How To Write Special Feature Articles
by Willard Grosvenor Bleyer
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(1) THE SHOT HEARD 'ROUND THE WORLD America's First Victory in France

(2) "ALL WOOL AND A YARD WIDE" What "All Wool" Really Means and Why Shoddy is Necessary

(3) THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE And Why She Won't Stay in the House

A well-known quotation or common saying may be paraphrased in a novel way to attract attention; for example:




(4) THE GUILELESS SPIDER AND THE WILY FLY Entomology Modifies our Ideas of the Famous Parlor

Since every question is like a riddle, a title in question form naturally leads the reader to seek the answer in the article itself. The directness of appeal may be heightened by addressing the question to the reader with "you," "your," or by presenting it from the reader's point of view with the use of "I," "we," or "ours." The sub-title may be another question or an affirmation, but should not attempt to answer the question. The following are typical question titles and sub-titles:



(3) WHO'S THE BEST BOSS? Would You Rather Work For a Man or For a Machine?



(6) DOES DEEP PLOWING PAY? What Some Recent Tests Have Demonstrated


The reader may be addressed in an imperative form of title, as well as in a question, as the following titles show:

(1) BLAME THE SUN SPOTS Solar Upheavals That Make Mischief on the Earth



(4) DON'T JUMP OUT OF BED Give Your Subconscious Self a Chance to Awake Gradually



The attractiveness of titles may be heightened by such combinations of sounds as alliteration and rhyme, or by rhythm such as is produced by balanced elements. The following examples illustrate the use of alliteration, rhyme, and balance:








(8) THE ARTILLERY MILL AT OLD FORT SILL How Uncle Sam is Training His Field Artillery Officers


(10) WAR ON PESTS When the Spray Gun's Away, Crop Enemies Play



HOW TO FRAME A TITLE. The application of the general principles governing titles may best be shown by means of an article for which a title is desired. A writer, for example, has prepared a popular article on soil analysis as a means of determining what chemical elements different kinds of farm land need to be most productive. A simple label title like "The Value of Soil Analysis," obviously would not attract the average person, and probably would interest only the more enterprising of farmers. The analysis of soil not unnaturally suggests the diagnosis of human disease; and the remedying of worn-out, run-down farm land by applying such chemicals as phosphorus and lime, is analogous to the physician's prescription of tonics for a run-down, anaemic person. These ideas may readily be worked out as the following titles show:

(1) PRESCRIBING FOR RUN-DOWN LAND What the Soil Doctor is Doing to Improve Our Farms

(2) THE SOIL DOCTOR AND HIS TONICS Prescribing Remedies for Worn-Out Farm Land

(3) DIAGNOSING ILLS OF THE SOIL Science Offers Remedies for Depleted Farms

Other figurative titles like the following may be developed without much effort from the ideas that soil "gets tired," "wears out," and "needs to be fed":

(1) WHEN FARM LAND GETS TIRED Scientists Find Causes of Exhausted Fields

(2) FIELDS WON'T WEAR OUT If the Warnings of Soil Experts Are Heeded

(3) BALANCED RATIONS FOR THE SOIL Why the Feeding of Farm Land is Necessary for Good Crops



IMPORTANCE OF GOOD MANUSCRIPT. After an article has been carefully revised, it is ready to be copied in the form in which it will be submitted to editors. Because hundreds of contributions are examined every day in editorial offices of large publications, manuscripts should be submitted in such form that their merits can be ascertained as easily and as quickly as possible. A neatly and carefully prepared manuscript is likely to receive more favorable consideration than a badly typed one. The impression produced by the external appearance of a manuscript as it comes to an editor's table is comparable to that made by the personal appearance of an applicant for a position as he enters an office seeking employment. In copying his article, therefore, a writer should keep in mind the impression that it will make in the editorial office.

FORM FOR MANUSCRIPTS. Editors expect all manuscripts to be submitted in typewritten form. Every person who aspires to write for publication should learn to use a typewriter. Until he has learned to type his work accurately, he must have a good typist copy it for him.

A good typewriter with clean type and a fresh, black, non-copying ribbon produces the best results. The following elementary directions apply to the preparation of all manuscripts: (1) write on only one side of the paper; (2) allow a margin of about three quarters of an inch on all sides of the page; (3) double space the lines in order to leave room for changes, sub-heads, and other editing.

Unruled white bond paper of good quality in standard letter size, 81/2 by 11 inches, is the most satisfactory. A high grade of paper not only gives the manuscript a good appearance but stands more handling and saves the recopying of returned manuscripts. A carbon copy should be made of every manuscript so that, if the original copy goes astray in the mail or in an editorial office, the writer's work will not have been in vain. The carbon copy can also be used later for comparison with the printed article. Such a comparison will show the writer the amount and character of the editing that was deemed necessary to adapt the material to the publication in which it appears.

A cover sheet of the same paper is a convenient device. It not only gives the editorial reader some information in regard to the article, but it protects the manuscript itself. Frequently, for purposes of record, manuscripts are stamped or marked in editorial offices, but if a cover page is attached, the manuscript itself is not defaced. When an article is returned, the writer needs to recopy only the cover page before starting the manuscript on its next journey. The form for such a cover page is given on page 184.

The upper half of the first page of the manuscript should be left blank, so that the editor may write a new title and sub-title if he is not satisfied with those supplied by the author. The title, the sub-title, and the author's name should be repeated at the beginning of the article in the middle of the first page, even though they have been given on the cover page. At the left-hand side, close to the top of each page after the first, should be placed the writer's last name followed by a dash and the title of the article, thus:

Milton—Confessions of a Freshman.

The pages should be numbered in the upper right-hand corner. By these simple means the danger of losing a page in the editorial offices is reduced to a minimum.

To be paid for at usual Written for The Outlook rates, or to be returned with the ten (10) cents in stamps enclosed, to Arthur W. Milton, 582 Wilson Street, Des Moines, Iowa.


Why I Was Dropped From College at the End of My First Year

By Arthur W. Milton

(Note. This article is based on the writer's own experience in a large Middle Western state university, and the statistics have been obtained from the registrars of four state universities. It contains 2,750 words.)

Four (4) Photographs are Enclosed, as follows:

1. How I Decorated My Room

2. I Spent Hours Learning to Play My Ukelele

3. When I Made the Freshman Team

4. Cramming For My Final Exams

TYPOGRAPHICAL STYLE. Every newspaper and magazine has its own distinct typographical style in capitalization, abbreviation, punctuation, hyphenation, and the use of numerical figures. Some newspapers and periodicals have a style book giving rules for the preparation and editing of copy. A careful reading of several issues of a publication will show a writer the salient features of its typographical style. It is less important, however, to conform to the typographical peculiarities of any one publication than it is to follow consistently the commonly accepted rules of capitalization, punctuation, abbreviation, and "unreformed" spelling. Printers prefer to have each page end with a complete sentence. At the close of the article it is well to put the end mark (#).

When a special feature story for newspaper publication must be prepared so hastily that there is no time to copy the first draft, it may be desirable to revise the manuscript by using the marks commonly employed in editing copy. These are as follows:

american Three short lines under a letter or a = word indicate that it is to be set in - capital letters; thus, American.

New York Times Two short lines under a letter or a = = = word indicate that it is to be set in - - - small capital letters; thus, NEW YORK TIMES.

sine qua non One line under a word or words indicates —— —- —- that it is to be set in italics; thus, sine qua non.

He is a /Sophomore An oblique line drawn from right to left through a capital letter indicates that it is to be set in lower case; thus, He is a sophomore. _ __ There are 10 in a bu. A circle around numerical figures or - abbreviations indicates that they are to be spelled out; thus, There are ten in a bushel. ___ __ Professor A.B.Smith is sixty . A circle around words or figures - - spelled out indicates that they are to be abbreviated or that numerical figures are to be used; thus, Prof. A.B. Smith is 60. not a It is complimentry to him A caret is placed at the point in the ^ ^ line where the letters or words written above the line are to be inserted; thus, It is not complimentary to him. __ _ to carefullyXstudy A line encircling two or more words like an elongated figure "8" indicates that the words are to be transposed; thus, to study carefully.

to[=()]morrow Half circles connecting words or letters indicate that they are to be brought together; thus, tomorrow.

all/right A vertical line between parts of a word shows that the parts are to be separated; thus, all right.

U S 4 per cent. bonds A small cross or a period in a circle x x may be used to show that a period is to be used; thus, U.S. 4 per cent. bonds.

")Yes, ')Love laughs at lock- Quotation marks are often enclosed smiths(', you know(", he replied. in half circles to indicate whether they are beginning or end marks.

