B

ACK in a mountain region not a thousand miles from New York City is the most secluded valley to be imagined. Without verbally lifting their wooded green tops, the hills on both sides cannot be called mountains, but they are broken in contour and very beautiful. There is but a limited population. Birds, woodchucks, chipmunks, trout, chub, and suckers are plenty, while in the nonfishing and non-boarding season the number of humans within a few miles of the little church cannot be greater than some twenty-five "souls," to use the word of statistical records, though why "souls" is difficult to understand; bodies would seem a better fit for some I know. But twenty-five is not a large number for so considerable an area as our portion of the secluded valley, possibly something like threequarters of a soul for each square mile; a sufficient paucity in souls, so that their qualities jut out very clearly, far more clearly than such qualities show themselves in a big city.

Eve Blackman, who does some of the "boarder wash," as she calls it, as a soul cannot be confused with other souls. As Eve said of herself when she told me the news about the sheriff's son Ferdie, "Don't ye be thinkin' there's a galoot, man or woman, in this town nor in th' world that's a bit like me." This in her deep, masculine voice, fit for ordering a regiment into action or for calling to order a Bolshevist meeting in Madison Square Garden. The conventional Eve is a slim, pale-faced woman; our Eve is tall, full-faced, bulging of breast, and about as modest as a heifer.

OH, MY SON!

BY LADD PLUMLEY

"No, there ain't nobody who's like me! Most likely ye says, 'Fer that, O Lord, be truly thankful!' An' th' wash. Two dozen ez one fifty. Thanks. And you ought ter be thankful. Dirty! Some of them pieces! Ez ef ye'd crawled round in th' mud in yer underclothing. Seems ez ef trout fishin' be drefful nasty work. An' I'll jes' take them things an' lay 'em up on yer bed. Needn't be scared I'll monkey with yer duds. I'm honest, I be, an' I tells th' world so. An' ain't it jes' fearful 'bout Sheriff Hadley's son Ferdie? When I think of it, I'm drefful thankful my two be gals, though they ain't 'zactly prizes in th' way of gals. But ef I had 'em over ag'in, an' th' angel of life consulted me, which he sure ought ter do with wimmen, I'd say, 'Angel, let 'em be gals.' Ye kin manage young skirts a heap better than ye can short pants. Fer one thing, ye kin tag 'em or hev 'em tag ye. Boys be generally two mile and a half from where ye thinks they be. An' ez fer sinful doin's, sittin' right in when ye thinks they're fifty mile away from Satan. man can't bring up boys, an' Ferdie be th' sheriff's only failure."

An' a

I had heard a rumor about the sheriff's son, but only a rumor of a kind. So after Eve had carried up my clothes and returned, I said: "Abe Linwood hinted in his careful way that Sheriff Hadley's Ferdie had done something wrong." I added: "I didn't get the facts. Abe is the most cautious man with his tongue I ever knew."

"He be," agreed Eve. "When th' Day of Judgment comes, the feller on the big white throne won't git enough

out of Abe ter fix him ez a sheep or a goat."

"And Abe only said that he'd heard that Ferdie Hadley was accused of doing something wrong out at the Eddyville post-office."

"He's al'ays been devil wild," said Eve. "Spoiled clean through. His ma died when he was jes' outen his cradle; th' sheriff's been pa an' ma. Wild an' handsome. Though I says, handsome is ez handsome does. An' Abie put her mild; he al'ays softens things. 'Somethin' wrong'! Ferdie's been pustmaster at th' Eddyville pust office fer three year, sin' he married Jeanie Gleason. Got a heap more in Jeanie than he deserved. His pa got him made pustmaster. Th' sheriff's got a big pull. An' boast 'bout Ferdie! Ef ye didn't know better, ye'd think there never was sich a son. He's been jes' luny 'bout that handsome scalawag."

"But what's Ferdie done now?" I asked. The now was natural, for notwithstanding the sheriff's high opinion of his only child, summer after summer I've heard "things" about Ferdie. Back to when he was in his early teens, when he set fire to the church sheds, and, although everybody knew he did it, his father never acknowledged it. And since he married I heard that he had mistreated his young wife, so that she returned to her home. But his father patched that up, as he always managed to patch up his son's misdoings.

