Among our magazines

JOHN RIDDELL

Some intimate glimpses into the editorial sanctums of several of our best-known periodicals

EDITOR'S NOTE: Who has not wondered to himself, as he glanced over the contents of the various periodicals published in America today, just how the offices looked in which they were printed? Who has not tried to picture the inner sanctum of, let us say, Physical Culture, or Breezy Stories, or Whiz Bang? Do the editors of Western Stories really wear cowboy chaps and shoot from the hip? Does the staff of College Humor smoke class pipes and wear white turtle neck sweaters? Could the editor of Popular Mechanics actually take apart his typewriter and put a new ribbon in? Is every secretary on True Stories a STENOGRAPHER IN NAME ONLY? It is in order to answer these questions, therefore, that we have arranged to show here for the first time a few intimate glimpses into the editorial sanctums of several popular magazines.)

1 Our first exhibit is the office of that redblooded, two-fisted, 100%, he-American publication—Liberty Magazine.

The office, of course, resembles a dug-out. The battered sides are supported by splintered timbers, and rough beams hold aloft the sagging roof. Gas masks, rifles, knapsacks, hand grenades and incidental cannon balls are piled in every corner, and trench rats scurry back and forth across the scene. On the crude desk, consisting of a packing box, a single candle splutters, while a stenographer, in the uniform of a Red Cross nurse, hammers at the keys of her typewriter with a sharp rattle like a machine gun. The editor, in muddy trench coat and helmet, is pacing savagely up and down the office with his hands behind his back, shouting commands to a uniformed orderly above the steady roar of bombardment outside.

EDITOR: (to orderly): . and send up reinforcements to the Verdun sector. . . . Get some volunteers and make a raid on the German line . . . order General Pershing to report here at once. ..."

(There is a terrific explosion outside. Part of the wall collapses with a shower of dirt and mortar. The editor cowers behind the desk.)

EDITOR: "What is it, Sergeant?"

SERGEANT: "Another author arriving with a war manuscript, sir."

(As the editor cracks the neck off a bottle and pours himself a drink with trembling fingers, the author staggers on with a bloodstained bandage about his head.)

AUTHOR (waving papers) : "The Boches are planning a new offensive in the Argonne! Chateau Thierry is crumbling. We haven't a moment to lose!"

SERGEANT (brandishing pistol): "Our country—"

AUTHOR (seizing flute): "—may she always he right—"

EDITOR (waving an American flag) : "—but right or left, our Country!"

(As they start across the stage in Spirit of '76 formation, to the tune of Yankee Doodle, the bombardment grows steadily louder.

The noise of an airplane is suddenly heard overhead.)

SERGEANT: "A War Bird approaching with a message from the front".

(Another heavy crash, loosening a shower of dirt from the collapsing roof. The editor pours himself another drink. A pilot in bloodstained flying suit bursts dramatically in the door.)

PILOT: "A message for the editor of Liberty ! "

EDITOR (pouring himself another drink) : "Read it aloud!"

PILOT (reading) : " 'The war was over—ten years ago today!'"

(The bombardment suddenly ceases. In the ensuing silence, the members of the staff stare at each other tragically. The editor is the first to speak.)

EDITOR (flourishing his American flag bravely) : "Never mind, boys! We'll start another".

2 And now, as a contrast to this exciting editorial sanctum, let us glance at the office of that placid domestic periodical—The Ladies' Home Journal.

The scene, of course, represents an oldfashioned sitting-room with ormolu chairs, anti-macassars and hooked rug. On the desk are a bowl of goldfish and a tea service. A grandfather's clock ticks slowly beside the fireplace, in which a faint bed of coals is glowing. There is a large stuffed cat curled sleepily before the hearth. Two spinsters are seated in rocking-chairs, creaking back and forth and knitting.

FIRST SPINSTER: "DO you know, Cousin Hettie was telling me the nicest recipe for an attractive salad. Just slice up some green crepe paper real thin, spread with gooseberry jelly and serve in patty shells with a drop of sealing wax. It makes an ideal luncheon dish for the bridge hostess. . . ."

(There is a long silence.)

SECOND SPINSTER: "I understand you can make your old dresses fit the new styles this year by pinching in the waistline and tacking lace to the hems. Plush trimmed with asbestos is said to be popular this season. . . ."

(Another silence. There is a sudden knock on the door.)

FIRST SPINSTER (in an excited whisper): "Who is it?"

SECOND SPINSTER: "Maybe it's a Man!"

Together: "Come in!"

(Enter a young man in a long ulster. He boivs politely.)

YOUNG MAN: "Good afternoon, ladies. I've come to discuss a little business affair with you. Perhaps our two magazines could affiliate".

FIRST SPINSTER: "Of course, we have to be very particular about what magazines we affiliate with."

SECOND SPINSTER: "We haven't had an affiliation in—(turning to other) —how long has it been, Esther?"

