"It has been remarked that custom is a violent and treacherous schoolmistress. Having little by little slipped in the foot of her authority, she unmasks a furious and tyrannic countenance, against which we have neither the courage nor power to lift up our eyes. Although Peter Krutch had never heard this said, he was in the act of finding it out for himself."

I almost regret to hold this particular example up for derogatory criticism, as the generality is briefly expressed, not uninteresting, and moves quickly into the business of the story. The author has appropriated it however, word for word, from an old essay of Montaigne's; and, after all, it is merely an unnecessary twang and plunk of the orchestral instruments.

Generalities in story openings too often make the latter look as if they were introductions to philosophically-toned expositions of something or other. No reader, intelligent or stupid, desires to have heavy philosophy fed to him like a lump of wet clay in a piece of fiction, especially in the very beginning of the story. Instead of dishing up dogmatically-toned generalities that will only anger the keen reader and discourage the dumb one, the successful author informs his entire story with the truth, or the believed truth, that he is interested in; he endeavors to make it operate with invisible power by developing dramatically a concrete case and letting the reader draw his own conclusions from that, without the aid of much or any direct comment. As every experienced author and editor is aware, each reader of any story whatever

will perversely twist its significance around more or less to suit himself - and that in spite of anything one can do.

Before attempting to write fiction in which any quantity of heavy philosophy is introduced, however skilfully, the less experienced author had better first write and sell stories of pure entertainment, stories of adventure, love, accomplishment, humor, without making any deliberate attempt to wrestle with the greater problems and mysteries of life. Only the author of unusual power and depth can deal with these and produce successful work and often he fails.

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In his resolve to write interesting story introductions, the author will find that one of his greatest aids is an ability to condense to say things in a colorful, striking way in few words and crystal-clear sentences.

The subject of compression is widely misunderstood among the ranks of fiction writers. Hundreds of stories appear every month on editors' desks that instead of compression need expansion or development of potentially good ideas they contain-ideas that the author has not seen clearly enough to develop successfully in all their life and color-but in the opening of a story the greatest possible condensation is a pretty good rule to go by, especially for the newer writer. Not only every sentence, but every phrase and word should be scrutinized to see if it is really worth the paper it will take to print it on; if it is the clearest, most forcible, most colorful at the writer's command.

OST stories are made or spoiled in the first three or four hundred words. It is rare that an interesting beginning is followed by a dull tale-any editor or publisher's reader will attest to this. Mr. Volney points out that in the opening sentence, almost, the quality of the story can be fairly tested. Many successful writers put as much thought and planning into the first three or four hundred words as in all of the rest of the story together.

The teachers and the critics have much to say about the opening and have agreed fairly well as to the technical requirements. The narrative question should be opened, the time and place should be indicated to give the reader his bearings. The main character should be introduced and made distinctive in some way, at least sufficiently tagged for identification. Mr. Gallishaw says in his analysis of "The Mummy" by John Galsworthy, "The function of the Beginning is to set forth the Situation confronting the main character with such explanatory matter of setting and characterization as may lend plausibility and interest to that situation. It shall mark a great crisis in the life of that character, with much depending upon the outcome; and it shall demand instant action of the character. It will be interesting in proportion to its importance. Its primary intent is to show the Possibility of Conflict."

No teacher goes much further than that in defining the characteristics of a good beginning. Yet, they do not claim, as the student is too likely to infer, that a beginning should be nothing more than all this. These are merely the essentials. Like the rules of rhyme and rhythm in poetry, they may be exasperating to the untrammelled spirit of the esthete, but the critic cannot be blamed for trying to

interpret the demands of the reading public.

What beyond these requirements of setting, characterization, and situation may you expect to find in a good beginning? That is a problem you must solve for yourself. If you are troubled with beginnings, study themdozens of them, hundreds of them. Read the first four hundred words of every story in every magazine that you can find. Select the best, those that pull you more powerfully into the story. Study them. Analyze them. Weigh every word, every phrase, every sentence. As you do this, not only will you lose your fear of this hurdle, but you will find yourself writing better stories throughout. Probably nine out of ten will not help you, but here and there you will get flashes of light on your problem.

Merely to illustrate what I mean, I am going to study what seems to me personally to be a most interesting story-beginning in The Saturday Evening Post of March 5. The story is called "The Cinderella Motif" by J. P. Marquand.

Of course, nearly everyone who happened to be at Harvard say, ten years back knows the whole thing already. Back at the class reunions, when brass bands and other more direct means of stimulantation cause one to see the past in a mellow light, one wonders at the resilience and durability of memory. Even the curious affair of Beverley Endicott Witherspoon and Clara Hodges seems natural and comprehensible at such a time, and not at all like one of those stories where the hero captures the forward pass and saves the day for Rutgers.

