TH By John Muir John Muir could and did write prose about nature that is full of high poetry, yet HE sky and the ground and the trees had been thoroughly rain-washed and were dry again. The day was intensely pure, one of those incomparable bits of California winter, warm and balmy and full of white sparkling sunshine, redolent of all the purest influences of the spring, and at the same time enlivened with one of the most bracing windstorms conceivable. ver Pines were now the most impressively beautiful of all. Colossal spires 200 feet in height waved like supple golden-rods chanting and bowing low as if in worship, while the whole mass of their long, tremulous foliage was kindled into one continuous blaze of white sun-fire. The force of the gale was such that the most steadfast monarch of them all rocked down to its roots with a motion It was still early morning when I found myself plainly perceptible when one leaned against it. fairly adrift. Delicious sunshine came pouring over the hills, lighting the tops of the pines, and setting free a steam of summery fragrance that contrasted strangely with the wild tones of the storm. The air was mottled with pine-tassels and bright green plumes, that went flashing past in the sunlight like birds pursued. . . The gestures of the various trees made a delightful study. Young Sugar Pines, light and feathery as squirrel-tails, were bowing almost to the ground; while the grand old patriarchs, whose massive boles had been tried in a hundred storms, waved solemnly above them, their long, arching branches streaming fluently on the gale, and every needle thrilling and ringing and shedding off keen lances of light like a diamond. The Douglas Spruces, with long sprays drawn out in level tresses, and needles massed in a gray, shimmering glow, presented a most striking appearance as they stood in bold relief along the hilltops. The madroños in the dells, with their red bark and large glossy leaves tilted every way, reflected the sunshine in throbbing spangles like those one so often sees on the rippled surface of a glacier lake. But the Sil Nature was holding high festival, and every fiber of the most rigid giants thrilled with glad excite ment. I drifted through the midst of this passionate music and motion, across many a glen, from ridge to ridge; often halting in the lee of a rock for shelter or to gaze and listen. Even when the grand anthem had swelled to its highest pitch, I could hear the varying tones of individual trees, Spruce, and Fir, and Pine, and leafless Oak, -and even the infinitely gentle rustle of the withered grasses at my feet. . . Toward midday, after a long, tingling scramble through copses of hazel and ceanothus, I gained the summit of the highest ridge in the neighborhood; and then it occurred to me that it would be a fine thing to climb one of the trees to obtain a wider outlook and get my ear close to the Aeolian music of its topmost needles. . . . Now my eye roved over the piny hills and dales as over fields of waving grain, and felt the light running in ripples and broad swelling undulations across the valleys from ridge to ridge, as the shining foliage was stirred by corresponding waves of air. THE CENTURY MAGAZINE I NTERESTING comment on T. S. Stribling's novel "Birthright" continues to come to us. Mary White Ovington, in the Indianapolis Review writes: I am leaving my line of books to note, before the novel progresses too far, the serial "Birthright," which is appearing in THE CENTURY MAGAZINE . . it represents a turning-point in negro literature in America. T. S. Stribling, as the biographical note in the magazine tells us, is a young Southern man, born in a small village on the Tennessee River; who has studied law, turned from that to literature, and has known many privations in his wanderings over four continents. His story is laid in a little town like that of his birth, but as one reads, one finds the detached view of the traveler who has known many places and can turn back to his own home divorced of prejudice. But the text is only half the story. The illustrations by Mora, one of our great mural painters, again mark a new departure in the negro magazine story. Here are no caricatures, but works of art, showing the colored man at his best. There are four full-page illustrations in the two numbers, any of them worthy of being kept and framed. When one thinks of the rotten pictures in our cheap magazines, one is reconciled to the price one has to pay for "The Century.”" An interesting tribute to both the poet and the artist came to us recently in a letter from Carl Sandburg in which he devotes a paragraph to Robert Frost's poem "Paul's Wife," and to James Chapin's two drawings which appeared with it. Mr. Sandburg writes: The Frost poem you run this month is about as fine, hard, all-round worthy a production as any American magazine has ever run. It fascinates at a first reading and will hold through repeated readings. It is packed with lore and told with pictures and rhythms. And