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# The best short stories of 1925, and the yearbook of the American short story ### By Unknown

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THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1925

THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1925

AND THE

YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY

EDITED BY EDWARD J. O’BRIEN

[Illustration: colophon]

BOSTON SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1925, by The Reviewer, The Century Co., Harcourt, Brace, and Co., The Pictorial Review Company, Harper & Brothers, The Atlantic Monthly Company, Liberty Weekly, Incorporated, P. F. Collier & Son Company, The Dial Publishing Company, Inc., and Boni and Liveright, Inc.

Copyright, 1926, by Sandra Alexander, Sherwood Anderson, Barry Benefield, Konrad Bercovici, Bella Cohen, Charles Caldwell Dobie, Rudolph Fisher, Katharine Fullerton Gerould, Walter Gilkyson, Ring W. Lardner, Robert Robinson, Evelyn Scott, May Stanley, Wilbur Daniel Steele, Milton Waldman, Glenway Wescott, Barrett Willoughby, and Elinor Wylie.

Second Printing Third Printing Fourth Printing

Printed in the United States of America

THE MURRAY PRINTING COMPANY CAMBRIDGE, MASS.

THE BOSTON BOOKBINDING COMPANY CAMBRIDGE, MASS.

TO ROMER

BY WAY OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT AND REQUEST

Grateful acknowledgment for permission to include the stories and other material in this volume is made to the following authors and editors:

To the Editors of _The Boston Evening Transcript_, _The Reviewer_, _The Century Magazine_, _The Pictorial Review_, _Harper’s Magazine_, _The Atlantic Monthly_, _Liberty_, _Collier’s Weekly_, and _The Dial_; and to Messrs. Harcourt, Brace, and Company, Messrs. Boni and Liveright, Inc., Miss Sandra Alexander, Mr. Sherwood Anderson, Mr. Nathan Asch, Mr. Barry Benefield, Mr. Konrad Bercovici, Miss Bella Cohen, Mr. Charles Caldwell Dobie, Mr. Rudolph Fisher, Mrs. Katharine Fullerton Gerould, Mr. Walter Gilkyson, Mr. Manuel Komroff, Mr. Ring W. Lardner, Mr. Robert Robinson, Miss Evelyn Scott, Miss May Stanley, Mr. Wilbur Daniel Steele, Mr. Milton Waldman, Mr. Glenway Wescott, Miss Barrett Willoughby, and Mrs. Elinor Wylie.

I wish to make particular acknowledgments for editorial assistance to Mrs. W. J. Turner, Miss Katharine Macdonald, and Mr. Francis J. Hannigan.

In dedicating the present volume to my wife, I wish to record her invaluable coöperation in making this volume, as well as “The Best British Short Stories of 1925,” less faulty than it otherwise might have been during my prolonged illness last summer.

I shall be grateful to my readers for corrections, and particularly for suggestions leading to the wider usefulness of these annual volumes. In particular, I shall welcome the receipt from authors, editors and publishers, of stories printed during the period between October, 1924, and September, 1925, inclusive, which have qualities of distinction and yet are not printed in periodicals falling under my regular attention.

Communications may be addressed to me _Care of Small, Maynard & Company, 41 Mount Vernon Street, Boston, Mass._

E. J. O.

CONTENTS

PAGE INTRODUCTION. By the Editor xiii

THE GIFT. By Sandra Alexander 1 (From _The Reviewer_)

THE RETURN. By Sherwood Anderson 21 (From _The Century Magazine_)

GERTRUDE DONOVAN. By Nathan Asch 39 (From _The Transatlantic Review_)

GUARD OF HONOR. By Barry Benefield 53 (From _The Pictorial Review_)

THE BEGGAR OF ALCAZAR. By Konrad Bercovici 64 (From _The Century Magazine_)

THE LAUGH. By Bella Cohen 81 (From _The Calendar of Modern Letters_)

THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY. By Charles Caldwell Dobie 85 (From _Harper’s Magazine_)

THE CITY OF REFUGE. By Rudolph Fisher 105 (From _The Atlantic Monthly_)

AN ARMY WITH BANNERS. By Katharine Fullerton Gerould 122 (From _Harper’s Magazine_)

COWARD’S CASTLE. By Walter Gilkyson 148 (From _The Atlantic Monthly_)

HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE FREE? By Manuel Komroff 167 (From _The Atlantic Monthly_)

HAIRCUT. By Ring Lardner 174 (From _Liberty_)

THE ILL WIND. By Robert Robinson 186 (From _Collier’s Weekly_)

THE OLD LADY. By Evelyn Scott 195 (From _The Dial_)

