PICTURES FROM AN OUTLOOK READER Photographs by Walter R. Merryman, Haverhill, Mass. The pictures show the activities of a great paper-making company near Waterville, New Hampshire, on the upper reaches of the Mad River. "The logs," our informant says, "are from about the last lap of old-growth spruce of any size left in New England. The upper picture shows the preliminary operation of getting the logs to the sawmill. They are there cut into short lengths of four feet, as they are to be used wholly for pulp, and the river is not large enough to drive down full-length trunks. The logs are piled, by chain conveyors, from the power saws, on the river bed during the winter. When the spring thaw starts, the water is held back at suitable places with dams fitted with gates. When the storage basins are full, the gates are opened wide, the openings of the various gates timed so that the 'heads' reach the big pile at nearly the same time. Then all turn to and loosen up the logs (see the lower picture), using dynamite if necessary, in order to make the 'head' produce, a big 'run.' When the thaws start in earnest, six or more 'heads' a day are possible. A pile of 15,000 cords will be cleaned up and started down the river inside of two weeks, when the water runs well. "Running the logs is an interesting. not to say exciting, operation. The men are all in the water, waist deep most of the time, from morning to night, working down the pile and keeping the logs moving. Fourteen hours a day, five hearty meals, and a bunk to sleep in-and it takes a rugged chap to stand it, even for the two weeks or SO until the final 'clean up.'" S WANTED-READERS WHO CAN READ OME months ago, in an article on this page, I ventured to take exception to a pontifical statement of Miss Amy Lowell's to the effect that a certain volume of poetry held the future firmly in its grasp for the possible reason that it was "miles over the heads of the public." It was my contention at that time, and I still maintain it, that poetry which is not read can scarcely be said to be alive, and that, while a real poet does not and should not write down to the public, poetry fails in much of its purpose if it does not contain elements of universal appeal. Since writing that article I have been wondering why even poetry which is emphatically not over the heads of a large proportion of the non-verse-reading public should find so restricted an audience, and it has seemed to me that perhaps an explanation might be found in the fact that poetry is virtually without interpreters. I do not mean by this that there are not critics to burn. Some of them should. I do not mean that book reviewers are neglectful in their efforts to bring to the reading public all that is worth while in modern poetry. Book reviewers are a much-abused lot who are more conscientious than they are commonly credited with being. In fact, the common or garden book reviewer has borne much of the odium which should be thrown upon the more brilliant special writer who insists upon making every review an autobiographical monologue at the expense of the volume intrusted to his care. I seem to have been side-tracked by a pet aversion. When I spoke of interpreters of poetry, I meant men and women who could do for Robinson and Masefield what Paderewski and Hofmann do for Chopin and Liszt. If any one rises and suggests that our various poets be drafted to interpret their own work, I shall emphatically protest. Some of them can read poetry, but more of them cannot. For the reading of poetry is dependent, not only upon the understanding of its intellectual and spiritual content, but also upon the possession of an adequate vocal instrument. The fact that we have so few real interpretative readers of poetry is perhaps to be explained by the belief that common poetry is closely akin to prose because it happens to be recorded in the same sound symbols. In reality, it is much closer to the realm of music than to the domain of prose, and there are probably as few people who can arrive at a full appreciation of a poem by a silent reading of it as there are who can comprehend a symphony by a perusal of the score. Of course the analogy is not exact; for part of the appeal of poetry can be understood by the general reader, whereas no man who is not a real musi cian can derive any pleasure whatsoever from the speckled pages which are made alive by the genius of an interpreter. Where can the looked-for interpreters of poetry be found? Frankly, I do not know. One might look for them on the stage if it were not perfectly obvious that most modern actors and actresses are singularly devoid of any comprehension of the structure and significance of verse. Perhaps the English stage, where the traditional requirement of a melodious voice still persists, might supply an interpreter or two. There may be schools of elocution which could develop real interpretative readers if the demand for them was strongly felt. Or T Per perhaps some man with a spark of creative poetry in him too faint to justify a life devoted to the writing of verse, but with a sufficient appreciation of the work of his betters, might be caught young and diverted from futile publication to the more urgently needed work of adequate interpretation. haps we may still develop a reader of poetry whose phonograph record of the "Ode on a Grecian Urn" will be sold in active competition with Caruso's "Celeste Aïda," or whose readings from