"How old are you?" he asked. The paragraph mark () or the "Sixteen", she said. sign [ ] may be used to call attention to the beginning of a new paragraph.

MAILING MANUSCRIPTS. Since manuscripts are written matter, they must be sent sealed as first-class mail at letter rates of postage. For the return of rejected articles stamps may be attached to the cover page by means of a clip, or a self-addressed envelope with stamps affixed may be enclosed. The writer's name and address should always be given on the envelope in which the manuscript is sent to the publishers.

The envelope containing the article should be addressed to the "Editor" of a magazine or to the "Sunday Editor" of a newspaper, as nothing is gained by addressing him or her by name. If a writer knows an editor personally or has had correspondence with him in regard to a particular article, it may be desirable to send the manuscript to him personally. An accompanying letter is not necessary, for the cover page of the manuscript gives the editor and his assistants all the information that they need.

Articles consisting of only a few pages may be folded twice and mailed in a long envelope; bulkier manuscripts should be folded once and sent in a manila manuscript envelope. Photographs of sizes up to 5 x 7 inches may be placed in a manuscript that is folded once, with a single piece of stout cardboard for protection. When larger photographs, up to 8 x 10 inches, accompany the article, the manuscript must be sent unfolded, with two pieces of cardboard to protect the pictures. Manuscripts should never be rolled.

HOW MANUSCRIPTS ARE HANDLED. In order to handle hundreds of manuscripts as expeditiously as possible, most large editorial offices have worked out systems that, though differing slightly, are essentially the same. When a manuscript is received, a record is made of it on a card or in a book, with the name and address of the author, the title and character of the contribution, and the time of its receipt. The same data are entered on a blank that is attached to the manuscript by a clip. On this blank are left spaces for comments by each of the editorial assistants who read and pass upon the article.

After these records have been made, the manuscript is given to the first editorial reader. He can determine by glancing at the first page or two whether or not the article is worth further consideration. Of the thousands of contributions of all kinds submitted, a considerable proportion are not in the least adapted to the periodical to which they have been sent. The first reader, accordingly, is scarcely more than a skilled sorter who separates the possible from the impossible. All manuscripts that are clearly unacceptable are turned over to a clerk to be returned with a rejection slip.

When an article appears to have merit, the first reader looks over it a second time and adds a brief comment, which he signs with his initials. The manuscript is then read and commented on by other editorial readers before it reaches the assistant editor. The best of the contributions are submitted to the editor for a final decision. By such a system every meritorious contribution is considered carefully by several critics before it is finally accepted or rejected. Moreover, the editor and the assistant editor have before them the comments of several readers with which to compare their own impressions.

In newspaper offices manuscripts are usually sorted by the assistant Sunday editor, or assistant magazine editor, and are finally accepted or rejected by the Sunday or magazine editor.

REJECTED MANUSCRIPTS. In rejecting contributions, editorial offices follow various methods. The commonest one is to send the author a printed slip expressing regret that the manuscript is not acceptable and encouraging him to submit something else. Some ingenious editors have prepared a number of form letters to explain to contributors the various reasons why their manuscripts are unacceptable. The editorial assistant who rejects an unsuitable article indicates by number which of these form letters is to be sent to the author. A few editors send a personal letter to every contributor. Sometimes an editor in rejecting a contribution will suggest some publication to which it might be acceptable. If a manuscript has merit but is not entirely satisfactory, he may suggest that it be revised and submitted to him again.

KEEPING A MANUSCRIPT RECORD. Every writer who intends to carry on his work in a systematic manner should keep a manuscript record, to assist him in marketing his articles to the best advantage. Either a book or a card index may be used. The purpose of such a record is to show (1) the length of time required by various publications to make a decision on contributions; (2) the rate and the time of payment of each periodical; (3) the present whereabouts of his manuscript and the periodicals to which it has already been submitted.

It is important for a writer to know how soon he may expect a decision on his contributions. If he has prepared an article that depends on timeliness for its interest, he cannot afford to send it to an editor who normally takes three or four weeks to make a decision. Another publication to which his article is equally well adapted, he may find from his manuscript record, accepts or rejects contributions within a week or ten days. Naturally he will send his timely article to the publication that makes the quickest decision. If that publication rejects it, he will still have time enough to try it elsewhere. His experience with different editors, as recorded in his manuscript record, often assists him materially in placing his work to the best advantage.

The rate and the time of payment for contributions are also worth recording. When an article is equally well suited to two or more periodicals, a writer will naturally be inclined to send it first to the publication that pays the highest price and that pays on acceptance.

A manuscript record also indicates where each one of a writer's articles is at a given moment, and by what publications it has been rejected. For such data he cannot afford to trust his memory.

A writer may purchase a manuscript record book or may prepare his own book or card index. At the top of each page or card is placed the title of the article, followed by the number of words that it contains, the number of illustrations that accompany it, and the date on which it was completed. On the lines under the title are written in turn the names of the periodicals to which the manuscript is submitted, with (1) the dates on which it was submitted and returned or rejected; (2) the rate and the time of payment; and (3) any remarks that may prove helpful. A convenient form for such a page or card is shown on the next page: Confessions of a Freshman. 2,750 Words. 4 Photos. Written, Jan. 18, 1919. - Sent Returned Accepted Paid Amount Remarks - The Outlook 1/18/19 1/30/19 The Independent 1/31/19 2/10/19 The Kansas City Star 2/12/19 2/18/19 3/12/19 $9.50 $4 a col.

ACCEPTED MANUSCRIPTS. Contributions accepted for publication are paid for at the time of their acceptance, at the time of their publication, or at some fixed date in the month following their acceptance or publication. Nearly all well-established periodicals pay for articles when they are accepted. Some publications do not pay until the article is printed, a method obviously less satisfactory to a writer than prompt payment, since he may have to wait a year or more for his money. Newspapers pay either on acceptance or before the tenth day of the month following publication. The latter arrangement grows out of the practice of paying correspondents between the first and the tenth of each month for the work of the preceding month.

After a manuscript has been accepted, a writer usually has no further responsibility concerning it. Some magazines submit galley proofs to the author for correction and for any changes that he cares to make. It is desirable to make as few alterations as possible to avoid the delay and expense of resetting the type. Corrected proofs should be returned promptly.

Unless specific stipulations are made to the contrary by the author, an article on being accepted by a periodical becomes its property and cannot be republished without its consent. Usually an editor will grant an author permission to reprint an article in book or pamphlet form. By copyrighting each issue, as most magazines and some newspapers do, the publishers establish fully their rights to an author's work.

SYNDICATING ARTICLES. By sending copies of his articles to a number of newspapers for simultaneous publication, a writer of special feature stories for newspapers may add to his earnings. This method is known as syndicating. It is made possible by the fact that the circulation of newspapers is largely local. Since, for example, Chicago papers are not read in New York, or Minneapolis papers in St. Louis, these papers may well publish the same articles on the same day. Organized newspaper syndicates furnish many papers with reading matter of all kinds.

The same article must not, however, be sent to more than one magazine, but a single subject may be used for two entirely different articles intended for two magazines. If two articles are written on the same subject, different pictures should be secured, so that it will not be necessary to send copies of the same illustrations to two magazines. Agricultural journals with a distinctly sectional circulation do not object to using syndicated articles, provided that the journals to which the article is sent do not circulate in the same territory.

If a writer desires to syndicate his work, he must conform to several requirements. First, he must make as many good copies as he intends to send out and must secure separate sets of photographs to accompany each one. Second, he must indicate clearly on each copy the fact that he is syndicating the article and that he is sending it to only one paper in a city. A special feature story, for instance, sent to the Kansas City Star for publication in its Sunday edition, he would mark, "Exclusive for Kansas City. Release for Publication, Sunday, January 19." Third, he must send out the copies sufficiently far in advance of the release date to enable all of the papers to arrange for the publication of the article on that day. For papers with magazine sections that are made up a week or more before the day of publication, articles should be in the office of the editor at least two weeks before the release date. For papers that make up their Sunday issues only a few days in advance, articles need be submitted only a week before the publication day.

SELLING ARTICLES TO SYNDICATES. The syndicates that supply newspapers with various kinds of material, including special feature stories, are operated on the same principle that governs the syndicating of articles by the writer himself. That is, they furnish their features to a number of different papers for simultaneous publication. Since, however, they sell the same material to many papers, they can afford to do so at a comparatively low price and still make a fair profit. To protect their literary property, they often copyright their features, and a line of print announcing this fact is often the only indication in a newspaper that the matter was furnished by a syndicate. Among the best-known newspaper syndicates are the Newspaper Enterprise Association, Cleveland, Ohio; the McClure Newspaper Syndicate, New York; and the Newspaper Feature Service, New York. A number of large newspapers, like the New York Evening Post, the Philadelphia Ledger, and the New York Tribune, syndicate their popular features to papers in other cities.

