and I don't know where I am any more."

"No wonder the child fell," admonished Mrs. Pelz. "You should have a red ribbon or red beads on his neck to keep away the evil eye. Wait. I got something in my machine-drawer."

Mrs. Pelz returned, bringing the boiler and a red string, which she tied about the child's neck while the mother proceeded to fill the boiler.

A little later Hanneh Breineh again came into Mrs. Pelz's kitchen, holding Sammy in one arm and in the other an apron full of potatoes. Putting the child down on the floor, she seated herself on the unmade kitchen-bed and began to peel the potatoes in her apron.

"Woe to me!" sobbed Hanneh Breineh. "To my bitter luck there ain't no end. With all my other troubles, the stove got broke'. I lighted the fire to boil the clothes, and it's to get choked with smoke. I paid rent only a week ago, and the agent don't want to fix it. A thunder should strike him! He only comes for the rent, and if anything has to be fixed, then he don't want to hear nothing."

"Why comes it to me so hard?" went on Hanneh Breineh, the tears streaming down her cheeks. "I can't stand it no more. I came into you for a minute to run away from my troubles. It's only when I sit myself down to peel potatoes or nurse the baby that I take time to draw a breath, and beg only for death."

Mrs. Pelz, accustomed to Hanneh Breineh's bitter outbursts, continued her scrubbing.

"Ut!" exclaimed Hanneh Breineh, irritated at her neighbor's silence, "what are you tearing up the world with your cleaning? What's the use to clean up when everything only gets dirty again?"

"I got to shine up my house for the holidays."

"You've got it so good nothing lays on your mind but to clean your house. Look on this little blood-sucker," said Hanneh Breineh, pointing to the wizened child, made prematurely solemn from starvation and neglect. "Could anybody keep that brat clean? I wash him one minute, and he is dirty the minute after." Little Sammy grew frightened and began to cry. "Shut up!" ordered the mother, picking up the child to nurse it again. "Can't you see me take a rest for a minute?"

The hungry child began to cry at the top of its weakened lungs.

"Na, na, you glutton." Hanneh Breineh took out a dirty pacifier from her pocket and stuffed it into the baby's mouth. The grave, pasty-faced infant shrank into a panic of fear, and chewed the nipple nervously, clinging to it with both his thin little hands.

"For what did I need yet the sixth one?" groaned Hanneh Breineh, turning to Mrs. Pelz. "Wasn't it enough five mouths to feed? If I didn't have this child on my neck, I could turn myself around and earn a few cents." She wrung her hands in a passion of despair. "Gottuniu! the earth should only take it before it grows up!"

"Pshaw! Pshaw!" reproved Mrs. Pelz. "Pity yourself on the child. Let it grow up already so long as it is here. See how frightened it looks on you." Mrs. Pelz took the child in her arms and petted it. "The poor little lamb! What did it done you should hate it so?"

Hanneh Breineh pushed Mrs. Pelz away from her.

"To whom can I open the wounds of my heart?" she moaned. "Nobody has pity on me. You don't believe me, nobody believes me until I'll fall down like a horse in the middle of the street. Oi weh! mine life is so black for my eyes. Some mothers got luck. A child gets run over by a car, some fall from a window, some burn themselves up with a match, some get choked with diphtheria; but no death takes mine away."

"God from the world! stop cursing!" admonished Mrs. Pelz. "What do you want from the poor children? Is it their fault that their father makes small wages? Why do you let it all out on them?" Mrs. Pelz sat down beside Hanneh Breineh. "Wait only till your children get old enough to go to the shop and earn money," she consoled. "Push only through those few years while they are yet small; your sun will begin to shine, you will live on the fat of the land, when they begin to bring you in the wages each week."

Hanneh Breineh refused to be comforted.

"Till they are old enough to go to the shop and earn money they'll eat the head off my bones," she wailed. "If you only knew the fights I got by each meal. Maybe I gave Abe a bigger piece of bread than Fanny. Maybe Fanny got a little more soup in her plate than Jake. Eating is dearer than diamonds. Potatoes went up a cent on a pound, and milk is only for millionaires. And once a week, when I buy a little meat for the Sabbath, the butcher weighs it for me like gold, with all the bones in it. When I come to lay the meat out on a plate and divide it up, there ain't nothing to it but bones. Before, he used to throw me in a piece of fat extra or a piece of lung, but now you got to pay for everything, even for a bone to the soup."

"Never mind; you'll yet come out from all your troubles. Just as soon as your children get old enough to get their working papers the more children you got, the more money you'll have."

"Why should I fool myself with the false shine of hope? Don't I know it's already my black luck not to have it good in this world? Do you think American children will right away give everything they earn to their mother?"

"I know what is with you the matter," said Mrs. Pelz. "You didn't eat yet to-day. When it is empty in the stomach, the whole world looks black. Come, only let me give you something good to taste in the mouth; that will freshen you up." Mrs. Pelz went to the cupboard and brought out the saucepan of gefuelte fish that she had cooked for dinner and placed it on the table in front of Hanneh Breineh. "Give a taste my fish," she said, taking one slice on a spoon, and handing it to Hanneh Breineh with a piece of bread. "I wouldn't give it to you on a plate because I just cleaned out my house, and I don't want to dirty up my dishes."

"What, am I a stranger you should have to serve me on a plate yet!" cried Hanneh Breineh, snatching the fish in her trembling fingers.

"Oi weh! how it melts through all the bones!" she exclaimed, brightening as she ate. "May it be for good luck to us all!" she exulted, waving aloft the last precious bite.

Mrs. Pelz was so flattered that she even ladled up a spoonful of gravy.

"There is a bit of onion and carrot in it," she said as she handed it to her neighbor.

Hanneh Breineh sipped the gravy drop by drop, like a connoisseur sipping wine.

"Ah-h-h! a taste of that gravy lifts me up to heaven!" As she disposed leisurely of the slice of onion and carrot she relaxed and expanded and even grew jovial. "Let us wish all our troubles on the Russian Czar! Let him bust with our worries for rent! Let him get shriveled with our hunger for bread! Let his eyes dry out of his head looking for work!"

"Pshaw! I'm forgetting from everything," she exclaimed, jumping up. "It must be eleven or soon twelve, and my children will be right away out of school and fall on me like a pack of wild wolves. I better quick run to the market and see what cheaper I can get for a quarter."

Because of the lateness of her coming, the stale bread at the nearest bake-shop was sold out, and Hanneh Breineh had to trudge from shop to shop in search of the usual bargain, and spent nearly an hour to save two cents.

In the meantime the children returned from school, and, finding the door locked, climbed through the fire-escape, and entered the house through the window. Seeing nothing on the table, they rushed to the stove. Abe pulled a steaming potato out of the boiling pot, and so scalded his fingers that the potato fell to the floor; whereupon the three others pounced on it.

"It was my potato," cried Abe, blowing his burned fingers, while with the other hand and his foot he cuffed and kicked the three who were struggling on the floor. A wild fight ensued, and the potato was smashed under Abe's foot amid shouts and screams. Hanneh Breineh, on the stairs, heard the noise of her famished brood, and topped their cries with curses and invectives.

"They are here already, the savages! They are here already to shorten my life! They heard you all over the hall, in all the houses around!"

The children, disregarding her words, pounced on her market-basket, shouting ravenously: "Mama, I'm hungry! What more do you got to eat?"

They tore the bread and herring out of Hanneh Breineh's basket and devoured it in starved savagery, clamoring for more.

"Murderers!" screamed Hanneh Breineh, goaded beyond endurance. "What are you tearing from me my flesh? From where should I steal to give you more? Here I had already a pot of potatoes and a whole loaf of bread and two herrings, and you swallowed it down in the wink of an eye. I have to have Rockefeller's millions to fill your stomachs."

All at once Hanneh Breineh became aware that Benny was missing. "Oi weh!" she burst out, wringing her hands in a new wave of woe, "where is Benny? Didn't he come home yet from school?"

She ran out into the hall, opened the grime-coated window, and looked up and down the street; but Benny was nowhere in sight.

"Abe, Jake, Fanny, quick, find Benny!" entreated Hanneh Breineh as she rushed back into the kitchen. But the children, anxious to snatch a few minutes' play before the school-call, dodged past her and hurried out.

With the baby on her arm, Hanneh Breineh hastened to the kindergarten.

"Why are you keeping Benny here so long?" she shouted at the teacher as she flung open the door. "If you had my bitter heart, you would send him home long ago and not wait till I got to come for him."

The teacher turned calmly and consulted her record-cards.

"Benny Safron? He wasn't present this morning."

"Not here?" shrieked Hanneh Breineh. "I pushed him out myself he should go. The children didn't want to take him, and I had no time. Woe is me! Where is my child?" She began pulling her hair and beating her breast as she ran into the street.

Mrs. Pelz was busy at a push-cart, picking over some spotted apples, when she heard the clamor of an approaching crowd. A block off she recognized Hanneh Breineh, her hair disheveled, her clothes awry, running toward her with her yelling baby in her arms, the crowd following.

"Friend mine," cried Hanneh Breineh, falling on Mrs. Pelz's neck, "I lost my Benny, the best child of all my children." Tears streamed down her red, swollen eyes as she sobbed. "Benny! mine heart, mine life! Oi-i!"

Mrs. Pelz took the frightened baby out of the mother's arms.

"Still yourself a little! See how you're frightening your child."

"Woe to me! Where is my Benny? Maybe he's killed already by a car. Maybe he fainted away from hunger. He didn't eat nothing all day long. Gottuniu! pity yourself on me!"

She lifted her hands full of tragic entreaty.

"People, my child! Get me my child! I'll go crazy out of my head! Get me my child, or I'll take poison before your eyes!"

"Still yourself a little!" pleaded Mrs. Pelz.

"Talk not to me!" cried Hanneh Breineh, wringing her hands. "You're having all your children. I lost mine. Every good luck comes to other people. But I didn't live yet to see a good day in my life. Mine only joy, mine Benny, is lost away from me."

The crowd followed Hanneh Breineh as she wailed through the streets, leaning on Mrs. Pelz. By the time she returned to her house the children were back from school; but seeing that Benny was not there, she chased them out in the street, crying:

"Out of here, you robbers, gluttons! Go find Benny!" Hanneh Breineh crumpled into a chair in utter prostration. "Oi weh! he's lost! Mine life; my little bird; mine only joy! How many nights I spent nursing him when he had the measles! And all that I suffered for weeks and months when he had the whooping-cough! How the eyes went out of my head till I learned him how to walk, till I learned him how to talk! And such a smart child! If I lost all the others, it wouldn't tear me so by the heart."

