INTRODUCTION

The entire manuscript of this story was written with the E type-bar of

the typewriter _tied down_; thus making it impossible for that letter

to be printed. This was done so that none of that vowel might slip in,

accidentally; and many _did_ try to do so!

There is a great deal of information as to what _Youth_ can do, if

given a chance; and, though it starts out in somewhat of an impersonal

vein, there is plenty of thrill, rollicking comedy, love, courtship,

marriage, patriotism, sudden tragedy, _a determined stand against

liquor_, and some amusing political aspirations in a small growing town.

In writing such a story,--purposely avoiding all words containing

the vowel E, there are a great many difficulties. The greatest of

these is met in the past tense of verbs, almost all of which end

with "--ed." Therefore substitutes must be found; and they are _very

few_. This will cause, at times, a somewhat monotonous use of such

words as "said;" for neither "replied," "answered" nor "asked" can

be used. Another difficulty comes with the elimination of the common

couplet "of course," and its very common connective, "consequently;"

which will, unavoidably cause "bumpy spots." The numerals also cause

plenty of trouble, for none between six and thirty are available. When

introducing young ladies into the story, this is a _real_ barrier; for

what young woman wants to have it known that she is over thirty? And

this restriction on numbers, of course taboos all mention of dates.

Many abbreviations also must be avoided; the most common of all, "Mr."

and "Mrs." being particularly troublesome; for those words, if read

aloud, plainly indicate the E in their orthography.

As the vowel E is used more than five times oftener than any other

letter, this story was written, not through any attempt to attain

literary merit, but due to a somewhat balky nature, caused by hearing

it so constantly claimed that "it can't be done; for you _cannot_ say

anything at all without using E, and make smooth continuity, with

perfectly grammatical construction--" so 'twas said.

Many may think that I simply "drop" the E's, filling the gaps with

apostrophes. A perusal of the book will show that this is not so. All

words used are _complete_; are correctly spelled and properly used.

This has been accomplished through the use of synonyms; and, by so

twisting a sentence around as to avoid ambiguity. The book may prove a

valuable aid to school children in English composition.

People, as a rule, will not stop to realize what a task such an attempt

actually is. As I wrote along, in long-hand at first, a whole army

of little E's gathered around my desk, all eagerly expecting to be

called upon. But gradually as they saw me writing on and on, without

even noticing them, they grew uneasy; and, with excited whisperings

amongst themselves, began hopping up and riding on my pen, looking down

constantly for a chance to drop off into some word; for all the world

like sea-birds perched, watching for a passing fish! But when they saw

that I had covered 138 pages of typewriter size paper, they slid off

onto the floor, walking sadly away, arm in arm; but shouting back: "You

certainly must have a hodge-podge of a yarn there without _Us!_ Why,

man! We are in every story ever written, _hundreds of thousands of

times!_ This is the first time we ever were shut out!"

Pronouns also caused trouble; for such words as he, she, they, them,

theirs, her, herself, myself, himself, yourself, etc., could not be

utilized. But a particularly annoying obstacle comes when, almost

through a long paragraph you can find no words with which to continue

that line of thought; hence, as in Solitaire, you are "stuck," and must

go way back and start another; which, of course, must perfectly fit the

preceding context.

I have received some extremely odd criticisms since the Associated

Press widely announced that such a book was being written. A

rapid-talking New York newspaper columnist wanted to know how I would

get over the plain fact that my name contains the letter E three times.

As an author's name is _not_ a part of his story, that criticism

did not hold water. And I received one most scathing epistle from a

lady (woman!) denouncing me as a "genuine fake;" (that paradox being

a most interesting one!), and ending by saying:--"Everyone knows

that such a feat is impossible." All right. Then the impossible has

been accomplished; (a paradox to equal hers!) Other criticism may be

directed at the Introduction; but this section of a story _also_ is not

part of it. The author is entitled to it, in order properly to explain

his work. The story required five and a half months of concentrated

endeavor, with so many erasures and retrenchments that I tremble as

I think of them. Of course anybody can write such a story. All that

is needed is a piece of string tied from the E type-bar down to some

part of the base of the typewriter. Then simply go ahead and type your

story. Incidentally, you should have some sort of a bromide preparation

handy, for use when the going gets rough, as it most assuredly will!

Before the book was in print, I was freely and openly informed "there

is a trick, or catch," somewhere in that claim that there is not one

letter E in the entire book, after you leave the Introduction. Well; it

is the privilege of the reader to unearth any such deception that he

or she may think they can find. I have even ordered the printer not to

head each chapter with the words "Chapter 2," etc., on account of that

bothersome E in that word.

In closing let me say that I trust you may learn to love all the young

folks in the story, as deeply as I have, in introducing them to you.

Like many a book, it grows more and more interesting as the reader

becomes well acquainted with the characters.

Los Angeles, California

February, 1939

I

If Youth, throughout all history, had had a champion to stand up for

it; to show a doubting world that a child can think; and, possibly,

do it practically; you wouldn't constantly run across folks today

who claim that "a child don't know anything." A child's brain starts

functioning at birth; and has, amongst its many infant convolutions,

thousands of dormant atoms, into which God has put a mystic possibility

for noticing an adult's act, and figuring out its purport.