A writer may submit his special feature stories to one of the newspaper syndicates just as he would send it to a newspaper or magazine. These organizations usually pay well for acceptable manuscripts. It is not as easy, however, to discover the needs and general policy of each syndicate as it is those of papers and magazines, because frequently there is no means of identifying their articles when they are printed in newspapers.



VALUE OF ILLUSTRATIONS. The perfecting of photo-engraving processes for making illustrations has been one of the most important factors in the development of popular magazines and of magazine sections of newspapers, for good pictures have contributed largely to their success. With the advent of the half-tone process a generation ago, and with the more recent application of the rotogravure process to periodical publications, comparatively cheap and rapid methods of illustration were provided. Newspapers and magazines have made extensive use of both these processes.

The chief value of illustrations for special articles lies in the fact that they present graphically what would require hundreds of words to describe. Ideas expressed in pictures can be grasped much more readily than ideas expressed in words. As an aid to rapid reading illustrations are unexcelled. In fact, so effective are pictures as a means of conveying facts that whole sections of magazines and Sunday newspapers are given over to them exclusively.

Illustrations constitute a particularly valuable adjunct to special articles. Good reproductions of photographs printed in connection with the articles assist readers to visualize and to understand what a writer is undertaking to explain. So fully do editors realize the great attractiveness of illustrations, that they will buy articles accompanied by satisfactory photographs more readily than they will those without illustrations. Excellent photographs will sometimes sell mediocre articles, and meritorious articles may even be rejected because they lack good illustrations. In preparing his special feature stories, a writer will do well to consider carefully the number and character of the illustrations necessary to give his work the strongest possible appeal.

SECURING PHOTOGRAPHS. Inexperienced writers are often at a loss to know how to secure good photographs. Professional photographers will, as a rule, produce the best results, but amateur writers often hesitate to incur the expense involved, especially when they feel uncertain about selling their articles. If prints can be obtained from negatives that photographers have taken for other purposes, the cost is so small that a writer can afford to risk the expenditure. Money spent for good photographs is usually money well spent.

Every writer of special articles should become adept in the use of a camera. With a little study and practice, any one can take photographs that will reproduce well for illustrations. One advantage to a writer of operating his own camera is that he can take pictures on the spur of the moment when he happens to see just what he needs. Unconventional pictures caught at the right instant often make the best illustrations.

The charges for developing films and for making prints and enlargements are now so reasonable that a writer need not master these technicalities in order to use a camera of his own. If he has time and interest, however, he may secure the desired results more nearly by developing and printing his own pictures.

Satisfactory pictures can be obtained with almost any camera, but one with a high-grade lens and shutter is the best for all kinds of work. A pocket camera so equipped is very convenient. If a writer can afford to make a somewhat larger initial investment, he will do well to buy a camera of the so-called "reflex" type. Despite its greater weight and bulk, as compared with pocket cameras, it has the advantage of showing the picture full size, right side up, on the top of the camera, until the very moment that the button is pressed. These reflex cameras are equipped with the fastest types of lens and shutter, and thus are particularly well adapted to poorly lighted and rapidly moving objects.

A tripod should be used whenever possible. A hastily taken snap shot often proves unsatisfactory, whereas, if the camera had rested on a tripod, and if a slightly longer exposure had been given, a good negative would doubtless have resulted.

REQUIREMENTS FOR PHOTOGRAPHS. All photographs intended for reproduction by the half-tone or the rotogravure process should conform to certain requirements.

First: The standard size of photographic prints to be used for illustrations is 5 x 7 inches, but two smaller sizes, 4 x 5 and 31/2 x 51/2, as well as larger sizes such as 61/2 x 81/2 and 8 x 10, are also acceptable. Professional photographers generally make their negatives for illustrations in the sizes, 5 x 7, 61/2 x 81/2, and 8 x 10. If a writer uses a pocket camera taking pictures smaller than post-card size (31/2 x 51/2), he must have his negatives enlarged to one of the above standard sizes.

Second: Photographic prints for illustrations should have a glossy surface; that is, they should be what is known as "gloss prints." Prints on rough paper seldom reproduce satisfactorily; they usually result in "muddy" illustrations. Prints may be mounted or unmounted; unmounted ones cost less and require less postage, but are more easily broken in handling.

Third: Objects in the photograph should be clear and well defined; this requires a sharp negative. For newspaper illustrations it is desirable to have prints with a stronger contrast between the dark and the light parts of the picture than is necessary for the finer half-tones and rotogravures used in magazines.

Fourth: Photographs must have life and action. Pictures of inanimate objects in which neither persons nor animals appear, seem "dead" and unattractive to the average reader. It is necessary, therefore, to have at least one person in every photograph. Informal, unconventional pictures in which the subjects seem to have been "caught" unawares, are far better than those that appear to have been posed. Good snap-shots of persons in characteristic surroundings are always preferable to cabinet photographs. "Action pictures" are what all editors and all readers want.

Fifth: Pictures must "tell the story"; that is, they should illustrate the phase of the subject that they are designed to make clear. Unless a photograph has illustrative value it fails to accomplish the purpose for which it is intended.

CAPTIONS FOR ILLUSTRATIONS. On the back of a photograph intended for reproduction the author should write or type a brief explanation of what it represents. If he is skillful in phrasing this explanation, or "caption," as it is called, the editor will probably use all or part of it just as it stands. If his caption is unsatisfactory, the editor will have to write one based on the writer's explanation. A clever caption adds much to the attractiveness of an illustration.

A caption should not be a mere label, but, like a photograph, should have life and action. It either should contain a verb of action or should imply one. In this and other respects, it is not unlike the newspaper headline. Instead, for example, of the label title, "A Large Gold Dredge in Alaska," a photograph was given the caption, "Digs Out a Fortune Daily." A picture of a young woman feeding chickens in a backyard poultry run that accompanied an article entitled "Did You Ever Think of a Meat Garden?" was given the caption "Fresh Eggs and Chicken Dinners Reward Her Labor." To illustrate an article on the danger of the pet cat as a carrier of disease germs, a photograph of a child playing with a cat was used with the caption, "How Epidemics Start." A portrait of a housewife who uses a number of labor-saving devices in her home bore the legend, "She is Reducing Housekeeping to a Science." "A Smoking Chimney is a Bad Sign" was the caption under a photograph of a chimney pouring out smoke, which was used to illustrate an article on how to save coal.

Longer captions describing in detail the subject illustrated by the photograph, are not uncommon; in fact, as more and more pictures are being used, there is a growing tendency to place a short statement, or "overline," above the illustration and to add to the amount of descriptive matter in the caption below it. This is doubtless due to two causes: the increasing use of illustrations unaccompanied by any text except the caption, and the effort to attract the casual reader by giving him a taste, as it were, of what the article contains.

DRAWINGS FOR ILLUSTRATIONS. Diagrams, working drawings, floor plans, maps, or pen-and-ink sketches are necessary to illustrate some articles. Articles of practical guidance often need diagrams. Trade papers like to have their articles illustrated with reproductions of record sheets and blanks designed to develop greater efficiency in office or store management. If a writer has a little skill in drawing, he may prepare in rough form the material that he considers desirable for illustration, leaving to the artists employed by the publication the work of making drawings suitable for reproduction. A writer who has had training in pen-and-ink drawing may prepare his own illustrations. Such drawings should be made on bristol board with black drawing ink, and should be drawn two or three times as large as they are intended to appear when printed. If record sheets are to be used for illustration, the ruling should be done with black drawing ink, and the figures and other data should be written in with the same kind of ink. Typewriting on blanks intended for reproduction should be done with a fresh record black ribbon. Captions are necessary on the back of drawings as well as on photographs.

MAILING PHOTOGRAPHS AND DRAWINGS. It is best to mail flat all photographs and drawings up to 8 x 10 in size, in the envelope with the manuscript, protecting them with pieces of stout cardboard. Only very large photographs or long, narrow panoramic ones should be rolled and mailed in a heavy cardboard tube, separate from the manuscript. The writer's name and address, as well as the title of the article to be illustrated, should be written on the back of every photograph and drawing.

As photographs and drawings are not ordinarily returned when they are used with an article that is accepted, writers should not promise to return such material to the persons from whom they secure it. Copies can almost always be made from the originals when persons furnishing writers with photographs and drawings desire to have the originals kept in good condition.




