Evening Republican, Volume 23, Number 170, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 July 1920 — TESS MARSHAL GIFTED WRITER [ARTICLE]

TESS MARSHAL GIFTED WRITER

BUILDER OF OREGON TALES CORNERED IN MEDFORD LAIR. The Rev. J. T. Abbett, former resident and one time Recorder of Jasper county sent the following letter and interesting sketch of a former Rensselaer boy. The article appeared in the Oregonian in Portland, Oregon, on July 4, 1920. Edison Marshall pounds out 5,000 golden words daily with two fingers and ruins typewriters every month. The letter and the article follow: 1406 Winona Ave. Portland, Oge., July 5, 1920 Editor Republican, Rensselaer, Ind. Dear Sir: — . You will be interested in the inclosed clipping from yesterday’s Oregonian, as it is a write-up of the gifted son of George E. Marshall, one-time editor of the Republican. I am working this year as Director of the Religious Survey of the City of Portland under the authority of the Interchurch World Movement. It is an interesting task, and when completed will be of inestimable value to the pastors of the 212 churches of the city, and the workers associated with them. With kindly greetings to old friends, I am Sincerely yours, J. T. ABBETT,

(By Mrs. Fred N. Cummings.) Medford, Ore., July 3.— (Special) —One April day in the year 1920 a man walked into a bookstore in Sydney, Australia. “Hm,” he said, “‘Voice of the Pack,’ by Edison Marshall, Medford, Oregon. Looks good to me.” So he took the book home and lost himself in the fir f orest of Oregon.. A few days later a London or New York lawyer (I forget Which) found the same book at his favorite stand. He, too, took it home and crowded streets were forgotten as he roamed the mountains with Dan Failing to know clumsy Bruin and Whisperfoot the cougar. When I started to write up this author it seemed easy enough to get plenty of stories from his friends. But the next time I hunt big game in his own town I will stalk him the way Whisperfoot does and pounce from some thicket of conversation and pretended friendliness. For Marshall is big game. He is strong, versatile, writing as easily as you or I speak. His magazine stories prove this. One of his railroad characters in a story from the American Magazine neighbors with the heroes of the best 100 stories for 1917. “The Missing Seventeen,” from the Post, had the same honor in 1916. In 1918 Marshall was at war and didn’t feel like writing. And “The Elephant Remembers,” from Everybody’s, has been classed and reprinted by the critics as one of the best 15 stones of 1920. His publishers believe it and, taking an unusual chance on a new book, they printed a first edition of 15,000 copies of the “Voice of the Pack.” It has now sold in the 20,000 s and, except for New York and Boston, has hardly yet been distributed in American markets. Evidently their faith was repaid, for “The Strength of the Pines,” Marshall’s next novel, appears in January. But as to getting anything out of Marshall’s friends! Every one knew him and every one said, I don t know a thing to say, but,” with a reminiscent chuckle, “ask George. Now this mysterious George* it seemed, had been fishing and camping and duck hunting with our author, for to Marshall life is mostly one old duck hunt after another. And George had shared his escapades at the University of Oregon and also that fine course in journalism and short story writing for which Marshall has high P™ B ®-? Our George knew Marshall when he played hobo, gathering material for his splendid hobo and railroad stories, and during a brief but strenuous career as newspaper reporter. The elder Marshall, a newspaper man of the old school,' was very strict with his son in the matter of “slush.” His mother was perhaps more sympathetic m her More than likely it was George who came to the rescue when Marshall, in a rowboat, was earned away down a river toward a waterfall and probable death. Of course Edison was hunting ducks and a moment of excitement permitted his oars to slip through the locks and fall overboard. The stream was rocky and very swift and hands made poor paddles. Suddenly there appeared on the banks an angel with whiskers—“the only man 1 ever saw on that river”—and many a good tale was rescued by that bewhiskered George. ... Life has been full of adventures to Marshall—one of Item being lost and nearly frozen to death in an eastern Oregon blizzard. Bul we like him none the less that someone else always seems to de the hero work. Important Key is Lost. Now, come to ithink of it, one elderly gentleman did admit thal Marshall was absent-minded. A re > aS X ** -

mem be ring grin made me wonder whether he was on the spot when Edison, intent on still another wild duck, plunged to his armpits tn Tule lake quagmire. It took long poles and strong pulling to get him out at all. “I love the marches,” Marshall says in a matter of fact way. Well, women are not the only ones who cherish strange fancies. This absent-mindedness was evident when I met Marshall in his home. Everything he wanted, from hairbrush to loose change for the laundry man, seemed to be lost’ In a drawer, the key lost and his wife away. “Well, I said sympathetically, watching his painful search, “that key seems to be quite lost.” “Yes,” he said, “it’s lost.” Only those who always lose everything can understand the pained surprise in his voice. After chasing the phantom George and watching people smile and chuckle it finally dawned on me that, however proud they might be of Edison Marshall the author, to the people of his home town he would always be just a jolly good comrade and friend whose fame made him none the less companionable at hearthside and campfire. The book itself was as elusive as George. Because of the freight strikes there were only a small handful in town and they were on the dead run. Finally a boy whose teacher had read it in school tracked it down. “Best book I ever read,” he said. It has been, recommended for schools and libraries and is especially good reading for Oregonians, opening our eyes to the majesty and beauty and romance at our doors. .Many a letter bears testimony to this fact. Machines Pounded to Death. As I said, I visited Marshall in his home. Nearing the house I went slowly, listening often to see whether it was his busy day. For when Marshall works it is evident a long way off. He is a two-fingered artist and can smash more typewriters than any other artist, living or dead. He is now pounding out the life of his fourth machine and I expect the end will come before the book now in his head is set down on paper. Pound! Pound! Pound! From 10 to 3 those hard-working index, fingers, as large now as the middle ones, strain to keep up with the steady flow of his thoughts.. And every time he strikes there is one letter of a golden word—so.oo a day and each worth—but that is, not for publication. Yet scarcely a sentence, scarcely a word even of the book had to be altered. It seems wonderful to you and me who hash and rehash every smallest article. Fortunately he works only about half the time or the price of paper would go up. A few lazy days with a pipe precede the actual writing, during which the incidents of the story group themselves. A success based on so thorough a mastery of his subject is likely to be permanent.

Marshall is not temperamental. He “any such animal’’ aaWn artistic temperament. He is and sound in mind and that. Comifig from ancestors —rangy, adven-, turous men, swarms of whom fought in the wars of our country, he sees the world as they did, straight and true with the big out-doors always a background in his thoughts. Ho has worked steadily except the year that he served as soldier and officer in the late war. He I* 26 Year* of Age. And neither has he ever been a “young writer.” He abhors a youthful prodigy almost as much as an artistic temperament. Of course not —for he was born way last century in Rensselaer, Ind. The exact date was the year 1894. I forgot to ask several important questions like what, he does about lunch —working from 10 to 3. seemed afterward that I did most of the talking. Bad taste I But I don’t believe it was all my famt. Mr. Marshall’s bungalow home, with its cool, sheltered porch and glimpse of the mountains, its cozy hving room with easy chairs and open fire—his favorite pipe and book—" usually a detective story—right at hand —offers in itself a cordial welcome. And the man himself, wim easy, informal friendliness, makes it plain that you and not he are the important person present. “May I have a photograph? 1 asked. "Why, certainly, 7 Marsh® ll answered with entire simplicity, x have one —that is—why, where on earth did I put it?” If a picture appears with this story you may know that he dug it out from somewhere.