FRED. R. ASHFIELD

350 FULTON STREET
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

27 March

January 26th, 1917.

Norman Douglas, Esq.

London, England.

My Dear Mr. Douglas;

I have just read your unique little book, "London Street Games" with great delight. There is something about it that brings back one's childhood days with a rush, and the style is wonderful.

Thinking that perhaps you would be interested, I am going to tell you a bit about our games over here. Many of the games, of course, are played all over the world, and some of the names, not the best ones, have filtered over here. Now in our street, or as we say, on our block, we play BLACK TOM, BLACK TOM, ALL ON A SIDE, and KICK THE STICK, and RED LION, RED LION, COME OUT OF YOUR DEN, and RING-A-LEAVI-O, and COPS AND THIEVES and ROLY-POLY which is when you scrape out holes in the dirt, one for each fellow and you take turns rolling the ball and try and put it into the other fellow's hole and if you do, you put a baby in- that's a pebble- and the one that gets the most babies has to stand facing the wall and gets hit with the ball as many times as he has babies, and then there's DUCK ON THE ROCK, and we play tricks like DELIVER UP THOSE GOLDEN JEWELS, and the one who is IT, not He, is induced to climb a tree if there be one but generally a lamp-post, while we do things with his cap.

Our chants, I am compelled to say, are mostly awful, but in the interests of science, I will set down a few. There is;

NELLY NELLY NELLY WITH A PIMPLE ON HER BELLY

I took my girl to the engine house
The engine went by steam
The engine blew her petticoats
And showed her magazine
Her magazine was dirty and what a sight was seen
Two black eyes and a bloody nose and an ........
painted green.

and we had one about kissing on the stairs, something like
yours, only I can't remember it, and;

He gave me a dollar to make me holler
He gave me a half to make me laugh
He gave me a quarter to ... in the water
He gave me a dime to make me feel fine
He gave me a nickel to feel of ...

He gave me a cent and in it went
and we used to yell, "Mock-a-hi-lo", at the Chinese laundryman
and run.

Now, my dear sir, if I have overstepped the boundry line
of propriety, I humbly beg your pardon, but I just had to do
it.

P. S.; I almost forgot to say that it's twenty years ago, and
now we are mostly wops and kikes and have forgotten how to
play, because they have teachers to show us how and what we
have to do, we never do except when we have to.

FREDERIC REEVES ASHFIELD

350 FULTON STREET
BOROUGH OF BROOKLYN
NEW YORK

April 21st, 1917.

Dear Mr. Douglas; -

I received your letter of March 21st today, and, as it is Saturday afternoon and a half-holiday here, the office is deserted and I have a few minutes to spare. So I have taken the liberty to write once more to you.

I only wish I could immortalize the youth of New York as you have of London, but far abler pens than mine have tried it and failed utterly. You see you have practically only one racial stock to deal with. Here we have about twenty, for New York is the port where fully ninety percent of all our immigrants land and it seems to me that most of them stay here. Just think of it- we have more Italians here than Naples, more Irish than in Dublin, almost as many Jews as there are in Russia, and alas, more Germans than Berlin. These statements may be somewhat far fetched but if you were to ride around with me, I think you would believe them. But, my dear sir, it is your style that I enjoy more than anything, and it was a pity that you had to break the book off short. Let us hope that you will have a second volume some day. Of course, I suppose the war will prevent. We are in for it too at last. We should have been the day after the Lusitania was sent down. However we are in for it now, and I hope to see our army fighting with yours shoulder to shoulder.

I stood for five hours last Thursday watching a parade gotten up to stimulate enlistment and there were over twenty

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FREDERIC REEVES ASHFIELD

thousand children marching along, line after line of dirty and
shining faces. Then came Boy Scouts, my own boy among them,
girl Scouts- budding breasts under brown blouses; and, for the
first time, I believe, in history, the Union Jack was borne
down Fifth Avenue escorted by a full band of Scotch-Canadian
bagpipers, and believe me, both the flag and the braw lads
were greeted with cheers all along the line. There were none
of our regular troops or militia in line, excepting a regiment
or two of new recruits. All our militia are on duty, scattered
throughout the state, guarding ammunition plants, factories,
waterworks etc. It seems hard to have to guard against the
enemy within our midst, but we have some two hundred thousand
alien enemies domociled in the Eastern states alone, and already
there has been several outrages committed by them. In addition
we have a large number of good German-Americans, who, so far,
have behaved themselves and apparently are true to the country
of their adoption.