"What hasn't he done?" asked Eve. "But you know."

"But now?" I reminded her again. "Ever sin' he's been pustmaster he's been takin' money from th' mails,"

said Eve. "That's what th' Eddyville 'Inquirer' says. It's out yesterday. An' slick! Never could cotch him, till lately. Seems a farmer what lives over beyont Eddyville sends a tendollar bill ter a Chicago mail-order house. Th' bill ez stolen, an' th' farmer complains ter Washington. There's been plenty of complaints. An. inspector is sent on, an' he gits several ter send money, an' he marks th' money. He's a detective man. An' he hides hisself in th' Masons' rooms over th' pust office. An' he bores a hole in th' floor an' in th' ceilin', right over th' part of th' store which is th' pust office. An' he sees Ferdie openin' letters an' pastin' 'em up. And he sees him cabbage some of them bills."

"Great heavens!" I exclaimed. "It will just about kill Sheriff Hadley!" "Jes' 'bout," agreed Eve. "That's th' trouble with a spoiled son."

"And what have they done with Ferdie?" I asked.

"Th' detective goes down from th' Masons' rooms, an' he's got a key he's had made. It's late in the evening and th' pust office be locked up. Th' detective opens th' door an' sneaks in, but Ferdie hears him. He's got a gun; he's al'ays carried a gun, I guess, sin' he was a kid. He shoots at th' detective. Gits him right through th' arm. But th' detective must hev had sand, an' he jumps on Ferdie. There's an awful fight. But th' detective gits th' handcuffs on Ferdie. He's in th' county jail, which his pa is boss of. Lots of proof now, the paper says, he's done a heap of stealin'."

"Horrible, horrible for the sheriff!" I exclaimed.

"Jes' so. An' I says, ez I said before, giv' me gals-ef I has ter hev anything! Thank th' Lord, all that's way behinst me now."

The auto stage, with the daily mail, comes into the valley about five o'clock, and while Will Carleton, or Will's wife, is sorting out the mail there is a general valley gathering on the porch of the store, which extends along the north side of the building, or on the lawn under the trees. Here cows are bartered, hay deals consummated, fishing stories told by the boarders, and, if you have eyes for such things, you can read the beginning and sometimes the middle chapter of an up-valley romance. A pretty blush, perhaps, on the cheeks of Ruth Glendenning, as awkward but goodlooking Basil Andrews is overheard to say, "If you'll only let me, Miss Ruth, after you get the mail, I'll carry your basket for you. Got somethin' I want to ask your brother."

It takes no expert in things of the heart to know, as Basil's face is seen close to Fth's brown head and pink cheeks, that he will soon have a much more important question for her than

the one he will walk a mile beside her to ask her brother. But on the evening when all the details concerning Ferdie's thievery and imprisonment Ferdie's thievery and imprisonment came out none of us had interest for such things as valley romances. A knot gathered below the porch under the big sugar maple. And I hovered on the rim of the circle, where I could hear everything that was said. It was the opinion of all, including myself, that his son's crime would about kill the sheriff.

"Proudest man 'bout on earth," said Lew Stanley. "Ain't a prouder man anywhere. An' twicet sheriff fer th' county! Second term now. And never a thing against him sin' he entered politics. An' successful! Ain't a man anywhere has had better luck and deserved better. We all know how it's a sayin' all 'bouts and 'way beyond th' State line, 'Ez honest ez Sheriff Hadley.' And we all know it's true. Ain't a dishonest drop of blood under his skin. Then think of it! His son--th' boy he's al'ays been so proud of, an' so blind about! His only son! His only child! And in th' county jail what his pa has charge of! Think of Sheriff Hadley lookin' at th' prison keys an' sayin' to himself, "There's th' key what locks my son inter prison.' Think of that! But Ferd was spoiled. There's been nothin' too good for him."

"Where is the sheriff?" I asked. "Is he over at the county town?"

"I hear Martha Parsons tell-she works for the sheriff ever sin' his wife died-he's to home," replied Lew. "And speak of th' devil-only it doesn't fit. Blast me! If he isn't coming for his mail! Look! Look!"