OLD MAN LEDGE. By May Stanley 207 (From _The Pictorial Review_)

SIX DOLLARS. By Wilbur Daniel Steele 228 (From _The Pictorial Review_)

THE HOME TOWN. By Milton Waldman 253 (From _The London Mercury_)

FIRE AND WATER. By Glenway Wescott 270 (From _Collier’s Weekly_)

THE DEVIL DRUM. By Barrett Willoughby 287 (From _The Century Magazine_)

GIDEON’S REVENGE. By Elinor Wylie 311 (From _The Century Magazine_)

THE YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY, OCTOBER, 1924, TO SEPTEMBER, 1925 323

Abbreviations 325

Addresses of Magazines Publishing Short Stories 330

Biographical Roll of Honor of American Short Stories 334

Roll of Honor of Foreign Short Stories in American Magazines 345

The Best Books of Short Stories 349

Volumes of Short Stories Published in the United States: An Index 351

Articles on the Short Story in American Magazines: An Index 355

Index of Short Stories in Books 389

I. American Authors 389

II. British and Irish Authors 395

III. Translations 402

Magazine Averages 406

Index of Short Stories Published in American Magazines 409

I. American Authors 410

II. British and Irish Authors 441

III. Translations 446

INTRODUCTION

Is it, as Henry Adams suggests, a fiction that society educates itself or aims at a conscious purpose? In Europe at all events, as he points out, society has not done so. European society at the present time is old. Its youth was not more conscious than that of the average man whose character is formed by the blows and punches of fate. But in America society is young and at least self-conscious. Comparative peace surrounds it: experience of similarly thinking nations is at its service. With these advantages can it consciously form a new and finer civilization within itself, with new values from the experience of the old European civilization and values, now of doubtful worth? America, intellectually, is of European descent. Her language, her law, are not alien to those of the old world. When, therefore, one asks if her society can educate itself toward a conscious purpose, one must not answer that question with the experiences of Asiatic civilizations in mind.

Since 1914, it has been very clear that a new energy has begun to stir in America. It is as if the mass of the people has begun to realize itself not as a congregation of settlers, farmers and prospectors, but as a nation capable of an ideal somewhat different in spirit from those which, as it can perceive from its newspapers, animate the nations of Europe. In other words, America has begun to realize that she is capable of at any rate desiring an independent ideal worthy of attainment.

It is not in the works of such writers as Emerson, Whitman, Henry Adams, and Edwin Arlington Robinson, nor in the works of the younger writers who seek inspiration outside the sphere of American life, that one finds this realization actively leading American public thought. It is in such, at first sight, unusual forms of philosophical expression as acts of law, social customs, and even newspaper articles. There one hears the voice of the American nation beginning to assert that the old codes which it inherited from Europe have come under its criticism. This criticism, one feels, arises from a definite and conscious comparison of an inherited ideal with one which is being gradually formulated by the whole nation.

In order to follow an ideal of this particular and, one might say, personal kind, it is necessary that the nation which seeks after it should, in the first place, attempt to know itself. One sees that, in every way, America today tries by self-expression to realize her own character. In the East, in the West, particularly in the Middle West, every individual who is not wholly absorbed in making money or in furthering the material welfare of his country attempts at some time during his life to say what he thinks of the world as he sees it. His world is not an old world of traditions. There is no traditional way of expressing his thoughts about it ready to his hand, nor is every man a great literary artist. He has had, therefore, to invent a form of expression that is not too great a tax upon his powers.

Few men or women are capable of sustaining their energies through the length of a novel or of a work of philosophy, and fewer have the gift of poetry. It would seem, therefore, that almost of necessity the American people has adopted the short story as its particular form of art: not the sketch nor the episodic tale, but a fairly long and systematically constructed piece of writing in which primarily it liberates its own feelings, and by which secondarily it tells a tale. The American short story, therefore, has an immense and peculiar interest and value. One feels in it the striving of a nation to express itself, and thereby to come to a knowledge of its own character, in order completely and consciously to follow an ideal which it hopes to set before itself.

But whether through the evolutions of human life it is possible to follow a fixed ideal, whether it is possible for a whole nation consciously to mould its future, whether even it is possible for a people to realize its own character clearly enough to be able to impose a philosophy upon it, only the future can tell. One is inclined to think that it is impossible, but that does not detract from the extraordinary interest which the phenomenon of a nation seeking self-realization arouses.

Whatever the result of America’s conscious attempt at self-education may be, the record of it, in the form at any rate of the short story, whether good or bad, will be of the greatest value to future generations.

