XVHUMAN INTEREST STORIES

IOWA CITY, Ia., Nov. 25.—Sensational end runs by McGinnis and Curry near the end of the final quarter of play gave Iowa a 6-to-0 victory over Northwestern here this afternoon.Fort Atkinson High School defeated Madison High today in the final moments of play when a punt by Davy, fullback for Madison, was blocked and the ball recovered behind the line, giving Fort Atkinson the game, 2 to 0.

IOWA CITY, Ia., Nov. 25.—Sensational end runs by McGinnis and Curry near the end of the final quarter of play gave Iowa a 6-to-0 victory over Northwestern here this afternoon.

Fort Atkinson High School defeated Madison High today in the final moments of play when a punt by Davy, fullback for Madison, was blocked and the ball recovered behind the line, giving Fort Atkinson the game, 2 to 0.

INDIANAPOLIS, June 3.—Indianapolis started its at-home series today by defeating Kansas City, 3 to 2. Robertson was in fine form, striking out five men, permitting no one to walk and allowing only six hits. Score: (Tables.)

LAFAYETTE, Ind., June 1.—With the score 41 1-3 points, athletes representing the University of California won the twelfth annual meet of the Western Intercollegiate Athletic Conference Association today.Missouri was second with 29 1-3 points, Illinois third with 26, Chicago fourth with 15 and Wisconsin fifth with 12 1-2.

Missouri was second with 29 1-3 points, Illinois third with 26, Chicago fourth with 15 and Wisconsin fifth with 12 1-2.

2. The Usual Football Story.—The usual report of a game is a story of a half column or less which is longer than the brief summary story and not so detailed as the long football story. This is the story that a correspondent would usually send to his paper. It is like them both in the facts that it includes and differs only in length and in manner of treatment. This story is usually divided into two parts: the introduction and the running account. The introduction,or lead, is very much like the brief summary story; in fact, the entire brief summary story might be used as the introduction of a story of this type. The second part, the running account, corresponds to the running account of the game as it will be taken up with the long football story.

The introduction of the usual athletic story always contains certain facts. The first sentence, corresponding to the lead of a news story, always gives the names of the teams, the score, the time, the place, and the most striking feature of the game. After this the plays that resulted in scores are described and the star plays or players are enumerated. Usually a comparison of the two teams, as to weight, speed, and playing, follows, and the opinion of the captain or of some coach may be included. The rest of the introduction may be devoted to the picturesque side of the game: the crowd, the cheering, the celebration, etc. All of this must be told briefly in 200 words or less. The introduction is simply the brief summary story slightly expanded. Here is a fair example (the paragraph containing the scoring has been omitted):

Purdue triumphed over Indiana today, 12 to 5, recording the first victory for the Boilermakers over the Crimson in five years.(Omitted paragraph on scoring belongs here.)Purdue played a great game at all times. Oliphant, right half-back on the Boilermaker eleven, played remarkably well and was the hardest man for the locals to handle. Baugh, Miller, Winston and Capt. Tavey also starred for Coach Hoit's men.The Lafayette rooters, 1,500 strong, rushed on the field at the close of the struggle and carried their players off the field.

Purdue triumphed over Indiana today, 12 to 5, recording the first victory for the Boilermakers over the Crimson in five years.

(Omitted paragraph on scoring belongs here.)

Purdue played a great game at all times. Oliphant, right half-back on the Boilermaker eleven, played remarkably well and was the hardest man for the locals to handle. Baugh, Miller, Winston and Capt. Tavey also starred for Coach Hoit's men.

The Lafayette rooters, 1,500 strong, rushed on the field at the close of the struggle and carried their players off the field.

This is ordinarily followed by a brief running account of the game. It does not attempt to follow every play or to trace the course of the ball throughout the entire game, as a complete running account would do. It is usually made from the detailed running account by a process of elimination so that nothing but the "high spots" of the game is left. Such an account may run from 200 to 300 words in length. At the end tables are usually printed to give the line-up and the tabulated results of the game, but these may sometimes be omitted. The following is an extract from a condensed running account:

Again the cadets fought their way to the 10-yard line, runs by Rose and Patterson helping materially, but again Wayland held. The half ended after Wayland had kicked out of danger.In the second half St. John's outplayed Wayland throughout. The cadets by a succession of line plunges took the ball within striking distance several times, only to be held for downs or lose it on a fumble.Patterson electrified the crowd just before the third quarter ended by twice dodging through for 20-yard runs, placing the ball on the 15-yard line, where the cadets were held for downs.

Again the cadets fought their way to the 10-yard line, runs by Rose and Patterson helping materially, but again Wayland held. The half ended after Wayland had kicked out of danger.

In the second half St. John's outplayed Wayland throughout. The cadets by a succession of line plunges took the ball within striking distance several times, only to be held for downs or lose it on a fumble.

Patterson electrified the crowd just before the third quarter ended by twice dodging through for 20-yard runs, placing the ball on the 15-yard line, where the cadets were held for downs.

3. Long Football Story.—The third class of football story is the long detailed account. This is all that is left of the elaborate write-ups of the season's big games that were printed a few years ago and may be seen occasionally now. Ten or twenty years ago it was not unusual for an editor to run several pages, profusely illustrated, on a big eastern football game. The story was written up from every possible aspect—athletic, social, picturesque, etc. Every play was described in detail and sometimes a graphic diagram of the play was inserted. Each phase was handled by a different reporter and the whole thing was given a prominence in the paper out of all proportion with its real importance. Such a treatment of athletic news has now been very largely discarded.

The outgrowth of this elaborate treatment is the common one- or two-column account in the pink orgreen sporting pages. All of the various aspects of the big game are still to be seen, condensed to the smallest amount of space; and this brief account of the different aspects of the game is arranged as an introduction of a half column or less to head the running account of the game. This is the sort of story that is used to report the Yale-Harvard games and the more important middle western games. Its form has become very definitely settled and a correspondent can almost write his story of the big game by rule.