She worked herself up into such a hysteria, crying, and tearing her hair, and hitting her head with her knuckles, that at last she fell into a faint. It took some time before Mrs. Pelz, with the aid of neighbors, revived her.

"Benny, mine angel!" she moaned as she opened her eyes.

Just then a policeman came in with the lost Benny.

"Na, na, here you got him already!" said Mrs. Pelz "Why did you carry on so for nothing? Why did you tear up the world like a crazy?"

The child's face was streaked with tears as he cowered, frightened and forlorn. Hanneh Breineh sprang toward him, slapping his cheeks, boxing his ears, before the neighbors could rescue him from her.

"Woe on your head!" cried the mother. "Where did you lost yourself? Ain't I got enough worries on my head than to go around looking for you? I didn't have yet a minute's peace from that child since he was born."

"See a crazy mother!" remonstrated Mrs. Pelz, rescuing Benny from another beating. "Such a mouth! With one breath she blesses him when he is lost, and with the other breath she curses him when he is found."

Hanneh Breineh took from the window-sill a piece of herring covered with swarming flies, and putting it on a slice of dry bread, she filled a cup of tea that had been stewing all day, and dragged Benny over to the table to eat.

But the child, choking with tears, was unable to touch the food.

"Go eat!" commanded Hanneh Breineh. "Eat and choke yourself eating!"

* * *

"Maybe she won't remember me no more. Maybe the servant won't let me in," thought Mrs. Pelz as she walked by the brownstone house on Eighty-fourth Street where she had been told Hanneh Breineh now lived. At last she summoned up enough courage to climb the steps. She was all out of breath as she rang the bell with trembling fingers. "Oi weh! even the outside smells riches and plenty! Such curtains! And shades on all windows like by millionaires! Twenty years ago she used to eat from the pot to the hand, and now she lives in such a palace."

A whiff of steam-heated warmth swept over Mrs. Pelz as the door opened, and she saw her old friend of the tenements dressed in silk and diamonds like a being from another world.

"Mrs. Pelz, is it you!" cried Hanneh Breineh, overjoyed at the sight of her former neighbor. "Come right in. Since when are you back in New York?"

"We came last week," mumbled Mrs. Pelz as she was led into a richly carpeted reception-room.

"Make yourself comfortable. Take off your shawl," urged Hanneh Breineh.

But Mrs. Pelz only drew her shawl more tightly around her, a keen sense of her poverty gripping her as she gazed, abashed by the luxurious wealth that shone from every corner.

"This shawl covers up my rags," she said, trying to hide her shabby sweater.

"I'll tell you what; come right into the kitchen," suggested Hanneh Breineh. "The servant is away for this afternoon, and we can feel more comfortable there. I can breathe like a free person in my kitchen when the girl has her day out."

Mrs. Pelz glanced about her in an excited daze. Never in her life had she seen anything so wonderful as a white tiled kitchen, with its glistening porcelain sink and the aluminum pots and pans that shone like silver.

"Where are you staying now?" asked Hanneh Breineh as she pinned an apron over her silk dress.

"I moved back to Delancey Street, where we used to live," replied Mrs. Pelz as she seated herself cautiously in a white enameled chair.

"Oi weh! what grand times we had in that old house when we were neighbors!" sighed Hanneh Breineh, looking at her old friend with misty eyes.

"You still think on Delancey Street? Haven't you more high-class neighbors up-town here?"

"A good neighbor is not to be found every day," deplored Hanneh Breineh. "Up-town here, where each lives in his own house, nobody cares if the person next door is dying or going crazy from loneliness. It ain't anything like we used to have it in Delancey Street, when we could walk into one another's rooms without knocking, and borrow a pinch of salt or a pot to cook in."

Hanneh Breineh went over to the pantry-shelf.

"We are going to have a bite right here on the kitchen-table like on Delancey Street. So long there's no servant to watch us we can eat what we please."

"Oi! how it waters my mouth with appetite, the smell of the herring and onion!" chuckled Mrs. Pelz, sniffing the welcome odors with greedy pleasure.

Hanneh Breineh pulled a dish-towel from the rack and threw one end of it to Mrs. Pelz.

"So long there's no servant around, we can use it together for a napkin. It's dirty, anyhow. How it freshens up my heart to see you!" she rejoiced as she poured out her tea into a saucer. "If you would only know how I used to beg my daughter to write for me a letter to you; but these American children, what is to them a mother's feelings?"

"What are you talking!" cried Mrs. Pelz. "The whole world rings with you and your children. Everybody is envying you. Tell me how began your luck?"

"You heard how my husband died with consumption," replied Hanneh Breineh. "The five-hundred-dollars lodge money gave me the first lift in life, and I opened a little grocery store. Then my son Abe married himself to a girl with a thousand dollars. That started him in business, and now he has the biggest shirt-waist factory on West Twenty-ninth Street."

"Yes, I heard your son had a factory." Mrs. Pelz hesitated and stammered; "I'll tell you the truth. What I came to ask you—I thought maybe you would beg your son Abe if he would give my husband a job."

"Why not?" said Hanneh Breineh. "He keeps more than five hundred hands. I'll ask him he should take in Mr. Pelz."

"Long years on you, Hanneh Breineh! You'll save my life if you could only help my husband get work."

"Of course my son will help him. All my children like to do good. My daughter Fanny is a milliner on Fifth Avenue, and she takes in the poorest girls in her shop and even pays them sometimes while they learn the trade." Hanneh Breineh's face lit up, and her chest filled with pride as she enumerated the successes of her children.

"And my son Benny he wrote a play on Broadway and he gave away more than a hundred free tickets for the first night."

"Benny? The one who used to get lost from home all the time? You always did love that child more than all the rest. And what is Sammy your baby doing?"

"He ain't a baby no longer. He goes to college and quarterbacks the football team. They can't get along without him.

"And my son Jake, I nearly forgot him. He began collecting rent in Delancey Street, and now he is boss of renting the swellest apartment-houses on Riverside Drive."

"What did I tell you? In America children are like money in the bank," purred Mrs. Pelz as she pinched and patted Hanneh Breineh's silk sleeve. "Oi weh! how it shines from you! You ought to kiss the air and dance for joy and happiness. It is such a bitter frost outside; a pail of coal is so dear, and you got it so warm with steam-heat. I had to pawn my feather-bed to have enough for the rent, and you are rolling in money."

"Yes, I got it good in some ways, but money ain't everything," sighed Hanneh Breineh.

"You ain't yet satisfied?"

"But here I got no friends," complained Hanneh Breineh.

"Friends?" queried Mrs. Pelz. "What greater friend is there on earth than the dollar?"

"Oi! Mrs. Pelz; if you could only look into my heart! I'm so choked up! You know they say, a cow has a long tongue, but can't talk." Hanneh Breineh shook her head wistfully, and her eyes filmed with inward brooding. "My children give me everything from the best. When I was sick, they got me a nurse by day and one by night. They bought me the best wine. If I asked for dove's milk, they would buy it for me; but—but—I can't talk myself out in their language. They want to make me over for an American lady, and I'm different." Tears cut their way under her eyelids with a pricking pain as she went on: "When I was poor, I was free, and could holler and do what I like in my own house. Here I got to lie still like a mouse under a broom. Between living up to my Fifth Avenue daughter and keeping up with the servants I am like a sinner in the next world that is thrown from one hell to another."

The door-bell rang, and Hanneh Breineh jumped up with a start.

"Oi weh! it must be the servant back already!" she exclaimed as she tore off her apron. "Oi weh! let's quickly put the dishes together in a dish-pan. If she sees I eat on the kitchen table, she will look on me like the dirt under her feet."

Mrs. Pelz seized her shawl in haste.

"I better run home quick in my rags before your servant sees me."

"I'll speak to Abe about the job," said Hanneh Breineh as she pushed a bill into the hand of Mrs. Pelz, who edged out as the servant entered.

* * *

"I'm having fried potato lotkes special for you, Benny," said Hanneh Breineh as the children gathered about the table for the family dinner given in honor of Benny's success with his new play. "Do you remember how you used to lick the fingers from them?"

"O Mother!" reproved Fanny. "Anyone hearing you would think we were still in the push-cart district."

"Stop your nagging, Sis, and let ma alone," commanded Benny, patting his mother's arm affectionately. "I'm home only once a month. Let her feed me what she pleases. My stomach is bomb-proof."

"Do I hear that the President is coming to your play?" said Abe as he stuffed a napkin over his diamond-studded shirt-front.

"Why shouldn't he come?" returned Benny. "The critics say it's the greatest antidote for the race hatred created by the war. If you want to know, he is coming to-night; and what's more, our box is next to the President's."

"Nu, Mammeh," sallied Jake, "did you ever dream in Delancey Street that we should rub sleeves with the President?"

"I always said that Benny had more head than the rest of you," replied the mother.

As the laughter died away, Jake went on:

"Honor you are getting plenty; but how much mezummen does this play bring you? Can I invest any of it in real estate for you?"

"I'm getting ten per cent. royalties of the gross receipts," replied the youthful playwright.

"How much is that?" queried Hanneh Breineh.

"Enough to buy up all your fish markets in Delancey Street," laughed Abe in good-natured raillery at his mother.

Her son's jest cut like a knife-thrust in her heart. She felt her heart ache with the pain that she was shut out from their successes. Each added triumph only widened the gulf. And when she tried to bridge this gulf by asking questions, they only thrust her back upon herself.

"Your fame has even helped me get my hat trade solid with the Four Hundred," put in Fanny. "You bet I let Mrs. Van Suyden know that our box is next to the President's. She said she would drop in to meet you. Of course she let on to me that she hadn't seen the play yet, though my designer said she saw her there on the opening night."

"Oh, Gosh! the toadies!" sneered Benny. "Nothing so sickens you with success as the way people who once shoved you off the sidewalk come crawling to you on their stomachs begging you to dine with them."

"Say, that leading man of yours he's some class," cried Fanny. "That's the man I'm looking for. Will you invite him to supper after the theater?"

The playwright turned to his mother.

"Say, Ma," he said laughingly, "how would you like a real actor for a son-in-law?"

"She should worry," mocked Sam. "She'll be discussing with him the future of the Greek drama. Too bad it doesn't happen to be Warfield, or mother could give him tips on the 'Auctioneer.'"

Jake turned to his mother with a covert grin.