Those of us turned who didn't face the road and the direction of the sheriff's house, which was one of the two buildings between the store and the church. Stiffly, and with the slight limp caused by his rheumatism, the sheriff was indeed coming. And while the news concerning his son was fresh, that he should care to face his neighbors seemed strange, yet, knowing him as I did, I thought I understood. It was like Sheriff Hadley. It was pride of a high degree which would bring him to the post office on this afternoon. He wouldn't acknowledge to himself that his son could be guilty, or that there was any reason for feeling disgrace. But as

he came nearer we could see that in appearance his face was older, much older, than any of us had seen it before. I had never thought of him as an aged man; this day wrinkles that I had never noticed furrowed his cheeks and his forehead.

Nat Cummings, and indeed his two brothers, are what Eve calls "shy of furnishings in their front garret.' We never know what one of the Cummings boys may say. And as the

sheriff, his backbone straight as a hoe handle, comes across the grass between the road and the maple, Nat pushes forward and in his tongue-tied voice says: "Turrible thing, Sheriff! Turrible fer ye ter hev .ter shet up Ferdie in th' jail. Folks says I'm softy in th' head, but that's a sight better than shet up in jail. An' how be Ferdie, anyhow?"

"He's fine," replied the sheriff in his clear voice. "And, Nat, if a young man is innocent and is imprisoned unjustly, a few days or weeks in a county jail is nothing. And, men, I'm glad Nat here has opened up his mouth. Gives me a chance to say something to everybody. Of course I've had a much better opportunity to know the facts than others have had. And I, as well as my son, have our political enemies. Everybody must know that. And by this frame-up on Ferdie they thought they'd get me in a tender place. But--pooh! He's innocent. That will be proved in good time at the trial. Meantime, neighbors, if any one has dirt to throw on Ferd, let him step right forward. I'm on deck, and you all know me!"

That summer I spent July and August in the valley, and the trial of Ferdie came on in the latter part of August, the case being tried at the county seat. At the beginning of the trial I was present, and daily there after heard from others most of the details. Sheriff Hadley obtained one of the best lawyers of the region to defend his son, and every effort possible was made to prove a conspiracy against a young man who long before the trial began was regarded quite unanimously as guilty and already convicted by those who knew him. And I was told by those who were present that it was the general opinion in the court-room that Ferdie would be sentenced to a long term in a Federal prison. The Government had piled up evidence against him— evidence which could not be pushed aside. There was proof in abundance that time and time again he had robbed the mails. But it was told how hour after hour and for several days the sheriff sat beside his son's lawyer as the evidence against the prisoner was made stronger and stronger, the old man's head held high but his face seared with lines of despair.

The weeks since his son had been held prisoner in the jail of which his father was responsible had changed a vigorous old man to one who seemed many years more aged. Even his hair, which when I saw him in early July was but iron gray, was now pure white.

When the evidence against Ferdie was all in, only a person bereft of his reasoning powers could have believed the prisoner would not be declared guilty. On the following day the

T

|HE librarian had made a report

showing that the reading of "serious" books was on the increase and that the number of novels passed out during the year had fallen off. A good friend and excellent citizen congratulated me as a library trustee. "Splendid showing!" he cried; "that's what you library trustees should strive for, encourage the reading of serious books"-by which he meant non-fiction. And he looked astonished when I asked him, "Why?"

But I am asking that question still, and when I see literature classified as "serious books and fiction" my temperature always rises somewhat. And I see the classification made rather often. There are many librarians who seem to think that they have scored when they can show that the reading of "serious" books is on the increase in their towns and the reading of fiction on the decrease. I have read dozens of editorials in newspapers and magazines on the subject. Chautauqua lecturers who wish to prove to their audiences that the American reading public is becoming more thoughtful glibly cite figures about the falling off of novel reading. I have heard ministers treat the same subject from the pulpit, piously exultant that "serious" reading was beginning to be popular; and while listening I have called to mind novels that had more "serious" thought in them and for the writing of which more intellectual force had been required than for any dozen of the theological works in the good pastor's library.

Not infrequently the same thought is expressed in reverse form-some one who despairs of the present generation bewails the fact that "serious" books are no longer read as they were a quarter of a century ago, that all that people care for these days is "novels and such trash." We have fallen upon degenerate times, according to these critics, when boys and girls and men and women no longer have the intellectual stamina to attack a "serious" book, but must have novels to hold their attention.