1. What appears to have suggested the subject to the writer?

2. How much of the article was based on his personal experience?

3. How much of it was based on his personal observations?

4. Was any of the material obtained from newspapers or periodicals?

5. What portions of the article were evidently obtained by interviews?

6. What reports, documents, technical periodicals, and books of reference were used as sources in preparing the article?

7. Does the article suggest to you some sources from which you might obtain material for your own articles?


1. Is there any evidence that the article was timely when it was published?

2. Is the article of general or of local interest?

3. Does it seem to be particularly well adapted to the readers of the publication in which it was printed? Why?

4. What, for the average reader, is the source of interest in the article?

5. Does it have more than one appeal?

6. Is the subject so presented that the average reader is led to see its application to himself and to his own affairs?

7. Could an article on the same subject, or on a similar one, be written for a newspaper in your section of the country?

8. What possible subjects does the article suggest to you?


1. Did the writer aim to entertain, to inform, or to give practical guidance?

2. Does the writer seem to have had a definitely formulated purpose?

3. How would you state this apparent purpose in one sentence?

4. Is the purpose a worthy one?

5. Did the writer accomplish his purpose?

6. Does the article contain any material that seems unnecessary to the accomplishment of the purpose?


1. To which type does this article conform?

2. Is there any other type better adapted to the subject and material?

3. How far did the character of the subject determine the methods of treatment?

4. What other methods might have been used to advantage in presenting this subject?

5. Is the article predominantly narrative, descriptive, or expository?

6. To what extent are narration and description used for expository purposes?

7. Are concrete examples and specific instances employed effectively?

8. By what means are the narrative passages made interesting?

9. Do the descriptive parts of the article portray the impressions vividly?


1. What main topics are taken up in the article?

2. Could any parts of the article be omitted without serious loss?

3. Could the parts be rearranged with gain in clearness, interest, or progress?

4. Does the article march on steadily from beginning to end?

5. Is the material so arranged that the average reader will reach the conclusion that the writer intended to have him reach?

6. Is there variety in the methods of presentation?

7. Is the length of the article proportionate to the subject?

8. What type of beginning is used?

9. Is the type of beginning well adapted to the subject and the material?

10. Would the beginning attract the attention and hold the interest of the average reader?

11. Is the beginning an integral part of the article?

12. Is the length of the beginning proportionate to the length of the whole article?

13. Is the beginning skillfully connected with the body of the article?


1. Is the article easy to read? Why?

2. Is the diction literary or colloquial, specific or general, original or trite, connotative or denotative?

3. Are figures of speech used effectively?

4. Do the sentences yield their meaning easily when read rapidly?

5. Is there variety in sentence length and structure?

6. Are important ideas placed at the beginning of sentences?

7. Are the paragraphs long or short?

8. Are they well-organized units?

9. Do the paragraphs begin with important ideas?

10. Is there variety in paragraph beginnings?

11. Is the tone well suited to the subject?

12. Do the words, figures of speech, sentences, and paragraphs in this article suggest to you possible means of improving your own style?


1. Is the title attractive, accurate, concise, and concrete?

2. To what type does it conform?

3. What is the character of the sub-title, and what relation does it bear to the title?

(Boston Herald)


"——And so," ended the story, "St. George slew the dragon."

A great sigh, long drawn and sibilant, which for the last five minutes had been swelling 57 little thoraxes, burst out and filled the space of the lecture hall at the Museum of Fine Arts.

"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!" said 27 little girls.

"Aw-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w, gosh!" said 30 little boys. "Say, Mis' Cronan, there wasn't no real dragon, was they?" A shock-headed youngster pushed his way to the platform where Mrs. Mary C. Cronan, professional story teller, stood smiling and wistfully looked up at her. "They wasn't no really dragon, was they?"

"'Course they was a dragon! Whadd'ye think the man wanted to paint the picture for if there wasn't a dragon? Certn'y there was a dragon. I leave it to Mis' Cronan if there wasn't."

Steering a narrow course between fiction and truth, Mrs. Cronan told her class that she thought there certainly must have been a dragon or the picture wouldn't have been painted.

It was at one of the regular morning story hours at the Museum of Fine Arts, a department opened three years ago at the museum by Mrs. Cronan and Mrs. Laura Scales, a department which has become so popular that now hundreds of children a week are entertained, children from the public playgrounds and from the settlement houses.

On this particular day it was children from the Bickford street playground under the guidance of two teachers from the Lucretia Crocker School, Miss Roche and Miss Hayes, who had, in some mysterious manner, convoyed these 57 atoms to the museum by car without mishap and who apparently did not dread the necessity of getting them back again, although to the uninitiated it appeared a task beside which grasping a comet by the tail was a pleasant afternoon's amusement.

For the most part the story of St. George and the Dragon was a new thing to these children. They might stand for St. George, although his costume was a little out of the regular form at Jamaica Plain, but the Dragon was another thing.

"I don't believe it," insisted an 8-year-old. "I seen every animal in the Zoo in the park and I don't see any of them things." But the wistful little boy kept insisting that there must be such an animal or Mrs. Cronan wouldn't say so.

"That is the way they nearly always take it at first," said Mrs. Cronan. "Nearly all of these children are here for the first time. Later they will bring their fathers and mothers on Sunday and you might hear them explaining the pictures upstairs as if they were the docents of the museum.

"The object of the story hour is to familiarize the children with as many as possible of the pictures of the Museum and to get them into the way of coming here of themselves. When they go away they are given cards bearing a reproduction of the picture about which the story of the day has been told, and on these cards is always an invitation to them to bring their families to the Museum on Saturday and Sunday, when there is no entrance fee."

The idea of the story hour was broached several years ago and at first it was taken up as an experiment. Stereopticon slides were made of several of the more famous pictures in the Museum, and Mrs. Cronan, who was at the time achieving a well earned success at the Public Library, was asked to take charge of the story telling. The plan became a success at once.

Later Mrs. Scales was called in to take afternoon classes, and now more than 1000 children go to the Museum each week during July and August and hear stories told entertainingly that fix in their minds the best pictures of the world. Following the stories they are taken through the halls of the Museum and are given short talks on some art subject. One day it may be some interesting thing on Thibetan amulets, or on tapestries or on some picture, Stuart's Washington or Turner's Slave Ship, or a colorful canvas of Claude Monet.

It is hoped that the movement may result in greater familiarity with and love for the Museum, for it is intended by the officials that these children shall come to love the Museum and to care for the collection and not to think of it, as many do, as a cold, unresponsive building containing dark mysteries, or haughty officials, or an atmosphere of "highbrow" iciness.

"I believe," says Mrs. Cronan, "that our little talks are doing just this thing. And although some of them, of course, can't get the idea quite all at once, most of these children will have a soft spot hereafter for Donatello's St. George."

At least some of them were not forgetting it, for as they filed out the wistful little boy was still talking about it.

"Ya," he said to the scoffer, "you mightn't a seen him at the Zoo. That's all right, but you never went over to the 'quarium. Probably they got one over there. Gee! I wish I could see a dragon. What color are they?"

But the smallest boy of all, who had hold of Miss Hayes's hand and who had been an interested listener to all this, branched out mentally into other and further fields.

"Aw," said he, "I know a feller what's got a ginny pig wit' yeller spots on 'im and he—" And they all trailed out the door.

* * * * *

(Christian Science Monitor)

One illustration, a half-tone reproduction of a photograph showing the interior of the greenhouse with girls at work.


To go to school in a potato patch; to say one's lessons to a farmer; to study in an orchard and do laboratory work in a greenhouse—this is the pleasant lot of the modern girl who goes to a school of horticulture instead of going to college, or perhaps after going to college.

If ever there was a vocation that seemed specially adapted to many women, gardening would at first glance be the one. From the time of

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow?"

down to the busy city woman who to-day takes her recreation by digging in her flowerbeds, gardens have seemed a natural habitat for womankind, and garden activities have belonged to her by right.

In various parts of the country there have now been established schools where young women may learn the ways of trees and shrubs, vegetables and flowers, and may do experimental work among the growing things themselves. Some of these schools are merely adjuncts of the state agricultural colleges, with more or less limited courses of instruction; but, just out of Philadelphia, there is a school, to which women only are admitted, that is located on a real farm, and covers a wide range of outdoor study.

One begins to feel the homely charm of the place the moment instructions are given as to how to reach it.

"Out the old Lime-kiln road," you are told. And out the old Lime-kiln road you go, until you come to a farm which spells the perfection of care in every clump of trees and every row of vegetables. Some girls in broad-brimmed hats are working in the Strawberry bed—if you go in strawberry time—and farther on a group of women have gathered, with an overalled instructor, under an apple tree the needs of which are being studied.

Under some sedate shade trees, you are led to an old Pennsylvania stone farmhouse—the administration building, if you please. Beyond are the barns, poultry houses, nurseries and greenhouses, and a cottage which is used as a dormitory for the girls—as unlike the usual dormitory as the school is unlike the usual school. A bee colony has its own little white village near by.