FIRST SPINSTER (gloomily): "It seems like years and years if I have to tell the truth."

SECOND SPINSTER (suspiciously): "By the way, young man, who are you?"

(The young man smiles and removes his ulster. He is clad in flaming silk pajamas.)

YOUNG MAN (extending his arms): "I'm The Woman's Home Companion!"

2 Our next to last exhibit is the office of True Confessions Magazine. The walls are decorated in scarlet with gilt cupids, and heavy plush draperies conceal the windows from prying eyes. A heavy and exotic odor of perfume steals over the room, and occasionally veiled secretaries flit noiselessly over the thick carpets. On the wall over the editor's desk is a picture of George Washington, and beneath it, in large letters, the single word: TRUTH.

The editor is seated in the center of a tremendous divan surrounded by fluffy cushions, reading an advance copy of his magazine and chuckling to himself. At a sudden knock on the door he starts violently, shuts the magazine and blushes. Willie, the office boy enters.

WILLIE: "Girl to see you about a position, sir."

EDITOR: "Did she specify what she could do?"

WILLIE: "NO, sir, she said she would take any position."

EDITOR (straightening his tie) : "Great! Show her in. (He pauses and shakes his head gravely.) One moment! Is that all you've got to tell me, Willie?"

WILLIE (flustered) : "Yes, sir, that's all."

EDITOR (in a kindly voice) : "Come now, are you sure? Think hard."

WILLIE: "Well, there is something, sir."

(He leans over and whispers to the editor. The editor raises his eyebrows in increasing astonishment.)

EDITOR (admiringly) : "Very good, Willie. Keep it up, and the first thing you know you'll be an assistant editor."

(Willie exits. Enter girl. She crosses the room casually and approaches the editor.)

GIRL: "Oh, Mr. Editor, could you use a secretary?"

EDITOR (dreamily) : "Could I? (He recollects himself sternly.) What makes you think you are qualified for the job?"

GIRL (melodramatically) : "When I was but sixteen I was caught in the web of my own folly. I knew but little then of the course of human passions, pitched high in the excited quest for gaiety. Temptations crossed my path, for in those days of unbridled love and fierce hates, the Scarlet Highway beckons to Youth. . ."

(Continued on page 68)

(Continued from page 60)

EDITOR: "GO on."

GIRL: "I ran off with man I loved. Then soon came the fatal night of indiscretion. I was heedless, carefree, young. I dined with an artist—a Bohemian—afterward we went to his studio. It's the old, old story—he asked me to pose in the nude—"

EDITOR (brightening): "That's better".

GIRL: "Slowly I undraped my beautiful body, fresh and trembling as the dew on the lily. ... I stood unprotected before him. He advanced toward me. ... I trembled—"

(Phone rings. Editor starts violently.)

EDITOR (in voice shaken with emotion) : "He—hello? What? (He shudders.) Oh . .. hello, dear. Yes, No. . . . No, dearest, I'm afraid I won't be home for dinner. What? (He glances at the applicant.) You see, dear, I've got to work late tonight on another True Confession."

4 And now let us examine life on that carefree, happy magazine of Flaming Youth, the editorial offices of College Humor.

The walls of this cheerful room are entirely covered with pennants of Harvard, Cornell, Yale, Columbia, Dartmouth, Vassar, etc.; with framed pictures of pretty girls; and with a handsome array of stolen signs, including Stop, Look and Listen, Broadway 7th Ave. Subway and Gentlemen. The secretary, dressed like a flapper, is seated upon the typewriter, strumming a uke. The editor, clad in raccoon coat and freshman hat and wearing a huge fraternity pin on his sweatshirt, is shouting into a battered telephone.

EDITOR: "Hello—hello—Is this the printing plant?—We want to see the next issue of College Humor."

ASSISTANT EDITOR (seizing a megaphone) : "Come on boys, spell it out for College Humor. Ah ya reddy? One —two—"

STAFF: "C-O-L-L-E-G-E H-U-MO-R".

EDITOR (jiggling receiver) : "Hello —hello—Is this Hanover 6473—?"

(Staff leaps into position, in the center of the room, crouching in team formation on the floor facing the stenographers. )

EDITOR: "Hello! 6—7—3—"

OFFICE BOY: "Signals!"

EDITOR (leaving phone and assuming quarterback position behind stenographers) : "6—4—7—3—"

(The office boy passes the issue to the center assistant editor. The editor intercepts the forward, rushes downfield, straight-arming his interference, and falls exhausted across his desk, as the staff piles up on top of him. The whistle blows shrilly.)

EDITOR (extracting himself from the pile and waving a college pennant feebly) : "Final score, College Humor $.35, Public 0."

(Members of the staff rise to their feet, their arms about each other and lift beer steins aloft as they join in close harmony.)

STAFF:

"Drink a highball, at nightfall When you march for dear old Yale For we don't give a damn for the whole

state of Michigan—

We're from the I.C.S."