these are the first illustrations accompanying a poem that I have seen in I don't know how long carrying their own creative touch and yet meeting the poem all ways. In Edward J. O'Brien's annual selections of the best short stories of the year published in the Boston Transcript of November 30, THE CENTURY MAGAZINE has five triple-starred stories, ten double-starred stories, and twenty single-starred stories, a total of thirty-five listed. The list of Mr. O'Brien's selection is as follows: TRIPLE-STARRED STORIES William and Mary. M. Beerbohm. December, 1920. DOUBLE-STARRED STORIES Letting in of the Wilderness. A. Tisdale. October, 1920. How I Found America. A. Yezierska. November, 1920. Tug of War. P. Bottome. November, 1920. Forbidden Fruit. A. Kinross. July. SINGLE-STARRED STORIES Song of Autumn. M. K. Wisehart. October, 1920. His Absolute Safety. S. Alexandra. December, 1920. Porch-Swing, The. K. W. Baker. April. Wolf's Head and Eye-for-Bane. J. C. Andrews. April. Post-Mortem Murder. S. Lewis. May. To the Stars. A. Yezierska. May. Dr. Adrian Hale Hellmuth. H. O'Higgins. June. Casanovi's Alibi. R. Sabatini. June. Francis Bacon. P. Mille. August. Hole in the Film. C. Saxby. August. "Jeshuran Waxed Fat." B. A. Williams. September. The selection ends, of course, with the September number. No story published in THE CENTURY MAGAZINE for a long time has attracted wider comment or brought more letters to the editors than James Lane Allen's "The Ash-Can." Among other distinctions it was triple-starred by Edward J. O'Brien in his selection of the best short stories of 1921. But perhaps the most interesting tribute it has received is a letter and a check sent to Mr. Allen. The letter reads: Dear Mr. Allen: Will you permit a reader who is deeply in your debt to ask you to accept the enclosed small check for five dollars-not in requital, but as an evidence of good faith? Money would not absolve me, would not wipe out the obligation of joy that has accumulated through years of acquaintance with your writings. Yesterday I read "The Ash-Can," or, rather, it was read to me by one whose sympathies are so atune with mine and yours that it gave a kind of orchestral power to the music of your sweet philosophy. It made my memory hark back to 'Aftermath" and the one beautiful episode that stood out against a background of sadness -when the moonlight shone on the scar across her foot as she lay sleeping. I can still feel the thrill that came over me when he gently drew the covering over the scar. I cannot but think that thousands of others have felt the stimulus to a higher chivalry toward women, a new conception of the exquisite happiness of high bred courtesy. I occasionally come out of my hiding-place beneath a moss-covered stone in a Mid-West country graveyard to sign small checks and write short letters of congratulation to those who do beautiful, noble, useful things in the hope that it may give them a firmer grip on their self-confidence and that they may give themselves to the world in greater measure. Buy a book-the one you have wanted-and write therein your name and With the admiration of Jedediah Tingle And his soul goes marching on. In the Spokane Press of recent date the editor, Leon Starmont, makes an interesting comment on a point taken by the editor in the December "Tide of Affairs.' He writes: IN THE CENTURY MAGAZINE, livest of the so-called "standard" monthlies, Editor Glenn Frank airs the plaint that America is a nation of "headline-skimmers." If all newspapers were operated on the lines of those which Mr. Frank apparently reads, this would be true. Fortunately, all newspapers are not. Many readers are "headline-skimmers" because their newspapers give them no time to be anything else. Those who select their daily reading for quality rather than quantity are not "headline-skimmers." Few readers ever were better informed than those who read the old New York Sun in Charles A. Dana's prime. The Sun had four pages. It needed no more. The important general news of the world can be told in any ordinary newspaper page—the really important events that the public ought to know. Another page, and you can cover the news of your own community. Then come those special investigations and activities, . . defined as 'news about the things which should happen, but don't." That's a third page. And, finally, the features, stories, interesting miscellany, and editorial opinions make up about another quarter of a well balanced daily. But this takes no account of the advertising, which in many cases is as important as the news. As advertising demands entrance, the newspaper must enlarge its size. Six to ten pages is the accepted size to-day for the well condensed newspaper. Twelve pages is about as large as a paper can be made and still be readable. Because many newspapers print papers double the proper size, many readers have become "headline-skimmers." If Mr. Frank will step out and examine his New York crowds he will discover that readers of the least bulky dailies