Then the director, a trained woman landscape gardener, tells you all that this school of horticulture has accomplished since its founding five years ago.

"Women are naturally fitted for gardening, and for some years past there have been many calls for women to be teachers in school gardens, planners of private gardens, or landscape gardeners in institutions for women. Very few women, however, have had the practical training to enable them to fill such positions, and five years ago there was little opportunity for them to obtain such training. At that time a number of women in and about Philadelphia, who realized the need for thorough teaching in all the branches of horticulture, not merely in theory but in practice, organized this school. The course is planned to equip women with the practical knowledge that will enable them to manage private and commercial gardens, greenhouses or orchards. Some women wish to learn how to care for their own well-loved gardens; some young girls study with the idea of establishing their own greenhouses and raising flowers as a means of livelihood; still others want to go in for fruit farming, and even for poultry raising or bee culture.

"In other countries, schools of gardening for women are holding a recognized place in the educational world. In England, Belgium, Germany, Italy, Denmark and Russia, such institutions have long passed the experimental stage; graduates from their schools are managing large estates or holding responsible positions as directors of public or private gardens, as managers of commercial greenhouses, or as consulting horticulturists and lecturers. In this country there is a growing demand for supervisors of home and school gardens, for work on plantations and model farms, and for landscape gardeners. Such positions command large salaries, and the comparatively few women available for them are almost certain to attain success."

Already one of the graduates has issued a modest brown circular stating that she is equipped to supply ideas for gardens and personally to plant them; to expend limited sums of money to the best advantage for beauty and service; to take entire charge of gardens and orchards for the season and personally to supervise gardens during the owners' absence; to spray ornamental trees and shrubs, and prune them; and to care for indoor plants and window boxes.

"She is making a success of it, too. She has all she can do," comments one of the women directors, who is standing by.

A smiling strawberry student, who is passing, readily tells all that going to a garden school means.

"Each one of us has her own small plot of ground for which she is responsible. We have to plant it, care for it, and be marked on it. We all have special care of certain parts of the greenhouse, too, and each has a part of the nursery, the orchard and the vineyard. Even the work that is too heavy for us we have to study about, so that we can direct helpers when the time comes. We have to understand every detail of it all. We have to keep a daily record of our work. This is the way to learn how long it takes for different seeds to germinate, and thus we watch the development of the fruits and flowers and vegetables. You see, the attendance at the school is limited to a small number; so each one of us receives a great deal of individual attention and help.

"We learn simple carpentry, as part of the course, so that we shall be able to make window boxes, flats, cold frames and other articles that we need. We could even make a greenhouse, if we had to. We are taught the care and raising of poultry, we learn bee culture, and we have a course in landscape gardening. There is a course in canning and preserving, too, so that our fruits and berries can be disposed of in that way, if we should not be able to sell them outright, when we have the gardens of our own that we are all looking forward to."

In the cozy cottage that serves as a dormitory, there is a large classroom, where the lectures in botany, entomology, soils and horticultural chemistry are given. There is a staff of instructors, all from well-known universities, and a master farmer to impart the practical everyday process of managing fields and orchards. Special lectures are given frequently by experts in various subjects. In the cottage is a big, homelike living-room, where the girls read and sing and dance in the evening. Each girl takes care of her own bedroom.

The costumes worn by these garden students are durable, appropriate and most becoming. The school colors are the woodsy ones of brown and green, and the working garb is carried out in these colors. Brown khaki or corduroy skirts, eight inches from the ground, with two large pockets, are worn under soft green smocks smocked in brown. The sweaters are brown or green, and there is a soft hat for winter and a large shade hat for summer. Heavy working gloves and boots are provided, and a large apron with pockets goes with the outfit.

All in all, you feel sure, as you go back down the "old Lime-Kiln road," that the motto of the school will be fulfilled in the life of each of its students: "So enter that daily thou mayst become more thoughtful and more learned. So depart that daily thou mayst become more useful to thyself and to all mankind."

* * * * *

(Boston Transcript)



One morning lately, if you had stood on Kneeland street in sight of the entrance of the State Free Employment Office, you would have seen a long line of boys—a hundred of them—waiting for the doors to open. They were of all sorts of racial extraction and of ages ranging through most of the teens. Some you would have called ragamuffins, street urchins, but some were too well washed, combed and laundered for such a designation. Some were eagerly waiting, some anxiously, some indifferently. Some wore sober faces; some were standing soldierly stiff; but others were bubbling over with the spirits of their age, gossiping, shouting, indulging in colt-play. When they came out, some hustled away to prospective employers and others loitered in the street. Disappointment was written all over some of them, from face to feet; on others the inscription was, "I don't care."

Two hundred boys applied for "jobs" at the employment office that day. Half the number were looking for summer positions. Others were of the vast army of boys who quit school for keeps at the eighth or ninth grade or thereabouts. Several weeks before school closed the office had more than enough boy "jobs" to go around. With the coming of vacation time the ratio was reversed. The boy applicants were a hundred or two hundred daily. For the two hundred on the day mentioned there were fifty places.

Says Mr. Deady, who has charge of the department for male minors: "Ranging from fourteen to nineteen years of age, of all nationalities and beliefs, fresh from the influence of questionable home environment, boisterous and brimful of animation, without ideas and thoughtless to a marked degree—this is the picture of the ordinary boy who is in search of employment. He is without a care and his only thought, if he has one, is to obtain as high a wage as possible. It is safe to say that of the thousands of boys who apply annually at the employment office, two-thirds are between sixteen and eighteen years of age. Before going further, we can safely say that twenty per cent of the youngest lads have left school only a few weeks before applying for work. Approximately sixty per cent have not completed a course in the elementary grammar schools."

The boy of foreign parentage seems to be more in earnest, more ambitious, than the American boy (not to quibble over the definition of the adjective "American"). Walter L. Sears, superintendent of the office in Kneeland street, tells this story:

An American youngster came in.

"Gotta job?" he asked.

"Yes, here is one"—referring to the card records—"in a printing office; four dollars a week."

"'Taint enough money. Got anything else?"

"Here's a place in a grocery store—six dollars a week."

"What time d'ye have to get to work in the morning?"

"Seven o'clock."

"Got anything else?"

"Here's something—errand boy—six a week, mornings at eight."

"Saturday afternoons off?"

"Nothing is said about it."

"W-ell-l, maybe I'll drop around and look at it."

American independence!

An Italian boy came in, looking for work. He was told of the printing office job.

"All right. I'll take it."

For what it is worth, it may be set down that a large proportion of the boy applicants carefully scrutinize the dollar sign when they talk wages. Moreover, they are not unacquainted with that phrase concocted by those higher up, "the high cost of living." The compulsion of the thing, or the appeal of the phrase—which?

The youthful unemployed, those who seek employment, would cast a good-sized vote in favor of "shoffer." A youngster comes to Mr. Sears. He wants to be a "shoffer."

"Why do you want to be a chauffeur?"

"I don't know."

"Haven't you any reasons at all?"

"No, sir."

"Isn't it because you have many times seen the man at the wheel rounding a corner in an automobile at a 2.40 clip and sailing down the boulevard at sixty miles an hour?"

The boy's eyes light up with the picture.

"Isn't that it?"

And the boy's eyes light up with discovery.

"Yes, I guess so."

"Well, have you ever seen the chauffeur at night, after being out all day with the car? Overalls on, sleeves rolled up, face streaming with perspiration? Repairing the mechanism, polishing the brass? Tired to death?"

"No, sir."

The boy applicants seldom have any clear idea of the ultimate prospects in any line of work they may have in mind—as to the salary limit for the most expert, or the opportunities for promotion and the securing of an independent position. Many of them have no preconceived idea even of what they want to do, to say nothing of what they ought to do.

Here is an instance.

"I want a position," says a boy.

"What kind of a position?"

"I don't know."

"Haven't you ever thought about it?"


"Haven't you ever talked it over at home or at school?"


"Would you like to be a machinist?"

"I don't know."

"Would you like to be a plumber?"

"I don't know."

Similar questions, with similar answers, continue. Finally:

"Would you like to be a doctor?"

"I don't know—is that a good position?"

Sometimes a boy is accompanied to the office by his father.

"My son is a natural-born electrician," the father boasts.

"What has he done to show that?"

"Why, he's wired the whole house from top to bottom."

It is found by further questions that the lad has installed a push-bell button at the front door and another at the back door. He had bought dry batteries, wire and buttons at a hardware store in a box containing full directions. It is nevertheless hard to convince the father that the boy may not be a natural-born electrician, after all.

