———— HORSECHESTNUT ———— [Illustration] HORSECHESTNUT COMPILERS’ NOTE The subjoined paper, so happily cast in narrative form, could not have been omitted from this compilation without gravely lessening at once the charm and value of the work; its inclusion, however, has been arranged only after extraordinary efforts on the part, not only of the compilers, but also, they are happy to testify, on that of the talented author herself—a figure as impressive and delightful among antiquers as her name, among critics and patrons of the modern American novel, is authoritative and inspiring. Her charming little story, although read by her in person at the March session of the Academy, in 1923, seemed for a time to be impossible of republication here; her contract with her publisher, a person of highly developed commercial instincts, restrains her from publishing through any other channel, and in the face of united persuasion on the part of Professor Kilgallen and the author herself, this gentleman has stood firmly on the precise letter of his bargain. Fortunately, however, the advice of counsel was procured, with the result that the compilers are permitted to reproduce the paper, although denied the pleasure and privilege of accrediting it to the author by name. This prohibition would cause them a distress far more acute, nevertheless, were they not wholly confident that the identity of the author will be transparently evident to every antiquer and to all lovers of her colorful literary art. I The room was subtly instinct with—James Femms admitted to an inchoate, egocentric admonition—default. Tormented by an awareness of distress, alien, vicarious, yet poignantly perceptible, his consciousness opposed, almost with petulance, his endeavors to confine it to—in fulfilment of his trust and purpose—spleening. Loss; separation; sundering—the words formed themselves in characters feathery and funereal as the cross-stitch letter of a Garfield wall-motto; they contrived to make themselves, above the florid, valiant persuasions of the auctioneer, audible. There was, James Femms informed himself, even an overtone, as of an adscititious dolor, inexpressible by any clumsy symbolism of syllables; he seemed, indeed, to experience, at second-hand, those first lingual explorations, incredulous and baffled, of the wistful void where but the ache and memory of the tooth remain.