"I guess you'd have no objection if Fanny got next to Benny's leading man. He makes at least fifteen hundred a week. That wouldn't be such a bad addition to the family, would it?"

Again the bantering tone stabbed Hanneh Breineh. Everything in her began to tremble and break loose.

"Why do you ask me?" she cried, throwing her napkin into her plate. "Do I count for a person in this house? If I'll say something, will you even listen to me? What is to me the grandest man that my daughter could pick out? Another enemy in my house! Another person to shame himself from me!" She swept in her children in one glance of despairing anguish as she rose from the table. "What worth is an old mother to American children? The President is coming to-night to the theater, and none of you asked me to go." Unable to check the rising tears, she fled toward the kitchen and banged the door.

They all looked at one another guiltily.

"Say, Sis," Benny called out sharply, "what sort of frame-up is this? Haven't you told mother that she was to go with us to-night?"

"Yes—I——" Fanny bit her lips as she fumbled evasively for words. "I asked her if she wouldn't mind my taking her some other time."

"Now you have made a mess of it!" fumed Benny. "Mother'll be too hurt to go now."

"Well, I don't care," snapped Fanny. "I can't appear with mother in a box at the theater. Can I introduce her to Mrs. Van Suyden? And suppose your leading man should ask to meet me?"

"Take your time, Sis. He hasn't asked yet," scoffed Benny.

"The more reason I shouldn't spoil my chances. You know mother. She'll spill the beans that we come from Delancey Street the minute we introduce her anywhere. Must I always have the black shadow of my past trailing after me?"

"But have you no feelings for mother?" admonished Abe.

"I've tried harder than all of you to do my duty. I've lived with her." She turned angrily upon them. "I've borne the shame of mother while you bought her off with a present and a treat here and there. God knows how hard I tried to civilize her so as not to have to blush with shame when I take her anywhere. I dressed her in the most stylish Paris models, but Delancey Street sticks out from every inch of her. Whenever she opens her mouth, I'm done for. You fellows had your chance to rise in the world because a man is free to go up as high as he can reach up to; but I, with all my style and pep, can't get a man my equal because a girl is always judged by her mother."

They were silenced by her vehemence, and unconsciously turned to Benny.

"I guess we all tried to do our best for mother," said Benny, thoughtfully. "But wherever there is growth, there is pain and heartbreak. The trouble with us is that the Ghetto of the Middle Ages and the children of the twentieth century have to live under one roof, and——"

A sound of crashing dishes came from the kitchen, and the voice of Hanneh Breineh resounded through the dining-room as she wreaked her pent-up fury on the helpless servant.

"Oh, my nerves! I can't stand it any more! There will be no girl again for another week," cried Fanny.

"Oh, let up on the old lady," protested Abe. "Since she can't take it out on us any more, what harm is it if she cusses the servants?"

"If you fellows had to chase around employment agencies, you wouldn't see anything funny about it. Why can't we move into a hotel that will do away with the need of servants altogether?"

"I got it better," said Jake, consulting a note-book from his pocket. "I have on my list an apartment on Riverside Drive where there's only a small kitchenette; but we can do away with the cooking, for there is a dining service in the building."

The new Riverside apartment to which Hanneh Breineh was removed by her socially ambitious children was for the habitually active mother an empty desert of enforced idleness. Deprived of her kitchen, Hanneh Breineh felt robbed of the last reason for her existence. Cooking and marketing and puttering busily with pots and pans gave her an excuse for living and struggling and bearing up with her children. The lonely idleness of Riverside Drive stunned all her senses and arrested all her thoughts. It gave her that choked sense of being cut off from air, from life, from everything warm and human. The cold indifference, the each-for-himself look in the eyes of the people about her were like stinging slaps in the face. Even the children had nothing real or human in them. They were starched and stiff miniatures of their elders.

But the most unendurable part of the stifling life on Riverside Drive was being forced to eat in the public dining-room. No matter how hard she tried to learn polite table manners, she always found people staring at her, and her daughter rebuking her for eating with the wrong fork or guzzling the soup or staining the cloth.

In a fit of rebellion Hanneh Breineh resolved never to go down to the public dining-room again, but to make use of the gas-stove in the kitchenette to cook her own meals. That very day she rode down to Delancey Street and purchased a new market-basket. For some time she walked among the haggling push-cart venders, relaxing and swimming in the warm waves of her old familiar past.

A fish-peddler held up a large carp in his black, hairy hand and waved it dramatically:

"Women! Women! Fourteen cents a pound!"

He ceased his raucous shouting as he saw Hanneh Breineh in her rich attire approach his cart.

"How much?" she asked pointing to the fattest carp.

"Fifteen cents, lady," said the peddler, smirking as he raised his price.

"Swindler! Didn't I hear you call fourteen cents?" shrieked Hanneh Breineh, exultingly, the spirit of the penny chase surging in her blood. Diplomatically, Hanneh Breineh turned as if to go, and the fishman seized her basket in frantic fear.

"I should live; I'm losing money on the fish, lady," whined the peddler. "I'll let it down to thirteen cents for you only."

"Two pounds for a quarter, and not a penny more," said Hanneh Breineh, thrilling again with the rare sport of bargaining, which had been her chief joy in the good old days of poverty.

"Nu, I want to make the first sale for good luck." The peddler threw the fish on the scale.

As he wrapped up the fish, Hanneh Breineh saw the driven look of worry in his haggard eyes, and when he counted out for her the change from her dollar, she waved it aside.

"Keep it for your luck," she said, and hurried off to strike a new bargain at a push-cart of onions.

Hanneh Breineh returned triumphantly with her purchases. The basket under her arm gave forth the old, homelike odors of herring and garlic, while the scaly tail of a four-pound carp protruded from its newspaper wrapping. A gilded placard on the door of the apartment-house proclaimed that all merchandise must be delivered through the trade entrance in the rear; but Hanneh Breineh with her basket strode proudly through the marble-paneled hall and rang nonchalantly for the elevator.

The uniformed hall-man, erect, expressionless, frigid with dignity, stepped forward:

"Just a minute, Madam, I'll call a boy to take up your basket for you."

Hanneh Breineh, glaring at him, jerked the basket savagely from his hands.

"Mind your own business," she retorted. "I'll take it up myself. Do you think you're a Russian policeman to boss me in my own house?"

Angry lines appeared on the countenance of the representative of social decorum.

"It is against the rules, Madam," he said stiffly.

"You should sink into the earth with all your rules and brass buttons. Ain't this America? Ain't this a free country? Can't I take up in my own house what I buy with my own money?" cried Hanneh Breineh, reveling in the opportunity to shower forth the volley of invectives that had been suppressed in her for the weeks of deadly dignity of Riverside Drive.

In the midst of this uproar Fanny came in with Mrs. Van Suyden. Hanneh Breineh rushed over to her, crying:

"This bossy policeman won't let me take up my basket in the elevator."

The daughter, unnerved with shame and confusion, took the basket in her white-gloved hand and ordered the hall-boy to take it around to the regular delivery entrance.

Hanneh Breineh was so hurt by her daughter's apparent defense of the hallman's rules that she utterly ignored Mrs. Van Suyden's greeting and walked up the seven flights of stairs out of sheer spite.

"You see the tragedy of my life?" broke out Fanny, turning to Mrs. Van Suyden.

"You poor child! You go right up to your dear, old lady mother, and I'll come some other time."

Instantly Fanny regretted her words. Mrs. Van Suyden's pity only roused her wrath the more against her mother.

Breathless from climbing the stairs, Hanneh Breineh entered the apartment just as Fanny tore the faultless millinery creation from her head and threw it on the floor in a rage.

"Mother, you are the ruination of my life! You have driven away Mrs. Van Suyden, as you have driven away all my best friends. What do you think we got this apartment for but to get rid of your fish smells and your brawls with the servants? And here you come with a basket on your arm as if you just landed from steerage! And this afternoon, of all times, when Benny is bringing his leading man to tea. When will you ever stop disgracing us?"

"When I'm dead," said Hanneh Breineh, grimly. "When the earth will cover me up, then you'll be free to go your American way. I'm not going to make myself over for a lady on Riverside Drive. I hate you and all your swell friends. I'll not let myself be choked up here by you or by that hall-boss-policeman that is higher in your eyes than your own mother."

"So that's your thanks for all we've done for you?" cried the daughter.

"All you've done for me?" shouted Hanneh Breineh. "What have you done for me? You hold me like a dog on a chain. It stands in the Talmud; some children give their mothers dry bread and water and go to heaven for it, and some give their mother roast duck and go to Gehenna because it's not given with love."

"You want me to love you yet?" raged the daughter. "You knocked every bit of love out of me when I was yet a kid. All the memories of childhood I have is your everlasting cursing and yelling that we were gluttons."

The bell rang sharply, and Hanneh Breineh flung open the door.

"Your groceries, ma'am," said the boy.

Hanneh Breineh seized the basket from him, and with a vicious fling sent it rolling across the room, strewing its contents over the Persian rugs and inlaid floor. Then seizing her hat and coat, she stormed out of the apartment and down the stairs.

Mr. and Mrs. Pelz sat crouched and shivering over their meager supper when the door opened, and Hanneh Breineh in fur coat and plumed hat charged into the room.

"I come to cry out to you my bitter heart," she sobbed. "Woe is me! It is so black for my eyes!"

"What is the matter with you, Hanneh Breineh?" cried Mrs. Pelz in bewildered alarm.

"I am turned out of my own house by the brass-buttoned policeman that bosses the elevator. Oi-i-i-i! Weh-h-h-h! what have I from my life? The whole world rings with my son's play. Even the President came to see it, and I, his mother, have not seen it yet. My heart is dying in me like in a prison," she went on wailing. "I am starved out for a piece of real eating. In that swell restaurant is nothing but napkins and forks and lettuce-leaves. There are a dozen plates to every bite of food. And it looks so fancy on the plate, but it's nothing but straw in the mouth. I'm starving, but I can't swallow down their American eating."

"Hanneh Breineh," said Mrs. Pelz, "you are sinning before God. Look on your fur coat; it alone would feed a whole family for a year. I never had yet a piece of fur trimming on a coat, and you are in fur from the neck to the feet. I never had yet a piece of feather on a hat, and your hat is all feathers."

"What are you envying me?" protested Hanneh Breineh. "What have I from all my fine furs and feathers when my children are strangers to me? All the fur coats in the world can't warm up the loneliness inside my heart. All the grandest feathers can't hide the bitter shame in my face that my children shame themselves from me."

