The Women Who Make Our Novels

by Grant M. Overton

Books by Gene Stratton-porter

The Song of the Cardinal, 1903.
Freckles, 1904.
What I Have Done With Birds [Friends in Feathers], 1907.
At the Foot of the Rainbow, 1908.
A Girl of the Limberlost, 1909.
Birds of the Bible, 1909.
Music of the Wild, 1910.
The Harvester, 1911.
Moths of the Limberlost, 1912.
Laddie, 1913.
Michael O’Halloran, 1915.
Morning Face.
A Daughter of the Land, 1918.
Homing with the Birds, 1920.
Her Father’s Daughter, 1921.
The Fire Bird, 1922.

Mrs. Porter’s books are published by Doubleday, Page & Company, New York.

CHAPTER IX
ELEANOR H. PORTER

IN the pleasant old town of Cambridge, Massachusetts, there is a fourth (top floor) apartment and above it a roof garden. Come up on the roof. “Fresh, clean light canvas, framed in by borders of flowers, with a hammock to dream in and a good stout table and a typewriter,” confront us. At the table a little woman, blonde, youthful looking, her light and fluffy hair neatly combed, her blue eyes—“laughing eyes”—changing expression rapidly with her thoughts. She is writing with a lead pencil and when she stops to talk to us she shows a ready wittedness, a conversational gift, an aliveness that are charming—charming!

She tells us that she works here every morning when too boisterous winds or a driving storm do not make it impossible; or too low a temperature. She writes novels. It takes her a year to do one and when she has finished she is good for nothing for several days. She writes each book three times; first in lead pencil, the second draft on the typewriter here, “and it is this copy that is polished over and rewritten and tinkered with—and all fixed up.” The third draft has usually few changes. It, or a stenographer’s copy of it, goes to the publisher, and later there comes a message from Houghton Mifflin Company in Boston:

“Advance orders for your new novel Just David are 100,000 copies.”

Isn’t that rewarding? Just David will be out in a few days now....

The author of Just David—and The Road to Understanding and Oh, Money! Money! and, why of course of Pollyanna!—is not thinking of the royalties that will be hers on 100,000 copies of her novel. No. Eleanor H. Porter makes a moderate fortune with each of her books. But what rewards her for the task of writing them—did you ever sit down and write, just write, 80,000 words, let alone telling a story?—what gives her the satisfaction that’s of the heart is the invincible proof that a hundred thousand are buying her book on faith. They believe in her, in her work; she has pleased them, made them happier or better somehow, somewhere, somewhen; they look to her for help, for cheer, for entertainment, for a kind of enlightenment that they haven’t found elsewhere and that will be supremely worth their while.

Stand aside, you who are sophisticated, cynical, world worn and merely flippant! If you could see assembled before you in one vast throng this hundred thousand and tens of thousands more, if you could see them gathered about you with upturned interested, expectant and eager faces, what would you say? What could you say? Do you think your sophistication would be proof against the expression on these faces? Do you think that you could give them what they need? Would your subtleties help them? Would they listen to you and go away a little braver, a little more comforted, a little readier to face life?

Up in the White Mountains there’s a cabin called after the girl Pollyanna. Out in Colorado there’s a Pollyanna teahouse. A little maid in Texas bears the name. The builder of an apartment house in an Indiana city has his fancy struck. There’s a Pollyanna brand of milk, and Pollyanna clubs are formed whose members sport an enameled button showing a young girl’s sweet face. Surely the woman who can so touch the hearts, the imagination, or even merely the fancy of men and women and children everywhere—surely she and her work call for respectful consideration. There must be something here, something admirable, if we can only put our fingers on it! There is.

And first let us hear about Mrs. Porter herself. We have met her at work. Was there anything to suggest direct descent from Governor William Bradford of the Mayflower and the “stern and rockbound coast”? There was not. There was, however, a suggestion of a childhood spent in an oldtime white frame New England house, with green blinds and big pillars in front. There was certainly more than a suggestion of a child brought up to play indoors and out. With a little imagination we could have seen her studying music, always music, loving to improvise. “I liked to play out all my moods and everything I saw and heard. I could get rid of my tempers, too, by sometimes just playing them out. And I liked to play the beautiful things I saw—sunsets, woods and lakes.... In that way, perhaps, David is autobiographical.... The many years’ training in voice as well as instrumental music has never failed to help me in expressing just the mood I want to express.”