Up to about its primary school days a child thinks, naturally, only of

play. But many a form of play contains disciplinary factors. "You can't

do this," or "that puts you out," shows a child that it must think,

practically, or fail. Now, if, throughout childhood, a brain has no

opposition, it is plain that it will attain a position of "status quo,"

as with our ordinary animals. Man knows not why a cow, dog or lion was

not born with a brain on a par with ours; why such animals cannot add,

subtract, or obtain from books and schooling, that paramount position

which Man holds today.

But a human brain is not in that class. Constantly throbbing and

pulsating, it rapidly forms opinions; attaining an ability of its own;

a fact which is startlingly shown by an occasional child "prodigy"

in music or school work. And as, with our dumb animals, a child's

inability convincingly to impart its thoughts to us, should not class

it as ignorant.

Upon this basis I am going to show you how a bunch of bright young

folks did find a champion; a man with boys and girls of his own; a man

of so dominating and happy individuality that Youth is drawn to him

as is a fly to a sugar bowl. It is a story about a small town. It is

not a gossipy yarn; nor is it a dry, monotonous account, full of such

customary "fill-ins" as "romantic moonlight casting murky shadows down

a long, winding country road." Nor will it say anything about tinklings

lulling distant folds; robins carolling at twilight, nor any "warm glow

of lamplight" from a cabin window. No. It is an account of up-and-doing

activity; a vivid portrayal of Youth as it is today; and a practical

discarding of that worn-out notion that "a child don't know anything."

Now, any author, from history's dawn, always had that most important

aid to writing:--an ability to call upon any word in his dictionary in

building up his story. That is, our strict laws as to word construction

did not block his path. But in _my_ story that mighty obstruction

_will_ constantly stand in my path; for many an important, common word

I cannot adopt, owing to its orthography.

I shall act as a sort of historian for this small town; associating

with its inhabitants, and striving to acquaint you with its youths,

in such a way that you can look, knowingly, upon any child, rich

or poor; forward or "backward;" your own, or John Smith's, in your

community. You will find many young minds aspiring to know how, and WHY

such a thing is so. And, if a child shows curiosity in that way, how

ridiculous it is for you to snap out:--

"Oh! Don't ask about things too old for you!"

Such a jolt to a young child's mind, craving instruction, is apt so

to dull its avidity, as to hold it back in its school work. Try to

look upon a child as a small, soft young body and a rapidly growing,

constantly inquiring brain. It must grow to maturity slowly. Forcing a

child through school by constant night study during hours in which it

should run and play, can bring on insomnia; handicapping both brain and

body.

Now this small town in our story had grown in just that way:--slowly;

in fact, much _too_ slowly to stand on a par with many a thousand

of its kind in this big, vigorous nation of ours. It was simply

stagnating; just as a small mountain brook, coming to a hollow, might

stop, and sink from sight, through not having a will to find a way

through that obstruction; or around it. You will run across such a

dormant town, occasionally; possibly so dormant that only outright

isolation by a fast-moving world, will show it its folly. If you will

tour Asia, Yucatan, or parts of Africa and Italy, you will find many

sad ruins of past kingdoms. Go to Indo-China and visit its gigantic

Ankhor Vat; call at Damascus, Baghdad and Samarkand. What sorrowful

lack of ambition many such a community shows in thus discarding such

high-class construction! And I say, again, that so will Youth grow

dormant, and hold this big, throbbing world back, if no champion backs

it up; thus providing it with an opportunity to show its ability for

looking forward, and improving unsatisfactory conditions.

So this small town of Branton Hills was lazily snoozing amidst

up-and-doing towns, as Youth's Champion, John Gadsby, took hold of it;

and shook its dawdling, flabby body until its inhabitants thought a

tornado had struck it. Call it tornado, volcano, military onslaught,

or what you will, this town found that it had a bunch of kids who had

wills that would admit of no snoozing; for that is Youth, on its

forward march of inquiry, thought and action.

If you stop to think of it, you will find that it is customary for

our "grown-up" brain to cast off many of its functions of its youth;

and to think only of what it calls "topics of maturity." Amongst such

discards, is many a form of happy play; many a muscular activity such

as walking, running, climbing; thus totally missing that alluring "joy

of living" of childhood. If you wish a vacation from financial affairs,

just go out and play with Youth. Play "blind-man's buff," "hop-scotch,"

"ring toss," and football. Go out to a charming woodland spot on a

picnic with a bright, happy, vivacious group. Sit down at a corn roast;

a marshmallow toast; join in singing popular songs; drink a quart of

good, rich milk; burrow into that big lunch box; and all such things

as banks, stocks, and family bills, will vanish on fairy wings, into

oblivion.

But this is not a claim that Man should stay always youthful. Supposing

that that famous Spaniard, landing upon Florida's coral strands, had

found that mythical Fountain of Youth; what a calamity for mankind! A

world without maturity of thought; without man's full-grown muscular

ability to construct mighty buildings, railroads and ships; a world

without authors, doctors, savants, musicians; nothing but Youth! I can

think of but a solitary approval of such a condition; for such a horror

as war would not,--could not occur; for a child is, naturally, a small

bunch of sympathy. I know that boys will "scrap;" also that "spats"

will occur amongst girls; but, at such a monstrosity as killings by

bombing towns, sinking ships, or mass annihilation of marching troops,

childhood would stand aghast. Not a tiny bird would fall; nor would

any form of gun nor facility for manufacturing it, insult that almost

Holy purity of youthful thought. Anybody who knows that wracking sorrow

brought upon a child by a dying puppy or cat, knows that childhood can

show us that our fighting, our policy of "a tooth for a tooth," is

abominably wrong.