I read your "Siren Land" some time ago, and have just
discovered "Old Calabria" in the Public Library and expect to
spend a pleasant day tomorrow with you and your book. By the
way, we employ some eighteen Calabrian laborers and have always
found them loyal and hardworking, but other Italians here refer
to them as those "Godadamn Calabreese 's no good".

I have never travelled away from my native heath and pro-
bably never will, for I am anchored here to a business started
by my grandfather in 1835 soon after he arrived here from

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FREDERIC REEVES ASHFIELD

London and we have managed to keep it going ever since but some-
how the work seems to be growing scarcer and scarcer each year.
Of course the real reason is that conditions have changed and we
have not kept up with them.

To get back to "Street Games"- we had an old "plarsterer"
in our employ named "Arry White", who, although he had lived
here for fifty years was an out and out cockney, and I used to
delight in leading him on to talk of his childhood days in Lon-
don. One of the "gimes" when he was a little nipper was to
smear your fingers with soot and enter a bake shop, grab a penny
bun in your sooty hand and offer an "Apenny" and when the man
indignantly demanded the other halfpenny, you told him you had
only the one "Apenny" and gravely offered him the bun back. Of
course your sooty hand had rendered it unfit for sale, so he
generally let you 'ave it. The old man is dead now, after
living for some seventy-seven years, begetting twenty-three
children from three wives, and only two years before he died,
his wife had him up in court for running around with a widow
woman and blowing in all his money on her while his poor wife
starved atone. He was a great one for the ladies was old 'Arry-
God rest his soul. He served three years in our Civil War and
came out with the Legion of Honor Medal and without a scratch
except for the scar of a spent ball across the back of his head.

Within the past two years I suddenly developed an intense
desire to write. I had always been a reader of everything that
came my way, from Robinson Crusoe- I bet I have spelt that wrong

4

but have not a dictionary here in the office- to Rabelais.
I thought it would be so easy to write, just sit down with a
dozen nicely-sharpened pencils and a clean pad and start in.
But alas, the more I try, the harder I find it and the more I
realize how I am handicapped by lack of education and opportu-
nity to travel. At present writing my sole published works are
to be found in a couple of rather saucy magazines, for instance,

Cherry Picking Time

When we went to climb the ladder, Mabel
got ahead of me;
But I know she did it just to show her
versatility.

that brought me one whole dollar. Last year I determined to
have a go at French, so purchased a French-English Dictionary
and a rather pornographic book- Chansons de Bilitis par Pierre
Louys- no doubt you know of it. I have got so far as to be able
to read ordinary French prose, but those damnable irregular
verbs set my teeth on edge. Furthermore I have had the audacity
to start translation and have already got the book half done.
But of course, no one will publish it, the young person's pure
blank mind might be corrupted thereby.

Well, Mr. Douglas, I feel that I have taken up too much
of your time as it is, so will sign myself,

FREDERIC REEVES ASHFIELD

December 7th, 1917.

Dear Mr. Douglas;--

Was glad to receive your letter on the 20th of November. I
have most certainly not forgotten you. Indeed, have pictured you
often--taking your ease on the shady side of some vine-clad inn,
waiting a bit impatiently for the return of the landlord's rosy-
breasted daughter who had hurried away to fetch your wine, while
a couple of long-legged hens scratch about your tired feet, and
the sun slides down behind the purple hills. C'est la Vie!
What rare sport you must have had rambling around collecting material
for a book. That must be the best part of the game, but the actual
writing it all out, writing it as you do so that the reader feels
as if he had actually been your companion, must be damned hard work.

As to your output selling over here, I am not much of an
authority. I note however that the following publishers each have
one or more travel books on their holiday lists.

The Century Co. 353 Fifth Ave. New York, N. Y.
E. P. Dutton & Co. 681 " " " "
G. P. Putnam's Sons 2 West 45th St. "
Chas. Scribner's Sons 597 Fifth Ave. New York
Macmillan Co. 64 " " " "
Fred'k. A. Stokes Co. 443 Fourth Ave. " "
Houghton Mifflin Co. 16 East 40th St." "
The Page Co. 53 Beacon St. Boston, Mass.

Alfred A. Knopf, 220 West 42nd St. New York, publishes books
that are delicately risque.

