of emotion remembered in tranquillity. In these and all the others, the story’s the thing.
Some of them, perhaps, were produced because their creators were consciously concerned about the art of creation. “Blue Ice,” by Joseph Hergesheimer, proclaims itself a study in technique, a thing of careful workmanship. “Innocence,” by Rupert Hughes, with “Read It Again” and “The Story I Can’t Write” boldly announce his desire to get the most out of the material. “For They Know not What They Do,” an aspiration of spirit, is fashioned as firmly as the Woolworth Tower.
Just here it may be observed that the Committee noticed a tendency of the present day story which only the future can reveal as significant or insignificant. It is this: in spite of the American liking for the brief tale, as Poe termed it—the conte, as the French know it—in spite of an occasional call from magazines for stories of fewer than 5,000 words, yet the number of these narratives approaching perfection is considerably less than that of the longer story. Whether the long short-story gives greater entertainment to the greater number may be questioned. To state that it is farthest from the practice of O. Henry invites a logical and inevitable conclusion. He wrote two hundred stories averaging about fifteen pages each. Whether it may be greater literature is another matter; if it escapes tediousness it may impress by its weight. If the Committee had selected for publication all the longest stories in the list of thirty-two, this volume would contain the same number of words, but only half the titles.
The Honorary Committee expressed, some of them, to the Committee of Award certain preferences. William Marion Reedy wrote: “I read and printed one very good story called ‘Baby Fever.’ I think it is one of the best short stories of the year.” John Phillips, though stating that he had not followed short stories very closely, thought the best one he had read “The Theatrical Sensation of Springtown,” by Bess Streeter Aldrich (American, December). Mrs. Edwin Markham commended Charles Finger’s “Canassa” (Reedy’s Mirror, October
