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Bob Dukish

Coding the Arduino

Building Fun Programs, Games, and Electronic
Projects
Bob Dukish
Canfield, Ohio, USA

Any source code or other supplementary material referenced by the author in this
book is available to readers on GitHub via the book’s product page, located at
www.apress.com/978-1-4842-3509-6 . For more detailed information, please
visit http://www.apress.com/source-code .

ISBN 978-1-4842-3509-6 e-ISBN 978-1-4842-3510-2

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4842-3510-2

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018945863

© Bob Dukish 2018

This work is subject to copyright. All rights are reserved by the Publisher,
whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of
translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting,
reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or
information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or
by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed.

Trademarked names, logos, and images may appear in this book. Rather than use
a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, logo, or
image we use the names, logos, and images only in an editorial fashion and to
the benefit of the trademark owner, with no intention of infringement of the
trademark. The use in this publication of trade names, trademarks, service
marks, and similar terms, even if they are not identified as such, is not to be
taken as an expression of opinion as to whether or not they are subject to
proprietary rights.

While the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and
accurate at the date of publication, neither the authors nor the editors nor the
publisher can accept any legal responsibility for any errors or omissions that may
be made. The publisher makes no warranty, express or implied, with respect to
the material contained herein.
the material contained herein.

Distributed to the book trade worldwide by Springer Science+Business Media

New York, 233 Spring Street, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10013. Phone 1-800-
SPRINGER, fax (201) 348-4505, e-mail orders-ny@springer-sbm.com, or visit
www.springeronline.com. Apress Media, LLC is a California LLC and the sole
member (owner) is Springer Science + Business Media Finance Inc (SSBM
Finance Inc). SSBM Finance Inc is a Delaware corporation.
Warning
Electrical circuits and components may contain lethal voltages even when
disconnected. Do not attempt to test, modify, or repair electrical equipment.
Hazardous voltages might be present, and even low voltages can produce high
currents that can cause severe burns. Care must also be taken, as some Arduino
boards have exposed solder connections that could come in contact with
conductive materials and cause a short circuit.
Introduction
Communication and Creativity
Life-forms on our planet are biologically programmed through evolution to be
interested in their surroundings for self-preservation, but some go a step further.
There is a popular expression: “Curiosity killed the cat.” Our human species is
extraordinarily inquisitive as well (although not equal to the cat), but it is our
curiosity coupled with communication and creativity that has propelled
humankind to become the dominant species on the planet. What is truly special
about the human race is our ability to discover, retain, convey, and most
important, synthesize new concepts. The communal knowledge that we amass
allows us as a species to learn from past experiences, and we use our creativity
to develop entirely new ideas. This has brought about modern technological
marvels such as telephone, television, computers, and all of the other items
ubiquitous in our modern lifestyle. Humankind’s insatiable need to be linked
together with others and communicate information builds a database of
knowledge where creative thought can then be applied to synthesize new
concepts. This is undeniably how the exponential growth in technological
advancement has occurred. Paraphrasing Sir Isaac Newton, we stand “on the
shoulders of giants.”
We can extrapolate back to prehistoric times and make an educated
assumption that knowledge was shared in early societies by individuals
patterning after others within a group even before spoken or written language
was developed. As time progressed and history developed, we know through
writings that early humans sought to satisfy their curiosity and used creative
thought to make sense of the world around them. Most early civilizations
imagined that mystical entities brought about order to the surrounding world,
and the dichotomy of good and bad was explained as being the intent of either
benevolent or malevolent deities. Early Greek mythology gave fanciful
explanations of the world by looking up to the unreachable stars overhead and
associating their patterns with supernatural concepts. Later, their civilization
provided humanity with the beginnings of science from enlightened explanations
of the physical world deduced through logical reasoning. The early Greek
scholars’ explanation of indirectly observable phenomenon such as electricity
provides us a working knowledge that is somewhat still in use to this day. Very
quickly, in the grand scheme of things, humankind went from thinking
everything was magical and out of human control to a basic understanding of the
atom as being an indivisible building block of the chemical elements that make
atom as being an indivisible building block of the chemical elements that make
up the universe.
It seems that we have now come to the point where there is an exponential
growth function of the advancement of knowledge leading to great leaps in both
science and technology that are almost explosive! Atoms are building blocks of
matter, just as the early Greeks thought, but late nineteenth-and early twentieth-
century science had discovered that atoms were constructed of a collection of
three subatomic particles: electrons, protons, and neutrons. Thanks to
mathematicians, particle physicists, and supercolliders, we now know that the
protons and neutrons are made up of even smaller subatomic particles called
quarks, to which physicists have given fanciful names in identifying different
varieties such as top, bottom, up, down, charm, and strange.
With our wondrous machines actually able to peer inside of individual
atoms, and through painstaking theoretical work in mathematics and science,
humankind has achieved such a detailed understanding of the physical structure
of matter and the interactions of energy, we now know that there are more than
100 subatomic particles dealing with matter and forces. The universe is just as
beautifully complex as it is immense. Beyond narrow religious views,
nationalistic fervor, race, and socioeconomic status, the grandeur of the universe
should resonate with us and unite all of humankind. Unfortunately, parochial
systems persist, and we have amassed the knowledge and technology to
obliterate the planet we live on. Several nations across the globe have a hairpin
trigger on nuclear devices that could purposefully destroy our entire civilization.
Perhaps the reason that we have not been able to eavesdrop on communication
signals emanating from civilizations orbiting other stars is that they are either too
young or have gotten to the point at which we are now and have developed
nuclear weapons and destroyed themselves. Let’s hope for the best for them, and
for ourselves.

