T

THE first shock is to find that he is alive at all. The second is to find how very much alive he is. Edward Stratemeyer is 66 years of age. Wearing a shiny black coat and benign spectacles, like a deacon, he dictates his stories to a stenographer in a severe, barren office-room on the 18th floor of a New York skyscraper. The walls are lined with a complete collection of first editions of the Rover Boys Series, the Putnam Hall Series, the Dave Porter Series, the Flag of Freedom Series, the Boy Hunter Series, the Frontier Series, the Old Glory Series, the Soldier of Fortune Series, the Colonial Series, the Mexican War Series, the Lakeport Series, the American Boy's Life of McKinley, and of Roosevelt, and innumerable other single volumes, and even the last two Horatio Alger books— the leading juvenile fiction of over 25 years.

And about this vast Valhalla of our red-blooded boyhood heroes, Edward Stratemeyer wanders now with a complacent smile. He, and he alone, is the proud author of it all. For he is, in fact, Edward Stratemeyer and Arthur M. Winfield and Capt. Ralph Bonehill, and in at least two instances, Horatio Alger himself. He has written over 150 books for young Americans, "each with a definite geographical and historical background," and of course moral to the very core. He has probably influenced youth more than any writer in America today, and in 30 years he has amassed a sales distribution of between 15 and 20 millions of copies. And he has no intention of quitting yet.

Born in Elizabeth, New Jersey, he was educated in public schools and by

private tutors. He was married in 1891 and had two daughters. Aside from this, there is little to tell of his life. He is not a physically active man, and has not had time to travel much.

He commutes from Newark each morning, with a brief-case full of proof, contracts, and manuscript. He produced the 30th volume of the Rover Boys Series last spring, ostensibly the last of that formidable series, but he admits that "if sufficiently pressed by letters from his young readers" he will probably allow himself to do another.

Not one person in ten is aware that he is still alive. But who has forgotten the blood-chilling feats of his three heroes? Each new Rover book was once a personal adventure to us. "Quick, Sam!" "Where are you, Tom?" "Here I am, Dick!" and, having thus identified themselves again for their readers, they would be off once more on a runaway locomotive or a South Sea whaler, trapped in a lumber camp in Wyoming or exploring a diamond mine in Brazil. They never changed, and so they never disappointed us.

They faced unprecedented dangers. As the fun-loving Tom expressed it, on the historic occasion when an avalanche was rolling down on them from above, their cabin was in flames, Dan Baxter and his cronies were taking pot-shots at them from across the canyon, Dora Stanhope was clinging to the edge of the cliff, and the battleship Oregon was still ten miles away, "Well, we're in a pretty pickle, and no mistake!" But always, to our immense surprise, they would emerge unscathed, restore the missing fortune, and be rewarded by three rousing cheers from the assembled stu

dents; while the discomfited bullies, outwitted again, began plotting at once their future conspiracies, to be related in the next volume of the Rover Boys Series for Young Americans.

Not that it has been entirely easy for Mr. Stratemeyer to maintain his phenomenal series steadily for 30 years. From time to time the progress of science has presented embarrassing situations. In 1899 Putnam Hall was entirely illuminated by gas; since then Mr. Stratemeyer has been obliged to tear out all these fixtures and wire the entire academy with electricity. Bicycles and the faithful buckboard were gradually replaced by motorcycles and automobiles, and lately he has been compelled to invest in several airplanes and a submarine for his up-to-date heroes. Only modern slang has outdistanced him; he has abandoned altogether the too exacting effort to keep up with it, and his progress in the vernacular frankly stops at about 1910 with "By jinks!" and "Stow it!" and an occasional "Nit!"

Moreover, there were other difficulties. For 13 years Dick and Tom and Sam had been studying intermittently at Putnam Hall; and 13 years is a long time to graduate, even in a military academy. Mr. Stratemeyer was faced with the unpleasant alternative of culminating his series at once, or making dumb-bells out of his heroes. College offered a temporary solution, but no amount of invention could prolong their shining career on Brill diamond and grid beyond an additional six years. Fortunately, Brill athletics were not at that time operating under the four-year rule. But evidently a crisis lay ahead for the Rover Boys. Already a new difficulty had arisen to confront the harassed author.