The first part of the story, called the introduction, consists of five or six general paragraphs. The material in this introduction is arranged, paragraph by paragraph, in the order of its importance. Following this is a running account of the game which may occupy a column or more, depending upon the importance of the contest. At the end is a table showing the line-up and a summary of the results.

The introduction of the big football or baseball story usually follows a very definite order. There are certain things which it must always contain: the result of the game; how the scoring was done; a characterization of the playing; the stars; the condition of the weather and the field; the crowd; etc. The reader always wishes to know these things about the game even if he does not care to read therunning account. It is equally evident that the scoring is of greater interest than the crowd, and that a comparison of the teams is more important than the cheering. And so a reporter may almost follow a stereotyped outline in writing his account. A possible outline would be something like this:

First Paragraph.—The names of the teams, the score, when and where the game was played, and perhaps some striking feature of the game. The weather may have been a significant factor, or the condition of the field; the crowd may have been exceptionally large or small, enthusiastic or uninterested; or the game may have decided a championship; some star may have been unusually prominent, or the scoring may have been done in an extraordinary way. Any of these factors, if of sufficient significance, would be played up in the first line just as the feature of an ordinary news story is played up. This paragraph corresponds to the lead of a news story and is so written. For example:

Playing ankle-deep in mud before a wildly enthusiastic gathering of football rooters, the gridiron warriors of Siwash College defeated the Tigers this afternoon on Siwash athletic field by the score of 5 to 0.

Second Paragraph.—Here the reporter usually tells how the scoring was done, what players made the scores, and how.

Third Paragraph.—The next thing of importance is a comparison of the two teams. The reader wants to know how they compared in weight, speed, and skill, and how each one rose to the fight. A general characterization of the playing or a criticism may not be out of place here.

Fourth Paragraph.—Now we are ready to tell about the individual players. Our readers want to know who the stars were and how they starred.

Fifth Paragraph.—This brings us down near the tag end of the introduction. Very often this paragraph is devoted to the opinions of the captains and coaches on the game. Their statements, if significant, may be boxed and run anywhere in the report.

Sixth Paragraph.—The picturesque and social side of the game comes in here. The size of the crowd, the enthusiasm, the celebration between halves or before or after the game, are usually told. This material may be of enough importance to occupy several paragraphs, but the reporter must always remember that he is writing a sporting account and not a picturesque description of a social event.

Seventh Paragraph.—This paragraph usually begins the running account of the game.

N-th Paragraph.—This space at the end of the entire report is given to the line-ups and tabulated results of the game.

This arrangement may of course be varied, and any of the foregoing factors of the game may be of sufficient importance to be placed earlier in the story. Never, however, should the various factors be mixed together heterogeneously and written in a confused mass. Each element must be taken up separately and occupy a paragraph by itself.

The running account of the game, which follows the introduction, requires little rhetorical skill. Each play is described in its proper place and order and should be so clear that a reader could make a diagram of the game from it. It must also be accurate in names and distances as well as in plays.

Probably every individual sporting correspondent has a different way of distinguishing the players and the plays and of writing his running account. It is not an easy matter to watch a game from the press stand far up in the bleachers and be able to tell who has the ball in each play and how many yards were gained or lost. Familiarity with the teams and the individual players makes the task easier but few reporters are so favored by circumstances. They must get the names from the cheering or from other reporters about them unless they have some method of their own.

There is one method that may be followed with some success. Before the game the reporter equipshimself with a table of the players showing them in their respective places as the two teams line up. It is usually impossible to tell who has the ball during any single play because the eye cannot follow the rapid passing, but it is always possible to tell who has the ball when it is downed. At the end of each play as the players line up, the reporter keeps his eye on the man who had the ball when it was downed and watches to see the position he takes in the new line-up. Then a glance at the table will tell him the man's name.

The running account is written as simply and briefly as possible. It follows each play, telling what play was made, who had the ball, and what the result was. It keeps a record of all the time taken out, the changes in players, the injuries, etc. A typical running account reads something like this:

Siwash advanced the ball two yards by a line plunge. Kelley carried the ball around left end for five yards to the Tigers' 50-yard line. The Tigers gained the ball on a fumble after a fake punt and lined up on their own 45-yard line. Time called. Score at end of first half, 0 to 0.

At the end of the running account are tables, usually set in smaller type, giving the line-up of thetwo teams and the tabulated results of the game. Some papers arrange the tables as follows:

Siwash:Tigers:Smith.............left end...............JonesBrown............left tackle....Green-WoodMcCarthy.......left guard.............ConnorHall (Capt.)....centre..............JacobsEtc.

Etc.

Other papers use this system which brings the opposing players together:

Siwash:Tigers:l. e..............Smith:Williams............r. e.l. t..............Brown:Jackson.............r. t.l. g........McCarthy:Cook (Capt.).....r. g.c........(Capt.) Hall:Jacobs.................c.Etc.

Etc.

The tabulated results at the end may be something like this:

Score by periods:Tigers............................0 2 1 3—6Siwash...........................0 0 0 0—0Touchdown—Brown. Goal from touchdown—O'Brien. Umpire—Enslley, Purdue. Referee—Holt, Lehigh. Field judge—Hackensaa, Chicago. Head linesman—Seymour, Delaware. Time of periods—fifteen minutes.

Score by periods:

Touchdown—Brown. Goal from touchdown—O'Brien. Umpire—Enslley, Purdue. Referee—Holt, Lehigh. Field judge—Hackensaa, Chicago. Head linesman—Seymour, Delaware. Time of periods—fifteen minutes.

Dispatches and stories on baseball games and track meets are usually accompanied by tables of results, similar to the above but arranged in a slightly different way. The form may be learned from any reputable sporting sheet.

