myopia, a new, bright world would leap out at him through the new lenses.

Wesley did not make friends easily. In a crowd he was peculiarly shy. Now he grew garrulous. At first his innate timidity rose up and choked him, but he fought it down. He turned to his neighbor on the right, a thick-set, cleanshaven youth who was painfully study10 ing the comic pictures in his evening newspaper, and remarked, in a style utterly strange to him:

"Looks very much like the Giants had the rag cinched?"

The thick-set young man, whom Wesley imagined to be a butcher's assistant or something of the sort, looked up from his paper and said, "It certainly does seem as if the New York 20 team had established its title to the championship."

Wesley cleared his throat again. "When it comes to slugging the ball you've got to hand it to them," he said.

"Assuredly," said the young man, folding up his paper with the evident design of continuing the conversation.

Wesley was pleased and frightened. He had tasted another new sensation. 30 He had broken through the frosty reserve of twenty years and had spoken to a stranger after the free and easy manner of men who make friends in Pullman cars and at lunch counters. And the stranger, instead of repulsing him, had admitted him, at the very first attempt, into the fraternity of ordinary people. It was pleasant to be one of the great democracy of the 40 crowd, something which Wesley had

never had time to be. But on the other hand, he found the strain of conversation telling upon him. He did not know how to go on.

The stranger went out, but Wesley did not care. He was lost in a delicious reverie, conscious only of being carried forward on free-beating wings into a wonderful, unknown land. The grind

ing of wheels and brakes as the train 50 halted at a station and pulled out again made a languorous, soothing music. The train clattered out of the tunnel into the open air, and Wesley was but dimly aware of the change from dark to twilight. The way now ran through a region of vague apartment houses. There were trees, stretches of green field waiting for the builder, and here or there a colonial manor house with 60 sheltered windows, resigned to its fate. Then some cottages with gardens. And in one of them Wesley, shocked into acute consciousness, saw a man with a rubber hose watering a lawn. Wesley leaped to his feet.

The train was at a standstill when he awoke to the extraordinary fact that he was twelve miles away from South Ferry, and going in the wrong 70 direction. The imperative need of getting home as soon as he could overwhelmed him. He dashed for the door, but it slid shut in his face and the

train pulled out. His fellow passengers grinned. One of the most amusing things in the world is a tardy passenger who tries to fling himself through a car door and flattens his nose against the glass. It is hard to say why the 80 thing is amusing, but it is. Wesley did not know that he was being laughed at. He merely knew that he must go home. He got out at the next station, and when he was seated in a corner of the south-bound train, he sighed with unutterable relief. He was once more in a normal world where trains ran to South Ferry instead of away from it. He dropped off at his 90 road crossing, just two hours late, and found his wife waiting.

They walked on side by side without speaking, but once or twice she turned and caught him staring at her with a peculiar mixture of wonder and unaccustomed tenderness.

Finally he broke out.

"It's good to see you again!"

She laughed and was happy. His voice stirred in her memories of long ago.

"It's good to have you back, dear," she said.

"But you really look remarkably well," he insisted.

"I rested this afternoon."

"That's what you should do every day," he said. "Look at that old maple tree! It hasn't changed a bit!" "No," she said, and began to wonder. "And the girls are well?"

"Oh, yes."

"I can hardly wait till I see them," he said; and then, to save himself, "I guess I am getting old, Alice."

"You are younger tonight than you have been for a long time," she said. 20 Jennie and her sister were waiting for them on the porch. They wondered why father's kiss fell so warmly on their cheeks. He kissed them twice, which was very unusual; but being discreet young women they asked no questions. After dinner Wesley went out to look at the lawn.

Snaring a Boa Constrictor. This selection is taken from William Beebe's Jungle Peace. The author is curator of ornithology of the New York Zoological Society and director of the British Guiana Zoological Station. In his articles and books on animal life in the tropics, Beebe has made natural history intelligible and interesting to the ordinary man, and has at the same time remained true to the facts of science. In this way he is to be compared with John Burroughs.

You will notice from reading the selection given above that Beebe's scientific training has not hampered his ability to write well. The adventure with the tropical snake is told with simple words and in a straightforward manner, and at the same time with vividness. What is the difference between the native's and the American's attitude toward danger?

Some African Gun Bearers. This selection is taken from Theodore Roosevelt's A Booklover's Holidays in the Open; it is an account of the biggame hunting expedition Roosevelt and his son Kermit made to Africa after the "Rough Rider" President's term of office expired.

Our Mothers. The author of this essay, after employment with the Philadelphia Evening Public Ledger, became connected in 1920 with the New York Evening Post, for which he conducts the column, "The Bowling Green."

"Our Mothers" is one of a number of essays in Mr. Morley's volume Mince Pie. The topic is a difficult theme to treat, because the relationship between mother and child is so deep that we cannot endure any note of falseness or insincerity in the expression of it. Notice how Morley has avoided any of the trite phrases that frequently lead to a suspicion of insincerity. His words are full of sentiment, but avoid being sentimental; what is the difference?