For inevitably, in the course of years, that admirable and tender passion which distinguished the early relations between Dick and Dora-when whole worlds could be conveyed by the ardent pressure of a fingertip, and the droop of an eyelash would cause the eldest Rover to blush to the roots of his fair wavy

hair-was ripening into something deeper and fuller. Such an idyllic and utterly pure relationship (for Dick, be it said to his credit, was always careful never to rescue Dora without having a chaperone conveniently handy) was all very well to begin with; but in the course of some twenty-odd years this platonic existence, for Dora at least, began to prove a trifle flat. Mr. Stratemeyer's worst fears were realized. In the last chapter of "The Rover Boys in Business" Dick and Dora determinedly announced their engagement; and in the following volume, "On Tour," Tom and Sam followed suit. Mr. Stratemeyer found them "three connecting houses on Riverside Drive, overlooking the Hudson River"; and there they prepared to settle down to a sedate married life. With their Brill diplomas and their marriage certificates in their pockets, with their bullies all pummelled and their enemies dutifully turning over new leaves, the series seemed prematurely doomed with Volume Twenty.

But again the loyal Rover Boys went to the rescue. At this critical moment, to Mr. Stratemeyer's surprise and delight, Dick and Dora were blessed with a son and daughter, Jack and Martha; Sam promptly followed suit with a son and daughter; while the fun-loving Tom (prankster to the last) presented the delighted author with a lively pair of twins named Randy and Andy. In an incredibly short time these bouncing youngsters were old enough to go to boarding-school; and the New Rover Boys Series, bigger and better than ever, was begun.

Mr. Stratemeyer once disclosed the origin of his pen-name, Arthur M. Winfield. "I wanted an assumed name, and asked my mother to suggest one. She thought a moment, and then suggested Winfield. 'For then,' she said, 'you may win in that field. I thought that good, and asked about a front name. 'Well,' she said, 'if you are going to be an author why not make it Arthur?' Then I inserted M. saying M stood for thousands, and I hoped to sell thousands.

T

THE first indication I had that we were approaching the Pygmy village was a shrill whistle and the answering tatoo of a drum. The Pygmy who was guiding me pointed to the limb of a tree close by and there, looking like an ants' nest, was the little dwarf who had blown the whistle to warn the villagers of our approach.

My arrival seemed to cause no excitement. The sultan, whose fuzzy head and humped shoulders suggested an ape, was sitting on an ebony stool before a fire, drinking palm wine from a huge black pot. Although he saw me standing on the trail, he did nothing to indicate that he was aware of it. Quite evidently, however, he was prepared to give me a warm reception if my visit was not to his liking, for the whole village stood in the background with weapons in their hands. I presented the sultan with his first cigarette, and he filled a broken gourd with wine and passed it to me.

One could hardly call the hutsmade by drawing a few saplings together and covering them with phrynium leaves-homes, for they are only used to sleep in or give shelter when it rains. The palaver ground, or cleared space, is where they eat their food and hold their revels.

I had not been in the village long before I realized that I was the observed rather than the observer. My long straight white hair, which I brushed frequently to impress them, was often the subject of warm debates. Their efforts to make an exhaustive inquiry in regard to the color of my body left me no privacy. When I bathed, in spite of the vigilance of my boys, both men

and women crawled through the bush and poked their woolly heads under the canvas of my tent.

Life went on in the Pygmy village during my stay very much as it might in any home where an uninvited stranger came to stay. When they felt like it, the women and girls went into the bush to search for edible roots, bulbs and insects for the evening meal. When the men felt energetic they would add variety to the menu by bringing in a few monkeys, birds, a buck or a few squirrels. A delectable Pygmy stew is composed of such ingredients as bush rats, lizards, grubs, snails, winged ants, monkeys, edible roots, leaves and long, black, hairy caterpillars.

Stews, however, are only a sort of hors d'oeuvres with the Pygmies. Meat is their pièce de résistance, their entrée, and their dessert. When a big animal, like an elephant or a buck, is killed, the housekeeper repairs with the rest of the villagers to the place where the animal has been killed, and there the little people remain till not a vestige of it is left. They dance and consume quantities of palm wine at these feasts. The meat is eaten raw, half cooked, and in all stages of decay, with no apparent ill effects, unless it be the abnormal distension of their stomachs. It was no unusual thing to see my little hosts sitting round a dead animal with their teeth buried in a hunk of meat while they cut off huge mouthfuls with a spear or knife. When a piece slipped from their hands, it was wiped off on the owner's head or bare leg.

When making an excursion to a neighboring tribe, the Pygmies usually don a piece of bark cloth. But at home the

only covering a woman has is a few flowers or a bunch of leaves. Their only ornaments are charms made of the chopped eyelashes of elephants and the great goliath beetles. The men wear little wooden whistles, and carry weapons anointed with chicken blood by the witch doctor, who guarantees that they will protect the owner from illness and harm.

It was a great surprise to me to find that at birth a Pygmy baby is the size of any normal child. Then for a few years they grow tall and thin. At a certain age they broaden out and develop tremendously heavy shoulders and torsos for their size. The average height of the Pygmies I met was about four feet, though there was great diversity in individuals. In color they ranged from brownish-yellow to coalblack. Pygmy women seem very dull and stupid as compared with the men, who are very merry till their quick tempers are aroused. Their wild, unchecked life has developed in them a quickness of movement and sense of sight and hearing that can be rivaled only by animals.

