The New York herald., 1922-02-26

dors of that thoroughfare were shut
out by a soft, thick grayness, and
those passing contented themselves
by watching a mounted policeman
gallop by on a fine horse. Among
the crowds going downtown there
was small man wearing a belted
overcoat and a soft light brown hat.
He was talking energetically to a
taller young man whose very atti-
tude marked him for a reporter. And
together they went into the building
at so Lafayette street.
All who have read S. s. McClure's
autobiography know that to have
lived through such boyhoed as his
was is an achievement. He was
born in Antrim, province Of Ulster.
sixty-four years ago. His mother
was of French Huguenot descent and
his father Scot from Galloway. He
has written about his childhood in
the most engaging manner; of the
simplicity and sweetness of his home
in Ireland; the flowers and the land
scape. And how he'd eat all his oat-
cake soon after he left home in the
morning on the chance that he would
not be hungry for luncheon. AL
this Is highly characteristic of him
now. For, he told me later, he loves
landscapes and literature best of all.
And he'd take all good things when
he wanted them if he could get them.
His father died when he was nine
years old, and that same year he.
with his mother and three brothers
younger tnan himself, came to Amer
lea and went by way of Quebec to a
farm near Valparaiso, Ind, where
his mothers sister lived
One Of the most important days of
his life was when his uncle came to
the hay field where he and his broth
ers were working and stated casually
that every boy should have a college
education, and Knox College at
Galesburg was the place 10 go. And
that September he went. OF course
he learned the usual things from
books. became acquainted with the
writing Of great authors. He also
met John s. Phillips.
These things were significant but
not to be mentioned with his meet
ing with Harriet Hurd, daughter of
Prof. Albert Hurd. And if 1 had my
way and could face the charge of
sentimentality I'd present s.. S.
Mcclure as the hero Of the most
beautiful love story in the world
rather than as man, distinguished
editor OF a human being no has
liYed richly. Those Woo think the
fairy tale out OF date and foolish
when It ends "and they lived happy
ever after" ought to hear about this
romance. Even Eugene O'Neill and
Mr.. st. John Ervine might be
changed forever by listening.
Well, here was an immigrant boy,
working and struggling his way
through college. He had little of the
clothes and comforts he needed for
such a venture, but he had enthusi-
asm, and to spare, while Prof. Hurd's
beautiful daughter was cultured and
moved IN the best society Of the col
lego town. 1t was easy to see,
Mcclure said, why her father and
friends thought she might make n
better match. But she didn't think
SO, even after seven years of wait
ing. So they were married. and live
happily to this day. They have four
children OF their own and one
adopted child aud eight grandchil-
dren.
But here We are being escorted
through the swinging brass gate and
to the inner office, where Mr.. Nc
Clure sits at a mahogany desk which
is pleasantly cluttered with letters,
papers and manuscripts.
The first words he said were, as
usual, encouraging TO new authors.
"There never was a time" he said,
when the world was so full Of in
teresting material for stories. And
there are plenty Of writer's working
away, unknown now, upon IT,"
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