HERE has arisen within the last quarter of a century a particularly weak convention in verse. For lack of a better term, we may call it the "gypsy mood." The picture of gypsy life: the camp fire, the shifting seasons and landscapes, the desire ever to set forth into another country, is no doubt poetic enough; certainly it has inspired some excellent writing both in verse and prose. But of late it has become sadly debased. I suppose the verses of Kipling are largely responsible for this noxious influence. Kipling, an expert short story writer, is by no means a great poet. His well lilting rhymes are enough for those readers who can advance to nothing better, but as a model for beginning poets, he is ruinous. His metrical effects are raw, his ideas are stale, and his sentimentality is unpardonable.

To return to the gypsy mood. This convention has been so overworked that it inevitably forces upon those who employ it all the outworn phrases and monotonous rhythms which cling to it. Many of the poems I have received lately have been in this manner, and not one of them deviates from the type by a single striking figure or unusual bit of observation. As an example, I shall quote "Gypsy Longing." Even the title is stale!

There's a song in the gypsy heart of me,
Wanting the gypsy way -

Breathing on wind-blown heath and lea
At the ending of the day.

In this poem we note a curious phenomenon common to most of these gypsy songs. Although the mood is supposed to be inspired by that wandering folk of Bohemian origin, the phrasing is Irish in idiom! "Oh, it's calling, the lure of the open road" is so Celtic in texture that we expect the next line to be "To me and my dark colleen." Other annoying tricks of this type of writing are illustrated by the phrases: "heart of me," "soul of me," instead of my heart and my soul. As far as I have been able to discover this unidiomatic arrangement of the possessive was invented for the convenience of poets who find it easier to rhyme with the long e sound than with heart or soul. We also notice the unpleasant elision in "blue smoke o' the fire" which has become in

"The farther away is a village spire

The happier song sing I,"

shows possibilities which are not realized in the present sample of his work. The fact is that he has fallen under a very enervating influence.

I should not deal with this subject so fully and so firmly were I not deluged with poems showing how wide-spread is this gypsy mood. I need only quote a few titles: "Pipes o' Pan" (the verses were good, but the o' threw me off at once); "Gypsy Yearning"; "Gypsy Love"; "Just a Bit o' the West"; "Trail o' Dreams." How is one to pronounce that o' anyway? The nearest I can come to it is a grunt.

Another general fault which I have noticed in many of the contributions lately is a tendency to echo too closely the cadence of some well-known poem. No doubt this imitation is unconscious, but its effect is always unfortunate. If the verses recall some really great piece of work, the reader immediately makes comparisons unfavorable to the echo; whereas if they recall some inferior but popular poem, he concludes that the echo's taste is not as good as it should be. As an example of the first type, I shall quote a stanza which must recall to every reader Gray's "Elegy":

The vesper bell rings softly from the hill,
The weary birds fly homeward from the sky,
The mist of evening rises gray and chill

diction and even the mood are different, but the march of the verses, the construction of the sentences, is identical. Here is another example:

By Lethe's stream the poppies grow-
And there my soul will ever be.

Men care not that thou didst strive
To raise a great name when alive.
Thy name is lost in that great sea
Where millions upon millions go!

We will pass over the awkwardness of the fourth line, the strength of the las two, and the qualities of the stanza in general, to consider the echo in the first line. The word poppies has, since the war, become so intimately related to a certain type of war poetry that we must be very sure it conveys no imitative note. The author of this stanza, far from taking any such precaution, has allowed his first verse to fall into the exact measure of

In Flanders' fields the poppies grow.

I

This imitation is not plagiarism by any means. Our memory stores up many rhythmic impressions, and it is quite natural that these should be communicated to the mind during composition, along with more original material. believe, however, that whenever we incorporate an echo into a poem, we are vaguely aware that something is wrong. Perhaps we cannot ourselves find out just where the echo occurs. The solution of this problem is to read any suspected passage to a group of friends and ask them frankly if they find any imitative lines.

It will be noted that both of the general faults which I have mentioned today are the result of a too "literary" method of composition. The gypsy mood and the unconscious echo have their source in other people's work. It is not inappropriate, therefore, to repeat at this time the warning that every writer must be in direct contact with his subject. He must not perceive nature, his emotions, or any material in the indirect light shed by some one else's work.

And all the waking world has passed me by.