She was born in Littleton, New Hampshire, a place of some few thousands in the White Mountains, the daughter of Francis H. Hodgman and Llewella Woolson Hodgman. She had a brother to play with. She “knew the woods from early childhood.” Little verses and stories by her commemorated birthdays and other occasions of moment. In high school ill health arrested her studies. For a while books had to be put entirely aside and she lived a good deal outdoors. Spruce, fir, cedar and tamarack, mountain flowers and plants, became personalities to be distinguished one from another and to be delighted in for their peculiarities. When she wrote Just David she had only to recall her youth, after all.

Health regained, she went to Boston for more musical study under private teachers and at the New England Conservatory. She sang in concerts and in church choirs. In 1892 she was married to John Lyman Porter. She lived a year in Chattanooga and a few years in New York and Springfield, Vermont; Boston (Cambridge) has been her home with these exceptions. Mr. and Mrs. Porter have lived in Cambridge for the last sixteen years. Mrs. Porter’s mother, Mrs. Hodgman, an invalid, has lived with them.

We have said that Mrs. Porter works every morning. Yes, the morning hours are set apart for her work and it is not readily interrupted. Her first book, published in 1907, was Cross Currents, a study of child labor, struck out from her by what she had seen in New York of youngsters made to toil at the fashioning of artificial flowers. Indeed, her first impulse to write came to her in New York, on an afternoon several years after her marriage, as she stood in Trinity churchyard. It was a flash, a dramatic impression such as comes to many a visitor. When these dead awaken! If these dead were to awaken, were to come back to us here and now! How would they think and feel about what they would see? What would they say and do?

Well—

“So that was how I got my start.” True enough, for the real start comes in the impulse, doesn’t it? After that has been felt intervals hardly matter....

Cross Currents was successful and Mrs. Porter was persuaded to write a sequel, The Turn of the Tide. She had developed a habit, now fixed, of clipping from newspapers and magazines bits of news, comments, whatnot, that were significant to her. These she filed, filed and card indexed. One day she saw in some magazine four lines expressing wonder as to what would happen, if feminine influence came into the home life of three bachelors.

From those four lines, or rather, from the idea in them, came Miss Billy; and from Miss Billy came Miss Billy’s Decision and Miss Billy—Married. Not immediately; Mrs. Porter filed the clipping. She thought vaguely that perhaps, maybe, some day, she would write a short story—only a short story—based on the idea in this sentence or so....

Pollyanna—

So many think of Mrs. Porter only as the author of Pollyanna—they are not her real readers who know better!—that it is much fairer to her and ourselves to consider her other books. After the Pollyanna stories came Just David, easily accounted for. Mrs. Porter says that her thoughts had often played around the idea of a child brought up to know only what is good. You shudder, or laugh. Good heavens, don’t you wish that you could have been spared some of the things you were brought up to know? At the bottom of your acquired attitude is there no faint wistfulness, no trace of longing for something once loved and lost—not awhile but forever?

David is the only son of a violinist. After his mother’s death the father carries the boy to a cabin in the mountains. Six years afterward he is brought to a quiet country town—a lad in love with music, with birds and flowers.

“Mr. and Mrs. Holly, more than ever now, were learning to look at the world through David’s eyes. One day—one wonderful day—they went to walk in the woods with the boy; and whenever before had Simon Holly left his work for so frivolous a thing as to walk in the woods!

“It was not accomplished without a struggle, as David could have told. All the morning David urged and begged. If for once, just once, they would leave everything and come, they would not regret it, he was sure. But they shook their heads and said, ‘No, no, impossible.’ In the afternoon the pies were done and the potatoes dug and David urged and pleaded again. And to please the boy they went.

