The Best Short Stories of 1917 | Page 7

by
Arthur Machen, since republished in book form.
Elsewhere I have discussed at some length the more important volumes
of short stories published during the year. "A Munster Twilight," by
Daniel Corkery is alone sufficient to mark a notable literary year. And
"The Echo of Voices," by Richard Curle is hardly second to it. Yet the
year has seen the publication of at least three other books by English
authors who are new to the reading public. Thomas Burke, Caradoc
Evans, and Arthur Machen have added permanent contributions to
English literature.
In "A Handbook on Story Writing," Dr. Blanche Colton Williams has
written the first definitive textbook on the subject. Its many
predecessors have either been content to deal with narrow branches in
the same field, or have exploited quite frankly and shamelessly the
commercial possibilities of story writing as a cheap trade. Dr.
Williams's book will not be in all likelihood superseded for many years
to come, and the effects of her work are already to be seen in the short
stories of many established writers.
In the death of Edward Thomas, England has lost a rare artist who, in

his particular field, was only rivalled by Richard Jefferies.
During the past year the Seven Arts and the Masses have ceased
publication. The Craftsman, which ceased publication a year ago, has
been succeeded by the Touchstone, which is already beginning to print
many interesting stories; and to the list of magazines which publish
short stories must now be welcomed the Bookman.
As it has been my happiness in past years to associate this annual with
the names of Benjamin Rosenblatt and Richard Matthews Hallet,
whose stories, "Zelig" and "Making Port," seemed to me respectively
the best short stories of 1915 and 1916, so it is my pleasure and honor
this year to dedicate the best that I have found in the American
magazines as the fruit of my labors to Wilbur Daniel Steele, who has
contributed to American literature, preëminently in "Ching, Ching,
Chinaman," and almost as finely in "White Hands" and "The Woman
At Seven Brothers," three stories which take their place for finality, to
the best of my belief, in the great English line.
EDWARD J. O'BRIEN.
SOUTH YARMOUTH, MASSACHUSETTS, December 23, 1917.

THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1917
NOTE. The twenty stories which follow are arranged in the
alphabetical order of their authors' names. This arrangement does not
imply any precedence in merit of particular stories.

THE EXCURSION[2]
[Note 2: Copyright, 1917, by The Pictorial Review Company.
Copyright, 1918, by Edwina Stanton Babcock.]
BY EDWINA STANTON BABCOCK From The Pictorial Review

Mrs. Tuttle arrived breathless, bearing a large gilt parrot-cage. She
swept up the gangway of the Fall of Rome and was enthusiastically
received. There were, however, concealed titterings and suppressed
whispers. "My sakes! She's went and brought that bird."
"I won't believe it till I see it."
"There he sets in his gold coop."
Mrs. Turtle brought Romeo to the excursion with the same assurance
that a woman of another stamp brings her Pekingese dog to a restaurant
table. While the Fall of Rome sounded a warning whistle, and hawsers
were loosed she adjusted her veil and took cognizance of fellow
passengers.
In spite of wealth and "owning her own automobile," Mrs. Turtle's
fetish was democratic popularity. She greeted one after another.
"How do, Mis' Bridge, and Mister, too! Who's keeping store while
you're away?
"Carrie Turpin! You here? Where's Si? Couldn't come? Now that's too
bad!" After a long stare, "You're some fleshier, ain't you, Carrie?"
A large woman in a tan-colored linen duster came slowly down the
deck, a camp-stool in either hand. Her portly advance was intercepted
by Mrs. Tuttle.
"Mis' Tinneray! Same as ever!"
Mrs. Tinneray dropped the camp-stools and adjusted her smoked
glasses; she gave a start and the two ladies embraced.
Mrs. Tuttle said that "it beat all," and Mrs. Tinneray said "she never!"
Mrs. Tuttle, emerged from the embrace, re-adjusting her hat with
many-ringed fingers, inquiring, "How's the folks?"
Up lumbered Mr. Tinneray, a large man with a chuckle and pale eyes,

who was introduced by the well-known formula, "Mis' Tuttle, Mr.
Tinneray, Mr. Tinneray, Mis' Tuttle."
The Tinnerays said, "So you brought the bird along, hey?" Then,
without warning, all conversation ceased. The Fall of Rome, steaming
slowly away from the pier, whistled a sodden whistle, the flags flapped,
every one realized that the excursion had really begun.
This excursion was one of the frank displays of human hopes,
yearnings, and vanities, that sometimes take place on steamboats.
Feathers had a hectic brilliancy that proved secret, dumb longings.
Pendants known as "lavaleers" hung from necks otherwise innocent of
the costly fopperies of Versailles. Old ladies clad in princess dresses
with yachting caps worn rakishly on their grey hair,