About This Book

This book is intended for someone new to computer coding and electronics
technology. It contains four sections. The first provides a background on
electronic components and circuits. We then begin writing game code for an
Arduino development board using a subset of the popular programming
language called C++. In the third section, we build electronic game and
communications projects, and modify some of the code presented in previous
chapters to operate the devices. The fourth section expands on the functionality
of some of the programs presented in previous chapters and challenges the
reader with capstone projects.
reader with capstone projects.
As we present programs throughout the text, and later make modifications to
perform additional functions, we will generally rewrite the original code and
highlight new code placed into the more functional programs. At the end of each
chapter, there are review questions that allow the reader an opportunity to test
his or her comprehension of the material. Additionally, coding projects will be
described where the program code that is presented can be modified, or in which
two or more of the sample programs can be used to synthesize a new program as
the solution to the problem that is presented. Answers to both the review
questions and solution help to the coding projects appear in the Appendix.
Additionally, the Appendix contains information about the use of Arduino
libraries that simplify program coding.
There are many different ways to code a program, just as there are many
different routes that can be taken on a trip between two points on the globe. The
final objective in traveling is to arrive at an intended destination. I consider the
learning process to be like a trek along an infinite pathway, and many of the
examples in this text take what might be termed the scenic route to discover new
and interesting things along the way. This helps make the learning experience
more immersive, just as if one were on vacation and able to spend additional
time exploring unknown areas of the world to discover new things. It is also
hoped that the adventurous learner will experiment with the programs by coding
modifications to the projects as they are presented.
Arduino boards are available from the official Arduino web site at
www.arduino.cc , and from many electronics suppliers. Inexpensive parts
kits containing resistors, light-emitting diodes (LEDs), integrated circuits (ICs),
and other items discussed in this text are available through a number of sources.
Links to parts outlets and some of the lengthier code examples can be obtained
as a free download from the author’s official web site at www.dukish.com .

Acknowledgments
A very intelligent gentleman who worked as a professional house painter offered
thoughtful advice when I complained that a job was so massive that it would
take “forever” to complete. His response was to not look at the overall project,
but to only concentrate on one section at a given time. That advice rings true in
every aspect of life, and especially in complex areas like computer hardware
design and software programming. What at first glance might seem
insurmountably difficult to comprehend can indeed be conquered by having
laser-like focus and taking things one step at a time. Thank you, Tom Martinko.
Thank you to the code reviewers Dave Brett and Mark Furman who tested every
Thank you to the code reviewers Dave Brett and Mark Furman who tested every
line of code for functionality. I would also like to thank my students from the
Trumbull Correctional Institution in Ohio and their desire to overcome adversity
and achieve success as productive citizens by gaining new employment skills.
Finally, I would like to express my gratitude to the great college instructors I
was lucky to have had, who helped me understand complex material by not
putting tedious and unnecessary roadblocks in the way.

A Note from the Author About Education

Many years ago, I had an excellent experience in the military where it was
strongly encouraged that airmen take college courses and work toward a college
degree. I attended night classes at both Mohawk Valley Community College and
Utica College of Syracuse University, but struggled with what are now termed
STEM courses. While struggling in college, I was lucky to have a great physics
teacher who suggested the best way to learn complex material was to read and
reread the text, as many times as it took to truly understand the concepts. That
teacher also had an excellent suggestion on textbook problem solving: “Try
working out a problem, and if the answer was incorrect, take a break and later
retry solving the same problem.” I heeded the advice and my college textbooks
were well read, and numerous end-of-chapter problems were worked until the
solution was correct and understood. There is much truth in the sayings that
patience is a virtue and ignorance is bliss. Now as a teacher, I feel extremely
honored to be able to pass that information on to students covering complex
material. I also had a great English teacher for my first college writing class. I
mentioned to him that I did not remember anything from my high school English
classes about verbs, predicates, and pronouns. His advice was, “Forget about all
of that, and just write how you speak,” only to clean it up and be more formal. I
do not expect to win a writing contest for this book, but I hope it provides some
new and interesting information.
A doctor can bury his mistakes, but an architect can only advise his clients
to plant vines.
—Frank Lloyd Wright

