XII.

A Neglected Field.

There is opportunity in full, a vast field to exploit in the writing of juveniles, to use the term applied to that branch of literature which appeals to the young. It is especially the case in stories appealing to growing girls who, having passed from the excellent _John Martin’s Book_ stage and into the _St. Nicholas_ age, are unwilling to leap forthright into Gene Stratton Porter and Harold Bell Wright. In England, and imported into the eastern states, there used to be a well edited journal called the _Girls’ Own Paper_, but it is imported no longer. No one has quite taken the place of Louisa May Alcott, or Margaret Sidney with her Pepper Series.

Good stories for boys too are comparatively rare, though the _Youth’s Companion_, leader in this field, pays well, is well edited and widely read. Lads of a past generation fared far better for reading matter than those of today. There was a border land as it were, a literature that interested men as well as boys of spirit. The work of Jules Verne, so admirably translated, is with us and our publishers, sadly neglected. His books, together with the stories of adventure by Paul de Chaillu, led millions of lads to higher reading planes. Then there was Harrison Ainsworth with his semi-historical fiction, Ballantyne with his short tales of fire-fighters, sailors, lifeboat men and others in adventurous callings, and Thomas Hughes and his host of followers with bright school-boy tales. England has some good work in that direction today, especially in what is being done by Henry Newbolt who writes of old warriors and new, of deeds of derring-do and wild adventure, nor should we omit Frank T. Bullen with his “Cruise of the Cachalot” and other tales, or Basil Lubbock, fit successor to Dana. I particularly urge ambitious writers to look into this field of literature. Our lads today are fed up to nausea with tales of Boy Scouts, square-chinned lads who, single-handed, routed German regiments, captains of industry in embryo, amateur detectives and all that sort of thing. What we need, is, not to try to rob boyhood of its golden days and to thrust ideas of business success into them, but to offer them food for lively imaginations. Give them reading for reading’s sake and not for some ulterior motive. Boys do not want “lessons” in books any more than they need “lessons” in a ball game. There is where I would take issue with Franklin K. Matthews of the Boy Scout movement who, not so long ago at a publishers’ convention, said that there was a great field for exploitation in the ten million boys hungry for reading matter. So far so good, but, urging publishers to cultivate this field, he quoted the wife of a college professor with approval who had expressed her desire to “do something to keep the boys sensibly occupied on Sunday afternoons” and had added that “parents do not believe in dare-devil books which would be of interest to boys.”

Now I hold that if we are to raise a generation of readers, we must do exactly contrary to that which is here suggested. Consider. If you read the Matthews’ quotation with care, you catch a faint and fusty flavor that recalls “best” rooms with cloth-covered round tables bearing books set at mathematically arranged distances apart, radiating from a center of imitation fruit, done in wax, covered with a glass shade. You will also get a sense of a prim lady handing you a copy of Samuel Smiles’ “Self Help,” with the injunction, “Be good, because it’s Sunday.”

With no respect whatever for anyone’s opinion, when Mr. Matthews and the wife of a college professor, together with the objecting parents attempt to exercise surveillance over the boy’s reading, and affect the illimitable conceit that they know what is, and what is not, proper, they not only stultify themselves, but proclaim themselves the enemies of boys, and, further, take the first step towards disrupting an organization that has a power for good--an organization that so far has not been captured for ulterior motives. Frenzied with the fashionable fever for prohibition, they rush to join that

Sect whose chief devotion lies In odd, perverse antipathies: In falling out with that or this And finding somewhat still amiss.

Sturdy of growth though the Boy Scout movement is, be sure that any reptant Puritanical interference will most assuredly result in labefaction.

A boy is an unspoilt man, and these are the elements that enter into his character: enthusiasm, fervor, courage and generosity. A boy is both unmoral and unreligious. He has a sublime contempt of custom and of conventionality, and is almost destitute of selfishness. Moreover, he is assured of his right to his own opinion and the correctness of his own choice. That he is a chosen instrument for the emancipation of the human race: that he, once untrammeled, can achieve the triumph of justice over centuries of oppression; that, once attaining manhood, he will right all wrongs, he is as certain as he is of his own existence. His heroes, he insists, shall be endowed with similar qualities. Further, and this Mr. Matthews and the college professor’s wife, with objecting parents, should mark well, the average, normal boy has a deep conviction that parents, preachers and teachers are narrow-minded old fogies, either eternally shamming or showing off, utterly destitute of originality, and full of silly prejudice. The boys are not far wrong. Therefore, the obnoxious officiousness--but what’s the use.