“It was a curious walk. Ellen Holly trod softly with timid feet. She threw hurried, frightened glances from side to side. It was plain that Ellen Holly did not know how to play. Simon Holly stalked at her elbow, stern, silent and preoccupied. It was plain that Simon Holly not only did not know how to play, but did not care to find out.

“The boy tripped along ahead and talked. He had the air of a monarch displaying his kingdom. Here was a flower that was like a story for interest, and there was a bush that bore a secret worth telling. Even Simon Holly glowed into a semblance of life when David had unerringly picked out and called by name the spruce, and fir, and pine, and larch; and then, in answer to Mrs. Holly’s murmured, ‘But, David, where is the difference? They look so much alike,’ had said:

“‘Oh, but they are not. Just see how much more pointed at the top this fir is than that spruce back there; and the branches grow straight out, too, like arms, and they are all smooth and tapering at the end like a pussy-cat’s tail. But the spruce back there—its branches turned down and out—didn’t you notice?—and they are all bushy at the end like a squirrel’s tail. Oh, they’re lots different.

“‘That’s a larch way ahead—that one with the branches all scraggly and close down to the ground. I could start to climb that easy, but I couldn’t that pine over there. See, it’s way up before there is a place for your feet! But I love pines. Up there on the mountain, where I lived, the pines were so tall that it seemed as if God used them sometimes to hold up the sky.’

“And Simon Holly heard, and said nothing, and that he did say nothing—especially nothing in answer to David’s confident assertions concerning celestial and terrestrial architecture—only goes to show how well, indeed, the man was learning to look at the world through David’s eyes....”

“If the characters are true, the story tells itself,” says Mrs. Porter. “The plot comes very easily after I get some leading idea which I wish to work out. It is sometimes months after I have something in mind before I have carried the idea along far enough to begin writing. The ideas for novels come from careful observation and wide reading.

“No, I would not say that novels are written by inspiration. I call it enthusiasm. And unless the writer has enthusiasm while writing a novel I think the indifference is bound to show in the story.”

Her own enthusiasm holds her to the task, carries her through the year she devotes to a book, enables her sometimes to write steadily for eight or nine hours and then spend an evening with her heavy correspondence. Her enthusiasm, a steady flame, burns to the end; and then her exhaustion does not matter. The task is done.

Without an idea—a crisp, definite, interesting idea is always there, whether you like her novels or no—without an idea Mrs. Porter won’t write. But when she begins to write she has much more than the idea. She has a synopsis written out. She couldn’t work without one, she says. And to that synopsis she sticks pretty closely. “For I must see my aim,” she explains, “I must have every part of the story bear definitely toward the object. The synopsis of Pollyanna differs very little from the completed story. However, the glad game was not in the synopsis. That did invent itself—in the second chapter. And of course various characters always have a way of sort of writing themselves in, and new scenes and incidents suggest themselves as the book grows.”

Does Mrs. Porter preach? Not by intention. She abhors the notion of trying to. She does believe that “the idea of happiness should be held up to people. But I do not attempt to preach happiness,” she adds hastily. “I make my characters as simple and natural as possible. If the characters are sufficiently vivid, if they are true, they can say a lot of things that no author could say directly without being charged with sermonizing.”

Oho! remarks the critic, Mrs. Porter thinks that if she puts her preaching into the mouths of her persons she can escape the charge of sermonizing. Wrong. Mrs. Porter does not say that. She does declare that if the characters are true they can say things that, from the author, would be mere preaching. Truth in your people comes first, must always be first; if they are true they can, and probably will, not only say but do many things with a moral in them. Why, aren’t we always reading a moral out of—or into—every other thing we hear our neighbors say or see them do?

The critic has another quarrel with Eleanor Porter. He accuses her of “evasive idealism” and “sham optimism” in her stories. Let her answer him:

“Just why the ‘realities of life’ should always mean the filth and brambles, sticks and stones and stumbling blocks of our daily pathway I have never understood,” she cries. “But such seems to be the case. To most critics there are evidently no pleasantly agreeable, decent qualities of life. But I believe that there are, and these realities may lend themselves to just as sincere and direct an interpretation of life as may the other kind.