To repeat what I have said in these pages in previous years, for the benefit of the reader as yet unacquainted with my standards and principles of selection, I shall point out that I have set myself the task of disengaging the essential human qualities in our contemporary fiction, which, when chronicled conscientiously by our literary artists, may fairly be called a criticism of life. I am not at all interested in formulæ, and organized criticism at its best would be nothing more than dead criticism, as all dogmatic interpretation of life is always dead. What has interested me, to the exclusion of other things, is the fresh, living current which flows through the best American work, and the psychological and imaginative reality which American writers have conferred upon it.

No substance is of importance in fiction, unless it is organic substance, that is to say, substance in which the pulse of life is beating. Inorganic fiction has been our curse in the past, and bids fair to remain so, unless we exercise much greater artistic discrimination than we display at present.

The present record covers the period from October, 1924, to September, 1925, inclusive. During this period I have sought to select from the stories published in American magazines those which have rendered life imaginatively in organic substance and artistic form. Substance is something achieved by the artist in every act of creation, rather than something already present, and accordingly a fact or group of facts in a story only attains substantial embodiment when the artist’s power of compelling imaginative persuasion transforms them into a living truth. The first test of a short story, therefore, in any qualitative analysis, is to report upon how vitally compelling the writer makes his selected facts or incidents. This test may be conveniently called the test of substance.

But a second test is necessary if the story is to take rank above other stories. The true artist will seek to shape this living substance into the most beautiful and satisfying form by skilful selection and arrangement of his materials, and by the most direct and appealing presentation of it in portrayal and characterization.

The short stories which I have examined in this study, as in previous years, have fallen naturally into four groups. The first consists of those stories which fail, in my opinion, to survive either the test of substance or the test of form. These stories are listed in the yearbook without comment or qualifying asterisk.

The second group consists of those stories which may fairly claim that they survive either the test of substance or the test of form. Each of these stories may claim to possess either distinction of technique alone, or more frequently, I am glad to say, a persuasive sense of life in them to which a reader responds with some part of his own experience. Stories included in this group are indicated in the yearbook index by a single asterisk prefixed to the title.

The third group, which is composed of stories of still greater distinction, includes such narratives as may lay convincing claim to a second reading, because each of them has survived both tests, the test of substance and the test of form. Stories included in this group are indicated in the yearbook index by two asterisks prefixed to the title.

Finally, I have recorded the names of a small group of stories which possess, I believe, the even finer distinction of uniting genuine substance and artistic form in a closely woven pattern with such sincerity that these stories may fairly claim a position in American literature. If all of these stories by American authors were republished, they would not occupy more space than six or seven novels of average length. My selection of them does not imply the critical belief that they are great stories. A year which produced one great story would be an exceptional one. It is simply to be taken as meaning that I have found the equivalent of six or seven volumes worthy of republication among all the stories published during the period under consideration. These stories are indicated in the yearbook index by three asterisks prefixed to the title, and are listed in the special “Rolls of Honor.” In compiling these lists, I have permitted no personal preference or prejudice to influence my judgment consciously. Several stories which I dislike personally are to be found on the “Rolls of Honor.” The general and particular results of my study will be found explained and carefully detailed in the supplementary part of this volume.

EDWARD J. O’BRIEN.

London. November 3, 1925.

THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1925

NOTE.--The order in which the stories in this volume are printed is not intended as an indication of their comparative excellence; the arrangement is alphabetical by authors.

THE GIFT[1]

By SANDRA ALEXANDER

(From _The Reviewer_)

The sun came up around the bend of the river. The top of it, huge and misshapen, had just cleared the mass of juniper and swamp myrtle when Annie Sherrod opened the kitchen door and came down the rickety back steps into the yard. She carried in one hand a bucket of clabber for the pigs and in the other a tin pail full to the brim with a stirring of corn meal and sweet milk for the chickens. As she reached the chicken coop the sun shook away the dark myrtle and gave its red reflection to the river. The water tugged and pulled it out of shape as it flowed on by to the sound. The river and the dried mud along its banks shone brightly, but the woman noticed none of this red glory of sunrise. She scattered the meal and emptied the sour milk in the pig trough, and then filled the empty bucket with the dark water and gave it to the chickens to drink.

The sun had now risen so high that the reflection spread like burnished copper on the face of the water, and Annie shaded her eyes as she looked down at the fish trap anchored close to the bank. The fish trap was made of two hoops of seine and two dug-outs. The hoops were balanced upon a greased pole between the dugouts. The faintest puff of wind caused the top hoop to dip down until it was caught by the current and dragged under. As it came up the opposite hoop was pushed down. The hoops dipped and turned endlessly in the river current and sometimes brought up fish. When the hoops reached the top of their circle the fish fell out and down into the dugouts, sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left. “Lazy man fishin’” they called the trap on the river.