Shakespeare's Sonnets may some time be given an exclusive wave length at a great international radio poetry-broadcasting station. Who knows? Stranger things than this have happened. HAROLD T. PULSIFER. BIOGRAPHY COMES INTO ITS OWN HERE has been a notable quickening of public interest in books about people. Librarians, booksellers, lists of popular non-fiction books, all testify to this. Always a delightful source of literary refreshment, the informal biographies-those in which reminiscence, anecdote, and free drawing of character predominate over dry details and personal data-are now 'eagerly read by thousands who not so long ago were apt to regard everything but the current fiction and magazines as "solid." Such books as "The Education of Henry Adams." Lytton Strachey's "Queen Victoria," "The Americanization of Edward Bok," "Roosevelt's Letters to His Children," and the "Mirrors" of London and Washington have been in almost fierce demand at village libraries. so that the librarians are bombarded with requests to buy extra copies. The sign is a healthful one. It shows an extended and extending interest in something more than senseless sensations. Moreover, it is pleasant to notice how many readers have awakened to the knowledge that this class of reading is joyous entertainment. There is humor as well as information in most good biographies, from Boswell's Johnson down. One might almost say that the life of a man who has no sense of humor, no reaction to the humorous side of society, is hardly worth telling. Take the wit and the story-telling elements from Lockhart's "Scott" or Trevelyan's "Macaulay," or from such a recent publication as the Letters of Ambassador Page, and how flat and dull, however valuable historically, would be what was left. Happily there seems to be abundant material for the kind of biography that amuses as well as instructs. Certainly Mr. Depew's "My Memories of Eighty Years" belongs to the category just described; in fact, it is stronger on the side of entertainment than instruction. My Memories of Eighty Years. By Chaunrey M. Depew, Charles Scribner's Sons, New York. $1. Mr. Depew has been a relater of anecdotes and amusing yarns at dinners and public occasions innumerable; the plenitude of his stock of stories has been the admiration of hundreds of audiences and the common property of newspapers for generations. Yet here he produces what seems to be a new stock, for there is little that will seem trite to the average reader. The secret seems to be that he has saved for his "Memories" just the right stories-those that throw light on the personality and traits of the many famous people he has met. There are few men of note in the last fifty years whom he has not known. He came near entering a permanent political career early in life, but was dissuaded by Commodore Vanderbilt, who, when Depew was offered the post of Minister to Japan, said to him: "Railroads are the career for a young man; there is nothing in politics. Don't be a damned fool." Later, as United States Senator from New York, Depew saw closely the field of politics; while finance, business, eduIcation (his interest in Yale has been one of the strongest in his life), and society have always been familiar to him. Blaine, Grant, Greeley, Cleveland, Roosevelt, Mark Twain, Ingersoll, Joseph Jefferson, are a few among many of whom anecdotes are told. An after-dinner orator is apt to tell set stories and make set speeches. The man who can seize upon something that occurs at the moment and turn it to account always scores a double success. Mr. Depew tells one such anecdote of himself: I arrived at the dinner late and passed in front of the dais to my seat at the other end, while General Grant was speaking. He was not easy on his feet at that time, though afterwards he became very felicitous in public speaking. He paused a moment until I was seated and then said: "If Chauncey Depew stood in my shoes, and I in his, I would be a much happier man." I immediately threw away the 556 speech I had prepared during the six The enthusiasm of the audience, as Not quite so creditable but certainly as quick-witted was Blaine's readiness in a train-end speech. Depew says: I had an interesting experience of his [Blaine's] readiness and versatility when he ran for President in 1884. He asked me to introduce him at the different stations, where he was to deliver long or short addresses. After several of these occasions, he asked: "What's the next station, Chauncey?" I answered: "Peekskill." "Well," he said, "what is there about Peekskill?" "I was born there," I answered. "Well," he said, rising, "I always thought you were born at Poughkeepsie." "No, Peekskill." Just then we were running into the station, and, as the train stopped, I stepped forward to introduce him to the great crowd which had gathered there from a radius of fifty miles. He pushed me back in a very dramatic way, and shouted: "Fellow-citizens, allow me to make the introduction here. As I have many times in the last quarter of a century traveled up and down your beautiful Hudson River, with its majestic scenery made famous by the genius of Washington Irving, and upon the floating palaces not equaled anywhere else in the world, or when the steamer has passed through this picturesque bay and opposite your village, I have had emotions of tenderness and loving memories, greater than those impressed by any other town, because I have said to myself: "There