read their papers. He will also learn that they are better informed than those who stick to the "blanket sheets." This is an intriguing subject. Some day we are going to write an extended exposition of this theory (the condensed newspaper) and submit it to Mr. Frank's magazine. ... People who are active and mentally alert like newspapers that are "trained down" to form. Such people not only read their papers, but understand them. What applies to reading matter applies also to advertising. The advertising in condensed newspapers is read, because the papers are designed to be read. Headline skimmers are advertisement-skimmers. (This should interest advertising men.) The name of Richard Watson Gilder, Editor of THE CENTURY MAGAZINE from 1882 to his death in 1909, is associated with it in much the way that Horace Greeley's is with the New York Tribune; but it is a bit surprising to have manuscripts still come in addressed to Mr. Gilder. Yet this happens occasionally, proof of the firm association of Mr. Gilder's name with the magazine. Indeed, it happens that every one who has been prominently associated with the magazine. since Mr. Gilder's death, but has since departed, is the frequent receiver of mail at the magazine. Recently a manuscript was received, and inclosing a letter to Mr. Gilder. This referred to our paragraphs in this section for December regarding material desired by THE CENTURY MAGAZINE, though it appears from the letter that its writer had seen the paragraphs reprinted in one of the magazines which give hints and advice to authors. My dear Mr. Gilder: Encouraged by an article published in the which deals with the kind of stories you select for the readers of THE CENTURY, I take pleasure in submitting one of my stories-a story from life-which I failed to sell to those "who want stories from the life that should be, and not as it is." I trust, dear sir, you will give my story your valued attention and consideration; and if you return it to me I shall, at least, have the satisfaction of knowing that "Mr. Richard Watson Gilder has read it." B OYS and girls who really care for the books they own and surely all enjoy the sense of ownership-will be greatly interested (as will their mothers and fathers) in an article on "Bookplates for Boys and Girls," by Stephen Allard in the February ST. NICHOLAS. “There are certain distinctive features to be noted," he says, "about a successful juvenile plate. The plate of a boy or girl is nearly always smaller than those of older people. This cutting down of dimensions is not altogether a matter of feeling that the smaller the owner the smaller the marker should be. On the contrary, there is good argument for smallness in the fact that it is difficult for a child to paste in a large label neatly; and by all means the child should be allowed to do his own pasting. Moreover, some children's books are too small to accommodate a large plate. The fact that other juvenile books are very large suggests the wisdom of having the design printed in two sizes. The additional cost is not great, as most of the expense goes for the making of the original drawing and comparatively little for the reproduction and printing. "The best subjects for children's book-plates are to be found among those objects that have grown dear to them by association. Any attempt to sermonize or to symbolize the great lessons of life, is almost sure to fail, at least from the child's standpoint. The abstract should be avoided, the concrete things of the child's own life being made the basis of design. Mother Goose symbolically leading a child into the land of dreams is likely to be far less of a success than a goose of the common barnyard variety, and a picture of a dog or of a Noah's Ark is far more in keeping than an angel of enlightenment. "For very small children the range of subjects is large: cats, dogs, rabbits, indeed any sort of pet;-familiar flowers, characters from fairy stories, semblances of beloved toys. These and many more of the little things of a child's life may be made to yield pleasures of recollection at every fresh opening of a book. "For older children, it is more difficult to find suitable subjects. The familiar Mother Goose characters are out of the question. Of course, purely bookish subjects are always safe, if they are handled with ingenuity. At the age from ten to fifteen years boys and girls are unusually quick to catch and enjoy any suggestion of cleverness in the handling of a design or in hidden meaningsso much so that this might be called the puzzle age. So a book-plate of the puning or rebus sort will always give an unusual measure of enjoyment." Mr. Allard's interesting and informing article is profusely illustrated with reproductions of bookplates from his large and valuable collection. The one on the opposite page is of a copperplate engraving by Sidney L. Smith, who Mr. Allard says is the greatest of the living American bookplate artists. The library interior and the landscape through the window