Go to the punch bowl, if there is one, and with another drink of the sweet liquid,

provided it is not wholly sweet, you can understand, without pretending, the predicament in which Beverley found himself that was grave enough to make him play the villain. You may possibly remember why a boy like Beverley, the kind those mothers on Beacon Street no doubt still describe as "a really nice boy," had no time for study. Yes, you may even comprehend how Beverley felt when, after paying fifty dollars for an evening's panoramic view of literature, he discovered that this view, in spite of its high price, embraced none of the questions of the examination he wished to pass. It was like Professor Hector Hodges, who always had the reputation of being difficult, to do such a thing in Comparative Literature A, an essentially untrustworthy and unethical thing.

Close upon the end of three hours, Beverley stood up, put on his raccoon coat, picked up the blue-covered copy book containing his answers to the examination questions and walked toward the door. Naturally, through the simplest dictates of sportsmanship, he showed none of the concern he felt. Nevertheless, one can understand how Beverley must have felt upon discovering at the door of the examination room no less a person than Professor Hodges himself, collecting the examination blue books. Professor Hodges pushed forward his bald head and peered through his tortoise-shell glasses in the manner one always remembers as being chill and of no good omen.

"Professor Hodges," said Beverley, "would you mind telling me how much the mark on this particular examination counts in making up our grade?"

"It seemed to me," said Beverley, "that a number of them dealt with subjects we had n't touched on." "Indeed!" said Professor Hodges. "Which question, for instance, Mr. Witherspoon?"

"Well," said Beverley, "there's the first question, sir. "The Cinderella motif is the commonest basis of plot structure. Explain this statement, with examples from your reading.' I can't recall anything about that."

Professor Hodges smiled again very sympathetically.

"The reason for that, Mr. Witherspoon, is because you slept the greater part of the hour when I was explaining the subject." "Oh," said Beverley.

Now one can understand how Beverley must have felt, just as those of us who happened into his room that day when the examination was over understood. "I'm concerned about myself," said Beverley, sinking into a leather armchair. "Really, I'm concerned."

The situation is the simplest, the most trivial, that any writer could have discovered anywhere. A college boy is probably going to flunk an exam. Why should you or I or any reader care whether he flunked it or not? We have no particular sympathy for the character; he is the most unheroic of all types, just a "nice" boy. Yet, having read to the end of the quotation above, I am ready even a little anxious to continue the story. Let me analyze my emotions.

"Oh," said Beverley. "Thank you." "The questions were simple," remarked Professor Hodges.

"Were they?" said Beverley.

jaws beginning to move faster. They have their own literary traditions, these shop-girls. They know about these college boys and their affairs. There will be plenty of kissing in the story, and, dollars to doughnuts, he will never marry the girl in the end. We are further promised such a treat a few sentences further, "the predicament in which Beverley found himself that was grave enough to make him play the villain."

Then I read this, "One wonders at the resilience and durability of memory. . Go to the punch bowl, if there is one, and with another drink of the sweet liquid, provided it is not wholly sweet, you can understand without pretending, etc." The author, apparently, is n't going to be satisfied with bidding for the interest of the gum-chewers. He is out for the sentimental old grads as well, trying to lull them into a mood of mellow recollections of youthful folly. Well done, this challenging of the interests of different types of readers, I admit to myself as I read with grudging admiration.

Then I strike this, "The Cinderella motif is the commonest basis of plot structure."

This author, apparently, has the daring of an O. Henry. He is deliberately, boldly, warning me what he is going to do. He is going to take the hardest-worked, driestmilked old motif in all literature and he is going to give it a new twist. It is as if he had felt my condescending recognition of his tricks and risen suddenly from the pages to challenge me. "Call yourself blasé, do you? Superior to the shop-girls and the old grads, eh! All right, don't read any further if you don't want to, but just in passing I don't

mind telling you that this plot is going to be a brand new variation of the Cinderella theme. You really ought to have a professional interest in that. However, you don't need to read it if you don't want to. It is up to you."

And a little shame-facedly I fall into line behind the shop-girls and the old grads. I finish the story, and, worse than that, I like it. Does n't this suggest to you something like a hazy sort of principle- I dare not call it a law for fear of the wrath of the inspirationists. Don't be frightened because you have never heard of it before in any textbook on short-story writing.

It is just this: you may safely assume that your story will not be the first piece of fiction that its readers have ever read. Of course, if it is any particular satisfaction to your vanity, you may ignore all the rest. If you do, maybe the editor will buy your story, maybe he won't. Or, if you choose, you may concede frankly that they have read and are reading other stories. You may play on their established tastes, even to the point of writing in a form and spirit which the editor of a certain magazine has found his readers like from week to week, month to month, year to year. You can make as many subtle improvements and novel variations as you wish. If you are not too lazy you can learn, by careful study, certain characteristics of that form and that spirit. You can be a revolutionist if you will, but everybody will be happier if you will be an evolutionary revolutionist, and it is interesting that the evolutionist started way back years and years ago, even before Cinderella.