In frequent cases the father has not considered the limitations and opportunities in the occupation which he chooses for his son.

Mr. Deady has this to say on the subject of the father's relation to the boy's "job": "The average boy while seeking employment in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred is unaccompanied by either parent. Such a condition is deplorable. It not only shows a lack of interest in the boy's welfare on the part of the parents, but also places the youthful applicant in an unfair position. Oftentimes, owing to inexperience, a boy accepts a position without inquiring into the details and nature of the same. His main thought is the amount of the wage to be received. Consequently there is but one obvious result. The hours are excessive, the work is beyond the boy's strength or is hazardous, and finally the lad withdraws without notice. It is this general apathy on the part of the parents of a boy, combined with over-zealousness on the part of an ordinary employer to secure boy labor for a mere trifle, that accounts for the instability of juvenile labor."

The coming of vacation invariably brings a great influx of boys to the State employment office, some looking for summer work, others for permanent employment. Most of them show lack of intelligent constructive thought on the matter in hand. Few of them have had any counsel, or any valuable counsel from their parents or others. To Mr. Sears and his assistants—and they have become very proficient at it—is left the task of vocational guidance, within such limitations as those of time and equipment. What can be done to get the boy and his sponsors to thinking intelligently about the question of an occupation for the boy, with proper regard to their mutual fitness?

Superintendent Sears has some suggestions to offer. In his opinion the subject of occupational choice should be debated thoroughly in the public schools. He favors the introduction of some plan embodying this idea in the upper grades of the grammar school, under conditions that would give each boy an opportunity to talk, and that would encourage him to consult his parents and teachers. The debates might be held monthly, and preparation should be required. Experts or successful men in various occupations might be called in to address the pupils and furnish authoritative information. The questions debated should involve the advisability of learning a trade and the choice of a trade, and the same considerations with respect to the professions, the mercantile pursuits, and so on. The pupils should be allowed to vote on the merits of each question debated. By such a method, thinks Mr. Sears, the boys would gain the valuable training which debating gives, would devote considerable thought to the question of their future employment, would acquire much information, and would get their parents more interested in the matter than many of them are.

* * * * *

(New York Evening Post)



With the sudden plunge into a muggy heat, more suggestive of July than of the rare June weather of poets, there has begun the exodus of summer camp folk, those men and women who add to the slender salary of the teaching profession the additional income made by running camps for boys and girls during the long vacation. They stretch, these camps, in rapidly extending area from Canada through Maine and northern New England, into the Adirondacks and the Alleghenies, and then across toward the Northwest and the Rockies. It is quite safe to assert that there is not a private school of importance that does not take under its protection and support at least one such institution, while large numbers of teachers either own camps or assist in their management as instructors.

One group, unmistakably the advance guard of a girls' camp, assembled at the Grand Central Station on Wednesday. There were two alert, dignified women, evidently the co-principals; a younger woman, who, at least so the tired suburban shopper decided, was probably the athletic instructor; two neat colored women, and a small girl of twelve, on tiptoe with excitement, talking volubly about the fun she would have when they got to the lake and when all the other girls arrived. Her excited chatter also revealed the fact that father and mother had just sailed for Europe, and, while she thought of them with regret, there was only pleasure in prospect as she started northward. There was much baggage to be attended to, and consultation over express and freight bills, with interesting references to tents, canoes, and tennis nets.

Success is an excellent testimonial, and there is no longer any need to point out the advantages of such camps for boys and girls. They fill a real place for the delicate, the lazy, or the backward, who must needs do extra work to keep up with their school grade, for those who otherwise would be condemned to hotel life, or for the children whose parents, because of circumstances, are compelled to spend the summer in cities. Even the most jealously anxious of mothers are among the converts to the movement. As one said the other day of her only son, "Yes, David will go to Mr. D.'s camp again this summer. It will be his third year. I thought the first time that I simply could not part with him. I pictured him drowned or ill from poor food or severe colds. Indeed, there wasn't a single terror I didn't imagine. But he enjoyed it so, and came home so well and happy, that I've never worried since."

From the child's point of view, summer camps are a blessing, and, as such, they have come to stay. But there are those who doubt their benefits, even the financial ones, for the teachers, who mortgage their vacations to conduct them. Unfortunately, as every one knows, almost every teacher has to mortgage her spare time in one way or another in order to make a more than bare living. Call the roll of those whom you may know, and you will be surprised—no, scarcely surprised; merely interested—to find that nine-tenths of them do some additional work. It may be extra tutoring, hack writing, translating, the editing of school texts or the writing of text-books, taking agencies for this, that, or the other commodity, conducting travel parties, lecturing at educational institutes, running women's clubs, or organizing nature classes. Some outside vocation is necessary if the teacher is to enjoy the advantages her training makes almost imperative, or the comforts her tired, nervous organism demands. So, as one philosopher was heard to remark, it is perhaps best to run a summer camp, since in the doing of it there is at least the advantage of being in the open and of leading a wholesomely sane existence.

Two good friends and fellow-teachers who have conducted a camp in northern Maine for the last five years have been extremely frank in setting forth their experiences for the benefit of those who are standing on the brink of a similar venture. And their story is worth while, because from every point of view they have been successful. Any pessimistic touches in their narrative cannot be laid at the door of failure. Indeed, in their first year they cleared expenses, and that is rare; and their clientele has steadily increased until now they have a camp of forty or more girls, at the very topmost of camp prices. Again, as there were two of them and they are both versatile, they have needed little assistance; the mother of one has been house mother and general camp counsellor. With all this as optimistic preamble, let us hear their story.

Perhaps their first doubt arises with regard to the wear and tear of camp life upon those most directly responsible for its conduct. "For years we even refused to consider it," said the senior partner, "although urged by friends and would-be patrons, because we realized the unwisdom of working the year around and living continuously with school girls—but the inevitable happened. Our income did not keep pace with our expenses, and it was start a camp or do something less agreeable. Just at the psychological moment one of our insistent friends found the right spot, we concluded negotiations, and, behold, we are camp proprietors, not altogether sure, in our most uncompromisingly frank moments, that we have done the best thing."

That a girls' camp is a far more difficult proposition than one for boys is evident on the face of it. Mother may shed tears over parting with Johnny, but, after all, he's a boy, and sooner or later must depend upon himself. But Sister Sue is another matter. Can she trust any one else to watch over her in the matter of flannels and dry stockings? Do these well-meaning but spinster teachers know the symptoms of tonsilitis, the first signs of a bilious attack, or the peculiarities of a spoiled girl's diet? And will not Sue lose, possibly, some of the gentle manners and dainty ways inculcated at home, by close contact with divers other ways and manners? She is inclined to be skeptical, is mother. "And so," acknowledged the senior partner, "the first summer we were deluged by visits long and short from anxious ladies who could not believe on hearsay evidence that we knew how to care for their delicate daughters. They not only came, but they stayed, and as the nearest hotel was distant many devious miles of mountain road, we were forced to put them up; finally the maids had to sleep in the old barn, and we were camping on cots in the hall of the farmhouse which is our headquarters. Naturally we had to be polite, for we were under the necessity of making a good impression that first year, but it was most distracting, for while they stayed they were unconsciously but selfishly demanding a little more than a fair share of time and attention for their daughters."

And, indeed, all this maternal anxiety is not entirely misplaced. Sue is a good deal harder to take care of than Johnny. She needs a few more comforts, although camp life aims at eliminating all but the essentials of simple living. Her clothes, even at a minimum, are more elaborate, which increases the difficulty of laundering, always a problem in camping. She is infinitely more dependent upon her elders for direction in the veriest A B C's of daily existence. "Even the matter of tying a hair-ribbon or cleaning a pair of white canvas shoes is a mountain to a good many of my girls," said the successful camp counsellor.

Homesickness is "a malady most incident to maids." Boys may suffer from it, but they suffer alone. If tears are shed they are shed in secret, lest the other fellows find it out. Except in the case of the very little chaps, the masters are not disturbed. But girls have no such reserves; and the teachers in charge of twenty-five strange girls, many in the throes of this really distressing ailment, are not to be envied. "Frankly speaking," went on the confession, "there isn't a moment of the day when we can dismiss them from our thoughts. Are they swimming in charge of the director of athletics, a most capable girl, one of us must be there, too, because, should anything happen, we, and not she, are directly responsible. When the lesson hour is on, we not only teach, but must see that each girl's work is adapted to her needs, as they come from a dozen different schools. There are disputes to settle, plans for outings and entertainments to be made, games to direct, letters to the home folks to be superintended, or half the girls would never write at all, to say nothing of the marketing and housekeeping, and our own business correspondence, that has to be tucked into the siesta hour after luncheon. Indeed, in the nine weeks of camp last summer I never once had an hour that I could call my very own."