is the birthplace of one of my best friends, Chauncey Depew.'" Mr. Depew knew Lincoln. He states that at Lincoln's re-election he would not have carried New York State if he had not got the soldier vote. Depew had charge of distributing the ballots to the soldiers in the field. But Stanton objected: I took my weary way every day to the War Department, but could get no results. The interviews were brief and disagreeable and the Secretary of War very brusque. The time was getting short. I said to the Secretary: "If the ballots are to be distributed in time, I must have information at once." He very angrily refused and said: "New York troops are in every army, all over the enemy's territory. To state their locition would be to give invaluable information to the enemy. How do I know if that information would be so safeguarded as not to get out?" As I was walking down the long corridor, which was full of hurrying officers and soldiers returning from the field or departing for it, I met Elihu B. Washburne, who was a Congressman from Illinois and an intimate friend of the President. He stopped me and said: "Hello, Mr. Secretary, you seem very much troubled. Can I help you?" I told him my story. "What are you going to do?" he asked. I answered: "To protect myself I must report to the people of New York that the provision for the soldiers' voting cannot be carried out JOHN BURROUGHS because the Administration refuses to "Why," said Mr. Washburne. "that "Mr. Secretary, what do you de- When Joseph Choate and Depew encountered, the good-natured chaff was evenly divided. Choate on one occasion waved at Depew a stock prospectus headed "The Depew Natural Gas Company, Limited" and shouted, "Why Limited?" But Depew countered at another dinner; Choate told the audience that a reporter had asked him for an advance copy of his speech, adding that he already had Depew's, "with the applause and laughter marked in." Depew declared that the reporter had told him that he had Choate's advance copy, with a lot of poetry in it, and that when Depew asked whose poetry it was, the reporter replied that "it was so bad he thought Choate must have written it himself." But the temptation to quote must not be abused. The book is one big storehouse of anecdote. It brings before one scores of noted people here and abroad, with bits of description and apt incidents of their lives-all in perfectly good-natured banter. The "Memories" is not marked by distinction of style. It is decidedly objective in that it shows us what its author did and saw and heard, while there is little to show us what are his convictions or philosophy of life or views of public questions. But. whatever it lacks, it is most emphatically an entertaining volume. Very different, indeed, less amusing but finer in quality, is the slight, gently written bit of autobiography left by the late John Burroughs. This is a sincere and simple revelation of the naturalist's boyhood life on his father's farm eighty years ago. It was written for his son Julian, who furnishes an interesting "Conclusion." As the publishers point out, "it is amazing that an old man could think himself back into the psychology of his boyhood with such vivid fidelity." The life portrayed was that now almost obsolete on "the selfcontained, self-sufficient farm where they "Nobody will denythat every additional mile of good roads will serve to diminish the immense costs of distribution and transportation that mean, gnawing expense which doubles the price of virtually everything we buy."-Collier's Weekly. What did the Winter do to Your Roads? In communities where the annual Spring thaw turns roads into mires of soggy mud, Spring is a season of discomfort and isolation. Throughout the country, there are still thousands of such communities. Perhaps yours is one of them. Perhaps the picture at the top of the page is typical of some roads in your locality. Now look at the Tarvia Roads shown at the right. These roads are waterproof and frost-proof. Neither the freezes of Winter nor the thaws of Spring have any effect upon them. These highways are firm, smooth, dustless and mudless all the year round. Your community-any community We would like to tell you more Tarvia New York Atlanta Milwaukee Baltimore For Road Construction Chicago Philadelphia Boston New Orleans Birmingham Kansas City The Duluth Toledo Omaha Salt Lake City Bangor Columbus Richmond Barrett THE BARRETT COMPANY, Limited: Montreal Toronto Pittsburgh Peoria Youngstown Buffalo Winnipeg Vancouver St. John, N. B. Halifax, N. S. CORNISH PENNY (THE). By Coulson Cade. The Frederick A. Stokes Company, New York. $1.90. An irresponsible piece of story writing, rambling and plot less; but yet a tale with charming bits of description and romantic incident. In short, it is much better written than it is planned. GUEST THE ONE-EYED. By Gunnar GunAlfred A. Knopf, New York. narsson. $2.50. The work of an Icelandic author who writes in Danish-said to be as unlike Icelandic as French is unlike Latin. He weaves the ideas of ancient Saga legends of Iceland into a tale of three recent generations. There are imagination and thought in the writing. PURPLE PEARL (THE). By Anthony Pryde and R. K. Weeks. Dodd, Mead & Co., New York. $1.90. Still another story from the pen (in this case, partly from the pen) of Mr. Pryde the fifth, we believe, to appear within little more than a year. One naturally suspects, in such apparent prolixity, early work exploited on the strength of a real success. Perhaps it is not so here; but the book is certainly inferior to "Nightfall," which remains Mr. Pryde's best novel. ROMANCE TO THE RESCUE. By Denis Mackail. Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston. $1.90. of scope and general interest, is the least considerable. But to art connoisseurs it may seem the most considerable. Mr. Calvert wisely prefaces his account of the Gothic and Renaissance tapestries by a chapter on the history of the art of tapestry weaving. Following the text nearly three hundred illustrations are massed togther. HISTORY AND POLITICAL ECONOMY HISTORIC PARIS. By Jetta S. Wolff. The John Lane Company, London. $2.50. In this volume we have a very careful, painstaking account of much that goes to make Paris interesting on the historic side. The volume is valuable as a reference book. If its text could have been expanded, it might also have been delightful as a book for general reading. SECRETS OF THE BALKANS. By Charles J. Vopicka. Illustrated. Rand, McNally & Co., Chicago. $3. GREATER RUMANIA. Clark. Illustrated. New York. $4. The first of these volumes is a simple, naïve account of what our Minister at that time to Rumania, Serbia, and Bulgaria saw in the Balkans from 1913 to By Charles Upson Dodd, Mead & Co., TW "A House Divided" WO sisters and a brother had been living with their father in a fine old house that had been the family home for generations. To so leave matters after his death that the family estate and possessions would be preserved for his children's and their children's use, was the object closest to the aged father's heart. He consulted his children regarding the making of his will and was persuaded by the younger daughter to name his son as executor and trustee. Upon the father's death, the estate came into the son's hands, and he en1920. As one after another of the Pow-gaged in a number of business ventures. ers were drawn into the European conflagration Mr. Vopicka assumed the responsibilities of their legations and consulates until finally he represented the interests of eight nations-America, England, Germany, Italy, Rumania, Russia, Serbia, and Turkey. His book humor in the situation, for the lady's certainly contributes to our knowledge The title of the novel is also the title of a play supposed to have been written by the mysterious heroine. There is play is sent by mistake for reading to her husband, an actor from whom she is separated. THREE MUSKETEERS (THE). By Alexandre Dumas. Illustrated. D. Appleton & Co., New York. $3. The recent "movie" revival of "The Three Musketeers" makes the sumptuous reprint of this standard edition especially timely. The present volume contains two hundred and fifty illustrations by Maurice Leloir, illustrations which may become as closely associated with Dumas as are the Cruikshank pictures with Dickens. MUSIC, PAINTING, AND OTHER ARTS HISTORY OF ARCHITECTURE ON THE COMPARATIVE METHOD (A). By Sir Banister Fletcher. Illustrated. Charles Scribner's Sons, New York $12. This is the sixth edition of a standard work. It differs from previous editions in having been entirely rewritten and enlarged, and now contains no less than thirty-five hundred illustrations. SPANISH ROYAL TAPESTRIES (THE). By of the war period. A more serious contribution to our present knowledge of one of the abovementioned countries, namely, Rumania, is Dr. Clark's just-published volumeindeed, it is, we believe, the only up-todate work of reference in English for that country. More particularly it instructs us concerning the new provinces outside the old Kingdom-concerning Bessarabia, Transylvania, the Banat, and the Bukovina. The extremely informative text is interestingly illustrated. As in "Secrets of the Balkans," so in this, personality plays a strong part, as any one may know who consults Dr. Clark's accounts of the King and Queen and of such statesmen as Bratianu and Jonescu. The text is remarkably free from such errors as that on page 373, which speaks of "Princess Sava Goin." POETRY SEA POEMS. By Cale Young Rice. The Century Company, New York. $1.50. This volume of selected pieces from earlier publications is merely a reminder that Mr. Cale Young Rice simply cannot capture the authentic urge of poetry. He tries everything once, and The older sister, becoming anxious about the estate, finally went to court for an accounting from the brother. It was found that the estate was almost hopelessly involved. All that was finally left was the old home-and there was but little to keep it going. The sisters still live in the same house, but they are strangers to each other. A Free Book About Wills Safeguarding Your Family's Future Leaving money and prop erty to be managed by "someone in the family," or "someone we know," has been the cause of many disasters. A safe, sensible, modern way to insure the preservation of an estate, is to name a trust company as your executor and trustee. With the trust company, the administration of an estate is a specialized business. The trust company is expert in the handling of investments. It is familiar with legal requirements. It has ample financial resources. It does not enter into family disputes. Ask a trust company, or write to the address below, for "Safeguarding Your Family's Future," an interesting booklet on wills and trusts. TRUST COMPANY DIVISION AMERICAN BANKERS ASSOCIATION FIVE NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK |