life, and submitted to neglect, despair, and thwarting, it will be sturdier for the experience.

The problem of folk-novel writing is honest interpretation—to be a translator of the people and their language, not a mere emulator of their inarticulateness. When Wordsworth described Michael: "His mind was keen, intense, frugal, apt for all affairs," he was using his own large and flexible store of words to express a man who could not by any chance express himself. Such interpretation Such interpretation is compounded of sympathy, judgment, and word-practice-three forces that get out of balance very easily. The greatest danger to an author is the likelihood of falling into propaganda and sacrificing the form of the novel in order to "inform" the reader. An author's first allegiance is to his characters, not to his reading public. He must keep faith with his people, and he must resist temptations to serve up objective descriptions to the taste of his prospective audience.

A long task, and one calling for great patience, is the study of the people and their language. This is easy enough to one familiar with the locality and accepted with faith and good fellowship by the people themselves, but it cannot be undertaken hastily or lightly. The means of conveying the atmosphere by scenic description is a fearful thing by reason of its bewildering possibilities. Words must be found that will compel the reader to see the beloved, familiar things, and the scenes themselves must be selected and repressed, or they amount to nothing more than verbal chaos. Seeking words descriptive of the happy mountain, I made pen sketches of whatever lay before me the garden, the fields, the animals, my own back-porch with its morning-glory vines and sunflowers and

dahlias all mixed up around it, and its red geraniums shouting at the sunrise from a high shelf. Playing with words, fitting them together, trying them in odd patterns, is an alluring game.

Another major difficulty in planning a novel is the story. Readers and editors very properly demand a story. They refuse to have an inchoate medley of description, however rhapsodic, however "true." They balk at mere character studies, however lifelike. There must be a plotThere must be a plot-a "something that happens." The story for "The Happy Mountain" was perverse and elusive. I watched and waited, and made several promising outlines, only to find that they had no logical end. I called upon inspiration and it failed In desperation I took a plot from life and played out the drama in which the neighbors had become involved. But lacking the skill which makes fiction truer than life, I fell into the error of putting the story down as it happened. As a consequence, critics have had a merry time romping all over my story, calling it thin, mechanical, improbable, and illogical-as, of course, life stories usually are. usually are. Coincidences, strokes of fate, unaccountable but timely accidents abound in real life, but mere photography of them is not craftsmanship.

me.

The problem of the writer is individual to each his own troubles and peculiar difficulties, but for all of us it may be summed up in its general aspect: to sketch familiar things with a strong, firm hand, to tell sharply and accurately of what lies before us, never to give way to that most ridiculous weakness, "vanity of the pen," and to pray Him who gives us intelligence not to abandon us wholly to it, but to keep us in spiritual heart and mental clarity.

HIS

IS "wad" of yellow copy-paper is the one piece of equipment every experienced newspaper man considers essential. Some of its many uses have peculiar value for the more general writer, but only rarely do workers outside the reportorial profession know either of its existence or easy adaptability. For the wad is comprised of those few sheets of paper the reporter snatches up and crushes into his coat pocket whenever the city editor summons him to the desk for an assignment. And usually as soon as the "story" has been completed the scribbled notes are dismissed in the direction of the wastebasket or the floor. Moreover, so inconspicuously do ordinarily trained staff-writers manipulate their wads in public, that frequently even the victim of an interview remains but half aware his words are being taken down.

gests the elimination of unessentials. At times fresh points of departure may even be caught in this manner.

But the uses of the wad need not be limited to outlines alone. A free-lance writer in one of the suburbs of greater Boston keeps three wads in front of him on his work desk at all times. One of these, of course, he devotes to outlines, but the other two he holds ready for the more unexpected uses of notes and correspondence. Sometimes while he works on one story, an idea comes to him for another which he has recently had in mind. The wad at his elbow allows him to jot down these unrelated ideas without, however, his becoming distracted from the story in process of construction. On the other hand, having finished his morning's task, this writer runs through the mail. Another wad allows him to make a memorandum of the letters he must write and the date they should be completed. A word concerning discipline ought to be inserted here. This particular free-lance writer has by diligent practice trained himself to go in the morning directly to his desk without so much as glancing at the paper or waiting for the mail. None the less, he does not trust himself as regards his several wads. The outline wad lies open at the first page; it was made ready the night before for immediate service. But the other two are fitted with a plain cover of similar-sized copy-paper. They also thus await instant use, but do not introduce thoughts alien to the morning's work. One of the advantages of the wad as a gatherer of notes is that being small, two snips of a pair of scissors or a paper-cutter transform it into filler material for a loose leaf note-book. When he has finished the job at hand, the writer may paste his notes in

The idea of the wad can usually be applied with profit by a writer to his desk. Thus several sheets of rough copy-paper folded once across each way make an excellent pad for outlining the articles or short stories one intends writing. Affording a square only about four by five and a half inches, it at once suggests brevity. By inserting a pin in one of the creases and slitting the other, the pad will assume book form. In this way the outline may be successively enlarged without, however, allowing more than one page at a time to draw the eye. For the writing of newspaper articles or even for magazine feature work this method of arranging one's thoughts is ideal. In longer work, such as the short story, a better plan can be developed by first working out the scenario on unfolded copypaper. The very process of transcribing it into a smaller space often gives the eye a more acute "feel" of the true form and sug

the book where he keeps the jottings about stories waiting to be completed. And each little page goes readily under the proper working title.

The newspaperman's own method of using his wad is an excellent one for the writer to study. No good reporter ever "goes for a walk" without his bit of copy-paper. Very often before he returns he may have half a dozen leads in his head beside the one assigned to him. Moreover, many reporters, before destroying their rough notes, look them over and sometimes jot down an idea or two in the more permanent note-book which they keep in the drawer of their desk. This ability successfully to edit one's own notes is an incalculably valuable habit. The novelist and the playwright never know when material may serve an undreamed-of purpose. But that author has a great advantage who can separate the important from the trivial in the daily gleanings of a roving and observant eye. Experienced reporters constantly declare that the transition from wad to note-book helps them to accomplish this. But they also comment that the discriminating use of a wad increases their memory. At best, a wad comprises only a few sheets. When, therefore, several stories present themselves, the reporter must exercise discretion and put down only essentials, allowing his memory to fill in the gaps between. The interviewing of a man easily frightened by the sight of a notebook, holds no terrors for the reporter who has thus trained his mind to "carry" a story from point to point with only the aid of a scribbled line or suggestive phrase.

Many experienced newspapermen, so perfectly have they gained this habit of making

their memory and their wad alternately record the facts, are able years later to recapture the essentials of a forgotten story, merely by reviewing the hastily written notes made on the spot. Their memory automatically supplies the missing links in the chain. But the wad also enables newspapermen to make use of the ability of the mind to memorize great quantities of facts for a short period of time. Recently a reporter on a Boston newspaper was required to interview a man about a very technical subject. Because this man was not only his one source of news on the subject, but also undisposed to give out many real facts for publication, the reporter hesitated to use even a wad of copy-paper, for fear of scaring him into reticence. Accordingly, this staff-writer, who was old at the business, concentrated his efforts on winning the man's confidence. So successfully did he manage his campaign that a two-hour conversation ensued. Not once during that time, however, did the reporter even draw out a pencil. But the moment he boarded a street car he began jotting down leads. They came quite freely and in an orderly fashion, because throughout the interview the reporter had had his wad in mind and carried the leads, as well as the alternating links between, "in his head." The writer of fiction will rarely require such intensive use of his memory, yet the incident perhaps serves to show to what an extent the simple wad of casually snatched copy-paper may help to increase the efficiency of the equipment so necessary to a productive writer. Indeed, the uses of a wad are limited only by the writer's own imagination as applied to the practice of his craft.

"A

RCHIBALD," ventured Annabel, "if you're not writing, could you-" "But I am writing!" protested Archibald, turning from the Evening News in haste.

"You didn't look it," murmured Annabel. "You can't tell a thing about what I'm really doing," quoth Archibald severely, "by the looks."