“There is a blue sky, there is a warm sun, and there are birds that sing in the treetops. Then why should their presence be unnoticed—sometimes? That is certainly not a sugary philosophy utterly without a basis in logic or human experience. I realize that this sort of thing can be overdone, but still contend that always to look at the hole instead of the doughnut is not only very foolish—but very detrimental to one’s digestion.”

Bravo! A simple, straightforward and unstudied rejoinder, that! And if the critic says that he is only asking for “both realities” let us demand of him why he praised the “artistry” of those dark Russian novels of muck and insanity—and nothing else. He must condemn them for their worse one-sidedness ere we listen to another word from him. Moreover, we have, we must confess, whatever our personal tastes in fiction, always enough and too many of the specialists in gloom; never quite enough of the purveyors of cheerfulness.

You may feel a possibly irrational prejudice against the child that cheers, as Pollyanna or David, but if you do not find absorbing the situation in a “grown-up” novel like The Road to Understanding it is your fault, not Eleanor Porter’s. Here is the son of a very rich man who has always had his way and so takes it headlong in the matter of marrying his aunt’s nursegirl. She is not fitted to make him happy. They are separated—never mind how. The husband thinks of it as a “vacation” for his wife and the baby girl and has no idea that the breach may be semi-permanent. The wife makes it so. She goes to a friend of her husband and begs him to enable her to become in education, in tastes, in deportment fit to be Burke Denby’s wife. And she persuades him to it. Her whereabouts, the whereabouts of herself and Burke Denby’s little daughter, is so simply and effectually concealed, that the husband never gets trace of them. What Helen Denby has set out to do is rather impossible as regards herself, she acknowledges that; but with the passage of years and constant association with well-bred people she does very largely acquire the things she lacked. Yes, years! It is an idea and it is certainly a situation. This is no place to give away a denouement but—they are brought together again.

An idea just as ingenious is the foundation of Mrs. Porter’s amusing Oh, Money! Money! It is the attempt of Mr. Stanley G. Fulton, possessor of twenty millions of dollars, to find out how some of his heirs will spend money after he is dead. They are three distant cousins and each of them receives a trustee’s check for $100,000. Then plain John Smith appears among them and watches results. He also learns a thing or two and finds a wife in a woman of middle age (or more) whose humorous wisdom is aptly summed up by her remark that “if you don’t know how to get happiness out of five dollars, you won’t know how to get it out of five thousand. For it isn’t the money that does things; it’s the man behind the money.”

Sell? Of course books like this sell! You don’t have to be a psychologist to grasp and subscribe to the six reasons for a big sale, advanced by the publishers just before the publication of Oh, Money! Money!—six reasons whose validity has been sufficiently proved as these lines are being written, with proofs piling up hour by hour. Here they are:

1. It deals with the most interesting subject in the world—the getting and spending of money.

2. The story of three families—cousins—who unexpectedly receive $100,000 each from an unknown relative, will strike a responsive chord, in every reader’s heart and set every reader thinking how he would spend the money.

3. It has the same quality that has made Cinderella the most popular of all fairy tales, the joy of watching a girl who has never been fairly treated come out on top in spite of all odds.

4. The scene is laid in a little village and the whole book is a gem of country life and shrewd Yankee philosophy.

5. There is a charming love theme with a happy ending.

6. And, above all, the story teaches an unobtrusive lesson that will appeal to every one of Mrs. Porter’s readers; the lesson that happiness must come from within, and that money cannot buy it.

. . . . . .

Eleanor Hodgman Porter died on May 21, 1920.

BOOKS BY ELEANOR H. PORTER

Cross Currents, 1907.
The Turn of the Tide, 1908.
The Story of Marco, 1911.
Miss Billy, 1911.
Miss Billy’s Decision, 1912.
Pollyanna, 1913.
Miss Billy—Married, 1914.
Pollyanna Grows Up, 1915.
Just David, 1916.
The Road to Understanding, 1917.
Oh, Money! Money! 1918.
Dawn, 1919.
Mary-Marie, 1919.
Sister Sue, 1921.