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In our study of newspaper writing up to this point we have been entirely concerned with forms, rules, and formulas; every kind of story which we have studied has had a definite form which we have been charged to follow. We have been commanded always to put the gist of the story in the first sentence and to answer the reader's customary questions in the same breath. Now we have come to a class of newspaper stories in which we are given absolute freedom from conventional formulas. In fact, the human interest story is different from other newspaper stories largely because of its lack of forms and rules. It does not begin with the gist of its news—perhaps because it rarely has any real news—and it answers no customary questions in the first paragraph; its method is the natural order of narrative. The human interest story stands alone as the only literary attempt in the entire newspaper and, as such, a discussion of it can hardly tell morethan what it is, without any great attempt to tell how to write it. For our purposes, the distinguishing marks of the human interest story are its lack of real news value and of conventional form, and its appeal to human emotions.

The human interest story has grown out of a number of causes. Up to a very recent time newspapers have been content with printing news in its barest possible form—facts and nothing but facts. Their appeal has been only to the brain. But gradually editors have come to realize that, if many monthly magazines can exist on a diet of fiction that appeals only to the emotions, a newspaper may well make use of some of the material for true stories of emotion that comes to its office. They have realized that newsiness is not the only essential, that a story does not always have to possess true news value to be worth printing—it may be interesting because it appeals to the reader's sympathy or simply because it entertains him. Hence they began to print stories that had little value as news but, however trivial their subject, were so well written that they presented the humor and pathos of everyday life in a very entertaining way. The sensational newspapers took advantage of the opportunity but they shocked their readers in that they tried to appeal to the emotions through the kind offacts that they printed, rather than through the presentation of the facts. They did not see that the effectiveness of the emotional appeal depends upon the way in which a human interest story is written, rather than upon the story itself. Therefore they shocked their readers with extremely pathetic facts presented in the usual newspaper way, while the journals which stood for high literary excellence were able to handle trivial human interest material very effectively. Now all the newspapers of the land have learned the form and are printing effective human interest stories every day.

Another reason behind the growth of the human interest story is the curse of cynicism which newspaper work imprints upon so many of its followers. Every editor knows that no ordinary reporter can work a police court or hospital run day after day for any length of time without losing his sensibilities and becoming hardened to the sterner facts in human life. Misfortune and bitterness become so common to him that he no longer looks upon them as misfortune and misery, but just as news. Gradually his stories lose all sympathy and kindliness and he writes of suffering men as of so many wooden ten-pins. When he has reached this attitude of cynicism, his usefulness to his paper is almost gone, for a reporter must always see and write the news fromthe reader's sympathetic point of view. To keep their reporters' sensibilities awake editors have tried various expedients which have been more or less successful. One of these is the "up-lift run" for cub reporters—a round of philanthropic news sources to teach them the business of reporting before they become cynical. Another is the human interest story. If a reporter knows that his paper is always ready and glad to print human interest stories full of kindliness and human sympathy, he is ever on the watch for human interest subjects and consequently forces himself to see things in a sympathetic way. Thus he unconsciously wards off cynicism. The search for human interest material is a modification of the "sob squad" work of the sensational papers, on more delicate lines.

A human interest story is primarily an attempt to portray human feeling—to talk about men as men and not as names or things. It is an attempt to look upon life with sympathetic human eyes and to put living people into the reports of the day's news. If a man falls and breaks his neck, a bald recital of the facts deals with him only as an animal or an inanimate name. The fact is interesting as one item in the list of human misfortunes, but no more. And yet there are many people to whom this man's accident is more than an interesting incident—itis a very serious matter, perhaps a calamity. To his family he was everything in the world; more than a mere means of support, he was a living human being whom they loved. The bald report of his death does not consider them; it does not consider the man's own previous existence. But if we could get into the hearts of his wife and his mother and his children, we could feel something of the real significance of the accident. This is what the human interest story tries to do. It does not necessarily strive for any effect, pathetic or otherwise, but tries simply to treat the victim of the misfortune as a human being. The reporter endeavors to see what in the story made people cry and then tries to reproduce it. In the same way in another minor occurrence, he attempts to reproduce the side of an incident that made people laugh. Either incident may or may not have had news value in its baldest aspect, but the sympathetic treatment makes the resulting human interest story worth printing.

There are various kinds of human interest stories. The common ground in them all is usually their lack of any intrinsic news value. Many a successful human interest story has been printed although it contained no one of the elements of news values that were outlined earlier in this book. In fact, one of the uses of the human interest storyis to utilize newspaper by-products that have no news value in themselves. Hence the human interest story has no news feature to be played up and, since it does not contain any real news, it does not have to answer any customary questions. In form it is much like a short story of fiction, since it depends on style and the ordinary rules of narration. The absence of a lead, more than any other characteristic, distinguishes the human interest story from the news story, in form. We have worked hard to learn to play up the gist of the news in our news stories; now we come to a story which makes no attempt to play up its news—in fact, it may leave its most interesting content until the end and spring it as a surprise in the last line. To be sure, most human interest stories have and indicate a timeliness. The story may have no news value but it is always concerned with a recent event and usually tells at the outset when the event occurred. Almost without exception, the examples quoted in this chapter show their timeliness by telling in the first sentence when the event occurred. So much for the outward form of the human interest story.