Hanneh Breineh suddenly loomed over them like some ancient, heroic figure of the Bible condemning unrighteousness.

"Why should my children shame themselves from me? From where did they get the stuff to work themselves up in the world? Did they get it from the air? How did they get all their smartness to rise over the people around them? Why don't the children of born American mothers write my Benny's plays? It is I, who never had a chance to be a person, who gave him the fire in his head. If I would have had a chance to go to school and learn the language, what couldn't I have been? It is I and my mother and my mother's mother and my father and father's father who had such a black life in Poland; it is our choked thoughts and feelings that are flaming up in my children and making them great in America. And yet they shame themselves from me!"

For a moment Mr. and Mrs. Pelz were hypnotized by the sweep of her words. Then Hanneh Breineh sank into a chair in utter exhaustion. She began to weep bitterly, her body shaking with sobs.

"Woe is me! For what did I suffer and hope on my children? A bitter old age—my end. I'm so lonely!"

All the dramatic fire seemed to have left her. The spell was broken. They saw the Hanneh Breineh of old, ever discontented, ever complaining even in the midst of riches and plenty.

"Hanneh Breineh," said Mrs. Pelz, "the only trouble with you is that you got it too good. People will tear the eyes out of your head because you're complaining yet. If I only had your fur coat! If I only had your diamonds! I have nothing. You have everything. You are living on the fat of the land. You go right back home and thank God that you don't have my bitter lot."

"You got to let me stay here with you," insisted Hanneh Breineh. "I'll not go back to my children except when they bury me. When they will see my dead face, they will understand how they killed me."

Mrs. Pelz glanced nervously at her husband. They barely had enough covering for their one bed; how could they possibly lodge a visitor?

"I don't want to take up your bed," said Hanneh Breineh. "I don't care if I have to sleep on the floor or on the chairs, but I'll stay here for the night."

Seeing that she was bent on staying, Mr. Pelz prepared to sleep by putting a few chairs next to the trunk, and Hanneh Breineh was invited to share the rickety bed with Mrs. Pelz.

The mattress was full of lumps and hollows. Hanneh Breineh lay cramped and miserable, unable to stretch out her limbs. For years she had been accustomed to hair mattresses and ample woolen blankets, so that though she covered herself with her fur coat, she was too cold to sleep. But worse than the cold were the creeping things on the wall. And as the lights were turned low, the mice came through the broken plaster and raced across the floor. The foul odors of the kitchen-sink added to the night of horrors.

"Are you going back home?" asked Mrs. Pelz as Hanneh Breineh put on her hat and coat the next morning.

"I don't know where I'm going," she replied as she put a bill into Mrs. Pelz's hand.

For hours Hanneh Breineh walked through the crowded Ghetto streets. She realized that she no longer could endure the sordid ugliness of her past, and yet she could not go home to her children. She only felt that she must go on and on.

In the afternoon a cold, drizzling rain set in. She was worn out from the sleepless night and hours of tramping. With a piercing pain in her heart she at last turned back and boarded the subway for Riverside Drive. She had fled from the marble sepulcher of the Riverside apartment to her old home in the Ghetto; but now she knew that she could not live there again. She had outgrown her past by the habits of years of physical comforts, and these material comforts that she could no longer do without choked and crushed the life within her.

A cold shudder went through Hanneh Breineh as she approached the apartment-house. Peering through the plate glass of the door she saw the face of the uniformed hall-man. For a hesitating moment she remained standing in the drizzling rain, unable to enter and yet knowing full well that she would have to enter.

Then suddenly Hanneh Breineh began to laugh. She realized that it was the first time she had laughed since her children had become rich. But it was the hard laugh of bitter sorrow. Tears streamed down her furrowed cheeks as she walked slowly up the granite steps.

"The fat of the land!" muttered Hanneh Breineh, with a choking sob as the hall-man with immobile face deferentially swung open the door—"the fat of the land!"



THE YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY

NOVEMBER, 1918, TO SEPTEMBER, 1919

ADDRESSES OF AMERICAN MAGAZINES PUBLISHING SHORT STORIES

NOTE. This address list does not aim to be complete, but is based simply on the magazines which I have considered for this volume.

Adventure, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City.

Ainslee's Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City.

All-Story Weekly, 280 Broadway, New York City.

American Boy, 142 Lafayette Boulevard, Detroit, Michigan.

American Magazine, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.

Argosy, 280 Broadway, New York City.

Atlantic Monthly, 41 Mt. Vernon Street, Boston, Mass.

Black Cat, Salem, Mass.

Catholic World, 120 West 60th Street, New York City.

Century, 353 Fourth Avenue, New York City.

Christian Herald, Bible House, New York City.

Collier's Weekly, 416 West 13th Street, New York City.

Cosmopolitan Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.

Delineator, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City.

Everybody's Magazine, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City.

Good Housekeeping, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.

Harper's Bazaar, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.

Harper's Magazine, Franklin Square, New York City.

Hearst's Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City.

Ladies' Home Journal, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa.

Liberator, 34 Union Square, East, New York City.

Little Review, 24 West 16th Street, New York City.

Live Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City.

McCall's Magazine, 236 West 37th Street, New York City.

McClure's Magazine, 76 Fifth Avenue, New York City.

Magnificat, Manchester, N. H.

Metropolitan, 432 Fourth Avenue, New York City.

Midland, Moorhead, Minn.

Munsey's Magazine, 280 Broadway, New York City.

Outlook, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.

Pagan, 7 East 15th Street, New York City.

Parisienne, 25 West 45th Street, New York City.

Pictorial Review, 216 West 39th Street, New York City.

Queen's Work, 3200 Russell Avenue, St. Louis, Mo.

Red Book Magazine, North American Building, Chicago, Ill.

Reedy's Mirror, Syndicate Trust Building, St. Louis, Mo.

Saturday Evening Post, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa.

Scribner's Magazine, 597 Fifth Avenue, New York City.

Short Stories, Garden City, Long Island, N. Y.

Smart Set, 25 West 45th Street, New York City.

Snappy Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City.

Stratford Journal, 32 Oliver Street, Boston, Mass.

Sunset, 460 Fourth Street, San Francisco, Cal.

Today's Housewife, Cooperstown, N. Y.

Touchstone, 1 West 47th Street, New York City.

Woman's Home Companion, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.

Woman's World, 107 South Clinton Street, Chicago, Ill.



THE BIOGRAPHICAL ROLL OF HONOR OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES

NOVEMBER, 1918, TO SEPTEMBER, 1919

NOTE. Only stories by American authors are listed. The best sixty stories are indicated by an asterisk before the title of the story. The index figures 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 prefixed to the name of the author indicate that his work has been included in the Rolls of Honor for 1914, 1915, 1916, 1917, and 1918 respectively. The list excludes reprints.

(5) ABDULLAH, ACHMED (for biography, see 1918). Dance on the Hill. *Honorable Gentleman.

ALSOP, GULIELMA FELL. Born in Allegheny, Pa., graduated from Barnard College and from the Woman's Medical College of Pennsylvania, spent a year in special work at Vienna, and became attached to St. Elizabeth's Mission Hospital for Chinese women and children at Shanghai, China, where she eventually became physician-in-charge. She has travelled widely in Europe and Africa and her first volume will be published shortly. *Kitchen Gods.

(345) ANDERSON, SHERWOOD (for biography, see 1917). *Awakening.

(345) ANDREWS, MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN (for biography, see 1917). Queen.

(345) BABCOCK, EDWINA STANTON (for biography, see 1917). *Facing It. *Willum's Vanilla.

BARNES, DJUNA. Born at Cornwall-on-Hudson, N. Y., in 1892. Educated at home. Chief interests: drawing and writing. Author of "Book of Repulsive Women," 1915, and "Passion Play," 1918. Lives in New York City. *Night among the Horses. Valet.

BARTLETT, FREDERICK ORIN. Born at Haverhill, Mass., in 1876, educated at Proctor Academy, Hanover, N. H., and Harvard University. Spent six years in newspaper work on Boston papers. Author of "Mistress Dorothy," 1901; "Joan of the Alley," 1905; "Web of the Golden Spider," 1909; "Seventh Noon," 1910; "Prodigal Pro Tem," 1911; "Forest Castaways," 1911; "Lady of the Lane," 1912; "Guardian," 1912; "Whippen," 1913; "Wall Street Girl," 1916; "Triflers," 1917, and many short stories. Lives in Cambridge, Mass. *Long, Long Ago.

(234) BROWN, ALICE (for biography, see 1917). Praying Sally.

(5) BROWNELL, AGNES MARY (for biography, see 1918). *Dishes. *Love's Labor.

(3) BURNET, DANA. Born at Cincinnati, Ohio, 1888, and educated at Woodward High School, Cincinnati, and Cornell University. Connected with the New York Evening Sun since 1911. Author of "Poems," 1915; "Shining Adventure," 1916, and many short stories. Lives in New York City. Butterfly. Orchid.

(145) BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS (for biography, see 1917).

* Blood-Red One.

Shining Armor.

(5) CABELL, JAMES BRANCH (for biography, see 1918). * Wedding Jest.

CAYLOR, N. G. * Area of a Cylinder.

COHEN, OCTAVUS ROY. Born at Charleston, S. C., in 1891. Educated at Porter Military Academy and Clemson College. Married Inez Lopez, 1914. Civil engineer 1909 and 1910; newspaper man 1910-12; practised law 1913 to 1915, since which he has devoted himself exclusively to writing. Author of "The Other Woman," 1917 (with J. V. Glesy); "Six Seconds of Darkness," 1918; "Polished Ebony," 1919. Lives in Birmingham, Ala. Queer House.

COLLIER, TARLETON. Gracious Veil.

(2) COMFORT, WILL LEVINGTON. Born at Kalamazoo, Mich., 1878. Educated in the Detroit public schools, served in Fifth U.S. Cavalry during the Spanish-American War, and as war correspondent in the Philippines, China, Russia and Japan, 1899 to 1904. Author of "Routledge Rides Alone," 1910; "Fate Knocks at the Door," 1912; "Down Among Men," 1913; "Midstream," 1914; "Red Fleece," 1915; "Lot and Company," 1915; "Child and Country," 1916; "The Hive," 1918. Lives in Santa Monica, Cal. Skag.

(24) COWDERY, ALICE (for biography, see 1917). Spiral.