The first two books were published by W. A. Wilde, Boston; the books about Miss Billy and Pollyanna by the Page Company, Boston; the last six books by Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston.

CHAPTER X
KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN

ONCE Kate Douglas Wiggin, at a fair held in the grounds of Lord Darnley, in County Meath, Ireland, visited a crystal gazer “imported from Dublin for the occasion.”

“You have many children,” said the seer.

“I have no children,” Mrs. Wiggin replied.

“But I see them; they are coming, still coming. O, so many little ones; they are clinging to you; you are surrounded by them,” the woman declared, her eyes on the ball. “They are children of a relative? No?... I cannot understand. I see them.”

They left her puzzled and frowning. Perhaps she never will know how wonderfully right was her vision.

“Little, lame Patsy and the angelic Carol; the mirth-provoking tribe of the Ruggleses; brave Timothy and bewitching Lady Gay; pathetic Marm Lisa and the incorrigible twins, Atlantic and Pacific Simonson; blithe Polly Oliver, with her genius for story-telling; Winsome Rebecca and the faithful Emma Jane,—all these figures crowd about us, and claim their places as everybody’s children.”

It is impossible to read Kate Douglas Wiggin, think of her or write about her without emotion, the kind of emotion that it is good to feel. The world is a brighter world because she has lived in it, a better world because she has written for it. Does this sound horribly trite? Nothing is trite which is deeply felt and words, though they may indicate the channel, can with difficulty measure the depth or gauge the emotional flow. You who have lost your enthusiasm with your illusions, you whose channels of feeling have trickled dry, you who live in a desert whose aridity responds only to intellectual dry farming—keep off this chapter! But all of you millions who love children, who like simple and durable humor, who are not too far from laughter or tears, who are not ashamed of tenderness, do you, one and all (there are countless millions of you!) stay with us for a half hour!

Kate Douglas Wiggin, born a Smith, came of New England stock that bred teachers and preachers and law-givers and developed those humane traits which make charitable effort and philanthropism a matter of course, like prayer or the pie which Emerson preferred for breakfast. She happens to have been born in Philadelphia, September 28, 1859, the daughter of Robert N. Smith, and Helen E. (Dyer) Smith, but all her youth was spent east of the New York line. A rural childhood; then the fine old school for girls, called Abbott Academy, at Andover, Massachusetts. At eighteen her step-father’s health made imperative a removal to California. After her graduation at Andover Kate Smith joined the family in Santa Barbara. She had been trained to teach children; she was a mere girl when she was called to direct the famous Silver Street kindergartens of San Francisco. Through her efforts it was that the first free kindergartens for poor children were organized in California. She knew the methods of Froebel and has done as much as any one in this country to secure their spread and adoption. First as a kindergartner and then as a training teacher her enthusiasm, her gift for leadership, her personal charm made others, young and old, her devoted friends. For the babies of Tar Flat and the Barbary Coast and for the young women of cultivation who sought to become teachers she had the same fascination. She is irresistible; if she were not she could not be liked and loved in New England as she is at this day. Who else could gather the neighbors in Old Buxton Meeting-House to hear, read aloud to them by the author from the manuscript, stories of themselves and their apparently unremarkable doings? With any one but Mrs. Wiggin the audience would be self-conscious, detestably uncomfortable. But she is so soft-voiced, so agreeable; she has so much sympathy and humor, is so pleasant to look upon, is, in short, so “nice” and so neighborly that self-consciousness is out of the question. Besides, you can be proud of her.... And you are.

Old Buxton Meeting-House is in Maine, and it is in Maine, in the village of Hollis, that the people of whom Mrs. Wiggin writes grow into being. Her home is called Quillcote and from a cool green study where she works she can hear the song of the Saco River and look through latticed windows by her desk to where the shining weather-vane, a golden quill, swings on the roof of the old barn. It is a quaint and ancient dwelling of colonial date and colonial style set among arching elms. The village is not a summer resort but a dreaming settlement on the banks of the Saco. As it flows past the Quillcote elms the river widens into a lake. A few rods below the house it has a fall. Below the fall for a mile or so there is “foaming, curving, prancing white water.” It is the Saco, placid and turbulent, which runs through Timothy’s Quest and Rebecca and Rose o’ the River.

