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[Black and white photograph of the writer signed to the writer of the article]

[Caption] Kenneth Roberts, Kennebunk, Maine Author.

BY ALICE FROST LORD

Until yesterday Kenneth Roberts to the writer was but a name, a distinguished name, to be sure, but only a name. Mention him and one thought of his long association with the Saturday Evening Post as staff correspondent, of his novels increasing in fame with the later production of "Arundel", "The Lively Lady" and "Rabble in Arms", and of his connections with Maine as a resident of Kennebunk Beach and an "agitator of the people" in the modern cause of roadside and community beautification.

Until yesterday he was a literary light hiding securely under the bushel of a small Maine coast resort, as far as personal accessibility is concerned. Banish the thought that Kenneth Roberts could endure living in a nitch [niche] in a shrine sought by pilgrims. Seclusion, quiet, a chance to work uninterruptedly, and beauty all around him, in his home, in his study, and thruout [throughout] the tiny community of which he is so important a part -- this is his taste and to a remarkable degree his achievement.

Accent on this situation was given by discovery that no telephone connections link the author with the outside world. No tinkling bell by day or night distracts. Business and social life is pushed back around the poplar corner and over the oak-shade knoll, where the macadam runs beachwise and inns and shops cluster.

Kenneth Roberts keeps his hand on the tiller and sailropes of his days, and manages his precious craft of hours against adverse winds of modern usages and interruptions. One feels the even keel of busy weeks in this study that is a transfigured stable. Hid behind a walled-in court where apple-trees grow Japanese-fashion, flat against the facade, and where pansy borders flourish, he charts and follows his course thru history and romance.

But when one once penetrates his seclusion, Mr. Roberts surrenders completely to the transient demand upon his time. He has been a reporter and special writer, back in his Boston Post days. Under his skin he is sensitive to the feelings of this clan of wandering question-marks, and sympathetic with their struggles against obstacles.

Morning sunshine outlined the fountain-figure among the flowers, making one think of Margaret Deland's strange bronze nestled in a birch-cluster at her river-side cottage a mile or two eastward. Mrs. Deland was out for an afternoon social affair, later that same day, and could not be seen; but in her cloistered retreat was spied the same engaging garden-statue which had found photographic record by the writer a decade ago.

Thru an arched doorway at the Roberts' study, carefully screened, came the familiar click of type-keys. The author was at his day's work. A tap, and a robust voice called, "Come in!"

What a room! The roof was high. The stable-like size ensured spaciousness, but the tall wall-spaces were broken on two sides by a narrow balcony with slender railing; and an open-stairway Ieading to second-floor quarters for sleeping also gave access to hanging book-cases in which Mr. Roberts keeps Intimate data on current books he ls writing.

Paintings and old engravings of historical Interest caught the eye; but the two impressive features, apart from the man, himself, were an eight-foot eagle that once ornamented with unusual grace of form and line the first supreme court building In this country and which Is now hung against the balcony at the rear, and an unique fireplace that projected Into the room at the opposite end, something like an Eskimo igloo In white plaster.

An high-backed, tapestry covered chair that might have come out of some palace scraped the boards. The occupant rose alertly -- and the welcome, vigorous and warm, was over.

Beautification

"Our Maine vacationland!" he ejaculated, with an immediate conversational dive into the subject nearest his heart, outside of his books.

People may not like to hear It, but all up and down our coast officials are doing their best to wreck the State!" There was conviction here.

"See what is being done, or not being done, to bring into Maine and keep here the people who are most desirable--people who will establish their summer homes along our coast, pay substantial taxes and ensure the future welfare of the State. Southern Maine is catering almost entirely to tawdriness and impermanence. Why, we in Maine until we cross the Kennebec!"

Mr. Roberts needed no jockeying to swing into his pace on this familiar theme. He was on his feet, his eyes flashing, words pouring out with fluency, tho low-spoken after the manner of a gentleman. Talking, he strode around his big chair, and suddenly sat down again.

"They tell me the State has committed a new billboard atrocity this season down this way; and look at what summer visitors, whom we invite here, see as they cross this part of the State: Regiments of telephone poles! Acres of overnight camps! Winrows [Windrows] if billboards, and more billboards! Are they any fewer since the campaign started against them in Augusta? No! Nor have the legislators done more than to license them and drive them back certain distances from the highway. They have not restricted them to commercial areas. Thousands of letters of protest in the office of the Maine Publicity Bureau prove that people with brains regard the billboarded sections of southern Maine as residential slums; and a slum never was worth anything to anybody.

"Do not mistake me," he added, as he rose again and backed against table and typewriter, as if by standing he could better visualize the picture before his mind.

"I recognize the right of people to have access to our wonderful ocean front, but not to make a mess of it. Give them parking areas well back from the shore, from which they may walk, as the rest of us summer cottagers walk, to enjoy the beach and rocks! But don't let them make life hideous with their automobiles, their noise and their debris!"

[Handwritten note: Lewiston Journal Aug. 3, 1935]