Have you ever tried writing for the American Magazines, I mean
the high-class ones--Harper's, Century, Scribner's. They each have
at least one travel or descriptive article in each issue and I know
they pay well and promptly upon acceptance. The articles run 5000
to 12000 words and are generally illustrated with photos and drawings.

Have sold two short stories, 2600 and 3000 words, to a second-
class rather pornographic magazine and received a cent a word for
them, which is half or less than the high-class magazines pay. I am
sorry now I put the stories out under my real name--they are both
simply rotten. If I do any more I shall hide behind a nom-de-plume,
Adam d'As would be a good one.

You wonder why I do not try and sell my business and make a
bolt for freedom. Unfortunately the business is a regular family
affair established by my grandfather in 1835 and it still runs
along like an old clock, a little bit slow and losing time every
day and with no one save me to keep it wound up. My father is 67
and depends upon me. Besides the business there are two shackles
that hold me fast, shackles which try their best to make me comfort-
able but which do chafe just the least bit at times, but I am used
to them now. I have worn them for fifteen years, my wife and son.

(2)

I am afraid if I did make a bolt for freedom, I would come sneaking back like some old prisoner who cannot forgo the comforts of his long-familiar cell for all the freedom in the cold, careless world. However, although handicapped by my late start and lack of education--I had opportunity to get a college education but was too lazy--I am going to keep plugging away at the writing game, I cannot help doing so, and as somebody said, "Life is like a game of cards, it is not the holding of a good hand that counts, it's playing a poor hand well." And the deeper I get into it, the more I can appreciate good literature

You complain because you are stuck in Paris. My dear sir, there are thousands of us over here who would give ten years of their tame, colorless, uneventful life for a month of it. I suppose the reality is far different from the beautiful descriptions one reads and the illustrations in "La Vie Parisienne". But, cheer up, for this war cannot last for ever. And I believe it will all work out for good. It seems to be drawing the whole world closer together, English, French, Italians and at last Americans all fighting side-by-side as brothers for the common good. We are going slow but very sure over here and perhaps before this reaches you we will be doing our share.

We have a service flag-red border, white field with a blue star for each relative in the service and now there is one hanging before almost every house all over this big city. The other day I saw one in the Italian quarter made from a red flannel shirt and there were two stars crudely made in the centre. My youngest brother Harvey, he's 27 and six foot tall, has just received his commission in the Aviation Section of the Signal Corps and expects to be over there in about two months. He has been drilling and studying since last May.

Yes, I have read old Rabelias from cover to cover, at first with a boy's avidity for smut and later for the sheer joyous philosophy of the old rascal. I think mine was Urquarts translation. It was an edition in black cloth with Dore's illustrations published by Chatto & Windus. It has been missing and missed for some years--borrowed and not returned--the usual way.

"Old Calabria" was fine, indeed all your books are, they seem all too short. I notice it has been read by 32 people since I had it from the library last April. But the book I enjoyed most of all was the one about London Street Games, there is a style to it and a delicious vein of hidden naughtiness. Can't you do some more? I shall certainly try and get hold of a copy of "South Wind".

And so you are fifty. Well, I'm thirty-seven myself according to my birth certificate but inside I'm not over twenty and never will be. Why you are in the prime of life and good for twenty years at least.

(3)

FREDERIC REEVES ASHFIELD

The next time you go out for a stroll along the boulevardes think of me sitting here in a little dirty office looking out upon a thousand roofs, an office sixteen feet by eleven feet all cluttered up with two desks, a table, a safe, a typewriter stand and hundreds of plans, sample bricks etc. and remember I sit here every day and shall probably do so all my life. I have never traveled more than a hundred miles in all my life. At five o'clock I close my desk, buy a newspaper, run up two long flights of stairs to the elevated station, crowd into a train, stand up for three-quarters of an hour clinging to a strap, then I run down a flight, hurry up a suburban street and let myself into my little home. It is a wooden house, two stories and attix, set in its own little patch of ground, then I kiss my wife, listen to my boy's troubles in high school, try to help him with his algebra, his Latin is beyond me, then an hour's reading and so to bed.

I do not know whether you will receive this before Christmas but accept my greetings and best wishes anyway. My old nurse used to say-"Never mind, it won't be always so"- so keep your pecker up and drop me a line when in the mood. Will try and find out more about selling your stuff over here and will let you know more about it.

What do you think of the enclosed?