As to dare devil books, can any normal, sensible man, not a _Stiggins_, a _Pecksniff_, or a _Uriah Heep_, put his finger on any book of that class, that he read when a lively boy, and say, “If I had not read this, I would have been a better, wealthier, healthier man; I would today have been saner, holier, wiser?” Can any reading man who has lived with those gallant dare-devil creations that he learned to love and admire before he knew _Becky Sharp_ or _Hester Prynne_, or _Corporal Trim_, say that he would willingly obliterate the memory of any one of them? On the other hand, mentally reviewing an imaginary parade of boyhood heroes, does not one’s heart beat quicker, does there not come a thrill of joy as the golden days before disillusionment are recalled?

Picture the procession! It will do you good. No Barnum and Bailey amalgamation of circuses can match, nor civic pageant pale it. The great iron gates of the boys’ Valhalla fly open with a clang, and the lank-jawed, pestiferous prohibitionist flees before the noble throng. All brave in their Lincoln green, _Robin Hood_ and his merry men lead the way. You see _Friar Tuck_ and _Little John_, _Will Scarlett_, and _Alan-a-Dale_. _Jack Shephard_ follows, keen eyed and lithe, a merry rogue laughing at shackles and handcuffs, to whom Houdini is but a pale ghost. _Dick Turpin_ too is there astride of his bonny _Black Bess_, and _Claude Duval_ the gallant, with _Cartouche_, and _Monte Cristo_ mysterically visible in his sack. Captain Kidd with blood stained bandage marches with Jesse James and the Younger brothers, and _Phileas Fogg_ the imperturbable, unsmiling and resolute, touches elbows with John L. Sullivan and Jake Kilrain. _Quasimodo_ comes, and George the runner and Beach the oarsman, _Long John Silver_ and old man _Pew_, _Gagool_ and _Natty Bumpo_, _Gordon Pym_ and the Man in the Iron Mask, _Allen Quatermain_ and Gaborieu’s detectives. Covered with yellow dust of New Mexico, glittering with silver and gold, ride the immortal Scalp Hunters and the plainsmen of Captain Mayne Reid, while the _Iron Pirate_ and _Jack Harkaway_ go arm in arm. Sailors, fire fighters, cowboys, whalers, smugglers thicker throng. Spears, banners, bayonets, lassoes, boledores, battle axes and marlinspikes bristle above massed heads. Wild, strange oaths fill the air. Steel clashes on steel. Then comes a crowd of heroes so compact that with difficulty you pick out one here and there--trim _Midshipman Easy, Harry Lorrequer_, _Peter Simple_, _Handy Andy_, _Percival Keene_, _Baron Munchausen_, _Ned Kelley_ the iron clad Australian bush ranger, _Tracy_ the outlaw, _Valentine Vox_, Peace the burglar, _Athos_, _Porthos_, _Aramis_, the _Wandering Jew_. Not a woman, not a seducer, not a pestilential prohibitionist in all that glorious, golden, glittering galaxy. Not a saint, a statesman or an uplifter there. Not one could you find to be accused of injustice, of prejudice, of narrow mindedness. Not one but would leap to quarter-staff, to bow, to mace, to dirk, to pistol or musket in defense of liberty and freedom. Not a solitary religious character would you find, except it be Sampson, admitted by reason of his house-wrecking activities.

By all the gods, if this little book shall result in but one rattling good short story, one real good tale of adventure, just one good story for boys that are boys, and not tight fisted men before their time, the writing of it shall have been well worth the while and Mr. Haldeman-Julius will have conferred a benefit on his generation by publishing this. So go to it if you can. Forget “moral lessons,” “improvement of the juvenile mind” and all that nonsense and give the best that is in you.

YOUR MARKET.

Use common sense when sending your manuscript. Read the magazines and mark the kind of story they use. For example, should you have a story dealing with the _egoism a deux_ called marriage, it would be of no use to send it to the _Saturday Evening Post_. Similarly, a tale of business success would find no friendly reception in the office of the _Dial_.