are typical of his delicate workmanship. February, the month of Washington and Lincoln, offers ST. NICHOLAS the opportunity (and it has never missed availing itself of the opportunity these many years) of paying tribute to these two great Americans. "Master Hobby's School," "Bread and Milk," "A Visit to Mount Vernon," "The Monument," and "Our Great Leader," comprise the verse and prose subjects which have a patriotic appeal. And February, too, is a month of great activity in winter sports. Our cover shows two teams engaged in a spirited hockey match. Norman Price has given us a closely fought game and the rich coloring of an early winter sunset. Brewer Corcoran, in "The Hippo and the Humming-Bird," tells a story of a hockey-match. It might have been the same one Mr. Price had in mind, save for the setting. The skaters contend on an indoor rink, where, at least, the spectators can be more comfortable. "Winter at Wildyrie" is a descriptive article by T. Morris Longstreth. The author is a yearround resident of the Adirondacks, and he firmly believes it is the one favored spot on this continent. His enthusiasm is rather contagious and after reading of the many thrills to be had in toboganning at a mile a minute and flying over the earth on skiis, you may decide to try it for yourself. Forty-five below zero, they say, is quite comfortable-but it sounds otherwise to us. The boys at Dartmouth College do not allow snow-drifts to keep them indoors. Two pages of excellent photographs show the Dartmouth Outing Club on a winter picnic-climbing through the White Mountains and examining forty-foot icicles at Franconia Notch. And to keep you from getting too warm, we pass on from northern New York and New England to the Yukon, on a trip of exploration with one of the men from the U. S. Geological Surveyone of the stories by Robert F. Wilson on "Uncle Sam's' Adventurers." The remains of a glacier, and a lake frozen solid clear to the bottom, in summer, are some of the thrills and chills of this far country. and telephone numbers should be written down. History information should be grouped around a few dates, and the great movements and facts for which they stand. In science, get hold of the big principles. "The worst thing about these artificial memory systems is this very loading of the mind with a lot of mere facts. The mind,' said a great American educator, Dr. W. T. Harris, 'can become so over As we drive along toward the presses with these loaded with lumber there is no room for the hear from many quarters benevolent and generous remarks in regard to the December ST. NICHOLAS. The New York Times in its Book and Magazine Review on December 11 even went so far as to say: And along come the Christmas numbers of the magazines. St. Nicholas for December is packed with holiday features for the youngster. This periodical, which most of us younger adults have read in the near, unforgotten days, still retains its high average of excellence. The editors know what the child wants and give it in generous proportions. All of which puts us in a very jolly frame of mind for the holidays. Many thanks to the Literary Editor of The Times and to those good subscribers who put their kind regards into letters. BOOK-PLATE DESIGNED BY SIDNEY L. SMITH AND Christmas time, with all its rush and bustle toward the end, probably showed many of us our memories in their true light. In remembering those hasty days and the friends we forgot to remember, Hallam Hawksworth's chapter on the "Wonderlands of Memory," the second paper in his series, "The Workshop of the Mind," will be of particular interest. "Life is too busy and precious a thing," he says, "to waste any of it trying to remember things just for the sake of memory training. Engagements workshop.'" It is always comforting to us ordinary individuals to know that some of those who were extraordinary had faults akin to ours. Darwin, for instance, had a poor memory. He says in regard to it: "My memory is extensive, yet hazy. It suffices to make me cautious by telling me that I have observed or read something opposed to the conclusion I am drawing, or, on the other hand, in favor of it; and after a time I can generally recollect where to search for my author. So poor, in one sense, is my memory, that I have never been able to remember for more than a few days, a single line of poetry." Charles Darwin, then, in his boyhood, was not the prize declaimer before his school on Friday afternoons. "Napoleon, on the other hand, could remember incredible details about things that had to do with his military operations," says Mr. Hawksworth, "but he never did learn to spell; as an instance, he constantly wrote the name of Talleyrand, his great minister of foreign affairs, Tayerand,' or 'Tailleran." But Mr. Hawksworth says if we only use "Mother Nature's Memory System" - our five senses we shall then improve our memory habits, and greatly increase the treasures of our brains. And we are reminded that we have reached the limit of our space. |