CRAM, MILDRED. Born in Washington, D. C, 1889. After four years of study in New York private schools, went abroad for six years of travel. Chief interests: music, the theater, house-keeping, and short stories. First short story: "A Stab at Happiness," published in All-Story Weekly, 1915. Author of "Old Seaport Towns of the South," 1917, and "Lotus Salad," 1920. Lives in New York City. McCarthy.

CRANSTON, CLAUDIA. *Invisible Garden.

(45) DOBIE, CHARLES CALDWELL (for biography, see 1917). Called to Service.

(3) DREISER, THEODORE. Born at Terre Haute, Ind., 1871. Educated in the public schools of Warsaw, Ind., and Indiana University, and married in 1898. Engaged in newspaper work in Chicago and St. Louis, 1892-4; editor of Every Month. 1895-8; special editorial work, 1898-1905; editor of Smith's Magazine, 1905-6; Broadway Magazine, 1906-7; Butterick publications, 1907-10. Organized National Child's Rescue campaign, 1907. Author of "Sister Carrie," 1900; "Jennie Gerhardt," 1911; "Financier," 1912; "Traveller at Forty," 1913; "Titan," 1914; "Junius," 1915; "Plays of the Natural and Supernatural," 1916; "Hoosier Holiday," 1916; "Free," 1918; "Twelve Men," 1919; "Hand of the Potter," 1919; "Hey-Rub-a-Dub," 1920; "Bulwark," 1920. Lives in New York City. *Old Neighborhood.

(5) "ELDERLY SPINSTER" (Margaret Wilson) (for biography, see 1918). Mother.

FISH, HORACE. Born in New York City, 1885. His first story, "Fuego," was published in Harper's Magazine in 1912. He lives in New York City. *Wrists on the Door.

(45) GEER, CORNELIA THROOP (for biography, see 1918). Study in Light and Shade.

GILLMORE, INEZ HAYNES. See IRWIN, INEZ HAYNES.

GIOVANNITTI, ARTURO. *Eighth Day.

(45) GLASPELL, SUSAN. (for biography, see 1917). *Busy Duck. *"Government Goat." *Pollen.

(5) GOODMAN, HENRY (for biography, see 1918). *Stone.

(5) HALL, MAY EMERY (for biography, see 1918). Lamp of Remembrance.

(34) HALLET, RICHARD MATTHEWS (for biography, see 1917). *Anchor. *To the Bitter End.

HARRISON, DON. *Mixing.

HARRISON, GROVER. Greatest Gift.

(25) HECHT, BEN (for biography, see 1918). Dog Eat Dog. Yellow Goat.

(5) HERGESHEIMER, JOSEPH (for biography, see 1918). *Meeker Ritual.

(2345) HURST, FANNIE (for biography, see 1917). *Humoresque.

IMRIE, WALTER MCLAREN. A young Canadian writer, who served in the Canadian Hospital Service during the war. Lives in Toronto, Ont. Daybreak.

INGERSOLL, WILL E. Born at High Bluff, Manitoba, in 1880. Two months later his father continued his journey west to Shoal Lake, Manitoba, where he took up a homestead. Received his education partly at the village school, partly from the Anglican clergyman who was a friend of his father, but mostly from a trunk full of books which his father and mother had brought from the East. Came to Winnipeg in his early twenties with one hundred and fifty dollars; hired a garret and wrote hard while the money lasted; placed his first story with Everybody's Magazine, August, 1905, and has been in journalism since. He is now on the Winnipeg Free Press. Author of "Road that Led Home," 1918. Lives in Winnipeg, Manitoba. *Centenarian.

(3) IRWIN, INEZ HAYNES (INEZ HAYNES GILLMORE). Born at Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, in 1873. Educated in the Girls' High School and Normal School, Boston, and Radcliffe College. Married to Will Irwin. Author of "June Jeopardy," 1908; "Maida's Little Shop," 1910; "Phoebe and Ernest," 1910; "Janey," 1911; "Phoebe, Ernest and Cupid," 1912; "Angel Island," 1913; "Ollivant Orphans," 1915; "Lady of Kingdoms," 1917. Lives in Scituate, Mass. Treasure.

IRWIN, WALLACE. Born at Oneida, N. Y., 1876. Educated at Denver High School and Leland Stanford University. Engaged in newspaper work in San Francisco, 1901; editor of Overland Monthly, 1902; on the staff of Collier's Weekly, 1906-7; member of Committee on Public Information, 1917-19. Author of "Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum," 1902; "Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, Jr.," 1902; "Fairy Tales up to Now," 1904; "Nautical Lays of a Landsman," 1904; "At the Sign of the Dollar," 1904; "Chinatown Ballads," 1905; "Random Rhymes and Odd Numbers," 1906; "Letters of a Japanese School Boy," 1909; "Mr. Togo, Maid of All Work," 1913; "Pilgrims into Folly," 1917. Lives in New York City. *Wandering Stars.

(25) JOHNSTON, ARTHUR (for biography, see 1918). *Riders in the Dark.

(12) JOHNSTON, CALVIN. Born at Springfield, Mo., October 6, 1876. Educated in the common schools. Short story writer. Chief interests: Establishing National Commercial Airways; writing posthumous novel. Author of "The Pariah," published in Harper's Weekly, December 9, 1905; "Veteran's Last Campaign," Harper's Monthly, June, 1906. *Messengers.

JONES, HOWARD MUMFORD. *Mrs. Drainger's Veil.

(45) KLINE, BURTON (for biography, see 1917). Living Ghost.

LA MOTTE, ELLEN N. *Under a Wine-Glass.

(5) LIEBERMAN, ELIAS (for biography, see 1918). *Thing of Beauty.

(4) LONDON, JACK (for biography, see 1917). On the Makaloa Mat.

MACMANUS, SEUMAS. Far Adventures of Billy Burns. Tinker of Tamlacht.

MAXWELL, HELENA. Born November 22, 1896, in Iowa City, Iowa. Her father was Scotch, and was a surgeon in the regular army at the time of the Spanish-American War. Lived most of her life in Iowa. Attended school in Washington, D. C. Lived much in the South. Now a Senior at the University of Idaho, at Moscow, Idaho, where her husband, Baker Brownell, is an assistant professor of journalism. Chief interests, aside from writing, are Bach, the New Republic, woman suffrage, and climbing mountains. First story was written at the age of nine, offered to The Youth's Companion for $100. It was not accepted. First published story was in The Pagan, September, 1919, "West of Topeka."

(2) MITCHELL, MARY ESTHER. Born in New York City, 1863. Educated at the public schools of Bath, Me., and Radcliffe College. First short story published in the Youth's Companion, 1892 or 1893. Lives in Arlington, Mass. Jonas and the Tide.

(3) MONTAGUE, MARGARET PRESCOTT. Born at White Sulphur Springs, W. Va., in 1878, and educated at home and in private schools. Author of "The Poet, Miss Kate and I," 1905; "Sowing of Alderson Cree," 1907; "In Calvert's Valley," 1908; "Linda," 1912; "Closed Doors," 1915. Lives in White Sulphur Springs, W. Va. *England to America.

MORAVSKY, MARIA. Born in Warsaw, Poland, Dec. 31, 1890. Received her primary school education in Poland and University education in Russia. Came to America in 1917. First short story published in English, "Friendship of Men," Harper's Magazine, Feb., 1919. Chief interests, poetry, travelling, psychology, and the welfare of humanity. Published several books in Russian between 1914 and 1917, including "By the Harbor," "Cinderella Thinks," "Orange Peels," and "Flowers in the Cellar." Used to write stories for the leading Russian magazines. "I think America taught me how to write better fiction, for the art of short story writing is more highly developed here. At first I wrote in Polish, then in Russian. I changed to English because yours is the richest language in the world. I try reverently to learn it well." Lives in New York City. Friendship of Men.

MURRAY, ROY IRVING. *First Commandment with Promise.

MUTH, EDNA TUCKER. White Wake.

NICHOLL, LOUISE TOWNSEND. Born in Scotch Plains, N. J., in 1890, graduated from Smith College and has been on the staff of the New York Evening Post since 1913. Her chief interest is poetry, and she is now Associate Editor of Contemporary Verse. She is the author of a critical volume on John Masefield, to be published this season. Lives in New York City. Her first short story, "The Little Light," was published in the Stratford Journal in February, 1919. Little Light.

(4) NORTON, ROY (for biography, see 1917). This Hero Thing.

PAGE, HELEN. Born in Chestnut Hill, Mass., 1892. Graduated from the Misses Brown School, Providence, R. I., and Pratt Institute, Brooklyn, N. Y. Has been an errand girl in a department store, sold coats and suits, clerked in a book section, written advertising copy for woman's wear, written free lance articles, done publicity work, and is now conducting a tea room in Greenwich Village, New York City. "Rebound" is her first published story. *Rebound.

(5) PATTERSON, NORMA (for biography, see 1918). What They Brought Out of France.

(5) PAYNE, WILL (for biography, see 1918). Best-Laid Plan.

(2) PICKTHALL, MARJORIE L. Third Generation. (5) PRATT, LUCY (for biography, see 1918). *Man Who Looked Back.

RAVENEL, BEATRICE. Born in Charleston, South Carolina. Educated at private school and Radcliffe, specializing in English. Chief interest: her daughter of fifteen, and books. First short story published in the Harvard Advocate, 1891. Lives in Charleston, South Carolina. High Cost of Conscience.

RENDEL, LAWRENCE. Mother.

(35) SEDGWICK, ANNE DOUGLAS (MRS. BASIL DE SELINCOURT) (for biography, see 1918). *Autumn Crocuses. *Evening Primroses.

SEIFFERT, MARJORIE ALLEN. Born in Moline, Ill. Studied music for seven years and composed many songs, married and has two children. Began writing poetry in 1915, and short stories in 1918. First story published, "The Neighbor," Reedy's Mirror, Oct. 25, 1918. Graduate of Smith College. Author of "A Woman of Thirty," 1919. Lives in Moline, Ill. Peddler.

SIDNEY, ROSE. Grapes of the San Jacinto.

(12345) SINGMASTER, ELSIE (for biography, see 1917). Recompense.

SOLON, ISRAEL. Was born in the government of Grodno, Russia, in 1875 or 1876. Came to Chicago in 1889. "My interest in writing goes back to my earliest memories of myself. I can still see myself as a little boy of three or four, sitting of Sabbath evenings, rubbing my eyes with my fists while my father recites wondrous tales of men and beasts in lands and times far removed from our own. I began reading for myself about the age of six or seven, and have kept at it ever since." Education acquired at odd times and places, after working hours and between working periods; took English courses at Lewis Institute, Chicago. Has been both an amateur and a professional labor agitator. All his interests concern themselves with social and intellectual problems. First story, "The Glorious Surrender," published in The Bulletin of the International Glove Workers' Union, April and May, 1912. Now lives in New York City. *"Boulevard."