This conversation took place twenty years ago, when Annabel was a bride. It was not until eighteen years later, after she had brought up her children and after Archibald had become famous, that something happened which finally convinced Annabel that her husband could appear to be reading yet really be working at the same time. He and she were waiting for a street-car, and Archibald had two transfers in his hand. To pass the time until the car was due, he bought a newspaper for them both to read. Then he absent-mindedly folded up the paper, thrust it under his arm,

and stood attentively perusing his transfer instead. Out of the corner of her eye Annabel watched him as he went reading on and on with mournful gaze. She was curious to see how long it would take him to discover that he was not imbibing a great deal of information about the latest news. The transfer supplied him with plenty of satisfactory reading-matter for ten minutes, until the car came and the conductor took it away.

"When we get home," said Annabel casually as they took their seats, "I'll let you have your supper on the little table by your desk in your room, Peterborough fashion, if you'd like to keep right on working at this new article of yours."

Archibald stared at her with astonished eyes. "How in the world did you know that I was working on one?" demanded he.

"Oh," rejoined Annabel modestly, "I just thought perhaps you were. You know you've

always said that I couldn't tell what you were doing, by the looks."

This is the primary lesson to be learned (or perhaps never learned) by the family and secretary and friends of a certain kind of writing man. There are other sorts of writers who definitely act the part when they are working - Balzac in his flowing writing robes, Henry James dictating his tentative thoughts to his amanuensis by the hour, and the modern newspaper reporter typewriting a hundred and sixty words a minute with a green eyeshade cocked over one eye. But here and there will be found a man like Archibald, who, when a literary job is pending, will have to go through an irrelevant preliminary stage, when he pores over a paper, or broods over his files, or wanders about aimlessly tinkering at one thing and another with an air of being lost in the woods. It is a state of mulling that looks suspiciously like dawdling; a transition phase that makes the man who is going through it appear like fair prey to any Natural Leader who has a plan on foot.

When a writing man of the Archibald variety is trying to get started on his task, he is rather easy to distract. Once secure his attention, and you can can cool down his writing zeal to zero in a twinkling; whereupon the whole tedious firing-up process will have to be done over again from the start. He feels as if he might as well do what the Able Manager wants him to, and put off the re-stoking process until another day.

But if time-limits are beginning to press upon him, and if once too often he is interrupted just as he is beginning to get up steam, then a thing occurs that is very much like what designers of steam-boilers call "the sudden initial pop-lift of a valve." When the literary man's temper has been compressed dangerously near to the exploding point, the sudden initial pop-lift can be very sudden indeed. At such moments you may know by the fervor of his vocabulary that he is really warmed up to go.

It is at this point that all good wives defend their Archibalds from doorbells and from telephones and from family affairs. Yet, perversely, it is also at exactly this moment when the most devoted wives are suddenly reminded of a thousand things about which they really need to consult their husbands — matters that unquestionably should be laid before them right away. before them right away. By the speed with which a wife learns to suppress this impulse, you may gauge the commanding architecture of the Archibaldian dome.

At the other extreme from Archibald is the writer who works with such gusto and exuberance that he is impossible to distract. If you venture into his presence with intent to interrupt him, he will read you his last two pages and let you decide which of three possible concluding paragraphs you like best. If he works in a university or in a publishing house, he darts into the offices of his colleagues and solicits votes on the relative merits in a given sentence of sixteen synonymous verbs. He wants to use one of them. He wishes he might use all of them. See which one you'd advise him to select. You are not very likely to disturb him when he is writing. He is far more likely to disturb you. He is a lovable man and a jovial addition to the human scene, but in family life not primarily a great help about the house.

One such man, a member of the legal profession, was invited years ago to address a Layman's League on some current religious books, taking up their controversial aspects from a lawyer's point of view. One early morning before starting for the office he was reading in his study, skimming the books that had been sent him to discuss. His wife meanwhile was hanging the curtains in the living-room where the wall paperers had finished work the night before. This was in the days when, at the top of every proper window, hung a silken drapery called a "lambrequin." To drape a lambrequin in the approved festoons and loopings at the top of the lace curtains called for many little brass fasteners that hooked over the curtain rod,