erous
requests, a list of American magazines publishing short stories, with
their editorial addresses, has been compiled.

Wilbur Daniel Steele and Katharine Fullerton Gerould are still at the
head of their craft. But during the past year the ten published stories
by Maxwell Struthers Burt and Charles Caldwell Dobie seem to promise a
future in our literature of equal importance to the later work of these
writers. Sherwood Anderson and Waldo Frank emerge as writers with a
great deal of importance to say, although they have not yet fully
mastered the art of saying it. The three new short story writers who
show most promise are Gertrude Nafe and Thomas Beer, whose first stories
appeared in the Century Magazine during 1917, and Elizabeth Stead Taber,
whose story, "The Scar," when it appeared in the Seven Arts, attracted
much favorable comment. Edwina Stanton Babcock and Lee Foster Hartman
have both published memorable stories, and "The Interval," which was
Vincent O'Sullivan's sole contribution to an American periodical during
1917, compels us to wonder why an artist, for whom men of such widely
different temperaments as Lionel Johnson, Remy de Gourmont, and Edward
Garnett had high critical esteem, finds the American public so
indifferent to his art.

Addison Lewis has published during the past year a series of stories in
Reedy's Mirror which have more of O. Henry's magic than the thousand
writers who have endeavored to imitate him to the everlasting injury of
American literature. Frederick Stuart Greene, in "The Bunker Mouse" and
"Molly McGuire, Fourteen," shows marked literary development, and
reinforces my belief that in him we have an important new story-teller.
I suppose the best war story of the year is "The Flying Teuton," by
Alice Brown, soon to be reprinted in book form.

I do not know whether it is an effect of the war or not, but during
1917, even more than during 1916, American magazines have been almost
absolutely devoid of humor. Save for Irvin S. Cobb, on whom the mantle
of Mark Twain has surely fallen, and for Seumas O'Brien, whom Mr. Dooley
must envy, I have found American fiction to be sufficiently solemn and
imperturbable.

I need not emphasize again the fine art of Fannie Hurst. Two years ago
Mr. Howells stated more truly than I can the significance of her work.
Comparing her with two other contemporaries, he wrote: "Miss Fannie
Hurst shows the same artistic quality, the same instinct for reality,
t