(2345) STEELE, WILBUR DANIEL (for biography, see 1917). *Accomplice After the Fact. *"For They Know Not What They Do." *For Where Is Your Fortune Now? *Goodfellow. *Heart of a Woman. *"La Guiablesse." *Luck.

SUTHERLAND, MARJORIE. School Teacher.

(1234) SYNON, MARY (for biography, see 1917). *Loaded Dice.

(5) VENABLE, EDWARD C. Race.

(345) VORSE, MARY HEATON (for biography, see 1917). *Gift of Courage. *Man's Son. *Other Room. *Treasure.

(5) WILLIAMS, BEN AMES (for biography, see 1918). *Field of Honor.

WILLIAMS, MARGARET CLARK. *Drunken Passenger.

WILSON, MARGARET ADELAIDE. Perfect Interval.

WOOD, JULIA FRANCIS. Born in Leavenworth, Kansas, but has always lived in Kansas City, Mo. Educated at Smith College, Columbia University, and University of Madrid, Spain. Teaches French in a private school. Chief interests: people, travel, and the theatre. First short story, "Cupid and Jimmy Curtis," Century, Oct., 1910. "It Is the Spirit that Quickeneth."

WORMSER, G. RANGER. Child Who Forgot to Sing. Little Lives.

YEAMAN, ANNA HAMILTON. Born in Rye, N. Y., and is married. She is of Southern ancestry. Was educated in private schools, and published her first short story, "Concerning Christopher," in Leslie's Monthly, 1902. Author of "My Lil' Angelo," 1903. Lives in Madison, N. J. To the Utmost.

YEZIERSKA, ANZIA. Born in Russia in 1886. Came to New York in 1895. Her schooling began in the sweatshop when she was nine years old—ten and twelve hours a day, seven days a week, for a dollar and a half. She is driven by one desire: to learn how to write. Her hours of work to earn mere bread and rent have been so long that she has never had yet a chance to learn good English in her opinion, and that is why she writes in dialect. Her first story, "The Free Vacation House," appeared in The Forum, December, 1915. Lives in New York City. *"Fat of the Land." *Miracle.



THE ROLL OF HONOR OF FOREIGN SHORT STORIES IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES

NOVEMBER, 1918, TO SEPTEMBER, 1919

NOTE. Stories of special excellence are indicated by an asterisk. The index figures 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 prefixed to the name of the author indicate that his work has been included in the Rolls of Honor for 1914, 1915, 1916, 1917, and 1918 respectively. The list excludes reprints.

I. ENGLISH AND IRISH AUTHORS

ATKEY, BERTRAM. MacKurd.

(12345) AUMONIER, STACY. *Brothers. Mrs. Huggins's Hun.

(3) BEERBOHM, MAX. *Hilary Maltby.

(34) BERESFORD, J. D. *Reparation.

(1235) BLACKWOOD, ALGERNON. *Little Beggar.

BURKE, THOMAS. Miss Plum-Blossom of Limehouse.

DE LA MARE, WALTER. Promise.

DESMOND, SHAW. Heads on the Mountain.

(45) DUDENEY, MRS. HENRY. "Missing."

(4) DUNSANY, LORD. *Last Dream of Bwona Khubla.

EDGINTON, MAY. Money.

(12345) GALSWORTHY, JOHN. *Bright Side. *Spindleberries.

JESSE, F. TENNYSON. Wanderers.

LOCKHART, LUCY. Miss Allardyce's Soldier.

MARE, WALTER DE LA. See De la Mare, Walter.

(45) MORDAUNT, ELINOR. *Peepers All. *Set to Partners.

ROBINSON, LENNOX. *Sponge.

(34) WYLIE, I. A. R. *Colonel Tibbit Comes Home. *John Prettyman's Fourth Dimension. *Thirst.

II. TRANSLATIONS

(5) ALAI'HEM, SHOLOM. (Yiddish.) *Eva.

BOISSIER, JULES. (French.) Opium Smokers in the Forest.

(345) CHEKHOV, ANTON. (Russian.) *Dialogue Between a Man and a Dog.

D'ANNUNZIO, GABRIELE. (Italian.) Hero.

DIMOV, OSSIP. (Russian.) "Six P.M."

DOLORES, CARMEN. (Brazilian.) *Aunt Zeze's Tears.

DUHAMEL, GEORGES S. (French.) *Lieutenant Dauche.

FRANCE, ANATOLE. (French.) *Red Riding-Hood Up-to-Date.

IBANEZ, VICENTE BLASCO. (Spanish.) *Abandoned Boat. *Functionary. *"In the Sea." *Serbian Night. *Which Was the Condemned?

JACOBSEN, J. P. (Danish.) Two Worlds.

LAGERLOeF, SELMA. (Swedish.) *Donna Micaela.

LEMAITRE, JULES. (French.) *Two Presidents.

LEVEL, MAURICE. (French.) All Saints' Day.

MARTINEZ, RAFAEL AREVALO. (Spanish.) Man Who Resembled a Horse.

PAPINI, GIOVANNI. (Italian.) Beggar of Souls.

PEREZ, J. L. (Yiddish.) *Bontje the Silent.

PINSKI, DAVID. (Yiddish.) *Another Person's Soul.

TCHEKOV, ANTON. (Russian.) See Chekhov, Anton.

(5) VILLIERS DE L'ISLE, ADAM. (French.) Queen Ysabeau.



VOLUMES OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED

NOVEMBER, 1918, TO SEPTEMBER, 1919: AN INDEX

NOTE. An asterisk before a title indicates distinction. This list includes single short stories, collections of short stories, textbooks, and a few continuous narratives based on short stories previously published in magazines. Volumes announced for publication in the autumn of 1919 are listed here, though in some cases they had not yet appeared at the time this book went to press.

I. AMERICAN AUTHORS

ABDULLAH, ACHMED. *Honorable Gentleman. Putnam.

ANDERSON, ROBERT GORDON. Little Chap. Putnam.

ANDERSON, SHERWOOD. *Winesburg, Ohio. Huebsch.

ANDREWS, MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN. *Joy in the Morning. Scribner.

AUSTIN, F. BRITTEN. According to Orders. Doran.

BACON, JOSEPHINE DASKAM. Square Peggy. Appleton.

BACON, PEGGY. True Philosopher. Four Seas.

BEACH, REX ELLINWOOD. Too Fat to Fight. Harper.

BERCOVICI, KONRAD. *Dust of New York. Boni and Liveright.

BROOKS, ALLEN. Silken Cord. Frank C. Brown.

BURROUGHS, EDGAR RICE. Jungle Tales of Tarzan. McClurg.

CABELL, JAMES BRANCH. *Jurgen. McBride.

CHAPMAN, WILLIAM GERARD. Green Timber Trails. Century.

CLEMENS, SAMUEL LANGHORNE ("MARK TWAIN"). *Curious Republic of Gondour. Boni and Liveright.

COBB, IRVIN S. *From Place to Place. Doran. *Life of the Party. Doran.

COCHRAN, JEAN CARTER. *Foreign Magic. Doran.

COHEN, OCTAVUS ROY. Polished Ebony. Dodd, Mead.

DAVIES, ELLEN CHIVERS. *Tales of Serbian Life. Dodd, Mead.

DAVIS, SAM. First Piano in Camp. Harper.

DODGE, HENRY IRVING. He Made His Wife His Partner. Harper.

DREISER, THEODORE. *Twelve Men. Boni and Liveright.

DUNNE, FINLEY PETER. *Mr. Dooley; on Making a Will. Scribner.

DYKE, HENRY VAN. See Van Dyke, Henry.

FILLMORE, PARKER. *Czechoslovak Fairy Tales. Harcourt, Brace and Howe.

FORD, SEWELL. Shorty McCabe Gets the Hail. Clode.

FOSTER, JOHN MCGAW. Crowded Inn. Pilgrim Press.

FRASER, W. A. Bulldog Corner. Doran.

FUESSLE, NEWTON A. Flesh and Phantasy. Cornhill Co.

GATE, ETHEL M. * Tales from the Secret Kingdom. Yale Univ. Press.

GLASS, MONTAGUE. Potash and Perlmutter Settle Things. Harper.

GREEN, ANNA KATHARINE. Room Number 3. Dodd, Mead.

GRENFELL, WILFRED T. Labrador Days. Houghton Mifflin.

HARPER, WILHELMINA, editor. Off Duty. Century.

HART, WILLIAM S., and HART, MARY. Pinto Ben. Britton.

HEARN, LAFCADIO. "Fantastics." Houghton Mifflin.

"HENRY, O." (SIDNEY PORTER). *Waifs and Strays. Doubleday, Page.

HERGESHEIMER, JOSEPH. *Happy End. Knopf.

HOLMES, ROY J., and STARBUCK, A., editors. *War Stories. Crowell.

HURST, FANNIE. *Humoresques. Harper.

ILES, AUGUSTUS. Canadian Stories. Privately printed.

JAMES, HENRY. *Landscape Painter. Scott and Seltzer. *Traveling Companions. Boni and Liveright.

JOHNSON, ALVIN. *John Stuyvesant, Ancestor. Harcourt, Brace and Howe.

KING, BASIL. *Going West. Harper.

KYNE, PETER B. Green Pea Pirates. Doubleday, Page.

LA MOTTE, ELLEN N. *Civilization. Doran.

LASSELLE, MARY A., editor. *Short Stories of the New America. Holt.

LOAN, CHARLES EMMETT VAN. See Van Loan, Charles Emmett.

LONDON, JACK. *On the Makaloa Mat. Macmillan.

MACFARLANE, PETER CLARK. Exploits of Bilge and Ma. Little, Brown.

MACMANUS, SEUMAS. *Lo, and Behold Ye! Stokes.

MATHIEWS, FRANKLIN K., editor. Boy Scout's Book of Stories. Appleton.

MEANS. *More. E. K. Putnam.

MONTAGUE, MARGARET PRESCOTT. *Gift. Dutton.

MORLEY, CHRISTOPHER. *Haunted Bookshop. Doubleday, Page.

"NAOMI, AUNT." Jewish Fairy Tales and Legends. Bloch Pub. Co.

NEWTON, ALMA. *Blue String. Duffield.

O'BRIEN, EDWARD J., editor. Best Short Stories of 1918. Small, Maynard.

O'HIGGINS, HARVEY J. *From the Life. Harper.

PACKARD, FRANK L. Night Operator. Doran.

PARKER, SIR (HORATIO) GILBERT. Wild Youth and Another. Lippincott.

PATTERSON, MADGE LISBETH. Marco, the Gypsy Elf. Hine Bros.

PIER, ARTHUR STANWOOD. Dormitory Days. Houghton Mifflin.

PORTER, ELEANOR H. Across the Years. Houghton Mifflin. Tangled Threads. Houghton Mifflin. Tie that Binds. Houghton Mifflin.

PORTER, SIDNEY. See "Henry, O."

POST, MELVILLE DAVISSON. *Mystery at the Blue Villa. Appleton.

PROUTY, OLIVE HIGGINS. Good Sports. Stokes.

RAYMOND, ROBERT L. At a Dollar a Year. Marshall Jones.

REED, MARGERY VERNER. Futurist Stories. Kennerley.

REEVE, ARTHUR B., editor. *Best Ghost Stories. Boni and Liveright.

RINEHART, MARY ROBERTS. Love Stories. Doran.

RUSSELL, JOHN. *Red Mark. Knopf.

SAWYER, RUTH. Doctor Danny. Harper.

SCOTT, TEMPLE. Silver Age. Scott and Seltzer.

SHOLL, ANNA MCCLURE. Faery Tales of Weir. Dutton.

SPOFFORD, HARRIET PRESCOTT. *Elder's People. Houghton Mifflin.

STREET, JULIAN. After Thirty. Century.

TERHUNE, ALBERT PAYSON. Lad: a Dog. Dutton.

"TWAIN, MARK." See Clemens, Samuel Langhorne.

VANARDY, VARICK. Something Doing. Macaulay.

VAN DYKE, HENRY. *Broken Soldier and the Maid of France. Harper. *Valley of Vision. Scribner.

VAN LOAN, CHARLES EMMETT. Score by Innings. Doran. Taking the Count. Doran.

VORSE, MARY HEATON. *Prestons. Boni and Liveright.

WELLES, HARRIET. *Anchors Aweigh. Scribner.

WESTERMAN, PERCY F. Secret Channel. Macmillan.

WHITE, EDWARD LUCAS. *Song of the Sirens. Dutton.

WIGGIN, KATE DOUGLAS. *Ladies-in-Waiting. Houghton Mifflin.

WILSON, HARRY LEON. *Ma Pettengill. Doubleday, Page.

WITWER, HARRY CHARLES. "Smile a Minute." Small, Maynard.

II. English and Irish Authors

BEERBOHM, MAX. *Happy Hypocrite. Lane.

BELL, JOHN JOY. Just Jemima. Revell.

"BIRMINGHAM, GEORGE A." (J. O. HANNAY). Our Casualty. Doran.

"CABLE, BOYD" (CAPTAIN EWART). Air Men o' War. Dutton.

CARLETON, WILLIAM. *Stories of Irish Life. Stokes.

"CHASE, BEATRICE." See Parr, Olive Katharine.

COLUM, PADRAIC. *Boy Who Knew What the Birds Said. Macmillan.

"CUMBERLAND, GERALD." *Tales of a Cruel Country. Brentano's.

"DEHAN, RICHARD." (CLOTILDE GRAVES.) *Sailor's Home. Doran.

DOWSON, ERNEST. *Poems and Prose. Boni and Liveright.

DOYLE, CONAN A. Doings of Raffles Haw. Doran.

DUNSANY, LORD. *Unhappy Far-off Things. Little, Brown.

GARSTIN, CROSBIE. Mud Larks. Doran.

GRAVES, CLOTILDE. See "Dehan, Richard."

HANNAY, J. O. See "Birmingham, George A."

JACOBS, W. W. *Deep Waters. Scribner.

LOCKE, W. J. *Far-Away Stories. Lane.

LYONS, A. NEIL. *London Lot. Lane.

MARSHALL, ARCHIBALD. *Clintons and Others. Dodd, Mead.

MASEFIELD, JOHN. *Tarpaulin Muster. Dodd, Mead.

MAXWELL, W. B. *Life Can Never Be the Same. Bobbs-Merrill.

MERRICK, LEONARD. *Man Who Understood Women. Dutton. *While Paris Laughed. Dutton.

MUNRO, HECTOR H. ("Saki"). Toys of Peace. Lane.

NEBINSON, MARGARET WYNNE. *Workhouse Characters. Macmillan.

*NEW DECAMERON. McBride.

O'BRIEN, EDWARD J., editor. Great Modern English Stories. Boni and Liveright.

ORCZY, EMMUS, BARONESS. League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Doran.

PARR, OLIVE KATHARINE. ("BEATRICE CHASE.") Completed Tales of My Knights and Ladies. Longmans.

PERTWEE, ROLAND. *Old Card. Boni and Liveright.

REYNOLDS, MRS. BAILIE. *"Open, Sesame!" Doran.

"ROHMER, SAX." (ARTHUR SARSFIELD WARD.) Tales of Secret Egypt. McBride.

"SAKI." See Munro, Hector H.

"TANK MAJOR." Tank Tales. Funk and Wagnalls.

WALLACE, EDGAR. Tam o' the Scoots. Small, Maynard.

WARD, ARTHUR SARSFIELD. See "Rohmer, Sax."

III. TRANSLATIONS

BLASCO, IBANEZ, VICENTE. (Spanish.) See Ibanez, Vicente Blasco.

CARY, M., editor. (French.) French Fairy Tales. Crowell.

CHEKOV, ANTON. (Russian.) *Bishop. Macmillan.

DUHAMEL, GEORGES. ("DENIS THEVENIN.") (French.) *Civilization. 1914-1917. Century.

IBANEZ, VICENTE BLASCO. (Spanish.) *Luna Benamor. Luce.

KELLER, GOTTFRIED. (German.) *Seldwyla Folks. Brentano's.

KINCAID, CHARLES AUGUSTUS. (India.) *Tales from the Indian Epics. Oxford Univ. Press.

KOROLENKO, V. (Russian.) *Birds of Heaven. Duffield.

PINSKI, DAVID. (Yiddish.) *Temptations. Brentano's.

SCHWIEKERT, HARRY C., editor. (Russian.) *Russian Short Stories. Scott, Foresman.

SUDERMANN, HERMANN. (German.) *Iolanthe's Wedding. Boni and Liveright.

TCHEKOV, ANTON. (Russian.) See Chekhov, Anton.

"THEVENIN, DENIS." (French.) See Duhamel, Georges.

UNDERWOOD, EDNA WORTHLEY, editor. (Balkan.) *Short Stories from the Balkans. Marshall Jones.

VINGY, ALFRED DE. (French.) *Military Servitude and Grandeur. Doran.

ZAMACOIS, EDUARDO. (Spanish.) *Their Son: The Necklace. Boni and Liveright.

A SELECTED LIBRARY LIST

I. TEN BOOKS BY AMERICAN AUTHORS

ANDERSON, SHERWOOD. Winesburg, Ohio. Huebsch.

CABEL, JAMES BRANCH. Jurgen. McBride.

COBB, IRVIN E. From Place to Place. Doran.

DREISER, THOEDORE. Twelve Men. Boni and Liveright.

HEARN, LAFCADIO. Fantastics. Houghton Mifflin.

"HENRY, O." (SIDNEY PORTER.) Waifs and Strays. Doubleday, Page.

HERGESHEIMER, JOSEPH. Happy End. Knopf.

HURST, FANNIE. Humoresques. Harper.

JAMES, HENRY. Travelling Companions. Boni and Liveright.

O'HIGGINS, HARVEY J. From the Life. Harper.

II. Ten Books by English and Irish Authors

BEERBOHM, MAX. Happy Hypocrite. Lane.

COLUM, PADRAIC. Boy Who Knew What the Birds Said. Macmillan.

DOWSON, ERNEST. Poems and Prose. Boni and Liveright.

DUNSANY, LORD. Unhappy Far-Off Things. Little, Brown.

LYONS, A. NEIL. London Lot. Lane.

MASEFIELD, JOHN. Tarpaulin Muster. Dodd, Mead.

MERRICK, LEONARD. Man Who Understood Women. Dutton. While Paris Laughed. Dutton.

NEW DECAMERON. McBride.

PERTWEE, ROLAND. Old Card. Boni and Liveright.

III. TEN BOOKS OF TRANSLATIONS

CHEKOV, ANTON. (Russian.) Bishop. Macmillan.

DUHAMEL, GEORGES. ("DENIS THEVENIN.") Civilization. 1914-1917. Century.

IBANEZ, VICENTE BLASCO. (Spanish.) Luna Benamor. Luce.

KELLER, GOTTFRIED. (German.) Seldwyla Folks. Brentano's.

KOROLENKO, V. (Russian.) Birds of Heaven. Duffield.

PINSKI, DAVID. (Yiddish.) Temptations. Brentano's.

SUDERMANN, HERMANN. (German.) Iolanthe's Wedding. Boni and Liveright.

UNDERWOOD, EDNA WROTHLEY, editor. (Balkan.) Short Stories from the Balkans. Marshall Jones.

VIGNEY, ALFRED DE. (French.) Military Servitude and Grandeur. Doran.

ZAMACOIS, EDUARDO. (Spanish.) Their Son: The Necklace. Boni and Liveright.



ARTICLES ON THE SHORT STORY

OCTOBER, 1918, TO SEPTEMBER, 1919

The following abbreviations are used in this index:—

Am. American Ath. Athenaeum Atl. Atlantic Monthly Bel. Bellman B. E. T. Boston Evening Transcript Book Bookman Cath. W. Catholic World Ch. D. News Chicago Daily News Every Everyman Lib. Liberator Liv. Age Living Age Mir. Reedy's Mirror Nat. Nation Nat. (London) London Nation N. Rep. New Republic New S. New Statesman N. Y. Sun New York Sun N. Y. Times New York Times N. Y. Trib. New York Tribune Pag. Pagan Strat. J. Stratford Journal Touch. Touchstone

Anderson, Sherwood. Reviews of "Winesburg, Ohio." By H. W. Boynton. Book. Aug. (49:729.) By Floyd Dell. Lib. Sept. (46.) By M. A. N. Rep. June 25. (19:257.) By Hart Crane. Pag. Sept. (60.)