1. Pathetic Story.—One of the many kinds of human interest stories is the pathetic story. Although it does not openly strive for pathos, it is pathetic in that it tells the story of a human misfortune, simplyand clearly, with all the details that made the incident sad. It is the story that attempts to put the reader into the very reality of the pain and sorrow of every human life. Sometimes it makes him cry, sometimes it makes him shudder, and sometimes it disgusts him, but it always shows him misfortune as it really is. It looks down behind the outward actions and words into the hearts of its actors and shows us motives and feelings rather than facts. But just as soon as any attempt at pathos becomes evident, the story loses its effectiveness. Its only means are clear perception and absolute truthfulness. Here is an example of a pathetic human interest story taken from a daily paper:

Rissa Sachs' child mind yesterday evolved a tragic answer to the question, "What shall be done with the children of divorced parents?"She took her life.Rissa was 14 years old. The divorce decree that robbed her of a home was less than a week old. It was granted to her mother, Mrs. Mellisa Sachs, by Judge Brentano last Saturday.When the divorce case was called for trial Rissa found that she would be compelled to testify. Reluctantly she corroborated her mother's story that her father, Benjamin Sachs, had struck Mrs. Sachs. It was largely due to this testimony that the decree was granted andthe custody of the child awarded to Mrs. Sachs.Then the troubles of the girl began in real earnest. She loved her mother dearly. But her father, who had been a companion to her as well as a parent, was equally dear to her.Both parents pleaded with her. Mrs. Sachs told Rissa she could not live without her. The father told the girl, in a conversation in a downtown hotel several days ago, that he would disown her unless she went to live with him.Every hour increased the perplexities of the situation for the child. She could not decide to give up either of her parents for fear of offending the other. So she sacrificed her own life and gave up both.Thursday evening, on returning from school to the Sachs home at 4529 Racine avenue, Rissa talked long and earnestly with her mother. Then she retired to her room, turned on the gas and, clothed, lay down upon her bed to await death and relief from troubles that have driven older heads to despair.At the inquest yesterday afternoon the grief-stricken mother told the story of her daughter's difficulties. She said that Rissa had declared she could not live if compelled to give up either of her parents, but added that she never had believed it.—Chicago Record-Herald.

Rissa Sachs' child mind yesterday evolved a tragic answer to the question, "What shall be done with the children of divorced parents?"

She took her life.

Rissa was 14 years old. The divorce decree that robbed her of a home was less than a week old. It was granted to her mother, Mrs. Mellisa Sachs, by Judge Brentano last Saturday.

When the divorce case was called for trial Rissa found that she would be compelled to testify. Reluctantly she corroborated her mother's story that her father, Benjamin Sachs, had struck Mrs. Sachs. It was largely due to this testimony that the decree was granted andthe custody of the child awarded to Mrs. Sachs.

Then the troubles of the girl began in real earnest. She loved her mother dearly. But her father, who had been a companion to her as well as a parent, was equally dear to her.

Both parents pleaded with her. Mrs. Sachs told Rissa she could not live without her. The father told the girl, in a conversation in a downtown hotel several days ago, that he would disown her unless she went to live with him.

Every hour increased the perplexities of the situation for the child. She could not decide to give up either of her parents for fear of offending the other. So she sacrificed her own life and gave up both.

Thursday evening, on returning from school to the Sachs home at 4529 Racine avenue, Rissa talked long and earnestly with her mother. Then she retired to her room, turned on the gas and, clothed, lay down upon her bed to await death and relief from troubles that have driven older heads to despair.

At the inquest yesterday afternoon the grief-stricken mother told the story of her daughter's difficulties. She said that Rissa had declared she could not live if compelled to give up either of her parents, but added that she never had believed it.—Chicago Record-Herald.

This is a pathetic human interest story in that it attempts to give the human significance of an incident which in itself would have little news value. Perhaps, in the matter of words, there is a slight straining for pathos. The form, it will be noted, is decidedly different from that of a news story on the same incident and, although the timeliness is given in the first line, there is no attempt to present the gist of the story in a formal lead. The source of the news is indicated in the last paragraph.

2. Humorous Story.—Another kind of human interest story is the humorous story. Its humor, like the pathos of a pathetic story, does not come from an attempt to be funny, but from the truthful presentation of a humorous incident, from the incongruity and ludicrousness of the incident itself. The writer tries to see what elements in a given incident made him laugh and then portrays them so clearly and truthfully that his readers cannot help laughing with him. The subject may be the most trivial thing in the world, not worth a line as a news story, and yet it may be told in such a way that it is worth a half-column write-up that will stand out as the gem of the whole edition. But after all the effectiveness depends upon the humor in the original subject and the truthfulness of the telling. The followinghumorous human interest story, which occupied a place on the front page, was built up out of an incident almost devoid of news value:

One of Johnnie Wilt's original ideas for entertaining his twin sister Charlotte is to build a big bonfire on the floor of their playroom.Johnnie, who is 4 years old, carried his plan into execution at the Wilt home, 2474 Lake View avenue, for the first time yesterday afternoon, with results that made a lasting impression upon his mind and the finishings of the interior of the house.The thing was suggested to him by a bonfire he saw a man build in the street. Charlotte hadn't seen the other fire. For some reason Charlotte's feminine mind refused to understand just what the fire was like.Consequently nothing remained for Johnnie to do but build a fire of his own. He piled all of the newspapers and playthings that could be found in the middle of the room and then applied a match.When the flames leaped to the ceiling, however, and a cloud of smoke filled the room, Johnnie began to doubt the wisdom of the move. While Charlotte ran to tell a maid he retreated to that haven of youthful fugitives—the space beneath a couch.The frightened maid summoned the fire engines and the fire was soon extinguished.But Mrs. Wilt discovered that Johnnie had disappeared. She telephoned to Charles T. Wilt, president of the trunk company that bears his name, and half hysterically told of the fire and the disappearance of Johnnie.Just then there was a scrambling sound from beneath the couch. Johnnie, looking as serious as a 4-year-old face can look, walked out.Mrs. Wilt seized him and, to an accompaniment of "I-won't-do-it-agains," crushed him to her bosom. Last reports from the Wilt home were that Johnnie had not yet been punished for his deed.—Chicago Record-Herald.

One of Johnnie Wilt's original ideas for entertaining his twin sister Charlotte is to build a big bonfire on the floor of their playroom.