Vastly inferior as this is to the great Elegy, its rhythmic measure is so like that it immediately brings to mind the first stanza of the older poem. The

MARGARET GORDON BERTHA W. SMITH

ROBERT HILLYER WILLIAM M. TANNER

NLESS a change is made in a recent ruling from Washington, free-lance writers must return and pay taxes on royalties or sale of publication rights. as unearned income. The ruling, which has come under attack from many sources, is as follows:

The view is presented that all royalties paid by publishers to authors are paid as a consideration for the author selling, renting, or leasing his property to the publisher, and that royalties received by an author from his publishers do not come within the meaning of the term "earned income." Where the royalties received by an author are derived either from the sale, leasing, or renting of the intellectual product, it is the opinion of this office that they are not paid for "personal services. actually rendered," but are paid for the use or sale of property, and do not come within the meaning of the term "earned income."

A publisher may enter into a contract with an author to write articles on certain subjects once a week for a period of one year for a news

paper, or to write a book on a certain subject, the publisher to copyright the literary work and pay the author a stipulated amount in cash or a certain amount in cash plus a percentage of the income derived from other publishers using the articles or material in the book.

In this class of cases there exists the relationship of employer and employee, and the consideration paid the author is for his personal services. The intellectual products of an author who contracts or is employed to write articles or books at some time in the future for publishers, in a majority of cases, belong to the employer, and the author has no tangible or intangible property right in the published property. It is the opinion of this office that both the lump sum amount and royalties paid in this class of cases is for "personal services actually rendered" and comes within the term "earned income."

It is hoped that sufficient protest will arise to effect a change in this rule which is obviously unfair to free-lance writers.

Editor, the Forum:

There had been reposing in my mind for some time past the idea that women were marching right along in the columns of America's best magazines, until one day I opened a copy of the Century and a glance at the table of contents revealed that there was not a woman contributor in that issue. My first reaction was to discover how many womenwriters the other three literary quality magazines entertained in their aristocratic quarters. The result was a dispassionate investigation of the numerical status of women-contributors to the Century, the Atlantic Monthly, Scribner's, and Harper's.

A half-year of women-contributors to four great American magazines: May to October, inclusive, for the year 1926, showed that there were 111 women appearing in six months in those four periodicals. During that time the men-contributors to the same periodicals totalled 302.

I decided to go back ten years in my examination. I would discover for my own satisfaction that women, though still outnumbered by men in current literary publications, had made an individual class advance during ten years.

So the bound volumes of the Century, the Atlantic Monthly, Scribner's, and Harper's were taken down and dusted. The investigation proved that in 1916, during the six months beginning with May and ending with October, the number of women-contributors to those magazines had been greater than the number during 1926. The published writings of women in 1916 in those four periodicals came to 134!

Again I went back, ten more years, to 1906. The same six-month-period was chosen. Surely during twenty years of frank literary effort by women in the United States there had been a sizable gain.

And the third inquiry, which superstition declared should be successful, announced that in those days women-writers appeared 153 times in the pages of the Century, the Atlantic Monthly, Scribner's, and Harper's. A loss of 19 from 19061916. A loss of 23 from 1916-1926. A loss of 42 from 1906-1926.

That was no place to stop. I turned a second time to the current year's issues of six months, from May to October, determined to demonstrate that though many women were not published, the women who did get in, kept in line. I intended

to chuckle over the pleasant repetition of feminine signatures.

I merely held up both hands in outstretched chagrin. Only ten of the women-writers who got their work published at all in these four entrancing journals had their signatures reprinted in six months.

Again I sought corroboration in 1916's figures for the belief that successful women-writers are becoming more in demand. And there, in 1916, I beheld 21. Twice as many, and one to carry! 1906 offered 18 names.

I decided that the women-writers of today must be of a higher grade. The reading public must demand a stronger back ground. Women-writers who get repeated must have already succeeded, and in some measure have been previously recognized. My assumption seemed correct.

Out of the 18 women whose work appeared more than once in the pages of the Century, the Atlantic Monthly, Scribner's, and Harper's in 1906, only seven were included by the concurrent "Who's Who" of the nation. In 1916, though there was an increase of women-writer encorists, there were only seven recognized by the 1916 "Who's Who" of the nation. The assumption fluttered perceptibly. But 1926 proved conclusively my point. Out of only ten women-writers who have their names more than once in tables of contents in these four literary journals for 1926, May to October issues, seven are in "Who's Who" of the nation.

It does not seem to matter where one gets her experience and training. North, East, South, West; all send their quotas among the literary feminine dittoists. England even comes in for a recall.

The form is of no apparent concern. Womenwriters today use fiction, verse, or essay structure. Some women-writers use more than one, interchangeably. Women-writers in the Century favored the fiction-vehicle to ride these six months from May to October; in the Atlantic Monthly the essay was overwhelmingly preferred; in Scribner's verse got its hurdle; and in Harper's fiction again held the reins.

Women also win the coveted cup of repetition from many and various professions. Almost entirely the repeated women-writers in these four magazines are married. But, married or single, they come from all types of occupations: editors,

politicians, teachers, social leaders, physicians; sometimes just plain home-bodies.

Just one essential characteristic they hold in common. All of them have lived, and learned life from some individual angle before they have come to answer the curtain-calls of our four oftmentioned magazines. And most of the curtaincalls are for women who have learned life in generous outline. Travel seems almost a concommitant of present-day publication for women. There are of course notable exceptions but the world is so shrunken by automobiles, steamship lines, radio, and air-travel that one can seldom interest even mere Americans in dialectic thought. Dialect is permissable, sometimes sought for

Elsie Singmaster gives us that, to our delight but, before it nurtures a Quality brood, it has to be based on the cosmic intelligence of its canny

creator.

If this has been tedious, and undiverting, it has sufficed if one kind of profit was derived. The kind of profit which, caused by the facing of facts, will encourage the deduction in the minds of many current women would-be writers that cluttering the mails at 353 Fourth avenue, 8 Arlington street, 597 Fifth avenue, and 49 East 33rd street, is futile until they, too, have lived and learned and artfully translated life in human-interest vernacular. And may they do that very thing soon! Waco, Texas. Claude Eager Johnson.

Editor, the Forum: Have you ever considered the question of "When is an Amateur"?

In sporting parlance, one ceases to be an amateur with the first dollar he earns by his physical prowess, but authors may not be so simply classified. One may have received dozens of checks for literary matter and still remain an arch amateur, while another may acquire all the characteristics of a professional before having had any matter accepted.

To me the amateur is one who cries or swears - according to sex or temperament - over the returned manuscript; stores it away in the pigeonhole of a desk; and takes it out at intervals, mournfully questioning what is wrong with it and wondering ineffectively where it might be sent with some prospect of sticking.

Personally, I have endeavored to climb out of this class and have in a measure succeeded, although writing is still only an avocation with me. Incidentally, I find that the method I pursue saves me an enormous amount of time and many heartaches.

When I finish a manuscript, unless there is some very special reason for haste in the marketing, I lay it aside for several days, then I go over it most critically, emending and improving according to my skill. Next I read it aloud to myself very attentively to determine whether it "listens

Editor, the Forum:

good." After, perhaps, one more critical reading, without further question, I pronounce it goodthat is good from my present stand-point of ability, and I type it neatly.

Next I write the title at the top of a card for filing, and below it inscribe the names of twenty or so possible markets as divulged by my interested study of THE WRITER and of current magazines. The manuscript is then started on its merry round with never a sigh cr hesitation between trips. I merely examine it enough to know that it is still presentable, put it in another envelope, and intrust it to Uncle Sam. When it needs recopying, I sometimes go over it once more, improving where possible, and immediately send it out again.

When the manuscript is at last marketed, I erase the penciled title and substitute instead that of another effort in the same line, and now the already prepared list, duly revised if need be, serves a good turn for it may be used again and again. Generally, however, I send first to the periodical which accepted the last manuscript, if the new one is not too similar.

Naturally, on these cards, I have collected much very personal information, for sometimes I receive letters instead of rejection slips, and the cards now constitute a very considerable asset. J. K. Goldwater. Los Angeles, Calif.

Necessity is a Spartan Mother. She makes life interesting for thousands and provides an incentive for endeavors that often bring to us our richest blessings. When life lacks the urge of a great need we are in danger of being encompassed by commonplace trifles that hinder the growth of individual effort and invention.

Having dabbled in literary pursuits most of my time without any pay, I recently determined to work at writing from a financial standpoint. The lack of ready cash was the spur that drove me on. The reporter's column in a daily paper brought

meager returns for much labor. Then a clerkship relieved the situation, and I was able to continue writing as a "side-line."

When the American Magazine gave me first prize for a 400-word story I felt that I had made a good beginning. But, of late the returns have been in self-addressed, stamped envelopes. Not much money in that.

As I am not easily discouraged I began a closer study of the markets. A very attractive advertisement by a Publishing Company got my check. It held out alluring bait in the promise of expert revision, correction, and selling of manuscripts