There are many magazines, especially the younger ventures, exceedingly hospitable to unknown writers. I name the _Double Dealer_, Vincent Starret’s _Wave_, the _Reviewer_, and _Broom_.

For established magazines with editors very much on the _qui vive_ for good work, watch the _Century_, _Smart Set_, _Little Review_, _Freeman_ and _Midland_. There are probably many others, but I’m speaking from my own experience.

I would advise you to read the editorials and literary criticisms of H. L. Mencken in the _Smart Set_, Glen Frank in the _Century_, and if you care for this, my own periodical _All’s Well_.

There follows a very complete list giving the addresses of magazines using short stories.

Adventure, Spring and Macdougal Sts., New York City.

Ainslee’s Magazine, 79 7th Ave., New York City.

All’s Well, Fayetteville, Ark.

American Boy, 142 Lafayette Blvd., Detroit, Mich.

American Magazine, 381 Fourth Ave., New York City.

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

Asia, 627 Lexington Ave., New York City.

Atlantic Monthly, 8 Arlington St., Boston, Mass.

Black Cat, 229 West 28th St., New York City.

Broom, 3 East 9th St., New York City.

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

Century, 353 4th Ave., New York City.

Collier’s Weekly, 416 West 13th St., New York City.

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

Dial, 152 West 13th St., New York City.

Double Dealer, 204 Baronne St., New Orleans, La.

Everybody’s Magazine, Spring and Macdougal Sts., New York City.

Freeman, 32 West 58th St., New York City.

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

Harper’s Bazaar, 119 West 40th St., New York City.

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

Hearst’s Magazine, 119 West 40th St., New York City.

Holland’s Magazine, Dallas, Tex.

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

Liberator, 34 Union Square East, New York City.

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

Little Story Magazine, 714 Drexel Bldg., Philadelphia, Pa.

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

McCall’s Magazine, 236 West 37th St., New York City.

McClure’s Magazine, 76 Fifth Ave., New York City.

Magnificant, Manchester, N. H.

Metropolitan, 432 4th Ave., New York City.

Midland, Glennie, Alcona County, Mich.

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

Outlook, 381 5th Ave., New York City.

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

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

People’s Favorite Magazine, 79 7th Ave., New York City.

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

Popular Magazine, 79 West 39th Ave., New York City.

Queen’s Work, 626 North Vandeventer Ave., St. Louis, Mo.

Reviewer, 809¹⁄₂ Floyd Ave., Richmond, Va.

Saturday Evening Post, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa.

The Red Book Magazine, North American Bldg., Chicago, Ill.

Scribner’s Magazine, 597 5th Ave., New York City.

Short Stories, Garden City, Long Island, New York City.

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

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

Sunset, 460 Fourth St., San Francisco, Calif.

Today’s Housewife, Coopertown, N. Y.

Top-Notch Magazine, 79 West 47th Ave., New York City.

Toutchstone, 1 West 47th St., New York City.

The Woman’s Home Companion, 381 4th Ave., New York City.

Woman’s World, 107 South Clinton St., Chicago, Ill.

A word in conclusion. Keep your ears open as well as your eyes. You will find it pays to be somewhat of what Shakespeare called a “snapper up of unconsidered trifles.” On every side of us, good things are being said, characters are being revealed. It was but last week when saying something to a lad who was plowing, I being sorry for what I took to be very hard work, he said:

“Why, I love it--turning up the sod, seeing the different things coming up all the time, the smell of the earth, hearing the purr of the plow and the little grunts of the horses--it’s fun.”

If you do not see strength and ecstasy and philosophy in that, you are hopeless.

At a meeting, I heard a business man say:

“Although there was a talkative crowd there, I ate silently, revolving plans.”

The five words “I ate silently, revolving plans” presents a picture. An inexpert writer might waste words in vain putting the idea across to a reader that a man engrossed in his business withdrew from the confusion about him. Observe, the conversation of men is not often clear cut, sharp chiseled. Too often it is a macedoine of tautologies, contradictions, slang and inaccuracy, but let a man think strongly on any one thing, and ten to one what he has to say comes out clear cut. It is the flake of gold in the midst of much gravel that you must learn to catch.