Let’s build a few programs for fun and worry about the vines later. If you
push the wrong button or enter the wrong code, you need not worry; the
computer won’t blow up! Also, no matter how lengthy, repetitive, or ugly the
code that we write in implementing the objectives in this text, we will be
successful if the program works and produces the intended result. Before money
mattered, I am sure Bill Gates—now the richest man in the world—just had fun
mattered, I am sure Bill Gates—now the richest man in the world—just had fun
playing with computer code to produce simple tasks. Let’s have fun and learn
new ways of thinking. We can worry about perfecting the code and making
money later.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: A Background on Technology

The Difference Between Science and Technology

Ohm’s Law

Engineering Notation

Review Questions

Project 1

Chapter 2: Computers and the Binary System

Digital Signals

Power Consumption

Interfacing

Pull-Ups and Pull-Downs

Review Questions

Project 2

Chapter 3: Microcontrollers

Describing Microcontrollers

Writing a Program

Review Questions

Project 3

Chapter 4: More Loops, and More Elegant Methods to Flash an LED

 Timer Loops

Controlling Embedded Processes

Digital Electronics

Intermittent Windshield Wiper Control with Arduino

Review Questions

Project 4A

Project 4B

Chapter 5: Serial Communications

The Binary Number System and ASCII Code

Simulating Artificial Intelligence

Designing a Serial Communications Game

Finding Odd and Even Numbers

A Recipe Quantity Calculator for Baked Goods

Review Questions

Project 5

Chapter 6: Having Fun with Programming

Random Teacher Jokes

Perfecting Random Numbers

Poker Game

Multidimensional Arrays

Dice Game
 Review Questions

Project 6

Chapter 7: More Game Programming, with a Detailed Explanation

Coding the Game 21: First Attempt

Coding the Game 21: Second Attempt

Review Questions

Project 7

Chapter 8: Electronic Projects

Coding a Voltmeter

Dimming an LED with Pulse Width Modulation

Controlling an LED Using a Light Sensor

Coding a Frequency Counter

Pulse Generation

Counter with Seven-Segment Display (with Driver IC)

Dice Game with Seven-Segment Display (with Driver IC)

Counter with Seven-Segment Display (No Driver IC)

Dice Game with Seven-Segment Display (No Driver IC)

Electronic Dice Game with LEDs

Review Questions

Project 8

Chapter 9: More Elaborate Projects

 Coding a More Functional Poker Game

Coding a More Functional Game of 21

Using the Arduino to Transmit Morse Code

Chapter 10: Capstone Projects

Building an Audio Morse Code Reader

Building an Audio Morse Code Decoder

Team Project 1: IR Morse Code Link

Team Project 2: IR Control Link

Coding Math Combination Word Problems

Appendix

Using and Writing Libraries

Answers to Chapter Review Questions and Projects

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Parts List
Index
Other documents randomly have
different content
 Its dainty chalice with blue petals, where
The shade of bushes makes a shy retreat?
And we will frame our daily happiness
By joining hearts, lips, brows in rapt caress
Far from the world, its noises and conceit.
Shall we not hide our modest love between
Trees wafting cool on flowers and grasses green?

In Victor Kinon’s poetry is shown a knowledge of nature like that

possessed by that American poet whose death the world of letters
has not ceased to mourn, Madison Cawein. He sketches a
landscape in a few vigorous lines, and the picture is vivid and true.
This little poem might be a lyrical rendition of a Monet painting.

THE SETTING SUN

The stainless snow and the blue,

Lit by a pure gold star,
Nearly meet, but a bar
Of fire separates the two.

A rime-frosted, black pinewood,

Raising, as waves roll foam,
Its lances toothed like a comb,
Dams the horizon’s blood.

In a tomb of blue and white

Nothing stirs save a crow,
Unfolding solemnly now
Its silky wing black as night.

It is difficult to resist the temptation to read into the Catholic fold

many Belgian poets who do not, perhaps, belong there. There is
scarcely a man of letters in Belgium who does not owe his
introduction to literature to the Catholic Church. The Catholic schools
and universities of Belgium have given a knowledge of art and poetry
to many a poet who now pays for the gift his little stanzas of abuse.
But some of them, and among them must be counted Emile
Verhaeren, seem to be thinking of their old faith, now that the need
of faith has become terribly apparent to them. Verhaeren, especially,
seems to be about to stop in his weary flight from the Hound of
Heaven. For many years he was a writer of poems that seemed to
betray a mind absolutely diseased. There were realistic studies of
human vice that seemed like pages of Zola done into verse, and
there were extraordinary attempts (of which Stefan Zweig speaks
approvingly) to “chisel a new face of God.” But since his retirement
to his little cottage at Caillou-qui-Bique, he has written poems that
are for the most part exaltations of pure love, as lofty in thought as
they are finished in composition. Mr. Bithell’s translation of this little
song of wedded love shows that Verhaeren has left far behind him
the grossness of Les Flamandes and the morbidness of Les
Flambeaux Noirs.

