"My Dear Brother Baird: The big double number, with thirteen thrilling short stories, two complete novelettes and two two-part stories, is before me. It is a fine number. We waited a long time for it. There are six grown-ups in my family—myself and wife and two sons and two daughters—and we all want WEIRD TALES as soon as it reaches the newsdealer.
"Of course, I kept my eye out for the first copy that might land in the city. Every newsdealer heard my voice asking why WEIRD TALES did not show up. No one could give me information.
"Then there came the big July-August number. It was picked up without even the formality of asking the salesman. Then the trouble began, for all wanted to read WEIRD TALES. It was so big, had so many stories, and was so interesting that it was a case of 'finders keepers,' and 'possession is nine points of the law,' while one had the magazine and five wanted to get eyes on it.
"The magazine suits me fine. . . . We need more of the real salt of the earth to go with the iron that we pick up from the raisins, grapes and other sources, and in WEIRD TALES you have struck the vein of salt that preserves life."
And, next, the following from Lee Torpie, of 1204 Mason Street, San Francisco:
"Dear Sir: I used to think reading magazines a waste of time, until last April, when, quite by chance, I bought a copy of WEIRD TALES for March—the first issue. Since then, I've watched for your magazine eagerly each month; I found it filled in pleasantly bits of spare time, too brief for the reading of books. The stories were the sort I liked best, and while I cannot account for the scarcity of such fiction, I know from experience how hard it is to get.
"With my discovery of WEIRD TALES, I felt the problem of finding interesting reading matter for the little leisure I have was solved. Getting my copy for April wasn't all beer and skittles—I secured the first copy in a town where I was stopping at the time, and when I came to look for the magazine in San Francisco, I entered several bookstores and stopped at many magazine stands before I found an enlightened druggist who supplied me with the April number. I went there for the May and June issues.
"To my consternation, when I called for the July number, the druggist said it hadn't come in. Since then, I have haunted that drug store—daily at first, till, the clerk greeted me with a grin and a shake of the head before I had time to ask him the momentous question.
"So I am appealing to you. Perhaps you have decided not to market WEIRD TALES on the Pacific Coast; if that is the reason for my inability to get the July issue. I'll go into the subscriber class, if I may—then I'll be sure to have the magazine each month."
Mr. Torpie, we are happy to say, has since read our July-August issue, and, we hope, the September number, too.
Here is one that we’re not quite sure about. Maybe it belongs in that first batch. Maybe not. At any rate, here goes:
"Dear Mr. Baird; I was not disappointed in the June number of WEIRD TALES. I was only disappointed in not finding that magazine on the newsstands for July. I thought that either you or WEIRD TALES had died suddenly! I was reassured, however, when I beheld its welcome resurrection in August, so I put aside thoughts of mourning weeds.
"I liked the June number very well, excepting the reprint of Poe's Morgue Street Murders, my contention being that everybody who has read anything is already familiar with such literature; that you reprint them for the inconsequential minority, hence the pages upon which they are printed is so much waste paper to the greater number. Miss Burchard, I note, opposes this theory and even suggests that you reprint Sherlock Holmes! Now, I would ask Miss B. who under the canopy is not familiar with those famous stories? Who among the readers of WEIRD TALES hasn't already been satiated with them—'The Speckled Band,' 'The End of the Passage,' and so on?
"In these days, when a subscription to certain periodicals carries with it a set of Poe, Doyle, Bulwer, O. Henry, such reading is within the reach of all. 'The Upper Berth' is an exception, I fancy, and I hope we may have it should you lay hands on it. I am, however, open to conviction, and if yon ever think of taking a census of opinion in the matter I shall bow to the majority.
"P.S.—The July-August number was very interesting in that there was neither love mush nor old junk of the Bulwer type, 'Sunfire' is immense, and the close of 'Evening Wolves' was quite as it should be."
The foregoing was written by Dr. Henry C. Murphy of Brooklyn; and, before we comment upon it, we rise to remark that WEIRD TALES seems to offer a special appeal to physicians and surgeons. They like to read our sort of stories, and they like to write 'em. There is scarcely a day that we don't get at least one weird story written by a doctor. Doctors, it seems, encounter some weird adventures.
With regard to the argument against reprinting weird classics, so ably presented by Dr. Murphy, we'll say there's an even greater division of opinion on this than there is on the matter of serials. Since the publication of Miss Burchard's letter we've received at least two dozen communications informing us that "The Upper Berth" was written by F. Marion Crawford and earnestly requesting us to reprint this story and others like it. Opposed to these, we have some eight or ten letters telling us bluntly to lay off the old stuff. What to do? . . . Well, since Dr. Murphy says he will bow to the majority, I suppose we'd best do the same thing—and give "The Upper Berth" another run. (The Pullman Company should thank us, anyway.)