Johnnie, who is 4 years old, carried his plan into execution at the Wilt home, 2474 Lake View avenue, for the first time yesterday afternoon, with results that made a lasting impression upon his mind and the finishings of the interior of the house.

The thing was suggested to him by a bonfire he saw a man build in the street. Charlotte hadn't seen the other fire. For some reason Charlotte's feminine mind refused to understand just what the fire was like.

Consequently nothing remained for Johnnie to do but build a fire of his own. He piled all of the newspapers and playthings that could be found in the middle of the room and then applied a match.

When the flames leaped to the ceiling, however, and a cloud of smoke filled the room, Johnnie began to doubt the wisdom of the move. While Charlotte ran to tell a maid he retreated to that haven of youthful fugitives—the space beneath a couch.

The frightened maid summoned the fire engines and the fire was soon extinguished.But Mrs. Wilt discovered that Johnnie had disappeared. She telephoned to Charles T. Wilt, president of the trunk company that bears his name, and half hysterically told of the fire and the disappearance of Johnnie.

Just then there was a scrambling sound from beneath the couch. Johnnie, looking as serious as a 4-year-old face can look, walked out.

Mrs. Wilt seized him and, to an accompaniment of "I-won't-do-it-agains," crushed him to her bosom. Last reports from the Wilt home were that Johnnie had not yet been punished for his deed.—Chicago Record-Herald.

The student will notice how all the facts of the story and the answers to the reader's questions are worked in here and there, how the content of a news story lead is scattered throughout the entire account.

3. Writing the Human Interest Story.—It is one thing to be able to distinguish material for a human interest story and another to be able to write the story. The whole effectiveness of the story, as we have seen, depends upon the way it is written. Many a poorly written, ungrammatical news story is printed simply because it contains facts that are of interest, regardless of the way in which they are presented. But never is a poorly written human interest story printed; simply because the facts in it havelittle interest themselves and the story's usefulness depends entirely upon the presentation of the facts. Hence, the human interest story, more than any other newspaper story, must be well written. And yet there are no rules to assist in the writing of such a story. In fact, its very nature depends upon originality and newness in form and treatment.

In the first place, we cannot fall back upon the conventional lead for a beginning, because a lead would be out of place. As we have said before, the human interest story does not begin with a lead for the reason that it has no striking news content to present in the lead. In many cases the whole story depends upon cleverly arranged suspense; if the content is given in a lead at the beginning suspense is of course impossible. The human interest story has no more need of a lead than does a short story—in some ways a human interest story is very much like a short story—and a short story that gives its climax in the first paragraph would hardly be written or read. But, just like the short story, a human interest story must begin in an attractive way. In the study of short story writing almost half of the study is devoted to learning how to begin the story, on the theory that the reader is some sort of a fugitive animal that must be lassoed by an attractive and interesting beginning. The theory is of course atrue one and it holds good in the case of human interest stories.

But no rules can be laid down to govern the beginning of human interest or short stories. Each story must begin in its own way—and each must begin in a different way. Some writers of short stories begin with dialogue, others with a clean-cut witticism, others with attractive explanation or description, others with a clever apology. The list is endless. This endless list is ready for the reporter who is trying to write human interest stories. But the choosing must be his own. He must select the beginning that seems best adapted to his story. As an inspiration to reporters who are trying to write human interest stories, a few beginnings clipped from daily papers are given here. Some are good and some are bad; the goodness or badness in each case depends upon individual taste. They can hardly be classified in more than a general way for originality is opposed to all classifications. They are merely suggestions.

A striking quotation or a bit of apt dialogue is commonly used to attract attention to a story. Here are some examples:

"Burglars," whispered Mrs. Vermilye to herself and she took another furtive peek out of the windows of her rooms on the sixth floor of the, etc.

"Speaking of peanuts," observed the man with the red whiskers, "they ain't the only thing in the world what is small." Etc.

"Ales, Wines, Liquors and Cigars!" You see this sign in the windows of every corner life-saving station. But what would you say if you saw it blazing over the entrance to the Colony Club, that rendezvous for the little and big sisters of the rich at Madison avenue and Thirtieth street? Etc.

WANTED—Bright educated lady as secretary to business man touring northwest states and Alaska: give reference, ability; age, description. Address E-640, care Bee.(7)-680 19x.

WANTED—Bright educated lady as secretary to business man touring northwest states and Alaska: give reference, ability; age, description. Address E-640, care Bee.

(7)-680 19x.

The above innocent appearing want ad inThe Bee, although alluring in its prospects to a young woman desiring a summer vacation, is the principal factor in the arrest of one M. W. Williams, etc.

A well-written first sentence in a human interest story often purports to tell the whole story, like a news story lead, and really tells only enough to make you want to read further. Here are a few examples:

His son's suspicions and a can opener convinced Andrew Sherrer last Saturday that he had been fleeced out of $500 by two clever manipulators of an ancient "get-something-for-nothing" swindle. So strong was the victim's confidence, etc.

There's a stubborn, unlaid ghost, a gnome, a goblin, a swart fairy at the least, who has settled down for the winter in a perfectly respectable cellar over in Brooklyn and whiles away the dismal hours of the night by chopping spectral cordwood with a phantom axe. Instead of going to board with Mrs. Pepper or another medium and being of some use in the world and having a pleasant, dim-lighted cabinet all its own, this unhappy ghost—or ghostess—is pestering Marciana Rose of 1496 Bergen street, who owns the cellar and the house over it—over both the ghost and the cellar. Etc.

The gowk who calls up 3732 Rector today will get a splinter in his finger if he scratches his head. Nothing doing with 3732 Rector. From early morn till dewy eve Mr. Fish, Mr. C. Horse, Mr. Bass, Mr. Skate and other inmates of the aquarium will be inaccessible by 'phone. Etc.