THIS IS THE GOOD HOUR WHEN THE LAMP IS LIT

This is the good hour when the lamp is lit.

All is calm, and consoling, and dear,
And the silence is such that you could hear
A feather falling in it.

This is the good hour when to my chair my love will flit

As breezes blow,
As smoke will rise,
Gentle, slow,
She says nothing at first—and I am listening;
I hear all her soul, I surprise
Its gushing and glistening,
And I kiss her eyes.

This is the good hour when the lamp is lit.

When hearts will say
How they have loved each other through the day.
 And one says such simple things:
The fruit one from the garden brings;
The flower that one has seen
Opening in mosses green;

And the heart will of a sudden thrill and glow,

Remembering some faded word of love
Found in a drawer beneath a cast-off glove
In a letter of a year ago.

But the poem which indicates most clearly the tremendous

change that his nation’s tragedy has brought to Verhaeren, is that
inspired by the demolition of the Cathedral of Rheims. A year ago, it
may be, Verhaeren would have thought of this cathedral merely as a
beautiful piece of architecture, as an ancient and lovely landmark.
Now that it has suffered from the cannon of an invading army, he
remembers suddenly the high use for which it was intended, the
destruction of the sacred images and vessels reminds him, in spite
of all his sophistry, that these things were not mere works of art.
Once more, as in those far-away years when, with Georges
Rodenbach, Charles Van Lerberghe, and Maurice Maeterlinck, he
learned of literature and life at the Jesuit College of Sainte-Barbe, he
is able to understand that most necessary of all acts, worship. The
poem is so significant, so important to all who desire an insight into
the psychology of Verhaeren and of literary Belgium, that I venture to
quote here my own translation of it. It by no means does justice to
the beauty of the original.

THE CATHEDRAL OF RHEIMS

He who walks through the meadows of Champagne

At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear,
Sees it draw near
Like some great mountain set upon the plain.
From radiant dawn until the close of day,
Nearer it grows
To him who goes
Across the country. When tall towers lay
Their shadowy pall
Upon his way,
He enters, where
The solid stone is hollowed deep by all
Its centuries of beauty and of prayer.
Ancient French temple! thou whose hundred kings
Watch over thee, emblazoned on thy walls,
Tell me, within thy memory-hallowed halls
What chant of triumph or what war-song rings?
Thou hast known Clovis and his Frankish train,
Whose mighty hand Saint Remy’s hand did keep,
And in thy spacious vault perhaps may sleep
An echo of the voice of Charlemagne.
For God thou hast known fear, when from His side
Men wandered, seeking alien shrines and new,
But still the sky was bountiful and blue
And thou wast crowned with France’s love and pride.
Sacred thou art, from pinnacle to base;
And in thy panes of gold and scarlet glass
The setting sun sees thousandfold his face;
Sorrow and joy in stately silence pass
Across thy walls, the shadow and the light;
Around thy lofty pillars, tapers white
Illuminate, with delicate sharp flames,
The brows of saints with venerable names,
And in the night erect a fiery wall.
A great but silent fervour burns in all
Those simple folk who kneel, pathetic, dumb,
And know that down below, beside the Rhine—
Cannon, horses, soldiers, flags in line—
With blare of trumpets, mighty armies come.
Suddenly, each knows fear;
Swift rumours pass, that every one must hear,
The hostile banners blaze against the sky
And by the embassies mobs rage and cry.
Now war has come and peace is at an end.
On Paris town the German troops descend.
They are turned back, and driven to Champagne.
And now as to so many weary men,
The glorious temple gives them welcome, when
It meets them at the bottom of the plain.
At once, they set their cannon in its way.
There is no gable now, nor wall
That does not suffer, night and day,
As shot and shell in crushing torrents fall.
The stricken tocsin quivers through the tower;
The triple nave, the apse, the lonely choir
Are circled, hour by hour,
With thundering bands of fire
And Death is scattered broadcast among men.
And then
That which was splendid with baptismal grace;
The stately arches soaring into space,
The transepts, columns, windows gray and gold,
The organ, in whose tones the ocean rolled,
The crypts, of mighty shades the dwelling places,
The Virgin’s gentle hands, the Saints’ pure faces,
All, even the pardoning hands of Christ the Lord
Were struck and broken by the wanton sword
Of sacrilegious lust.