"And that is only the day's anxiety," sighed her colleague reflectively. "My specialty is prowling about at night to see that everybody is properly covered. Not a girl among them would have sense enough to get up and close windows in case of rain, so I sleep with one ear pricked for the first patter on the roof. Occasionally there are two or three who walk in their sleep, and I'm on pins and needles lest harm come to them, so I make my rounds to see that they're safe. Oh, it is a peacefully placid existence, I assure you, having charge of forty darling daughters. Some of them have done nothing for themselves in their entire lives, and what a splendid place camp is for such girls. But while they're learning we must be looking out for their sins of omission, such, for instance, as throwing a soaking wet bathing suit upon a bed instead of hanging it upon the line."

These are some of the few worries that attach to the care of sensitive and delicately brought up girls that the boys' camp never knows. But if the financial return is adequate there will naturally be some compensation for all these pinpricks. Here again the Senior Partner is inclined to hem and haw. "Given a popular head of camp," says she, "who has been fortunate enough to secure a desirable site and a paying clientele, and she will certainly not lose money. Her summer will be paid for. However, that is not enough to reward her for the additional work and worry. Camp work does not confine itself to the nine weeks of residence. There are the hours and days spent in planning and purchasing equipment, the getting out of circulars, the correspondence entailed and the subsequent keeping in touch with patrons."

Her own venture has so far paid its own way, and after the first year has left a neat margin of profit. But this profit, because of expansion, has immediately been invested in new equipment. This year, for example, there has been erected a bungalow for general living purposes. A dozen new tents and four canoes were bought, and two dirt tennis courts made. Then each year there must be a general replenishing of dishes, table and bed linen, athletic goods, and furniture. The garden has been so enlarged that the semi-occasional man-of-all-work has been replaced by a permanent gardener.

Naturally, such extension does mean ultimate profit, and, given a few more years of continued prosperity, the summer will yield a goodly additional income. But the teacher who undertakes a camp with the idea that such money is easily made, is mistaken. One successful woman has cleared large sums, so large, indeed, that she has about decided to sever her direct connection with the private school where she has taught for years, and trust to her camp for a living. She has been so fortunate, it is but fair to explain, because her camp is upon a government reserve tract in Canada, and she has had to make no large investment in land; nor does she pay taxes. Desirable locations are harder to find nowadays and much more expensive to purchase. A fortunate pioneer in the movement bought seven acres, with five hundred feet of lake frontage, for three hundred dollars six years ago. That same land is worth ten times as much to-day.

And the kind of woman who should attempt the summer camp for girls as a means of additional income? First of all, the one who really loves outdoor life, who can find in woods and water compensation for the wear and tear of summering with schoolgirls. Again, she who can minimize the petty worries of existence to the vanishing point. And, last of all, she who has business acumen. For what does it profit a tired teacher if she fill her camp list and have no margin of profit for her weeks of hard labor?

* * * * *

(Saturday Evening Post)

Two half-tone reproductions of wash-drawings by a staff artist.



He stands there at the door of his car, dusky, grinning, immaculate—awaiting your pleasure. He steps forward as you near him and, with a quick, intuitive movement born of long experience and careful training, inquires:

"What space you got, guv'nor?"

"Lower five," you reply. "Are you full-up, George?"

"Jus' toler'bul, guv'nor."

He has your grips, is already slipping down the aisle toward section five. And, after he has stowed the big one under the facing bench and placed the smaller one by your side, he asks again:

"Shake out a pillow for you, guv'nor?"

That "guv'nor," though not a part of his official training, is a part of his unofficial—his subtlety, if you please. Another passenger might be the "kunnel"; still another, the "jedge." But there can be no other guv'nor save you on this car and trip. And George, of the Pullmans, is going to watch over you this night as a mother hen might watch over her solitary chick. The car is well filled and he is going to have a hard night of it; but he is going to take good care of you. He tells you so; and, before you are off the car, you are going to have good reason to believe it.

Before we consider the sable-skinned George of to-day, give a passing thought to the Pullman itself. The first George of the Pullmans—George M. Pullman—was a shrewd-headed carpenter who migrated from a western New York village out into Illinois more than half a century ago and gave birth to the idea of railroad luxury at half a cent a mile. There had been sleeping cars before Pullman built the Pioneer, as he called his maiden effort. There was a night car, equipped with rough bunks for the comfort of passengers, on the Cumberland Valley Railroad along about 1840.

Other early railroads had made similar experiments, but they were all makeshifts and crude. Pullman set out to build a sleeping car that would combine a degree of comfort with a degree of luxury. The Pioneer, viewed in the eyes of 1864, was really a luxurious car. It was as wide as the sleeping car of to-day and nearly as high; in fact, so high and so wide was it that there were no railroads on which it might run, and when Pullman pleaded with the old-time railroad officers to widen the clearances, so as to permit the Pioneer to run over their lines, they laughed at him.

"It is ridiculous, Mr. Pullman," they told him smilingly in refusal. "People are never going to pay their good money to ride in any such fancy contraption as that car of yours."

Then suddenly they ceased smiling. All America ceased smiling. Morse's telegraph was sobering an exultant land by telling how its great magistrate lay dead within the White House, at Washington. And men were demanding a funeral car, dignified and handsome enough to carry the body of Abraham Lincoln from Washington to Springfield. Suddenly somebody thought of the Pioneer, which rested, a virtual prisoner, in a railroad yard not far from Chicago.

The Pioneer was quickly released. There was no hesitation now about making clearances for her. Almost in the passing of a night, station platforms and other obstructions were being cut away, and the first of all the Pullman cars made a triumphant though melancholy journey to New York, to Washington, and back again to Illinois. Abraham Lincoln, in the hour of death—fifty years ago this blossoming spring of 1915—had given birth to the Pullman idea. The other day, while one of the brisk Federal commissions down at Washington was extending consideration to the Pullman porter and his wage, it called to the witness stand the executive head of the Pullman Company. And the man who answered the call was Robert T. Lincoln, the son of Abraham Lincoln.

When Pullman built the Pioneer he designated it A, little dreaming that eventually he might build enough cars to exhaust the letters of the alphabet. To-day the Pullman Company has more than six thousand cars in constant use. It operates the entire sleeping-car service and by far the larger part of the parlor-car service on all but half a dozen of the railroads of the United States and Canada, with a goodly sprinkling of routes south into Mexico. On an average night sixty thousand persons—a community equal in size to Johnstown, Pennsylvania, or South Bend, Indiana—sleep within its cars.

And one of the chief excuses for its existence is the flexibility of its service. A railroad in the South, with a large passenger traffic in the winter, or a railroad in the North, with conditions reversed and travel running at high tide throughout the hot summer months, could hardly afford to place the investment in sleeping and parlor cars to meet its high-tide needs, and have those cars grow rusty throughout the long, dull months. The Pullman Company, by moving its extra cars backward and forward over the face of the land in regiments and in battalions, keeps them all earning money. It meets unusual traffic demands with all the resources of its great fleet of traveling hotels.

Last summer, when the Knights Templars held their convention in Denver, it sent four hundred and fifty extra cars out to the capital of Colorado. And this year it is bending its resources toward finding sufficient cars to meet the demands for the long overland trek to the expositions on the Pacific Coast.

The transition from the Pioneer to the steel sleeping car of today was not accomplished in a single step. A man does not have to be so very old or so very much traveled to recall the day when the Pullman was called a palace ear and did its enterprising best to justify that title. It was almost an apotheosis of architectural bad taste. Disfigured by all manner of moldings, cornices, grilles and dinky plush curtains—head-bumping, dust-catching, useless—it was a decorative orgy, as well as one of the very foundations of the newspaper school of humor.

Suddenly the Pullman Company awoke to the absurdity of it all. More than ten years ago it came to the decision that architecture was all right in its way, but that it was not a fundamental part of car building. It separated the two. It began to throw out the grilles and the other knickknacks, even before it had committed itself definitely to the use of the steel car.

Recently it has done much more. It has banished all but the very simplest of the moldings, and all the hangings save those that are absolutely necessary to the operation of the car. It has studied and it has experimented until it has produced in the sleeping car of to-day what is probably the most efficient railroad vehicle in the world. Our foreign cousins scoff at it and call it immodest; but we may reserve our own opinion as to the relative modesty of some of their institutions.