Romance. Simeon Strunsky (born in Russia in 1879) has been an editorial writer for the New York Evening Post since 1906, and is the author of several books of delightful essays. It is from one of these, Post-Impressions, that the selection in our book is taken.

What is the significance of the title? Where did Mr. Wesley find romance? Do you notice any elements of an O. Henry short story here?

It is not easy to determine the qualities of the dramas produced during the past twenty-five years, because elements other than literary standards enter into the judgment. As dramas are written to be acted upon the stage, shall the critic declare that any play which lasts a long time in the

theater is good drama? If this be the only standard, we shall have to call real drama a vast amount of unworthy clap-trap and sentimental sensationalism. On the other hand it will never do to praise highly as drama some production which cannot stand the test of actual performance. From the

literary standpoint we shall have to exclude all those plays which do not reach the level of good novels in their form, intent, style, and character, for when once they pass from the stage no one will care to read them. Such a popular stage piece is The First Year. American authors of the highest rank have usually been indisposed to write for the theater, feeling that popular taste is too fickle to be worthy of sincere effort. For a long time an unbridged gap has existed between literature and the stage. Recently hopeful indications have appeared that this gap will be spanned, for in response to an awakening of interest in dramatics everywhere, more serious authors have been induced to attempt the play form. Unfortunately many of these dramas have been no more than attempts, quite sufficient to please small audiences in little theaters or community theaters, but lacking that sense of authority and command of universal emotion which is necessary for impressing the largè audience of the commercial theater. Yet there are proofs that if the literary craftsman begins with the small theater, and convinces the world that he has dramatic ability worth regarding, he will forge upward into general appeal and widespread popularity. The United States may witness within the next quarter century a dramatic rebirth.

Experimenting dramatists have seemed forced to choose between the bid for popularity and the attainment of literary distinction. To preserve the latter, many have imitated masterpieces of the past, adding to tried forms merely newer details of treatments. Social drama has furnished most of the specimens of this kind of play, such as Miss Rachel Crothers's Nice People.

Many of the successful dramatists (judged by both literary and production standards) have been in the main producers of fiction. Their dramas generally reproduce plots and ideas which might have

been treated in novels; in fact, many of their successful plays are dramatizations of already popular fiction. Booth Tarkington turned both his delightful boys' books, Penrod and Seventeen, into plays. More recently he has felt greater assurance, and has placed his plays directly upon the stage. He has a power of delineating boys and girls at all ages of their 'teens, and the ability to make commonplace settings and characters seem unusual and humorous, such as an applicant for a position in an office, a sister and a brother speaking disagreeable truths to each other, a middleaged man annoyed by the over-gushing talk of a citified caller. If at times the plots are rather thin, one is willing to make allowances because of the other details which please while they are being acted.

As small town life engrosses the attention of many novelists, it is quite natural to find its citizens brought to life upon the stage. Not many plays of this kind are both dramatic and literary. One, however, deserves mention. It is Miss Lulu Bett, made from the novel of the same title by Zona Gale. What Sinclair Lewis did in his Main Street for one side of small town existence, Miss Gale has done here for another. The published play affords an interesting comparative study with the novel.

A few dramatists, usually with varying success, attempt in dramatic form the larger problems of life and destiny. Susan Glaspell in Bernice, The Verge, and Inheritors, has pleased the critical few, but has not yet won general approval. Eugene O'Neill, on the other hand, beginning in the same small way in the same cramped theater with amateur lovers of the unusual in plays, has been accepted by regular producers, and now has several successes and long runs to justify his ideals and originality. Among his best plays are Emperor Jones, The Straw, Beyond the Horizon, and The Hairy Ape.

10

WHERE BUT IN AMERICA*

room.

OSCAR M. WOLFF

CAST

MRS. ESPENHAYNE

MR. ESPENHAYNE HILDA

SCENE: The Espenhayne dining-room. The curtain rises on the Espenhayne diningIt is furnished with modest taste and refinement. There is a door, center, leading to the living-room, and a swinging door, left, leading to the kitchen. The table is set, and ROBERT and MOLLIE ESPENHAYNE are discovered at their evening meal. They are educated, well-bred young Americans. ROBERT is a pleasing, energetic business man of thirty; MOLLIE an attractive woman of twenty-five. The bouillon cups are before them as the curtain rises.

BOB. Mollie, I heard from the man who owns that house in Kenilworth. He wants to sell the house. He won't rent.

MOLLIE. I really don't care, Bob. That house was too far from the station, and it had only one sleeping-porch, and you know I want white-enameled woodwork in the bedrooms. But, Bob, I've been terribly stupid!

BOB. How So, Mollie?

MOLLIE. You remember the Russells moved to Highland Park last spring? BOB. Yes; Ed Russell rented a house that had just been built.

MOLLIE. A perfectly darling little house! And Fanny Russell once told me that the man who built it will put up a house for anyone who will take a five-year lease. And she says that the man is very 20 competent and they are simply delighted with their place.

BOB. Why don't we get in touch with the man?

*Copyright, 1917, by Oscar M. Wolff. All rights reserved. First printed in Smart Set.

