EXERCISES
A. Notice the indentation and sentence length in the following selection:—
Louden looked up calmly at the big figure towering above him.
"It won't do, Judge," he said; that was all, but there was a significance in his manner and a certainty in his voice which caused the uplifted hand to drop limply.
"Have you any business to set foot upon my property?" he demanded.
"Yes," answered Joe. "That's why I came.
"What business have you got with me?"
"Enough to satisfy you, I think. But there's one thing I don't want to do"—Joe glanced at the open door—"and that is to talk about it here—for your own sake and because I think Miss Tabor should be present. I called to ask you to come to her house at eight o'clock to-night."
"You did!" Martin Pike spoke angrily, but not in the bull bass of yore. "My accounts with her estate are closed," he said harshly. "If she wants anything let her come here."
Joe shook his head. "No. You must be there at eight o'clock."
—Booth Tarkington: The Conquest of Canaan ("Harper's").
B. Notice the conversation in the following narrative. Consider also the incentive moment and the climax. Suggest improvements.
When Widow Perkins saw Widower Parsons coming down the road she looked as mad as a hornet and stepped to the back door.
"William Henry," she called to the lank youth chopping wood, "you've worked hard enough for one day. Come in and rest."
"Guess that's the first time you ever thought I needed a rest since I was born. I'll keep right on chopping till you get through acceptin' old Hull," he replied, whereupon the widow slammed the door and looked twice as mad as before.
"Mornin', widdy," remarked the widower, stalking into the room, taking a chair without an invitation, and hanging his hat on his knee. "Cold day," he added cheerfully.
The widow nodded shortly, at the same time inwardly prophesying a still colder day for him before he struck the weather again.
"Been buyin' a new cow," resumed the caller, impressively.
"Have, eh?" returned the widow, with a jerk, bringing out the ironing board and slamming it down on the table.
"An' two hogs," went on the widower, wishing the widow would glance at him just once and see how affectionate he looked. "They'll make pork enough for all next winter and spring."
"Will, eh?" responded the widow, with a bang of the iron that nearly wrecked the table.
"An' a—a—lot o' odd things 'round the house; an' the fact is, widdy, you see—that is, you know—was going to say if you'll agree"—the widower lost his words, and in his desperation hung his hat on the other knee and hitched a trifle nearer the ironing board.
"No, Hull Parsons, I don't see a single mite, nor I don't know a particle, an' I ain't agreein' the least bit," snapped the widow, pounding the creases out of the tablecloth.
"But say, widdy, don't get riled so soon," again ventured Parsons. "I was jest goin' to tell you that I've been proposing to Carpenter Brown to build a new—"
By this time the widow was glancing at him in a way he wished she wouldn't.
"Is that all the proposin' you've done in the last five mouths, Hull Parsons?" she demanded stormily. "You ain't asked every old maid for miles around to marry you, have you, Hull Parsons? An' you didn't tell the last one you proposed to that if she didn't take you there would be only one more chance left—that old pepper-box of a Widow Perkins? You didn't say that, now, did you, Hull Parsons?" and the widow's eyes and voice snapped fire all at once.
The caller turned several different shades of red and realized that he had struck the biggest snag he'd ever struck in any courting career, past or present. He laughed violently for a second or two, tried to hang his hat on both knees at the same time, and finally sank his voice to a confidential undertone:—
"Now, widdy, that's the woman's way o' puttin' it. They've been jealous o' you all 'long, fur they knew where my mind was sot. I wouldn't married one o' them women for nothing," added the widower, with another hitch toward the ironing board.
"Huh!" responded the widow, losing a trifle of her warlike cast of countenance. "S'pose all them women hadn't refused you, Hull Parsons, what then?"
"They didn't refuse me, widdy," returned the widower, trying to look sheepish, and dropping his voice an octave lower. "S'pose I hadn't oughter tell on 'em, but—er—can you keep a secret, widdy?"
"I ain't like the woman who can't," remarked the widow, shortly.
"Well, then, I was the one who did the refusin'—the hull gang went fer me right heavy, guess 'cause 'twas leap year, or they was tryin' on some o' them new women's ways, or somethin' like that. But my mind was sot all along, d'ye see, widdy?"
And the Widow Perkins invited Widower Parsons to stay to dinner, because she thought she saw.
+Theme LXXVII.+—Complete the story on pages 79-80, or one of the following:—
THE AUDACIOUS REPORTER
Soon after Fenimore Dayton became a reporter his city editor sent him to interview James Mountain. That famous financier was then approaching the zenith of his power over Wall Street and Lombard Street. It had just been announced that he had "absorbed" the Great Eastern and Western Railway System—of course, by the methods which have made some men and some newspapers habitually speak of him as "the Royal Bandit." The city editor had two reasons for sending Dayton—first because he did not like him; second, because any other man on the staff would walk about for an hour and come back with the report that Mountain had refused to receive him, while Dayton would make an honest effort.