* * * * *

This, however, is not the story of the Pullman car. It is the story of that ebony autocrat who presides so genially and yet so firmly over it. It is the story of George the porter—the six thousand Georges standing to-night to greet you and the other traveling folk at the doors of the waiting cars. And George is worthy of a passing thought. He was born in the day when the negro servant was the pride of America—when the black man stood at your elbow in the dining rooms of the greatest of our hotels; when a colored butler was the joy of the finest of the homes along Fifth Avenue or round Rittenhouse Square. Transplanted, he quickly became an American institution. And there is many a man who avers that never elsewhere has there been such a servant as a good negro servant.

Fashions change, and in the transplanting of other social ideas the black man has been shoved aside. It is only in the Pullman service that he retains his old-time pride and prestige. That company to-day might almost be fairly called his salvation, despite the vexing questions of the wages and tips of the sleeping-car porters that have recently come to the fore. Yet it is almost equally true that the black man has been the salvation of the sleeping-car service. Experiments have been made in using others. One or two of the Canadian roads, which operate their own sleeping cars, have placed white men as porters; down in the Southwest the inevitable Mexicano has been placed in the familiar blue uniform. None of them has been satisfactory; and, indeed, it is not every negro who is capable of taking charge of a sleeping car.

The Pullman Company passes by the West Indians—the type so familiar to every man who has ridden many times in the elevators of the apartment houses of upper New York. It prefers to recruit its porters from certain of the states of the Old South—Georgia and the Carolinas. It almost limits its choice to certain counties within those states. It shows a decided preference for the sons of its employees; in fact, it might almost be said that to-day there are black boys growing up down there in the cotton country who have come into the world with the hope and expectation of being made Pullman car porters. The company that operates those cars prefers to discriminate—and it does discriminate.

That is its first step toward service—the careful selection of the human factor. The next step lies in the proper training of that factor; and as soon as a young man enters the service of the Pullmans he goes to school—in some one of the large railroad centers that act as hubs for that system. Sometimes the school is held in one of the division offices, but more often it goes forward in the familiar aisle of a sleeping car, sidetracked for the purpose.

Its curriculum is unusual but it is valuable. One moment it considers the best methods to "swat the fly"—to drive him from the vehicle in which he is an unwelcome passenger; the next moment the class is being shown the proper handling of the linen closet, the proper methods of folding and putting away clean linen and blankets, the correct way of stacking in the laundry bags the dirty and discarded bedding. The porter is taught that a sheet once unfolded cannot be used again. Though it may be really spotless, yet technically it is dirty; and it must make a round trip to the laundry before it can reenter the service.

All these things are taught the sophomore porters by a wrinkled veteran of the service; and they are minutely prescribed in the voluminous rule book issued by the Pullman Company, which believes that the first foundation of service is discipline. So the school and the rule book do not hesitate at details. They teach the immature porter not merely the routine of making up and taking down beds, and the proper maintenance of the car, but they go into such finer things as the calling of a passenger, for instance. Noise is tabooed, and so even a soft knocking on the top of the berth is forbidden. The porter must gently shake the curtains or the bedding from without.

When the would-be porter is through in this schoolroom his education goes forward out on the line. Under the direction of one of the grizzled autocrats he first comes in contact with actual patrons—comes to know their personalities and their peculiarities. Also, he comes to know the full meaning of that overused and abused word—service. After all, here is the full measure of the job. He is a servant. He must realize that. And as a servant he must perfect himself. He must rise to the countless opportunities that will come to him each night he is on the run. He must do better—he must anticipate them.

Take such a man as Eugene Roundtree, who has been running a smoking car on one of the limited trains between New York and Boston for two decades—save for that brief transcendent hour when Charles S. Mellen saw himself destined to become transportation overlord of New England and appropriated Roundtree for a personal servant and porter of his private car. Roundtree is a negro of the very finest type. He is a man who commands respect and dignity—and receives it. And Roundtree, as porter of the Pullman smoker on the Merchants' Limited, has learned to anticipate.

He knows at least five hundred of the big bankers and business men of both New York and Boston—though he knows the Boston crowd best. He knows the men who belong to the Somerset and the Algonquin Clubs—the men who are Boston enough to pronounce Peabody "Pebbuddy." And they know him. Some of them have a habit of dropping in at the New Haven ticket offices and demanding: "Is Eugene running up on the Merchants' to-night?"

"It isn't just knowing them and being able to call them by their names," he will tell you if you can catch him in one of his rarely idle moments. "I've got to remember what they smoke and what they drink. When Mr. Blank tells me he wants a cigar it's my job to remember what he smokes and to put it before him. I don't ask him what he wants. I anticipate."

And by anticipating Roundtree approaches a sort of nth degree of service and receives one of the "fattest" of all the Pullman runs.

George Sylvester is another man of the Roundtree type—only his run trends to the west from New York instead of to the east, which means that he has a somewhat different type of patron with which to deal.

Sylvester is a porter on the Twentieth Century Limited; and, like Roundtree, he is a colored man of far more than ordinary force and character. He had opportunity to show both on a winter night, when his train was stopped and a drunken man—a man who was making life hideous for other passengers on Sylvester's car—was taken from the train. The fact that the man was a powerful politician, a man who raved the direst threats when arrested, made the porter's job the more difficult.

The Pullman Company, in this instance alone, had good cause to remember Sylvester's force and courage—and consummate tact—just as it has good cause in many such episodes to be thankful for the cool-headedness of its black man in a blue uniform who stands in immediate control of its property.

Sylvester prefers to forget that episode. He likes to think of the nice part of the Century's runs—the passengers who are quiet, and kind, and thoughtful, and remembering. They are a sort whom it is a pleasure for a porter to serve. They are the people who make an excess-fare train a "fat run." There are other fat runs, of course: the Overland, the Olympian, the Congressional—and of General Henry Forrest, of the Congressional, more in a moment—fat trains that follow the route of the Century.

It was on one of these, coming east from Cleveland on a snowy night in February last, that a resourceful porter had full use for his store of tact; for there is, in the community that has begun to stamp Sixth City on its shirts and its shoe tabs, a bank president who—to put the matter lightly—is a particular traveler. More than one black man, rising high in porter service, has had his vanity come to grief when this crotchety personage has come on his car.

And the man himself was one of those who are marked up and down the Pullman trails. An unwritten code was being transmitted between the black brethren of the sleeping cars as to his whims and peculiarities. It was well that every brother in service in the Cleveland district should know the code. When Mr. X entered his drawing-room—he never rides elsewhere in the car—shades were to be drawn, a pillow beaten and ready by the window, and matches on the window sill. X would never ask for these things; but God help the poor porter who forgot them!

So you yourself can imagine the emotions of Whittlesey Warren, porter of the car Thanatopsis, bound east on Number Six on the snowy February night when X came through the portals of that scarabic antique, the Union Depot at Cleveland, a redcap with his grips in the wake. Warren recognized his man. The code took good care as to that. He followed the banker down the aisle, tucked away the bags, pulled down the shades, fixed the pillow and placed the matches on the window sill.

The banker merely grunted approval, lighted a big black cigar and went into the smoker, while Warren gave some passing attention to the other patrons of his car. It was passing attention at the best; for after a time the little bell annunciator began to sing merrily and persistently at him—and invariably its commanding needle pointed to D.R. And on the drawing-room Whittlesey Warren danced a constant attention.

"Here, you nigger!" X shouted at the first response. "How many times have I got to tell all of you to put the head of my bed toward the engine?"

Whittlesey Warren looked at the bed. He knew the make-up of the train. The code had been met. The banker's pillows were toward the locomotive. But his job was not to argue and dispute. He merely said:

"Yas-suh. Scuse me!" And he remade the bed while X lit a stogy and went back to the smoker.

That was at Erie—Erie, and the snow was falling more briskly than at Cleveland. Slowing into Dunkirk, the banker returned and glanced through the car window. He could see by the snow against the street lamps that the train was apparently running in the opposite direction. His chubby finger went against the push button. Whittlesey Warren appeared at the door. The language that followed cannot be reproduced in THE SATURDAY EVENING POST. Suffice it to say that the porter remembered who he was and what he was, and merely remade the bed.

The banker bit off the end of another cigar and retired once again to the club car. When he returned, the train was backing into the Buffalo station. At that unfortunate moment he raised his car shade—and Porter Whittlesey Warren again reversed the bed, to the accompaniment of the most violent abuse that had ever been heaped on his defenseless head.

Yet not once did he complain—he remembered that a servant a servant always is. And in the morning X must have remembered; for a folded bill went into Warren's palm—a bill of a denomination large enough to buy that fancy vest which hung in a haberdasher's shop over on San Juan Hill.

If you have been asking yourself all this while just what a fat run is, here is your answer: Tips; a fine train filled with fine ladies and fine gentlemen, not all of them so cranky as X, of Cleveland—thank heaven for that!—though a good many of them have their peculiarities and are willing to pay generously for the privilege of indulging those peculiarities.

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