Austin, F. Britten. Review of "According to Orders." By Dorothy Scarborough. N. Y. Sun. March 2. (2.)

Barbusse, Henri. Review of "We Others." By Dorothy Scarborough. N. Y. Sun. Dec. 22, '18. (9.)

Belgian Writers, Contemporary. See MARLOW, GEORGES.

BERESFORD, J. D. Dostoievsky Under the Lens. N.Y. Trib. Dec. 1, '18. (pt. 3, p. 3.)

Bierce, Ambrose. Reviews of "Can Such Things Be?" By Edwin F. Edgett, B. E.T. Feb. 26. (pt. 2. p. 6.) By Dorothy Scarborough. N.Y. Sun. March 2. (7.) See also O'SULLIVAN, VINCENT.

Boccaccio, Triumph of. By L. C.-M. Ath. June 13. (473.)

BOYNTON, H.W. Adventures and Riddles. Book. May. (321.) Anderson's "Winesburg, Ohio." Book. Aug. (49:729.)

Burke, Thomas. Review of "Out and About London." By Edwin F. Edgett. B. E. T. April 5. (pt. 3. p. 8.)

Burt, Maxwell Struthers. Review of "John O'May." By Dorothy Scarborough. N. Y. Sun. Nov. 24, '18. (5.)

C.-M., L. Triumph of Boccaccio. Ath. June 13. (437.)

Cable, George W. Review of "Lovers of Louisiana." By Catherine Postelle. Mir. March 21. (159.)

Canfield, Dorothy. Reviews of "Home Fires in France." By Emily Grant Hutchins. Mir. March 29. (28:178.) By Dorothy Scarborough. N.Y. Sun. Nov. 17, '18. (l) By Dorothea Lawrance Mann. B. E. T. April 30. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

Carleton, William. Review of "Stories of Irish Life." Ath. Aug. 15. (750.)

CASSERES. BENJAMIN DE. Moore's "A Story-Teller's Holiday." N. Y. Sun. Jan. 5. (2.)

Clemenceau, Novelist. By Roy Temple House. Mir. March 14. (151.)

Conrad, Joseph. By Frank Pease. Nat. Nov. 2, '18. (107:510.) By Joseph J. Reilly. Cath. W. May. (109:163.) By M.K. Wisehart. N.Y. Sun. Mar. 2. (4.) By E. Preston Dargan. Dial. June 28. (66: 638.) By Edward Moore. New S. Sept. 13. (13:590.) By John Cowper Powys. Mir. Sept. 4. (28:600.)

COURNOS, JOHN. How to Read the Russian Novelists. Every. Sept. 6. (14:517.)

CRANE, HART. Review of Anderson's "Winesburg, Ohio." Pag. Sept. (60.)

DARGAN, E. PRESTON. Voyages of Conrad. Dial. June 28. (66:638.)

DAVIS, ROBERT H. The Late Charles E. Van Loan. Book. May. (280.)

DELL, FLOYD. Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio," and Dreiser's "Twelve Men." Lib. Sept. (46.)

Dostoievsky Under the Lens. By J. B. Beresford. N. Y. Trib. Dec. 1, '18. (pt. 3. p. 3.)

Doyle, A. Conan. Review of "Danger!" By Edward N. Teall. N. Y. Sun. March 9. (12.)

Dreiser, Theodore. Reviews of "Twelve Men." By Floyd Dell. Lib. Sept. (46.) By Edwin F. Edgett. B. E. T. Apr. 30. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

Duhamel, Georges, Historian of Ambulance Heroism. By Alvan F. Sanborn. B. E. T. March 12. (pt. 2. p. 5.)

Duncan, Norman. By C. K. Trueblood. Dial. Dec. 28, '18. (65:615.)

Dunne, Finlay Peter. Reviews of "Mr. Dooley: On Making a Will." By Edmund Lester Pearson. B. E. T. Sept. 10. (pt. 2. p. 8.) By Francis Hackett. N. Rep. Sept. 24. (20:235.)

DUNSTER, H. Henry James: A Personal Memoir. Ath. June 27. (518.)

EDGETT, EDWIN F. Bierce's "Can Such Things Be?" B. E. T. Feb. 26. (pt. 2. p. 6.) Burke's "Out and About London." B. E. T. Apr. 5. (pt. 3. p. 8.) Dreiser's "Twelve Men." B. E. T. Apr. 30. (pt. 2. p. 6.) James's "Travelling Companions." B. E. T. May 7. (pt. 3. p. 4.) Locke's "Far-Away Stories." B. E. T. July 19. (pt. 3, p. 6.) Marshall's "The Clinton's." B. E. T. May 10. (pt. 3. p. 10.) Merrick's "While Paris Laughed." B. E. T. Feb. 1. (pt. 3. p. 8.) Noyes's "Walking Shadows." B. E. T. Dec. 14, '18. (pt. 3. p. 6.) Van Dyke's "Valley of Vision." B. E. T. Mar. 19. (pt. 3. p. 4.) Wharton's "The Marne." B. E. T. Dec. 21, '18. (pt. 3. p. 8.) White's "Song of the Sirens." B. E. T. Mar. 15. (pt. 3. p. 8.)

EGAN, MAURICE FRANCIS. Van Dyke's "The Valley of Vision." Book. Sept. (50:71.)

Evans, Caradoc. Review of "My People," and "Capel Sion," by Constance Mayfield Rourke. N. Rep. Feb. 1. (18:30.)

Fox, Jr., Novelist of the South, John. By R. M. B. E. T. July 23. (pt. 2. p. 8.)

Freeman, Mary E. Wilkins. Review of "Edgewater People." By Dorothy Scarborough. N. Y. Sun. Feb. 2. (12.)

Fuessle, Newton A. Review of "Flesh and Phantasy." By Dorothea Lawrance Mann. B. E. T. July 16. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

GEROULD, KATHARINE FULLERTON. Remarkable Rightness of Rudyard Kipling. Atl. Jan. (123:12.)

GOLDBERG, ISAAC. Blasco Ibanez. B. E. T. March 26. (pt. 2. p. 5.) Blasco Ibanez. Strat. J. May. (4:235.) South American Tales. B. E. T. Sept. 17. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

Gorky, Maxim. "Maxim the Bitter." Nat. (London). Aug. 23. (25:611.)

HACKETT, FRANCIS. Review of Dunne's "Mr. Dooley: On Making a Will." N. Rep. Sept. 24. (20:235.)

Harker, L. Allen. Review of "Children of the Dear Cotswolds." By Dorothy Scarborough. N. Y. Sun. Dec. 15, '18. (5.)

Harris, Joel Chandler. Review of "Uncle Remus Returns." By Elsie Clews Parsons. Dial. May 17. (491.)

"Henry, O." By Robert Cortes Holliday. Ch. D. News. March 19. See also O'SULLIVAN, VINCENT.

HOLLIDAY, ROBERT CORTES. Amazing Failure of O. Henry. Ch. D. News. March 19.

HOOKER, BRIAN. Concerning Yarns. Book. May. (308.)

HOUSE, ROY TEMPLE. Clemenceau, Novelist. Mir. March 14. (151.)

HULL, HELEN R. Literary Drug Traffic. Dial. Sept. 6. (67:190.)

HUTCHINGS, EMILY GRANT. Canfield's "Home Fires in France." Mir. March 29. (28:178.)

Ibanez, Blasco. By Isaac Goldberg. Strat. J. May. (4:235.) By Isaac Goldberg. B. E. T. Mar. 26. (pt. 2. p. 5.)

James, Henry. By H. Dunster. Ath. June 27. (518.) Reviews of "Travelling Companions." By Edwin F. Edgett. B. E. T. May 7. (pt. 3. p. 4.) By Edna Kenton. Book. Aug. (49:706.) By Philip Littell. N. Rep. July 30. (19:422.) By William Lyon Phelps. N. Y. Times Apr. 20. (24:209.)

"KEITH, KATHARINE." (MRS. DAVID ADLER.) Feodor Sologub. Dial. June 28. (66:648.)

KENNON, HARRY B. Marshall's "The Clintons." Mir. June 5. (28:372.)

KENTON, EDNA. James's "Travelling Companions." Book. Aug. (49:706.)

Kipling, Rudyard. By Katharine Fullerton Gerould. Atl. Jan. (123:12.) By Joseph J. Reilly. Cath. W. Aug. (109:588.)

LAIT, JACK (JACQUIN L.) Charlie Van Loan—as Jack Lait Knows Him. Am. Dec. '18. (39.)

Latzko, Andreas. Review of "Men in Battle." ("Men in War.") Nat. (London.) Jan. 4. (24:410.)

LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD. Oscar Wilde: Poet and Teller of Children's Tales. Touch. Dec., '18. (4:212.)

LITTELL, PHILIP. James's "Travelling Companions." N. Rep. July 30. (19:422.)

Locke, William J. Review of "Far-Away Stories." By Edwin F. Edgett. B. E. T. July 19. (pt. 3. p. 6.)

M. A. Anderson's "Winesburg, Ohio." N. Rep. June 25. (19:257.)

M. R. John Fox, Jr. B. E. T. July 23. (pt. 2. p. 8.)

MCFEE, WILLIAM. Idea. Book. Aug. (49:647.)

MANN, DOROTHEA LAWRANCE. Canfield's "The Day of Glory." B. E. T. April 30. (pt. 2. p. 6.) Fuessle's "Flesh and Phantasy." B. E. T. July 16. (pt. 2. p. 6.)

MARLOW, GEORGES. Chronique de Belgique. Mercure de France. 1er juillet. (134:134.)

Marshall, Archibald. Reviews of "The Clintons and Others." By Edwin F. Edgett. B. E. T. May 10. (pt. 3. p. 10.) By Harry B. Kennon. Mir. June 5. (28:372.)

MASSON, THOMAS L. How to Read Short Stories. Mir. May 15. (28:305.)

MASTERMAN, C. F. G. Stephen Reynolds. Nat. (London). Feb. 22. (24:609.)

Maupassant's Paris, Guy de. By Arthur Bartlett Maurice. Book. Aug. (49:652.)

MAURICE, ARTHUR BARTLETT. Guy de Maupassant's Paris. Book. Aug. (49:652.)

Merrick, Leonard. Reviews of "While Paris Laughs." By Edwin F. Edgett. B. E. T. Feb. 1. (pt. 3. p. 8.) By Dorothy Scarborough. N. Y. Sun. Feb. 9. (1.)