I find this again in my notebook. Two girls were talking in a street car and I could not but help overhear. It was poor stuff and uninteresting, with much of “I says” and “says he to me” and “I says, says I” but in one place this came like a bright light:

“I did not hear the reply, because of the faint rustle of my own movements.”

The sentence stands perfect. What it conveys could not be better put.

Once I heard an old sailor telling a tale. He was full of oaths and obscenities and he wandered in the telling of it. Then this came:

“As the sun sank, a patch of trees on the point stood out against the light and it seemed that they had come by magic.”

A Texas freighter I heard say of a man:

“He had the gift of friendship.”

This was said by a child of seven years: “She was so proud, that she became white and tight lipped.”

If you will examine the examples given, you will see that each speaker had something to express, and expressed it directly. There was no stuffing, no padding.

As an example of positive flash of insight, I copy this from the story “Villette” by Currer Bell:

“The cook, in a jacket, a short petticoat, and sabots, brought me supper, to wit, some meat, nature unknown, served in an odd and acid but pleasant sauce; some chopped potatoes made savory with I know not what, vinegar and sugar, I think; a tartarine or slice of bread and butter and a baked pear. Being hungry, I ate and was grateful.”

The passage that next follows, I find in my scrap book clipped from _T. P.’s Weekly_. It is the opinion of an old grayheaded man at Rydal Mount who remembered Wordsworth and who, in spite of the evidence of many poems, held that the Lake poet had no interest in children.

“He never cared for childer, however; yan may be cartain of that, for didn’t I have to pass him four times in t’ week, up to the door wi’ meat: and he niver onest said owt. Ye’re well aware if he’d been fond of children, he ’ud ’a spoke.”

Now watch how Mark Twain does things. His Huckleberry Finn talks as the boys that you know talk, and, like so many of the unlearned, he supports his views with a philosophical tag. He is giving his opinion of the _King_ and the _Duke_, two rapscallions who were parasites on the lads.

“It didn’t take me long to make up my mind that these liars wasn’t no kings and dukes at all, but just low down humbugs and frauds. But I never said nothing, never let on; kept it to myself. It’s the best way; then you don’t have no quarrels and don’t get into no trouble.”

And this, for scenic description in miniature, with a record of personal impression is hard to beat:

“It was a-kind of solemn, drifting down the big, still river, laying on our backs looking up at the stars; and we didn’t feel like talkin’ loud and it wasn’t often that we laughed, only a little kind of a low chuckle.”

One more passage I must quote from Huckleberry. Compare it with the brief remark of the plowboy I copied for you, for Huck might have said what that lad said, or that lad might have talked as did Huck:

“Not a sound anywheres--perfectly still--just like the whole world was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogs a-clattering maybe. The first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull line--that was the woods on t’other side--you couldn’t make nothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness; spreading around; then the river softened up, away off, and warn’t black any more, but gray; you could see little dark spots driftin’ along, ever so far away--tradin’ scows an’ such things; and long black streaks--rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by and by you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the streak that there’s a snag there in the swift current which breaks on it and makes that streak look that way.”

Perhaps, if you have never tried to write a story, you will think that it is an easy task to put into the words of an unlettered lad a description such as that. But try. If you can come anything near it you will do well. If you can do as well as that your future as a writer is assured. Doubtless, you as a boy loved the still and solemn night, the creatures in the woods--squirrels, turtles, snakes. Doubtless, you too looked with indignation upon the things men did around you. If so, you have the foundation for a story within you. All that remains to be done then is to set down your own experiences without holding back, without exaggeration--to set down the things as they were in simple, plain words; to remember, all the time, that truth is the final test of literature.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s note

In the original the roman numerals indicating a new chapter were out of order. They have been renumbered here.

Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Hyphenation and spelling of proper names have been standardized.

Spelling was retained as in the original except for the following changes:

Page 5: “the English langauge” “the English language” Page 7: “order I am dumfounded” “order I am dumbfounded” Page 9: “of the senuous and” “of the sensuous and” Page 10: “those cre tures all” “those creatures all” Page 25: “Contarst _Cashel Byron_” “Contrast _Cashel Byron_” Page 34: “story of Epyornis Island” “story of Æpyornis Island”