Under all the saffron banners and the sprawling dragons clawing at red suns over the roofs of Chinatown yesterday there was a tension of unrest and of speculation. It all had to do with the luncheon to be given to his Imperial Highness Prince Tsai Tao and the members of his staff at the Tuxedo Restaurant, 2 Doyers street, at noon to-morrow. Etc.

Man and wife, sitting side by side as pupils, was the interesting spectacle which provided the feature of the elementary night school opening last night. Etc.

Two young Germans of Berlin, neither quite 18 years of age, had a perfectly uncorking time aboard the White Star liner Majestic, in yesterday. They were favorites with the smoke-room stewards. They learned later that man is born unto trouble as the corks fly upward. Etc.

It was a long black overcoat with a velvet collar, big cuffed sleeves, and broad of shoulder, and looked decidedly warm and comfy. It stood in one of the large display windows of ——, and covered the deficiencies of a waxy dummy, who stared in a surprised sort of manner out into the street and appeared to be looking at nothing. Etc.

The bellboys put him up to it and then Marcus caused a lot of trouble. Marcus is a parrot who has been spending the winter in one of the large Broadway hotels. Etc.

Lame, old, but uncomplaining, remembering only his joy when a visitor came to him, and forgetting to be bitter because of the wrongs done him, meeting his rescuer with a wag of the tail meant to be joyful, a St. Bernard dog set an example, etc.

Some human interest stories begin, and effectively, too, with a direct personal appeal to the reader; thus:

If you've never seen anybody laugh with his hands, you should have eased yourself up against a railing at the Barnum and Bailey circus in Madison Square Garden yesterday afternoon and watched a band of 250 deaf mute youngsters, all bedecked in their bestest, signalling all over the Garden. Etc.

If you've ever sat in the enemy's camp when the Blue eleven lunged its last yard for a touchdown and had your hair ruffled by the roar that swept across the gridiron, you can guess how 1,500 Yale men yelled at the Waldorf last night for Bill Taft of '78. Etc.

A question is often used at the beginning of a human interest story:

A near-suicide or an accident. Which? Keeper Bean is somewhat puzzled to say which, but it is quite certain it will not be tried again. At least, Keeper Bean does not think it will.But, it was a sad, sad Sunday for the little white-faced monkey. For hours he lay as dead, etc.

A near-suicide or an accident. Which? Keeper Bean is somewhat puzzled to say which, but it is quite certain it will not be tried again. At least, Keeper Bean does not think it will.

But, it was a sad, sad Sunday for the little white-faced monkey. For hours he lay as dead, etc.

Many of these stories, animal or otherwise, begin with a name:

Long Tom, a Brahma rooster that had been the "bad inmate" of Jacob Meister's farm at West Meyersville, N. J., for three years, paid the penalty of his crimes Christmas morning when he was beheaded after his owner had condemned him to death. Bad in life, he was good in a potpie that day, etc.

The beginning of a human interest story is always the most important part; just like a news story, it must attract attention with its first line. In the same way, a good beginning is something more than half done. But here the similarity between the two ends. The news story, after the lead is written, may slump in technique so that the end is almost devoid of interest; the human interest story, on the other hand, must keep up its standard of excellence to the very last sentence and the last line must have as much snap as the first. It is never in danger of losing its last paragraph and so it may be more rounded and complete; it must follow a definite plan to the very end and then stop. In this it is like the short story, although it seldom has a plot. There are no rules to help us in writing any part of the human interest story. Each attempt has a different purpose and must be done in a different way. Yet the reporter must know before he begins just exactly how he is going to workout the whole story. He must plan it as carefully as a short story. A few minutes of careful thought before he begins to write are better than much reworking and alteration after the thing is done. This applies to all newspaper writing.

Much of the effectiveness of the human interest story depends upon the reporter's style. When we try to write human interest stories we are no longer interested in facts, as much as in words. Our readers are not following us to be informed, but to be entertained. And we can please them only by our style and the fineness of our perception. Although we have been told to write news stories in the common every-day words of conversation, we are not so limited in the human interest story. The elegance of our style depends very largely upon the size of our vocabulary, and elegance is not out of place in this kind of story. Although we have been told to use dialogue sparingly in news stories, our human interest story may be composed entirely of dialogue. In fact, we are hampered by no restrictions except the restrictions of English grammar and literary composition. Although we have sought simplicity of expression before, we may now strive for subtlety and for effect; we may write suggestively and even obscurely. We are dealing with the only part of the newspaper that makes any efforttoward literary excellence and only our originality and cleverness can guide us.

It is hardly necessary to repeat that one cannot write human interest stories in a cynical tone. They are a reaction against cynicism. They require one to feel keenly, as a human being, and to write sympathetically, as a human being. The reporter must see behind the facts and get the personal side of the matter—and feel it. Then he must tell the story just as he sees and feels it. Absolute truthfulness in the telling is as necessary as keen perception in the seeing. Humor must be sought through the simple, truthful presentation of an incongruous or humorous idea or situation; pathos must be sought by the truthful presentation of a pathetic picture. Just as soon as the reporter tries to be funny or to be pathetic he fails, for the reader is not looking to the reporter for fun or pathos—but to the story that the reporter is telling. That is, the story must be written objectively; the writer must forget himself in his attempt to impress the story upon his reader's mind. If the story itself is fundamentally humorous or sad and the story is clearly and truthfully told with all the details that make it humorous or sad, it cannot help being effective.

The best way to learn how to write human intereststories is to study human interest stories. Most papers print them nowadays—they can easily be distinguished by their lack of news value, and of a lead—and the finest example is just as likely to crop out in a little weekly as in a metropolitan daily.

