"Dear Miss Lester:

You will never know how cheered up you made me feel when I received your letter. You should not feel abominable at all. It was all my fault for being so crazy so don't feel that way at all. We get movies here once a week so it really is not so bad. I am 31 years of age and come from Seattle. I have been in New York 4 years and think it is a great town only once in a while you get pretty lonesome. You are the prettiest girl I have ever seen even in Seattle. I wish you would come to see me some Saturday afternoon during visiting hours 2 to 4 and I will pay your train fare.

Your friend,

Justin Horgenschlag"

Shirley would have shown this letter, too, to all her friends. But she would not answer this one. Anyone could see that this Horgenschlag was a goof. And after all. She had answered the first letter. If she answered this silly letter the thing might drag on for months and everything. She did all she cold do for the man. And what a name. Horgenschlag.

Meanwhile, in prison Horgenschlag is having a terrible time, even thought they have movies once a week. His cell-mates are Snipe Morgan and Slicer Burke, two boys from the back room, who see in Horgenschlag's face a resemblance to a chap in Chicago who once ratted on them. They are convinced that Ratface Ferrero and Justin Horgenschlag are one and the same person.

"But I'm not Ratface Ferrero," Horgenschlag tells them.

"Don't gimme that," says Slicer, knocking Horgenschlag's meager food rations to the floor.

"Bash his head in," says Snipe.

"I tell ya I'm just here because I stole a girl's purse on the Third Avenue Bus," pleads Horgenschlag. "Only I didn't really steal it. I fell in love with her, and it was the only way I could get to know her."

"Don't gimme that," says Slicer.

"Bash his head in," says Snipe.

Then there is the day when seventeen prisoners try to make an escape. During play period in the recreation yard, Slicer Burke lures the warden's niece, eight-year-old Lisbeth Sue, into his clutches. He puts his eight-by-twelve hands around the child's waist and holds her up for the warden to see.

"Hey, warden!" yells Slicer. "Open up them gates or it's curtains for the kid!"

"I'm not afraid, Uncle Bert!" calls out Lisbeth Sue.

"Put down that child, Slicer!" commands the warden, with all the impotence at his command.

But Slicer knows he has the warden just where he wants him. Seventeen men and a small blonde child walk out the gates. Sixteen men and a small blonde child walk out safely. A guard in the high tower thinks he sees a wonderful opportunity to shoot Slicer in the head, and thereby destroy the unity of the escaping group. But he misses, and succeeds only in shooting the small man walking nervously behind Slicer, killing him instantly.

Guess who?

And, thus, my plan to write a boy-meets-girl story for Collier's, a tender, memorable love story, is thwarted by the death of my hero.

Now, Horgenschlag would never have been among those seventeen desperate men if only he had not been made desperate and panicky by Shirley's failure to answer his second letter. But the fact remains that she did not answer his second letter. She never in a hundred years would have answered it. I can't alter facts.

And what a shame. What a pity that Horgenschlag, in prison, was unable to write the following letter to Shirley Lester:

"Dear Miss Lester:

" I hope a few lines will not annoy or embarrass you. I'm writing, Miss Lester, because I'd like you to know that I am not a common thief. I stole your bag, I want you to know, because I fell in love you the moment I saw you on the bus. I could think of no way to become acquainted with you except by acting rashly--foolishly, to be accurate. But then, one is a fool when one is in love.

I loved the way your lips were so slightly parted. You represented the answer to everything to me. I haven't been unhappy since I came to New York four years ago, but neither have I been happy. Rather, I can best describe myself as having been one of the thousands of young men in New York who simply exist.

"I came to New York from Seattle. I was going to become rich and famous and well-dressed and suave. But in four years I've learned that I am not going to become rich and famous and well-dressed and suave. I'm a good printer's assistant, but that's all I am. One day the printer got sick, and I had to take his place. What a mess I made of things, Miss Lester. No one would take my orders. The typesetters just sort of giggled when I would tell them to get to work. And I don't blame them. I'm a fool when I give orders. I suppose I'm one of millions who was never meant to give orders. But I don't mind anymore. There's a twenty-three-year-old kid my boss just hired. He's only twenty-three, and I am thirty-one and have worked at the same place for four years. But I know that one day he will become head printer, and I will be his assistant. But I don't mind knowing this any more.

"Loving you is the important thing, Miss Lester. There are some people who think that love is sex and marriage and six-o'clock kisses and children, and perhaps it is, Miss Lester. But do you know what I think? I think that love is a touch and yet not a touch.

