_FOREWORD_
_The publisher has asked me to write a note of introduction to this book.
Surely it needs none; but it is a pleasant task to write prefaces for other
people's books. When one writes a preface to a book of one's own, one
naturally grovels, deprecates, and has no opportunity to call the friendly
reader's attention to what the author considers the beauties and
significances of the work. How agreeable, then, to be able to do this
service for another._
_Moreover, one hopes that such a service may not be wholly vain. Every book
has its own special audience, for whom--very likely unconsciously--it was
written: the group of people, far spread over the curve of earth, who will
find in that particular book just the sort of magic and wisdom that they
seek. And, as every one who has studied the book business knows, books very
often tragically miss just the public that was waiting for them. It is such
an obscure and nebulous problem, getting the book into the hands of the
people to whom it will appeal. One knows that there are thousands of
readers for whom that book (whatever it may be) will mean keen pleasure.
But how is one to find them and bring the volume to their eyes?_
_I owe to the "Atlantic Monthly" my own introduction to Miss de la Roche's
writing. Several years ago, when I was acting as a modest periscope for a
publishing house, I read in the "Atlantic" a fanciful little story by her
which seemed to me so delicate and humorous in fancy, so refreshing and
happy in expression, that I wrote to the author in the hope of some day
luring her to offer a book to the house with which I was connected. We had
some pleasant correspondence. Time passed: I fell from the placid ramparts
of the publishing business, into the more noisy but not less happy bustle
of the newspaper world. But still, though I am not a conscientious
correspondent, I managed to keep occasionally in touch with Miss de la
Roche. For a while I seemed highly unsuccessful as her ambassador into the
high court of publishing. Then, one day, lunching with Mr. Alfred Knopf at
a small tavern on Vesey Street (which was subsequently abolished by the New
York City Health Department as being unfit to offer what one of the small
boys in this book calls "nushment") I happened to tell him about Miss de la
Roche's work. I saw his eye, an eye of special clarity and brilliance,
widen and darken with that particular emotion exhibited by a publisher who
feels what is vulgarly known as a "hunch." He said he would "look into" the
matter; and this book is the result._
_The phrase "look into" is perhaps appropriate as applied to this book. For
it is one of those books where the eye of the attentive reader sees more
than a mere sparkling flow of words on a running surface of narrative. Of
course this is not one of those books that "everybody_ must _read." It is
not likely to become fashionable. But it seems to me so truly charming, so
felicitous in subtle touches of humour, so tenderly moved with an
under-running current of wistfulness, that surely it will find its own
lovers; who will be, perhaps, among those who utter the names of Barrie and
Kenneth Grahame with a special sound of voice._
_Perhaps, since I myself was one of a family of three boys, the story of
Angel, Seraph and John, makes a prejudicial claim upon my affection. I must
admit that it is evident the author of the book was never herself a small
boy: sometimes their imperfections are a little too perfect, too femininely
and romantically conceived, to make me feel one of them. They have not
quite the rowdy actuality of Mr. Tarkington's urchins. But the, fact that
the whole story is told with a poet's imagination, and viewed through a
golden cloud of fancy, gives us countervailing beauties that a strictly
naturalistic treatment would miss. Let us not forget that we are in a
"Cathedral Town"; and next door is a Bishop. And certainly in the vigorous
and great-hearted Mary Ellen we stand solidly on the good earth of human
nature "as is."_
_It is not the intention of the introducer to anticipate the reader's
pleasure by selfishly pointing out some of the dainty touches of humour
that will arouse the secret applause of the mind. One thing only occurs to
be said. The scene of the tale is said to be in England. And yet, to the
zealous observer, there will seem to be some flavours that are hardly
English. The language of the excellent Mary Ellen, for instance, comes to
me with a distinct cisatlantic sound. Nor can I, somehow, visualize a
planked back garden in an English Cathedral Town. I am wondering about
this, and I conclude that perhaps it is due to the fact that Miss de la
Roche lives in Toronto, that delightful city where the virtues of both
England and America are said to be subtly and consummately blended. Her
story, as simple and refreshing as the tune of an old song, and yet so
richly spiced with humour, perhaps presents a blend of qualities and
imaginations that we would only find in Canada; for the Canadians, after
all, are the true Anglo-Americans. Perhaps they do not like to be called
so? But I mean it well: I mean that they combine the good qualities of both
sides._
_And so one wishes good fortune to this book in its task--which every book
must face for itself--of discovering its destined friends. There will be
some readers, I think, who will look through it as through an open window,
into a land of clear gusty winds and March sunshine and volleying church
bells on Sunday mornings, into a land of terrible contradictions, a land
whose emigres look back to it tenderly, yet without too poignant
regret--the Almost Forgotten Land of childhood._