O beauty slain, O glory in the dust!

Strong walls of faith, most basely overthrown!
The crawling flames, like adders glistening
Ate the white fabric of this lovely thing.
Now from its soul rose a piteous moan,
The soul that always loved the just and fair.
Granite and marble loud their woe confessed,
The silver monstrances that Popes had blessed,
The chalices and lamps and crosiers rare
Were seared and twisted by a flaming breath;
The horror everywhere did range and swell,
The guardian Saints into this furnace fell,
Their bitter tears and screams were stilled in death.
 Around the flames armed hosts are skirmishing.
The burning sun reflects the lurid scene;
The German army, fighting for its life,
Rallies its torn and terrified left wing;
And, as they near this place,
The imperial eagles see
Before them in their flight,
Here, in the solemn night,
The old Cathedral to the years to be
Showing, with wounded arms, their own disgrace.

Of Verhaeren’s school-fellows at Sainte-Barbe, one, Maurice

Maeterlinck, is already enjoying a fame which exceeds his deserts
and is not likely to endure. Georges Rodenbach, who died in 1898,
wrote, like Verhaeren, of Flemish peasants, but he gave them a
romantic glamour which has alienated critics who admire naturalistic
poetry. Stefan Zweig has little use for him, and Jethro Bithell speaks
of his “weary Alexandrines,” and says that his reputation has waned
considerably since his death. But Charles C. Clarke, of the Sheffield
Scientific School, in the course of an illuminating article on Belgian
literature, says that Rodenbach’s poems have considerable vogue in
France. From his discussion of Rodenbach I quote this felicitously
phrased paragraph:

“Morbid and mystic like his prose, Rodenbach’s poetry has a

delicacy and a silvery tone that are inimitable. Out of almost
nothing it weaves thoughts and calls up memories of wonderfully
melancholy beauty. In it water is always stagnant, giving chill
reflections of the sky through trees; lights are dim, footsteps
noiseless; rooms are repositories of reminders of the past,
where silence speaks to the heart through sad aspects. The
extent to which Rodenbach uses such notes constitutes his
originality. His skill in avoiding every common formula and his
delicate choice of metaphors seem really inspiration. No one has
imitated his poems of gray tints and muffled sounds, his
mourning designs of dull filigree, without falling into monotony
 and trifling. It is not enough praise for a poet to say of him that
he was unapproachable in picturing the accessories of
melancholy; but Rodenbach deserves no more, unless it be our
gratitude for preserving in literature something of ancient
Flanders which battle and flame have destroyed beyond material
restoration.”

Another school-fellow of Verhaeren, Charles Van Lerberghe, can

scarcely, I believe, be called a Catholic poet, although, like Dante
Gabriel Rossetti, whose disciple he was, his verse is filled with
Catholic symbolism. In a country like Belgium, in which nearly all the
education is Catholic, and in which nearly every poet is, at any rate
nominally, a Catholic, it is sometimes difficult to distinguish between
writers who have a genuinely devotional spirit, and those who merely
like to play with mysticism. There are, for example, the amazing
poems of Max Elskamp. He writes simple and charming poems
about the Blessed Virgin and the Christ Child, and seems, indeed, to
have the hardy faith of his Flemish ancestors. But the simplicity of
his poems is not always convincing; the reader remembers that the
late William Sharpe wrote, as “Fiona MacLeod,” poems that seemed
to flame with all the piety of the Gael. And William Sharpe was, as he
took care to let the world know, a “pagan.” The feeling that
Elskamp’s interest in religion is chiefly literary is strengthened when
we learn from Mr. Bithell that most of the sacred names in his poems
have a symbolic meaning, that the Blessed Virgin means merely “the
pure woman,” and the Christ Child simply “the delicious infancy.”
Intellectual caprices like this seldom accompany genuine devotional
feeling.
But at any rate there is nothing to disgust or pain the reader in
Elskamp’s verse; whether or not he believes in the sacred
personages of whom he writes, he does not treat them irreverently.
His Catholicism, however, is not so convincing as is that of Thomas
Braun and Georges Ramaekers.
It is good to find that in Belgium, a country the literature of which
must inevitably reflect from time to time the strange fashions of
Germany and France, there has been preserved through the years
the poetry of Catholic tradition. Belgian poetry must become more
and more spiritual; the poets have seen and felt things mighty and
terrible, and they can no longer concern themselves with erotic
fancies and the nuances of their own emotions. In days to come,
historians of literature will perhaps see that on the thought of
Belgium as on the thought of all Europe, this war has had a clarifying
and strengthening effect. Good still comes from evil, sweetness from
force, and honeycomb out of the lion’s carcass. Belgium may say, in
the words of one of the truest poets of our time:

Sweet Sorrow, play a grateful part,

Break me the marble of my heart
And of its fragments pave a street
Where, to my bliss, myself may meet
One hastening with piercèd feet.
 LETTERS

To Charles Willis Thompson

The New York Times.
November 1, 1914.
Dear Charlie—
Can you lend me $1.00? I wish to go to New Brunswick, N. J. Help
me to gratify this strange whim!
J. Kilmer.