There seems to be a widespread assumption that it is somehow laudable to read books of non-fiction and not so laudable to read novels. A great many people appear to have the notion that books of non-fiction will improve the mind, while novels are merely for enjoyment or to kill time.

It took Samuel Butler about twenty years to write his one novel, "The Way of All Flesh," while his "serious" books were turned out at the rate of

approximately one a year or one in two years; but, with the exception of perhaps "Erewhon," I would rather be the author of "The Way of All Flesh" than of all the other Butler books put together, and that in spite of the fact that the authorship of any one of several of them would be honor enough for any man. To dismiss "The Way of All Flesh" as not being "serious" reading and to apply that term to, say, an article in an encyclopædia that a comparatively low form of artistic intelligence can construct is ridiculous on the face of it. Only one man in a hundred million can write "The Way of All Flesh;" almost any one who can construct an English sentence and who has patience enough to plod through masses of statistics and facts can write a "serious" article, or even a "serious" book of some kind.

I do not at all mean to make light of books of non-fiction. There are of course many that bear the stamp of genius as surely as any novel by a great artist. All I am trying to point out is that the classification of books as "serious books and fiction" is ridiculous, reminiscent of the days when it was still considered immoral to read novels. We have become ashamed of that point of view as narrow-minded, and so a large number of people have shifted from the moral to the intellectual tack in their opposition to works of fiction. Reading should improve the mind, they hold, and hence people should be encouraged to read "serious" books and to let novels alone. As if a fact set down by a dull mind is more serious and has greater potentiality for mental improvement than a subtle observation drawn by a genius from the laboratory of real life and in which he distills in a sentence the wisdom of a generation. The character touches patiently put together by the novelist, by which he evokes a human life that can be put to the test of reality, are just as certainly facts as are the dates in a history or the statistics in a book on political economy. Not that all such touches are factsthere are plenty of novelists who are lying much of the time; but, similarly, there are plenty of writers of history who to a large extent deal in lies, and plenty of political economists who are not to be trusted. The novelist who is an honest man deals with inexorable facts, and no scientist could be more scrupulous than he in his respect for truthful statement.

Do so many people think that novels are not "serious" books because of the old-time identification of beauty with

evil? Does the old notion still stick to us that it is wrong to enjoy what we read? Most people would deny that their attitude toward "serious books and fiction" is based on any such idea, but there can be little doubt that beauty in art is to many welleducated and otherwise highly intelligent people still suspect. They may pay their good cash for roses or violets and feel that they are getting their money's worth in enjoyment out of the sheer beauty of the flowers. Or they may invest three dollars in a ticket to a concert that has nothing but beauty to justify the expenditure -beauty of tone, with no hint of a moral or intellectual quality to complicate it, the mere sensuous delight of "sweet sound." But when these same persons dig up two dollars for a novel, do they feel a little thrill because it is a novel at all—paying out good American hard cash for a mere story book? Do they feel just a little pleasantly depraved? And then do they yield to their Forsytean instinct to get their money's worth by making certain that the novel shall teach something, that it shall contain some infiltration of the substance of "serious" books to justify the expenditure? It would seem so, judging from the popularity of the novelists who, in Mencken's pregnant phrase, are obsessed by the "messianic delusion." If a novel is a strong indictment of the jazz spirit of the age, or a crusade against the Japanese peril in California, or a tremendous plea for eugenics, or a protest against the "spirit of lawlessness rampant in the land," or a plea for a return to the standards of our fathers and mothers, or a discussion of the race peril in the South-if any one of these or of a thousand other "causes" is shown to be treated in the book, the person who classifies books as "serious books and fiction" is more likely to buy it. In other words, the book is bought, not because it is a novel, but in spite of its being a novel. It is of course enjoyed as a novel, but the reader fools himself into the notion that he is improving his mind and that he is not merely reading for pleasure. To read for pleasure alone seems to him a waste of time. He does read for pleasure alone, but he does not admit it to himself. To ask whether a novel is a beautiful work of art seldom occurs to such a reader. That beauty in itself alone and for its own sake can be "serious" seems incongruous, and the analogy between enjoying a beautiful novel and a beau-tiful piece of piano or violin music does not seem to come to mind.

And the writers know very well the average person's distrust of beauty. The newest of the new schools of fic