"I suppose it's important to a woman that other people think of her as the wife of a man who is either rich, handsome, witty, or popular. I'm not even popular. I'm not even hated. I'm just--I'm just--Justin Horgenschlag. I never make people gay, sad, angry, or even disgusted. I think people regard me as a nice guy, but that's all.

"When I was a child no one pointed me out as being cute or bright or good-looking. If they had to say something they said I had sturdy little legs.

"I don't expect an answer to this letter, Miss Lester. I would like an answer more than anything else in the world, but truthfully I don't expect one. I merely wanted you to know the truth. If my love for you has led me to a new and great sorrow, only I am to blame.

"Perhaps one day you will understand and forgive your blundering admirer.

Justin Horgenschlag

Such a letter would be no more unlikely than the following:

"Dear Mr. Horgenschlag:

"I got your letter and loved it. I feel guilty and miserable that events have taken the turn they have. If only you had spoken to me instead of taking my purse! But then, I suppose I should have turned the conventional chill on you.

"It's lunch hour at the office, and I'm alone here writing to you. I felt that I wanted to be alone today at lunch hour. I felt that if I had to go to lunch with the girls at the Automat and they jabbered through the meal as usual, I'd suddenly scream.

"I don't care if you're not a success, or that you're not handsome, or rich, or famous, or suave. Once upon a time I would have cared. When I was in high school I was always in love with the Joe Glamour boys. Donald Nicolson, the boy who walked in the rain and knew all Shakespeare's sonnets backwards. Bob Lacey, the handsome gink who could shoot a basket from the middle of the floor, with the score tied and the chukker almost over. Harry Miller, who was shy and had such nice, durable brown eyes.

"But that crazy part of my life is over.

"The people in your office who giggled when you gave them orders are on my black list. I hate them as I've never hated anybody.

"You saw me when I had all my make-up on. Without it, believe me, I'm no raving beauty. Please write me when you're allowed to have visitors. I'd like you to take a second look at me. I'd like to be sure you didn't catch me at a phony best.

"Oh, how I wish you'd told the judge why you stole my purse! We might be together and able to talk over all the many things I think we have in common.

"Please let me know when I may come to see you.

Yours sincerely, Shirley Lester"

But Justin Horgenschlag never got to know Shirley Lester. She got off at Fifth-Sixth Street, and he got off at Thirty-Second Street. That night Shirley went to the movies with Howard Lawrence with whom she was in love. Howard thought she was a darn good sport, but that was a far as it went. And Justin Horgenschlag that night stayed home and listened to the Lux Toilet Soap radio play. He thought about Shirley all night, all the next day, and very often during that month. Then all of a sudden he was introduced to Doris Hillman who was beginning to be afraid she wasn't going to get a husband And then before Justin Horgenschlag knew it, Doris Hillman and things were filing away Shirley Lester in the back of his mind. And Shirley Lester, the thought of her, no longer was available.

And that's why I never wrote a boy-meets-girl story for Collier's. In a boy-meets-girl story the boy should always meet the girl.

The Inverted Forest.

by J. D. Salinger.

To say that this short novel is unusual magazine fare is, we think, a wild understatement. We're not going to tell you what it's about. We merely predict you will find it the most original story you've read in a long time-and the most fascinating.

The following diary extract is dated December 31, 1917. It was written in Shoreview, Long Island by a little girl named Corinne von Nordhoffen.

She was the daughter of Sarah Keyes Montross von Nordhoffen, the Montross Orthopedic Appliances heiress, who had committed suicide in 1915, and Baron Otho von Nordhoffen, who was still alive, or at least, under his gray mask of expatriation, was still breathing. Corinne entered this chapter in her diary on the night before her eleventh birthday.

Tomorrow is my birthday and I am going to have a party. I have invited Raymond Ford and Miss Aigletinger and Lorraine Pederson and Dorothy Wood and Marjorie Pheleps and Lawrence Pheleps and Mr. Miller. Miss Aigletinger said I had to invite Lawrence Pheleps on account of Marjorie is coming. I have to invite Mr. Miller on account of he works for father now. Father said Mr. Miller will drive to New York in the morning and bring back 2 cow boy movies and show them in the libery after dinner. I got Raymond a real cow boy hat to wear just like that cow boy he likes wears. I got everybody else hats also only paper ones. Miss Aigletinger is going to give me Parade Prejudice by Jane Orsten she said. She is also going to give me the elsie I don't have. She is the most adorable teacher I have had since Miss Calahan.