The most exciting experience of the three months which I spent with them was tracking an elephant with my little hosts. Had I known before we started that the quarry was to be an elephant, I am sure I would have remained in camp. When I did discover what we were following and tried to bribe one of the Pygmies to lead me back to camp, it was too late. The hunt was on, and I had to remain with them, even if it lasted for days. Actually, before we found the elephant in the evening, I had been tortured almost beyond endurance by the difficulty of following them. It was an amazing sight to see them coming together, from time to time, for a consultation in pantomime without making a single sound. They humped their shoulders, frowned, pointed with chin and lips, raised their eyebrows and thrust their heads forward and back to express approval or disapproval, exactly as I have seen monkeys do.

We came upon the elephant we were tracking quite suddenly, and happily for us he was dead, with poisoned spear heads and a sharpened bamboo stake upon which he had fallen in the pit, still in his body. Throwing down their weapons, the Pygmies flung themselves upon the elephant, and with moans pressed their faces against his great rough hide. They fell upon one another's necks and danced round and round the still warm body, yelling and screeching. When this frightful spasm was over they carefully collected the eyelashes, bits of the trunk and the hairs of the tail.

Night fell; never did a lone woman spend a more trying vigil. I had not tasted food since daylight, but the sight of the Pygmies at their horrible feast chased away all hunger. As the night wore on, I tried to avoid the multitudes of ants and other crawly things which swarmed over the ground, attracted by the fire and the fresh meat.

When the Pygmies had gorged to the limit of their capacity they crawled inside the body of the elephant and went to sleep.

By the following midday our camp was filled with the little people. While men and women were busy building shelters, the little children ran about with meat in their hands. The orgy which followed lasted five days. The entire community, including the children, painted patterns on their bodies and decorated themselves. They drank quantities of palm wine and danced shocking dances as only primitive peoples can on such occasions. The hunt was rehearsed by the clever little actors a dozen times. Their ego and flashes of jealousy over their prowess awaken memories which never fail to make me laugh.

How long the Pygmies can avoid captivity, which will be their death warrant, it is difficult to say. I, for one, hope that the great forest which has been their home through the unknown ages will long continue a safe refuge for them.

O

NE hears much talk today about women's careers. It is good talk-let it go on, because you can't go very far into that subject, if you are honest, without bumping into the fact that scarcely 1,500,000 out of the 10,000,000 who are working are interested in the slightest degree in completely independent careers. Το the remainder business is a temporary stop-over. They want marriage; are glad to give up their jobs; in fact, work only because a job enlarges their male acquaintanceship and provides money to dress themselves more attractively.

On the other hand, there is plenty of evidence that American women do not want to confine themselves to narrowed home duties, nor to lead a life of parasitic spending.

Facing these facts, is it not clear that if a woman chooses wifehood she must, sooner or later, if she has energy and zest in life, choose to do something more than light housekeeping, child-bearing, and being an agreeable companion? Is it not equally obvious that, unless she has authentic special gifts of her own—

mere yearnings, but disciplined ability-her most natural move should be to make herself a partner in what is, after all, their joint economic enterprise, namely, her husband's work?

If the American man is one-sided and his character suffers defects on the cultural and humanistic sides, in which women are by natural genius more skilled, a generous share of blame must be placed on the American wife. She has not made herself enough of a partner in his deepest interests to provide correctives.

American men are so bred to the

doctrine that business must not be brought home, so influenced by the male tradition and vanity of displaying their success through their wives, that the road is not easy even for the woman who wants to be closer to her husband's life of business. It is perfectly true that the American man's enormous concentration on business is partly a reflex of his desire to support in idleness his wife and family in a manner comporting with his or her social or economic ambitions. He has asked little but that she be a credit to and an advertisement of his financial prowess. But this is far from the whole story, and any woman who comfortably falls back upon this alibi is deluding herself.

Charles Schwab has said that it isn't money, but "putting your idea across,' that animates the modern business man. This touches the very heart of my plea, for I insist that it is spiritual divorce for a wife to permit her husband to labor with the devotion which the American man often applies to "putting his idea across" without being in the thick of it with him. The American man of even semi-intelligent class is invariably marked with an idea to put across; it is a national trait, from the plumber on your corner who has a little invention he dreams about to the executive who visualizes a great "merger." To claim that a woman can be of little aid to a man in his business is to belie much of history and considerable of woman's own claims to capacity. I would like to see more women get very close to man's business, actually work side by side with him, if the work is fitting, but certainly the least she can do is to provide that backing, that interest, that faith, which