Seeing Dayton saunter down Nassau Street—tall, slender, calm, and cheerful—you would never have thought that he was on his way to interview one of the worst-tempered men in New York, for a newspaper which that man peculiarly detested, and on a subject which he did not care to discuss with the public. Dayton turned in at the Equitable Building and went up to the floor occupied by Mountain, Ranger, & Blakehill. He nodded to the attendant at the door of Mountain's own suite of offices, strolled tranquilly down the aisle between the several rows of desks at which sat Mountain's personal clerks, and knocked at the glass door on which was printed "Mr. Mountain" in small gilt letters.
"Come!" It was an angry voice—Mountain's at its worst.
Dayton opened the door. Mountain glanced up from a mass of papers before him. His red forehead became a network of wrinkles and his scant white eyebrows bristled. "And who are you?" he snarled.
"My name is Dayton—Fenimore Dayton," replied the reporter, with a gracefully polite bow. "Mr. Mountain, I believe?"
It was impossible for Mr. Mountain altogether to resist the impulse to bow in return. Dayton's manner was compelling.
"And what the dev—what can I do for you?"
"I'm a reporter from the ——"
"What!" roared Mountain, leaping to his feet in a purple, swollen veined fury….
—David Graham Philips ("McClure's").
CAUGHT MASQUERADING
When I took my aunt and sister to the Pequot hotel, the night before the Yale-Harvard boat race, I found a gang of Harvard boys there. They celebrated a good deal that night, in the usual Harvard way.
Some of the Harvard men had a room next to mine. About three a.m. things quieted down. When I woke up next morning, it was broad daylight, and I was utterly alone. The race was to be at eleven o'clock. I jumped out of bed and looked at my watch—it was nearly ten! I looked for my clothes. My valise was gone! I rang the bell, but in the excitement downstairs, I suppose, no one answered it.
What was I to do? Those Harvard friends of mine thought it a good joke on me to steal my clothes and take themselves off to the race without waking me up. I don't know what I should have done in my anguish, when, thank goodness, I heard a tap at my door, and went to it.
"Well, do hurry!" (It was my sister's voice.) "Aunt won't go to the race; we'll have to go without her."
"They've stolen my clothes, Mollie—those Harvard fellows."
"Haven't you anything?" she asked through the keyhole.
"Not a thing, dear."
"Oh, well! it's a just punishment to you after last night! That —— noise was dreadful!"
"Perhaps it is," I said, "but don't preach now, sister dear—get me something to put on. I want to see the race."
"I haven't anything except some dresses and one of aunt's."
"Get me Aunt Sarah's black silk," I cried. "I will wear anything rather than not see the race, and it's half-past ten nearly now."
(Correct your theme with reference to the points mentioned in Section 146.)
+147. Number and Choice of Details—Unity.+—In relating experiences the choice of details will be determined by the purpose of the narrative and by the person or persons for whom we are writing. A brief account of an accident for a newspaper will need to include only a clear and concise statement of a few important facts. A traveling experience may be made interesting and vivid if we select several facts and treat each quite fully. This is especially true if the experience took place in a country or part of a country not familiar to our readers. If we are writing for those with whom we are acquainted, we can easily decide what will interest them. If we write to different persons an account of the same event, we find that these accounts differ from one another. We know what each person will enjoy, and we try to adapt our writing to each individual taste. Our narrative will be improved by adapting it to an imaginary audience in case we do not know exactly who our readers will be. In your high school work you know your readers and can select your facts accordingly.
To summarize: a narration should possess unity, that is, it should say all that should be said about the subject and not more than needs to be said. The length of the theme, the character of the audience to which it is addressed, and the purpose for which it is written, determine what facts are necessary and how many to choose in order to give unity. (See Section 81.)
+148. Arrangement of Details—Coherence.+—We should use an arrangement of our facts that will give coherence to our theme. In a coherent theme each sentence or paragraph is naturally suggested by the preceding one. It has been pointed out in Sections 82-85 that in narration we gain coherence by relating our facts in the order of their occurrence. When a single series of events is set forth, we can follow the real time-order, omitting such details as are not essential to the unity of the story.
If, however, more than one series of events are given, we cannot follow the exact time-order, for, though two events occur at the same time, one must be told before the other. Here, the actual time relations must be carefully indicated by the use of expressions; as, at the same time, meanwhile, already, etc. (See Section 12.) Two or more series of events belong in the same story only if they finally come together at some time, usually at the point of the story. They should be carried along together so that the reader shall have in mind all that is necessary for the understanding of the point when it is reached. In short stories the changes from one series to another are close together. In a long book one or more chapters may give one series of incidents, while the following chapters may be concerned with a parallel series of incidents. Notice the introductory paragraph of each chapter in Scott's Ivanhoe or Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans. Many of these indicate that a new series of events is to be related.
It will be of advantage in writing a narrative to construct an outline as indicated in Section 84. Such an outline will assist us in making our narrative clear by giving it unity, coherence, and emphasis.