* * * * *

To Shaemas O’Sheel
Mahwah, N. J.
My dear Shaemas—
Aline and I are heartily glad of the splendid fortune that has come
to you and Blanche. I am sure you will enjoy Washington—it’s a very
lovely city as I remember it—I was there for two days at the age of
four.
With love from Mayor Gaynor, Cale Young Rice, Alfred Noyes,
Madison Cawein, B. Russell Hertz and Harriet Monroe,
 I am,
Yours,
Joyce.

* * * * *

The New York Times.

February 12, 1916.
Dear Shaemas:
I have been thinking a good deal about you for the last day or so,
and might therefore have known that a message from you was on its
way. The Minaret is a fine adventure, and God knows Washington
needs adventures more than any other city in the United States. There
is some beautiful writing and some brave and direct thinking in the
copies you sent me, and of course I enclose my subscription for a
year. I’d support any enterprise of yours, so long as it wasn’t a scheme
to make the Kaiser Mayor of Mahwah, New Jersey. I also enclose a
poem, with my blessing.
But why do you let your young collaborator—I suppose he is
responsible—be so damned vindictive! No poet has any right in the
world to knock the work of another poet who is honest. Vachel Lindsey
is, in my opinion, a sincere artist, whose work sometimes—as in “The
Chinese Nightingale”—glows with genius. That is of course only my
own opinion—but it is not merely a matter of opinion, but a matter of
absolute fact, that he is an honest man, consistently serving his ideal,
earnestly endeavouring to express the beauty that is in him. And abuse
is not what he should receive from his brother poet.
However, go ahead, and good luck to you. But lay off the hammer!
Poets have enough to suffer without being castigated by other poets.
Keep out of jail, and give my love to Blanche and Patrick Wilhelm.
Yours as always,
Joyce Kilmer.

* * * * *
 To Louis Bevier, Jr.
New York Times.
November 28, 1916.
My dear Louis:
I am sending you by this mail a copy of my book “The Circus and
Other Essays,” which our friend Laurence has just published. I had
intended to dedicate it to your father and yourself, but I suddenly
discovered that I had never dedicated a book to my own father. So I
have dedicated this one to him, and will dedicate to your father and
yourself one of the two books coming out in the Spring—either the
poems or the interviews.
At any time you wish, I will buy you a drink.
Yours sincerely,
Joyce Kilmer.

* * * * *

To Sara Teasdale Filsinger

New York Times.
February, 1916.
Dear Sara:
I don’t know that POETRY could use a Valentine poem, but if it
could do so, it ought by all means to use it long after Valentine’s day,
for timeliness, the greatest curse of our much cursed magazines, is
certainly not one of POETRY’S vices. And how do you like it? It’s the
first free verse I’ve written since free verse made a special label for
itself—it’s a highly artificial poem, and yet passionately sincere.
I’ve quit being a critic, thank God! I resigned from the Bookman
and Book News Monthly, and I no longer review poetry for the Times. I
still run the Digest’s “Current Poetry” department, but that’s not
criticism, it’s just an exhibition. I merely hold up for admiration the best
poetry I can find, saying nothing about inferior stuff. And I can do that
without losing my self-respect. But criticism of poetry is no task for an
enthusiastic poet, however little he may deserve the title.
Aline is still in hospital, impatient for the new baby. She likes to
receive letters.
Yours, Joyce.

* * * * *

To Katherine Brégy
The New York Times,
Times Square.
November 6, 1914.
My dear Miss Brégy:
It is delightful to find on my desk this morning your letter telling me
of the honour in store for me. Of course I am reading with enjoyment
the “Opera” in America; how valuable a friend Catholic poetry, that is
poetry, has in you!
A verse-maker, I suppose, is an unskillful critic of his own work. But
in reply to your question, I will say that I am greatly pleased when
people like “Trees,” “Stars” and “Pennies,” when they see that “Folly” is
a religious poem, when they praise the stanza fourth from the end of
“Delicatessen,” and understand stanza three of section four of “The
Fourth Shepherd.”
 Before what Miss Guiney calls my “great leap into Liberty” I
published a book of verses called “Summer of Love”; but I do not think
it would interest you; it is, for the most part, a celebration of common
themes. If you have not a copy of “Trees and Other Poems” please tell
me and I will send you one. I will send also “Summer of Love” if you
wish it, for some of the poems in it, those inspired by genuine love, are
not things of which to be ashamed, and you, understanding, would not
be offended by the others.
Your sincerely,
Joyce Kilmer.