Father is also going to give me more room in the kennles for Sandys puppys and I already saw the doll house from Wanamakers. Dorothy Wood is going to give me an autograph album and gave it to me already 3 weeks ago. She wrote in the front of it in your golden chain of friendship consider me a link. I nearly cried Dorothy is so adorable. I don't know what Lorraine and Marjorie are going to give me. I wish that mean Lawrence Pheleps did not have to come to my party. I don't want Raymond Ford to give me anything for my birthday just so he comes is all. He is so poor and not rich at all and you can tell by his cloths. I wish Dorothy had not written on the first page of the album because I wanted Raymond. Mr. Miller is going to give me an alligator. He has this brother in Florida that has alligators and T. B.

like Miss Calahan had. I love Raymond Ford. I love him better then my father. Anybody that opens this dairy and reads this page will drop dead in 24 hours. Tomorrow night!!! Please dear lord don't let Lawrence Pheleps be mean at my party and don't let father and Mr. Miller talk German at the table or anything because I just know they would all go home and tell there parents about it except Raymond and Dorothy. I love you Raymond because you are the nicest boy in the world and I am going to marry you. Any body that reads this without my permission will drop dead in 24 hours or get sick.

Close to nine o'clock on the night of Corinne's birthday party, Mr. Miller, the Baron's new secretary, leaned forward and volunteered down-table straight at Corinne, "Well, let's go get this boy. No use sittin' around mopin' about it all night. Where's he live, birthday girl?"

Corinne, at the end of the table, shook her head and blinked violently.

Under the table her hands were caught hard between her knees.

"He lives right on Winona," spoke up Marjorie. "His mother's a waiter at the Lobster Palace. They live over the restaurant." She looked around, pleased.

"Waitress," corrected her brother Lawrence, with contempt.

Little Dorothy Wood, seated at Corinne's right, shot one of her high strung glances uptable toward the baron. But the old gentleman was busy examining, somewhat morosely, the cuff of his dinner jacket-he had just brushed his sleeve into his ice cream-the sort of thing that often happened to him. Dorothy's high-strung glances in his direction were unnecessary, anyway. The baron's hearing device was seldom aimed at table talk, birthday parties not excepted, and regularly all evening he had been missing Lawrence Phelps's smart-boy alto.

"Well, waitress," conceded Marjorie Phelps. "Any. ways, he lives where I said, because Hermine Jackson's cousin followed him home once."

"Winona Avenue." Mr. Miller stood up confidently. He dropped his napkin on the table and removed his pale green, unfestive-looking paper hat. He was a baldheaded man with a jolly, humorless face. "Let's go, birthday kiddo," he said.

Again the hostess shook her head and blinkedwildly, this time.

Miss Aigletinger leaned forward, a committee-of one for smooth-running birthday parties. "Corinne, dear. Go with Mr. Mueller, why don't you, honey?"

"Miller," corrected Miller.

"Miller. Excuse me. . . Go with Mr. Miller, dear, why don't you? It'll only take a teensy minute. And we'll all be right here when you get back."

Miss Aigletinger turned rather coyly to the baron, on whose left she was sitting. "Won't we, Baron?" she asked.

"He isn't a baron any more. He's an American citizen. Corinne said so,"

Dorothy Wood stated firmly-and immediately blushed.

"What is it, please?" inquired the baron, aiming his hearing apparatus at Miss Aigletinger.

To the never stale interest of all the children present --except Corinne--Miss Aigletinger picked up the baron's speaking tube and shouted thinly into it, "I say we'll all be right here when they get back, won't we? They're going into town to look for the Ford boy." She started to relinquish the tube but instead took a firmer hold on it. "Very strange child. Came to us in October," she shouted elaborately. "Not a good mixer."

Though he hadn't understood a word, the baron nodded pleasantly.

Dispirited, Miss Aigletinger placed a protective hand to her throat where all the volume had passed through, and willingly gave over to Mr. Miller, who was standing ready beside her chair. Miller picked up the tube and shouted into it, "Wir werden sofort zur ck "

"Kindly speak English," interrupted the baron.

Miller flushed slightly but shouted, "We'll be right back. We're going to look for the youngster who didn't come to the party."

The baron understood Miller and nodded; then he glared down-table at Dorothy Wood, a favorite of his, whom he regularly frightened to death.

"You didn't eat anything." he accused her. "Eat."

Dorothy was too rattled to do anything but blush.

"She doesn t eat anything," the baron complained to no one in particular.

"Get your coat, birthday girl," Miller said to Corinne, standing directly over her.

"No," said Corinne. "Please."

"Corinne, dear," intervened Miss Aigletinaer, "it's just possible that Raymond Ford forgot your party. Those things happen in the best of families. There's no harm, surely, if you just remind---"