The Best Short Stories of 1921 | Page 4

in the yearbook index by a single asterisk prefixed
to the title.
The third group, which is composed of stories of still greater distinction,
includes such narratives as may lay convincing claim to a second
reading, because each of them has survived both tests, the test of
substance and the test of form. Stories included in this group are
indicated in the yearbook index by two asterisks prefixed to the title.
Finally, I have recorded the names of a small group of stories which
possess, I believe, the even finer distinction of uniting genuine
substance and artistic form in a closely woven pattern with such
sincerity that these stories may fairly claim a position in American
literature. If all of these stories by American authors were republished,
they would not occupy more space than five novels of average length.
My selection of them does not imply the critical belief that they are
great stories. A year which produced one great story would be an
exceptional one. It is simply to be taken as meaning that I have found
the equivalent of five volumes worthy of republication among all the
stories published during the period under consideration. These stories
are indicated in the yearbook index by three asterisks prefixed to the
title, and are listed in the special "Roll of Honor." In compiling these
lists I have permitted no personal preference or prejudice to

consciously influence my judgment. To the titles of certain stories,
however, in the "Rolls of Honor," an asterisk is prefixed, and this
asterisk, I must confess, reveals in some measure a personal preference,
for which, perhaps, I may be indulged. It is from this final short list that
the stories reprinted in this volume have been selected.
It has been a point of honor with me not to republish a story by an
English author or by any foreign author. I have also made it a rule not
to include more than one story by an individual author in the volume.
The general and particular results of my study will be found explained
and carefully detailed in the supplementary part of the volume.
In past years it has been my pleasure and honor to dedicate the best that
I have found in the American magazines as the fruit of my labors to the
American artist who, in my opinion, has made the finest imaginative
contribution to the short story during the period considered. I take
pleasure in recalling the names of Benjamin Rosenblatt, Richard
Matthews Hallet, Wilbur Daniel Steele, Arthur Johnson, Anzia
Yezierska, and Sherwood Anderson. In my opinion Sherwood
Anderson has made this year once more the most permanent
contribution to the American short story, but as last year's book is
associated with his name, I am happy to dedicate this year's offering to
a new and distinguished English artist, A.E. Coppard, to whom the
future offers in my opinion a rich harvest of achievement.
EDWARD J. O'BRIEN.
Forest Hill, Oxon, England, November 23, 1921

THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1921

Note.--The order in which the stories in this volume are printed is not
intended as an indication of their comparative excellence; the
arrangement is alphabetical by authors.

BROTHERS[2]
By SHERWOOD ANDERSON
(From The Bookman)
I am at my house in the country and it is late October. It rains. Back of
my house is a forest and in front there is a road and beyond that open
fields. The country is one of low hills, flattening suddenly into plains.
Some twenty miles away, across the flat country, lies the huge city,
Chicago.
On this rainy day the leaves of the trees that line the road before my
window are falling like rain, the yellow, red, and golden leaves fall
straight down heavily. The rain beats them brutally down. They are
denied a last golden flash across the sky. In October leaves should be
carried away, out over the plains, in a wind. They should go dancing
away.
Yesterday morning I arose at daybreak and went for a walk. There was
a heavy fog and I lost myself in it. I went down into the plains and
returned to the hills and everywhere the fog was as a wall before me.
Out of it trees sprang suddenly, grotesquely, as in a city street late at
night people come suddenly out of the darkness into the circle of light
under a street lamp. Above there was the light of day forcing itself
slowly into the fog. The fog moved slowly. The tops of trees moved
slowly. Under the trees the fog was dense, purple. It was like smoke
lying in the streets of a factory town.
An old man came up to me in the fog. I know him well. The people
here call him insane. "He