* * * * *

May 18th, 1917.

Dear Katherine:
Naturally I’m expecting to go to the Wars, being of appropriate age
and sex. I was going to Plattsburg to try for a commission, but for
many reasons—one of them being that I didn’t want to be an officer in
charge of conscripts (the democratic bluff again! says Katherine)—I
gave up the idea. So a month ago I enlisted as a private in the Seventh
Regiment, National Guard, New York. We were reviewed by your
friend Joffre—in 1824 we were reviewed by Lafayette. We go to
training camp in a week or so—where I don’t know—and then we are
mustered into Federal service. We may be sent to France, we may be
sent to Russia, or it may be Mexico or Cuba—nobody knows.
Please come to New York and let me take you to luncheon. And
give Mrs. Coates my love.
Joyce.

* * * * *
 To Amelia Josephine Burr
Headquarters Company, 165th Infantry,
A. E. F., France.
My dear Josephine:
That is a magnificent piece of knitting—I am delighted to own it.
Thanks ever so much! And I will thank you ever more for your book of
poetry, which you promise to send me. I enjoyed your recent poems in
the Outlook—you are one of the few American poets who should be
allowed to write war songs. Your letter came up to the specifications of
the order—it was highly entertaining and therefore genuinely
appreciated. I sympathise with you in your trials in addressing camp
audiences, though I don’t know as you deserve any sympathy. I think
you have a pretty good time. And I know the audiences do.
I wouldn’t be surprised to hear of you coming over here as a nurse
or something. Nice country, nice war. I wouldn’t be back in the States
having meatless, wheatless, boozeless, smokeless days for anything. I
am a Sergeant now. I spend my time working at Regimental
Headquarters while we are in reserve, and in training and when we are
in action I am an Observer in the Regimental Intelligence Section—
very amusing work. I had a fine time during the recent activities of our
regiment, activities of which you probably read in the papers. In the
dug-out I wrote a poem I think you’ll like—“Rouge Bouquet” is its
name. I expect to remain a Sergeant (unless I’m reduced), for to get a
commission I’d have to leave the Regiment and go to a training school
for several months and then I would be sent to some regiment other
than this. And I’d rather be a sergeant in the 69th than a lieutenant in
any other outfit.
Give my love to anybody you meet who would appreciate that
commodity. And write often to
Yours,
Joyce.

* * * * *
 To Howard W. Cook
Headquarters Company, 165th Infantry,
A. E. F., France.
June 28, 1918.
Dear Mr. Cook:
Your letter of May 31 has just arrived. I am afraid that such
information as I can send you will reach you too late to be of use, but
anyway I’ll do what I can.
You ask first for biographical details. All this material you will find in
Who’s Who in America, except the information that I am the father of
four children, named respectively Kenton Sinclair, Deborah Clanton,
Michael Barry and Christopher.
Second, you ask for comments on myself and something about my
earlier efforts in poetry. That’s harder to answer. How can I make
comments on myself? I’ll pass up that part of the questionnaire, if I
may, but I’m willing to write about my earlier efforts in poetry. They
were utterly worthless, that is, all of them which preceded a poem
called “Pennies” which you will find in my book “Trees and Other
Poems.” I want all my poems written before that to be forgotten—they
were only the exercises of an amateur, imitations, useful only as
technical training. If what I nowadays write is considered poetry, then I
became a poet in November, 1913.
Now, as to your other questions. I’ll take them in order. 1. What has
contemporary poetry already accomplished? Answer—All that poetry
can be expected to do is to give pleasure of a noble sort to its readers,
leading them to the contemplation of that Beauty which neither words
nor sculptures nor pigments can do more than faintly reflect, and to
express the mental and spiritual tendencies of the people of the lands
and times in which it is written. I have very little chance to read
contemporary poetry out here, but I hope it is reflecting the virtues
which are blossoming on the blood-soaked soil of this land—courage,
and self-abnegation, and love, and faith—this last not faith in some
abstract goodness, but faith in God and His Son and the Holy Ghost,
and in the Church which God Himself founded and still rules. France
has turned to her ancient Faith with more passionate devotion than
she has shown for centuries. I believe that America is learning the
same lesson from the war, and is cleansing herself of cynicism and
pessimism and materialism and the lust for novelty which has
hampered our national development. I hope that our poets already see
this tendency and rejoice in it—if they do not they are unworthy of their
craft.
2. What is American poetry’s influence to-day? Answer—This
question I am ill-prepared to answer, but I would venture to surmise
that the extravagances and decadence of the so-called “renascence of
poetry” during the last five years—a renascence distinguished by the
celebration of the queer and the nasty instead of the beautiful—have
made the poet seem as silly a figure to the contemporary American as
he seemed to the Englishman of the eighteen-nineties, when the
“æsthetic movement” was at its foolish height.
3. What of American poetry’s future? Answer—To predict anything
of American poetry’s future requires a knowledge of America’s future,
and I am not a student of political economy. But this much I will tell you
—when we soldiers get back to our homes and have the leisure to
read poetry, we won’t read the works of Amy Lowell and Edgar Lee
Masters. We’ll read poetry, if there is any for us to read, and I hope
there will be. I believe there will.
Sincerely yours,
Joyce Kilmer.