4. The Animal Story.—The examples printed earlier in this chapter are specimens of the truest type of human interest story because they deal with human beings. They derive their joy or sorrow from things that happen to men and women. But all the sketches that are classed as human interest stories are not so carefully confined to the limits of the title. From the original human interest story the type has grown until it includes many other things—almost any piece of copy that has no intrinsic news value. Every possible subject that may suit itself to a pathetic or humorous treatment and thus be interesting, although it has no news value, is roughly classed as a human interest story.

One of these outgrowths of the true human interest sketch is the animal story. In the large cities, the "zoo" and the parks have become a fruitful source of "news." Anything interesting that may happen to the monkeys, or the elephant, the sparrows or the squirrels in the parks, horses or dogs in the street, is used as the excuse for a human interest story. Sometimes the purpose is pathos andsometimes it is humor, but, whatever it may be, if it is clever and interesting it gets its place in the paper, a place entirely out of proportion to its true news value. The results sometimes verge very close upon nature faking, but after all they are only the result of the "up-lift" idea of looking at all life in a more sympathetic way. Several of the beginnings quoted earlier in this chapter belong to animal stories and the following is a complete one:

Smithy Kain was only a mongrel, horsemen will say, but in his equine heart there coursed the blood of thoroughbreds.Smithy Kain was killed yesterday afternoon, shot through the head, while thousands of Wisconsin fair patrons looked on in shuddering sympathy.It was a tragedy of the track.Owners, trainers and drivers always are quick to declare that no greater courage is known than that possessed and demonstrated by race horses in hard-fought battles on the turf, and the truth of this was never more strikingly brought home than in the death of Smithy Kain yesterday.With a left hind foot snapped at the fetlock, Smithy Kain raced around the track, his valiant spirit and unfaltering gameness keeping him up until he had completed the course in unwavering pursuit of the flying horses in front. Every jump meant intense agony, but he wouldnot quit. Not until near the finish did his strength give out, and not until then was the pitiable truth discovered. Men used to exhibitions of gameness in tests that try the soul looked on in mute admiration as Smithy Kain shivered and stumbled from the pain that rapidly sapped his life. Women cried openly.Two shots from the pistol of a park policeman ended the life and sufferings of the horse that was only a mongrel, but who, in his equine way, was a thoroughbred of thoroughbreds.Smithy Kain gave to his master the best that his animal mind and soul possessed. No better memorial can be written even of man himself.

Smithy Kain was only a mongrel, horsemen will say, but in his equine heart there coursed the blood of thoroughbreds.

Smithy Kain was killed yesterday afternoon, shot through the head, while thousands of Wisconsin fair patrons looked on in shuddering sympathy.

It was a tragedy of the track.

Owners, trainers and drivers always are quick to declare that no greater courage is known than that possessed and demonstrated by race horses in hard-fought battles on the turf, and the truth of this was never more strikingly brought home than in the death of Smithy Kain yesterday.

With a left hind foot snapped at the fetlock, Smithy Kain raced around the track, his valiant spirit and unfaltering gameness keeping him up until he had completed the course in unwavering pursuit of the flying horses in front. Every jump meant intense agony, but he wouldnot quit. Not until near the finish did his strength give out, and not until then was the pitiable truth discovered. Men used to exhibitions of gameness in tests that try the soul looked on in mute admiration as Smithy Kain shivered and stumbled from the pain that rapidly sapped his life. Women cried openly.

Two shots from the pistol of a park policeman ended the life and sufferings of the horse that was only a mongrel, but who, in his equine way, was a thoroughbred of thoroughbreds.

Smithy Kain gave to his master the best that his animal mind and soul possessed. No better memorial can be written even of man himself.

5. The Special Feature Story.—One step beyond the animal story is the special feature story. This kind of story is classed with the human interest story because it has no news value and because its only purpose is to entertain or to inform in a general way; and yet it rarely contains any human interest. There is no space in this book for a complete discussion of the special feature story—an entire volume might be devoted to the subject—but this form of story is often seen in the news columns of the daily papers and deserves a mention here. Ordinarily the special feature story is not written by reporters, although there is no reason why reporters should not use in this way many of thefacts that come to them. The story usually comes from outside the newspaper office, from a contributor, from a syndicate, or from some other daily, weekly, or monthly publication; however a word or two here may suggest to the reporter the possibility of adding to his usefulness by writing such stories for his paper.

The special feature story may be almost anything. The name is used to designate timely magazine articles, timely write-ups for the Sunday edition, and timely squibs for the columns of the daily papers. The last use is the one that interests us and it interests us because it is very closely related to the human interest story. The editors usually call it a feature story because it is worth printing in spite of the fact that it has no news value. In this and in its timeliness it is like the human interest story. But it is not written for humor or pathos; its purpose is to entertain the reader. Its method is largely expository and its style may be anything; it may explain or it may simply comment in a witty way. The utilizing of otherwise useless by-products of the news is its purpose—in this it is very much like the animal story.

Subjects for feature stories may come from anywhere and may be almost anything. A very common kind of feature story is the weather story thatmany newspapers print every day. The weather is taken as the excuse for two or three stickfuls of print which explain and comment upon weather conditions, past, present and future. Growing out of this, there is the season story which deals with any subject that the season may suggest: the closing of Coney Island, the spring styles in men's hats, the first fur overcoat, Commencement presents, Easter eggs—anything in season. Further removed from the human interest story is the timely write-up which has no other purpose than to explain, in a more or less serious or sensible way, any interesting subject that comes to hand. The story purports not only to entertain but to inform as well. It has no news value and yet it is usually timely. Here are a few subjects selected at random from the daily papers: "He'll pay no tax on cake," explaining in a humorous way the customs methods that held up the importation of an Italian Christmas cake; "Clearing House for Brains," a description of the new employment bureau of the Princeton Club of New York; "Ideal man picked by the Barnard girl," a humorous resumé of some Barnard College class statistics; "Winning a Varsity Letter," telling what a varsity letter stands for, how it is won, and what the customs of the various colleges in regard to letters are; "Jerry Moore raises a record corncrop," telling how a fifteen-year-old boy won prizes with a little patch of corn.

