Finally, we want our stories told in plain, direct, straightforward style. We object to any peculiarity of phraseology which tends to divert the attention of the reader from the substance of the story to the manner of the writer. But individuality of style, which is quite another thing, and honest slang, judiciously used, are welcome. I want to conclude with a word on some of the delusions, as they seem to me, about what is called “the art of the short story,” or of “short story writing.” I am almost tempted to say that there is no such art, but I have no desire to dogmatize because, in dealing in generalities, it is always necessary to add qualifications. I should say that story-telling is instinctive; that every human being has the story-telling sense. There’s nothing particularly original in that idea, but it seems to me that its significance has been curiously neglected with the result that so-called instruction in the forms of an alleged art has taken the place of the cultivation of an inherent impulse. The faculty of observation is the one which, first of all, makes any story possible. In O. Henry it was so highly developed that, at a glance, he saw a significance in things that simply did not exist for most people, even for trained writers. To this he added facility of expression and a sense of humor, which is fundamentally, a sense of proportion; and he paid little attention to forms. I speak of him because he illustrates so distinctly the points I have in mind and also because I was intimately acquainted with him and with his methods. Of course “we can’t all be O. Henrys”--he was born with the story-telling sense fully developed--but we can attain a certain degree of approximation to his achievements by diligent cultivation of the three essentials that he had without cultivation, namely: observation, expression, proportion. And this is a lesson that must be self-taught--nobody can teach it, for the simple reason that one person cannot do another’s hard work. A. L. SESSIONS. _People’s Popular Monthly._ 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. THE PEOPLE’S POPULAR MONTHLY When we buy a short story there are three very different things which we desire that story to do: First: It must tell a story compellingly--so compellingly that when one is through reading, there is a very definite emotional response which stays with the reader. If one is conscious of the means technically employed to place the story before the reader, that story has failed as such. If, however, the narrative takes you out of yourself and gives you a definite feeling of sympathy with that of the people in the story--it is in this point successful. Second: Having gripped the attention and taken a hold upon the feeling of the reader, it must, in order to qualify for a place in our pages, fill a very real need in the lives of our particular type of readers.