Application for the right to perform "Where but in America" must be made to Oscar M. Wolff, 105 W. Monroe Street, Chicago, Illinois.

MOLLIE. Wasn't it stupid of me not to think about it? It just flashed into my mind this morning, and I sat down at once and sent a special-delivery letter to Fanny Russell. I asked her to tell me his name at once, and where we can find him.

BOB. Good! You ought to have an 30 answer by tomorrow or Thursday and we'll go up north and have a talk with him on Saturday.

MOLLIE. [With enthusiasm.] Wouldn't it be wonderful if he'd build just what we want! Fanny Russell says every detail of their house is perfect. Even the garage; they use it

BOB. [Interrupting.] Mollie, that's the one thing I'm afraid of about the North 40 Shore plan. I've said repeatedly that I don't want to buy a car for another year or two. But here you are, talking about a garage already.

MOLLIE. But you didn't let me finish what, I was saying. The Russells have fitted up their garage as a playroom for the children. If we had a garage we could do the same thing.

BOB. Well, let's keep temptation be- 50 hind us and not even talk to the man about a garage. If we move up north it must be on an economy basis for a few years; just a halfway step between the apartment and the house we used to plan. You mustn't get your heart set on a car.

MOLLIE. I haven't even thought of one, dear. [BOB and MOLLIE have now both finished the bouillon course and lay down their spoons. Reaching out her hand to 60 touch the table button, and at the same time leaning across the table and speaking very impressively.] Bob, I'm about to ring for Hilda!

[The next instant HILDA enters, left. She is a tall, blond Swedish girl, about twentyfive years old. She is very pretty and carries herself well and looks particularly charming in a maid's dress, with white collars and cuffs and a dainty waitress's apron. Every detail of her dress is immaculate.

MOLLIE. [Speaking the instant that HILDA appears and talking very rapidly all the time that HILDA remains in the room: While she speaks MOLLIE watches HILDA rather than ROBERT, whom she pretends to be addressing.] In the last game Gert Jones was my partner. It was frame apiece and I dealt and I bid one no trump. I had a very weak no trump. I'll admit 10 that, but I didn't want them to win the rubber. Mrs. Stone bid two spades and Gert Jones doubled her. Mrs. Green passed and I simply couldn't go to three of anything. Mrs. Stone played two spades, doubled, and she made them. Of course, that put them out and gave them the rubber. I think that was a very foolish double of Gert Jones, and then she said it was my fault, because I bid one no trump.

20

[As MOLLIE begins her flow of words BOB first looks at her in open-mouthed astonishment. Then as he gradually comprehends that MOLLIE is merely talking against time he too turns his eyes to HILDA and watches her closely in her movements around the table. Meanwhile HILDA moves quietly and quickly and pays no attention to anything except the work she has in hand. She carries a small servingtray, and, as MOLLIE speaks, HILDA first takes the bouillon cups from the table, then brings the carving-knife and fork from the sideboard and places them before ROBERT, and then, with the empty bouillon cups, exits left. BOB and MOLLIE are both watching HILDA as she goes out. The instant the door swings shut behind her, MOLLIE relaxes with a sigh, and ROBERT leans across the table to speak.

BOB. Mollie, why not be sensible about this thing! Have a talk with Hilda and find out if she will move north with us.

MOLLIE. That's just like a man! Then

we might not find a house to please us and Hilda would be dissatisfied and suspicious. She might even leave. [Thoughtfully.] Of course, I must speak to her before we sign a lease, because I really don't know what I'd do if Hilda refused to leave the South Side. [More cheerfully.] But there! 30 we won't think about the disagreeable things until everything is settled.

BOB. That's good American doctrine. MOLLIE. [Warningly and again touching her finger to her lips.] Psst!

[HILDA enters, left, carrying the meat plates with a heavy napkin under them.

MOLLIE. [Immediately resuming her monologue.] I think my last year's hat will do very nicely. You know it rained all last summer and I really only wore the hat half a dozen times. Perhaps not that 40 often. I can make a few changes on it; put on some new ribbons, you know, and it will do very nicely for another year. You remember that hat, don't you, dear? [BOB starts to answer, but MOLLIE rushes right on.] Of course you do, you remember you said it was so becoming. That's another reason why I want to wear it this summer.

[HILDA, meanwhile, puts the plates on the table in front of BOB, and goes out, left. MOLLIE at once stops speaking.

BOB. [Holding his hands over the plates 50 as over a fire and rubbing them together in genial warmth.] Ah, the good hot plates! She never forgets them. She is a gem, Mollie.

MOLLIE. [In great self-satisfaction.] If you are finally convinced of that, after three years, I wish you would be a little bit more careful what you say the next time Hilda comes in the room.

BOB. [In open-mouthed astonishment.] 60 What!

MOLLIE. Well, I don't want Hilda to think we are making plans behind her back.

BOB. [Reflectively.] "A man's home is his castle." [Pauses.] It's very evident. that the Englishman who first said that didn't keep any servants.

[Telephone bell rings off stage.