O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1919 | Page 5

genealogist finds in the Elizabethan Age and, more definitely,
in the life of Christopher Marlowe. The hardships of David, in the story
by Mr. Derieux, are those of a boy in a particular Southern
neighbourhood the author knows. Miss Louise Rice, who boasts a
strain of Romany blood, spends part of her year with the gypsies. Mr.
Terhune is familiar, from the life, with his prototypes of "On Strike."
"Turkey Red" relates a real experience, suited to fiction or to poetry--if
Wordsworth was right--for it is an instance of emotion remembered in
tranquility. 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 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 30). W. Adolphe
Roberts submitted a number of stories from _Ainslee's:_ "Young
Love," by Nancy Boyd; "The Token from the Arena," by June Willard;
"The Light," by Katherine Wilson. He also drew attention to
"Phantom," by Mildred Cram (_Green Book_, March). That the
Committee of Award, after a careful study of these and other
recommendations, failed to confirm individual high estimates is but
another illustration of the disagreement of doctors. To all those of the
Honorary Committee who gave encouragement and aid the Committee

of Award is most grateful.
There remains the pleasure of thanking, also, the authors and publishers
who have kindly granted permission for the reprinting of the stories
included in this volume. The Committee of Award would like them to
know that renewal of the O. Henry prize depends upon their generous
cooperation.
BLANCHE COLTON WILLIAMS.
NEW YORK CITY, February 29, 1920.

_O. HENRY MEMORIAL AWARD PRIZE STORIES 1919_

ENGLAND TO AMERICA
By MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE
From Atlantic Monthly
I.
"Lord, but English people are funny!"
This was the perplexed mental ejaculation that young Lieutenant
Skipworth Cary, of Virginia, found his thoughts constantly reiterating
during his stay in Devonshire. Had he been, he wondered, a confiding
fool, to accept so trustingly Chev Sherwood's suggestion that he spend
a part of his leave, at least, at Bishopsthorpe, where Chev's people lived?
But why should he have anticipated any difficulty here, in this very
corner of England which had bred his own ancestors, when he had
always hit it off so splendidly with his English comrades at the Front?
Here, however, though they were all awfully kind,--at least, he was sure
they meant to be kind,--something was always bringing him up short:
something that he could not lay hold of, but which made him feel like a
blind man groping in a strange place, or worse, like a bull in a
china-shop. He was prepared enough to find differences in the
American and English points of view. But this thing that baffled him
did not seem to have to do with that; it was something deeper,
something very definite, he was sure--and yet, what was it? The worst
of it was that he had