Quillcote’s important structure, like the home of H. G. Wells’s Mr. Britling, is the barn. We can believe that the builder would not recognize it, aside from the weather-vane. It is what, in the jargon of the day, is known as a “community center.” Years ago all the interior was ripped out. A new floor was laid, casement windows were cut in and the place took on the semblance of a rustic hall. Alone untampered with, the great century-old rafters, hewn of stout-hearted oak and strong as ever, remain in position. The barn walls were brushed down but left their hue of tawny brown. Other old barns were stripped to supply fish-hook hinges, suitably antique; ancient latches, decorative horns of the moose. Solid settles were constructed of old boards weathered to a silver gray. Old lanterns fitted with candles were hung from harness pegs about the walls. The old grain-chest, piled high with cushions, stands at one end of the big oblong room. “Wide doors open at the back into a field of buttercups and daisies.” They still dance the square dances on the threshing floor.

Biography is pointless if it does not build us a picture; and once we have our picture who cares for dates and a chronicle of the years? In the girl in New England, the young woman kindergartner in San Francisco, the visitor to Ireland (and England and Scotland), the writer reading from her manuscript in Old Buxton Meeting-House, the festival-bringer of the Quillcote barn you have Kate Douglas Wiggin, born a Smith; you have very completely and with a delightful authenticity the creator of all those hosts of happy children, children sometimes sad, sometimes grieved but always as certain of happiness as they are of sunshine;—you have the Penelope who found the humors of foreign travel which more pretentious humorists coming later could merely copy; you have the perceptive and sympathetic heart which saw the Christmas romance of The Old Peabody Pew. You ask no more. You ask only to be allowed to recall with a changing but invariable pleasure the dozens of tales in which she has shared with you her feelings about life.

Do you remember the Penelope books? Do you remember! Somehow, Penelope’s Progress, wherein we accompany Salemina, Francesca and Penelope through Scotland, has always seemed a bit the best. Page 2, please:

“On arriving in New York, Francesca discovered that the young lawyer whom for six months she had been advising to marry somebody ‘more worthy than herself’ was at last about to do it. This was somewhat in the nature of a shock, for Francesca has been in the habit, ever since she was seventeen, of giving her lovers similar advice, and up to this time no one of them has ever taken it. She therefore has had the not unnatural hope, I think, of organizing at one time or another all those disappointed and faithful swains into a celibate brotherhood; and perhaps of driving by the interesting monastery with her husband and calling his attention modestly to the fact that these poor monks were filling their barren lives with deeds of piety, trying to remember their Creator with such assiduity that they might, in time, forget Her.”

Frank Stockton could be as funny as that. Mark Twain might have written the close of the first chapter, where Francesca and Penelope, heads bent over a genealogical table of the English kings, try to decide whether “b. 1665” means born or beheaded. Irvin Cobb, shaking our sides with his discussion of English pronunciation of proper names, and gravely referring to a Norwegian fjord (“pronounced by the English, Ferguson”) was anticipated by nearly twenty years when Mrs. Wiggin wrote:

“On the ground floor are the Misses Hepburn-Sciennes (pronounced Hebburn-Sheens); on the floor above us are Miss Colquhoun (Cohoon) and her cousin Miss Cockburn-Sinclair (Coburn-Sinkler). As soon as the Hepburn-Sciennes depart, Mrs. M’Collop expects Mrs. Menzies of Kilconquhar, of whom we shall speak as Mrs. Mingess of Kinyukkar.”