These are just a few suggestions to open up to the reporter the vast field for special feature articles. To be sure, many of them are submitted by outsiders, but there is no reason why a reporter should not write these stories as well as human interest stories for his paper, since he is in the best position to get the material. Whenever a special feature story becomes too large for the daily edition there is always a possibility of selling it to the Sunday section or to a monthly magazine. The writing of special feature stories is directly in line with the reporter's work, because the ordinary method of gathering facts for a feature article and arranging them in an interesting, newsy way follows closely the method by which a reporter covers and writes a news story. Hence almost without exception the most successful magazine feature writers are, or have been, newspaper reporters.

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Dramatic reporting is one of the most misused of the newspaper reporter's activities. To many reporters, as well as to their editors, it is just an easy way of getting free admission to the theater in return for a half column of copy. Hence it is treated in an unjustly trivial way; the reports of theatrical productions are printed most often as space fillers or as a small advertisement in return for free tickets. But after all the work is an important one and should be done only by skillful and expert hands. Dramatic reporting is included in this book, not because it is thought possible to give the subject an adequate treatment, but because theatrical reporting is a branch of the newspaper trade that may fall to the hands of the youngest reporter. In mere justice to the stage the reporter who writes up a play should know something about the real significance of what he is doing. It is much easier to tell the beginner what not to do than to tell himexactly what to do. The faults in dramatic reporting are far more evident than the virtues; and yet there are some positive things that may be said on the subject.

The first important question in the whole matter is "Who does dramatic reporting?" One would like to answer, "Skilled critics of broad knowledge and experience." But unfortunately almost anybody does it—any one about the office who is willing to give up his evening to go to the theater. To be sure, many metropolitan papers employ skilled critics to write their dramatic copy and run the theatrical news over the critic's name. Some editors of smaller papers have the decency to do the work themselves. But in most cases the work is given to an ordinary reporter—and not infrequently to the greenest reporter on the staff. Worse than that, the work is seldom given to the same reporter continuously, but is passed around among all the members of the staff. Even a green cub may learn by experience how to report plays, but if the work falls to him only once a month his training is very meager. It would seem in these days of much discussion of the theater that editors would realize the power which they have over the stage through their favorable or unfavorable criticism. But they do not, perhaps because they know little about thestage, and the appeal must be made to their reporters. Every reporter, except upon the largest papers, has the opportunity sooner or later to give his opinion on a play. In anticipation of that opportunity these few words of advice are offered.

The first requisite in dramatic criticism is a background of knowledge of the drama and the stage. To children, and to some grown people, too, the stage is a little dream world of absolute realities. Their imaginations turn the picture that is placed before them into real, throbbing life. They do not see the unreality of the art, the suggestive effects, the flimsy delusions; to them the play is real life, the stage is a real drawing room or a real wood, and they cannot conceive of the actors existing outside their parts. But the critic must look deeper; he must understand the machinery that produces the effects and he must weigh the success of the effects. He must get behind the play and see the actors outside the cast and the stage without its scenery; the dramatic art must be to him a highly technical profession. For this reason, he must know something about dramatic technique; he must have some background of knowledge. He must study the theater from every point of view, from an orchestra seat, from behind the scenes, from a peekhole in the playwright's study, and from the pages of stagehistory. All the tricks and effects must be evident to him. The only thing that will teach him this is constant, intelligent theater-going. He must be familiar with all of the plays of the season and with all of the prominent plays of all seasons. A child cannot criticize the first play that he sees because he has nothing with which to compare it. In the same way a reporter cannot justly judge any kind of play until he has seen another of the same kind with which to compare it. Hence he must know many plays and must know something about the history of the theater. Dramatic criticism is relative and the critic must have a basis for his comparison.

This background of knowledge may seem a difficult thing to acquire. It is; and it can best be acquired by watching many plays with an eye for the technique of the art. The critic may judge a play from its effect upon him, but his judgment will be superficial. He must try to see what the playwright is trying to do, how well he succeeds, what tricks he employs. He must judge the work of the stage carpenter and of the costumer. He must try to realize what problem the leading lady has to face and how well she solves it. The same carefulness of judgment must be given to each member of the cast. Only when the critic is able to see past the footlightsand to understand the technique of the art, can he judge intelligently. And as his judgment can be at best only relative, he must have a background of many plays and much stage knowledge upon which to base his estimate of any one production.

The ideal criticism, based upon this background of knowledge, would be absolutely fair and unprejudiced. But unfortunately this ideal cannot always be followed. Much dramatic criticism is colored by the policy of the paper that prints it. Very few critics are so fortunate as to be able to say exactly what they think about a play; they must say what the editor wants them to say. Some theatrical copy, especially write-ups of vaudeville shows, is paid for and must contain nothing but praise. Sometimes it is necessary to praise the poorest production simply because the paper is receiving so much a column for the praise. In many other cases, when the copy is not paid for, the editor often considers it only fair to give the production a little puff in return for the free press tickets. And so a large share of any reporter's dramatic criticism is reduced to selecting things that he can praise. Yet, one cannot praise in a way that is too evident; he cannot simply say "The play was good; the staging was good; the acting was good; in fact, everything was good."He must praise more cleverly and give his copy the appearance of honest criticism. Perhaps the principle is wrong, but nevertheless it exists and happy is the dramatic critic whose paper allows him to say exactly what he thinks. However, whether one may say what he thinks or must say what his editor wants him to say, he must have as his background a thorough knowledge of the stage upon which he may base a comparison or a contrast and with which he may make intelligent statements. The following illustrates what may be done with a paid report of a mediocre vaudeville show in which every act must be praised—the report was written on Monday of a week's run and is intended to induce people to see the show:

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