There were plenty of fish this morning, silver river herrings, and Annie gathered them up and carried them back to the house.

She busied herself with breakfast and when it stood smoking hot on the stove, she went down the hall to a room at the front of the house. “Henry,” she called, outside the closed door, “it’s time to get up--brekfast’s ready.” A voice answered her and she went on to the next room, opened the door and entered.

It was dark in there and the air smelled of stale bedding. Annie propped up a window and pushed open a broken shutter. The sun threw a broad streak of light across a bed in the corner which held a sleeping man. He roused himself, shivered, and threw one protecting arm across his eyes to shut out the sudden glare. “Can’t you let me be?” he said. Annie did not look at him: “Brekfast’s done,” she said and went out.

The table stood under the window in the kitchen. She wiped the oilcloth top with a damp cloth and set it with thick china plates and cups. She “dished up” the smoking food, filled the cups with coffee and put the pot back on the stove. Then she sat down at one end of the table and stared in front of her.

Her brooding face was lifeless in its repose. There was no thought going on back of the woman’s dulled eyes. She sat, heavy and relaxed, a little forward in the chair, and stared straight in front of her. Mechanically she lifted a hand now and then to frighten away the swarms of flies that hovered over the food before her. The sound of a tapping stick and carefully placed feet in the hall roused her. She sagged to her feet and went to the door. A man with a cane in one hand and the other spread out before him stopped beside her. “Annie,” he said inquiringly.

“Here I be,” she said, catching hold of his hand to guide him to the table.

“I smell fish this morning,” the blind man said cheerfully, as he spread his hands to touch the knife and fork at his place.

“Yes, we got fish.” Annie speared one with a fork and took out the backbone. She put milk and sugar in his coffee, cut up a piece of fat pork and put the plate down in front of him. “There you air!” She helped her own plate and sat down again.

They ate in silence.

Down the hall a door slammed. “Will’s late,” the blind man said.

“Yeah--he wuz drunk agin las’ night!”

The blind man made soft clucking noises, his tongue against his closed teeth.

Will came through the kitchen, glancing at the table as he went by on his way to the back porch. There was a sound of water poured in a tin basin. “Ain’t ther’ a towel ’round here some place?” he called. Annie got up, took a towel from the cupboard drawer out to him, and came back to her breakfast. In a little while he came in, sat down between them and helped himself to food.

The two men were brothers, Henry and William Sherrod. The blind man was stout, his sandy hair thin on his round head. William was slim in build and the bones of his face prominent. His hair was thick and the color of Henry’s. His eyes were blue and quick with impatience. Henry’s were blue and flat with the vacancy of blindness.

Will leaned forward and took another fish from the heaped plate in front of him.

“Got in purtty late las’ night, didn’t you, Will?” Henry had finished his breakfast, and sat leaning back in his chair, his pale eyes staring in the direction of his brother.

Will did not lift his head from his plate. “Uh-huh,” he said.

“Who’d you see up town?” Henry went on.

“Nobody much. I--” he cleared his mouth of the fish bones--“I went to the movin’ picher place.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” There was an eager interest in Henry’s voice. He leaned forward and waited for Will to go on. Then he prompted him: “Ain’t you goin’ to tell us what you saw? Annie here wants to know--don’t you, Annie?”

Annie roused herself from the stupor she had fallen into. “I ain’t pertikler,” she said.

Will suddenly scowled at the blind man. He paid no attention to Annie. “It warn’t so much. Jest one o’ them regler pichers. L’s see--” he ran his hand through his thick hair in the effort to think. “Thar was a woman an’ two men--an’--an’ she liked purtty things an’--an’ all. An’ one man was poor an’ tother was rich--so she runned away with him--an’ then he did something crooked--bet on a horse or sumpin like that--an’ so her husban’ come an’ got her. It was like that!”

Henry sighed when Will had finished. “It must er been a real good picher. Minds me er one I saw onct over to Adamton.”

“Yeah! Everything ’minds you er somethin’ you seen over to Adamton. It’s right bad you cain’t go back over there.” Henry dropped his head at the sound of Will’s voice.

Annie had not looked up from her plate or seemed to listen to Will’s recital, but now she stared straight at him, and under the scorn in her gaze he hesitated. “You lay off’n Henry,” she said.

“What you got to do with it? You better dry up yerself!” But as she still stared at him, his eyes wavered and he returned to his breakfast.

Almost paralyzed by this exchange between husband and wife, not because it was new or the first time he had heard it, but because he so keenly realized his helplessness, Henry’s hands fumbled with his knife and fork. They made outlandish noises against his empty plate.

“Have some more fish, Henry?” Annie lowered her voice as she spoke to him.