Marm Lisa is graced with the presence of S. Cora Grubb, as well as the youthful Atlantic and Pacific Simonson. Have we not yet with us such places as Mrs. Grubb’s Unity Hall, the Meeting-Place of the Order of Present Perfection? We have. On the wall was “an ingenious pictorial representation of the fifty largest cities of the world, with the successful establishment of various regenerating ideas indicated by colored disks of paper neatly pasted on the surface.” Blue was for Temperance, green for the Single Tax, orange, Cremation; red, Abolition of War; purple, Vegetarianism; yellow, Hypnotism; black, Dress Reform; blush rose, Social Purity; silver, Theosophy; magenta, Religious Liberty; and, somewhat inappropriately, crushed strawberry denoted that in this spot the Emancipation of Women had made a forward stride. It was left for a small gold star to signify the progress of the Eldorado face powder, S. Cora Grubb, sole agent.

The cat ’Zekiel in The Old Peabody Pew:

“’Zekiel had lost his tail in a mowing-machine; ’Zekiel had the asthma, and the immersion of his nose in milk made him sneeze, so he was wont to slip his paw in and out of the dish and lick it patiently for five minutes together. Nancy often watched him pityingly, giving him kind and gentle words to sustain his fainting spirit, but to-night she paid no heed to him, although he sneezed violently to attract her attention.”

The sensation when, after the ringing of the last bell, Nancy Wentworth walked up the aisle on Justin Peabody’s arm, is conveyed by some parentheses of the comment later in the day. The two had taken their seats side by side in the old family pew.

“(‘And consid’able close, too, though there was plenty o’ room!’)

“(‘And no one that I ever heard of so much as suspicioned that they had ever kept company!’)

“(‘And do you s’pose she knew Justin was expected back when she scrubbed his pew a-Friday?’)

“(‘And this explains the empty pulpit vases!’)

“(‘And I always said that Nancy would make a real handsome couple if she ever got anybody to couple with!’)”

The boastful old man, Turrible Wiley, in Rose o’ the River:

“‘I remember once I was smokin’ my pipe when a jam broke under me. ’Twas a small jam, or what we call a small jam on the Kennebec,—only about three hundred thousand pine logs. The first thing I knowed, I was shootin’ back an’ forth in the b’ilin’ foam, hangin’ on t’ the end of a log like a spider. My hands was clasped round the log, and I never lost control o’ my pipe. They said I smoked right along, jest as cool an’ placid as a pond-lily.’

“‘Why’d you quit drivin’?’ inquired Ivory.

“‘My strength wa’n’t ekal to it,’ Mr. Wiley responded sadly. ‘I was all skin, bones, an’ nerve....

“‘I’ve tried all kinds o’ labor. Some of ’em don’t suit my liver, some disagrees with my stomach, and the rest of ’em has vibrations.’”

In January, 1911, over 2,000,000 copies of Mrs. Wiggin’s books had been sold; to-day the total is probably approaching 3,000,000. The most popular of her books is Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, which has been likened, in explanation of its popularity, to Little Women. But no explanation is necessary. Rebecca is entirely, naturally human. Whether she is perplexing her aunts or telling Miss Dearborn that she can’t write about nature and slavery, having really nothing to say about either; whether she is making her report on the missionaries’ children “all born under Syrian skies,” or aweing Emma Jane with original ideas, or helping the Simpsons, with the aid of Mr. Aladdin, to acquire a wonderful lamp;—at all times, at every moment Rebecca Rowena Randall reminds us of the youngsters we have known, and perhaps, a little, of the youngsters we were once ourselves.

The triumph of naturalness, the perfect fidelity to the life of the child; these explain Rebecca and Rebecca’s success, signalized less in the selling of hundreds of thousands of copies, in the acting of the play made from the book for months and months and months, than in the joyous recognition with which Mrs. Wiggin’s heroine was greeted. Rebecca inditing the couplet:

“When Joy and Duty clash
Let Duty go to smash”—

Rebecca playing on the tinkling old piano, “Wild roved an Indian girl, bright Alfarata,” Rebecca doing this, thinking that, saying the thing that needs to be said—generous, romantic, resourceful and brighter than her surroundings—is a person it does us all good to know. Copies of the book in libraries are read to shreds. The world, which can see through any sham, loves this story. The world is right. To learn, in the words of one of Conrad’s heroes, to live, to love and to put your trust in life is all that matters. Mrs. Wiggin shows us how.