* * * * *

To Thomas Walsh
Headquarters Co., 165th Infantry,
A. E. F., France.
April.
Dear Tom:
Where will you be, I wonder, when this letter reaches you?
Perhaps in the Brooklyn sanctuary (this term is here used in a purely
literary sense) reading reviews of your newest book of verse—pleasant
reading indeed, judging by those I have seen. Perhaps you will be in
your Sabine farm at Lake Hopatkong—if that is the way that strange
word is spelled. Perhaps the postman will give it to you just as you
parade away from your home, and you will take it with you to the
palatial new Columbia University Club, and glance at it over your turtle
soup and sherry and steak and mushrooms and corn and sweet
potatoes and chaveis—but I’m breaking my heart describing this meal
of yours. Soon the mess call will sound and I’ll take my aluminum meat
dish and canteen cup, and wade through the mud to the mess-line.
And I’ll get a plate of stew and some milkless tea or coffee, and I’ll
stand in the mud or sit down in the mud and consume it.
Nevertheless, it’s a nice war and I’m enjoying most of it. Our time
at the front—of which the newspapers have by this time informed you
—was a wonderful experience. I had the privilege of spending a week
as observer in the Regimental Intelligence Section—lively and
interesting work. I’d love to see you at an observation post, Tom, you’d
get as thin as I now am.
Send me your book, will you, Tom? I enjoy poetry more now than
ever before—I suppose it is because I get it so seldom. When I’m
writing verse and reviewing verse and talking about verse and to
verse-makers all the time, I have not the enthusiasm for it I have over
here, where most of the poetry is unwritten and undiscussed.
Nevertheless, it’s a nice country. I’d like to buy you a litre of red
wine—for a franc and a half—with a dash of syrup in it. Also I could
introduce you to the results of the labours of a few accomplished
cooks, some of them soldiers, some of them French women.
Fr. O’Donnell quotes you to the effect that Louis is now in this land,
or on his way hither. I hope to see him. He ought to be sent to an
Officer’s Training School soon—I think that will happen. He is the sort
of fellow who ought to have a commission. I might possibly be allowed
to go to an Officer’s Training School, but I wouldn’t do so, because if I
did so I’d be sent—whether or not I got a commission—to some
Regiment other than this. And I take no pleasure in the thought of
soldiering in a regiment of strangers. I like the crowd in this outfit very
much and would rather be a sergeant—as I am—here than be a
lieutenant in any other Regiment.
If you are ever minded to send me papers, please let them be
Times Book Reviews or other sheets of a decidedly literary flavour.
Occasional copies of The Bookman would be welcome. I like a bit of
concentrated literature now and then.
Remember me, please, to your sisters and brothers and to any of
my other friends whom you may meet. And believe me
Always yours sincerely,
Joyce.

* * * * *

To Robert Cortes Holliday

Headquarters Co., 165th Inf.,
A. E. F., France.
May 7, 1918.
Dear Bob:
I have not the time now to write you the letter I’d like to write—
chiefly about your characteristic and delightful Tarkington book, which I
greatly enjoyed and expect to enjoy during many re-readings. What I
write now is merely a note in answer to your letter of April 12. This you
will please communicate to Mr. Doran and regard as final.
The only way I can give you any material for a book is as I am
doing now—sending you every six months or so some verses or an
introspective essay which you can syndicate and eventually turn into a
book. I sent you a prose sketch “Holy Ireland” (which represents the
best prose writing I can do nowadays), another prose sketch, and (by
way of Aline) a poem, “Rouge Bouquet,” which you ought to be able to
do a good deal with. It is probably the best verse I have written. I never
planned doing war-correspondence work—if I had I’d have come over
as a correspondent instead of as a soldier. Many circumstances,
including the censorship, the rules governing a soldier’s conduct and
other things, prevent me from trying to make a consecutive narrative
now, even if I so desired. I am a poet at present trying to be a soldier.
The experience may naturally be expected to result in a book—of
some kind, at some time. I am not going to try to “cover” the war or my
Regiment’s share in it. But the title “Here and There With the Fighting
Sixty-ninth” may probably be taken as well as any other to cover what,
if I survive, I shall probably, in the course of time, write. My days of
hack writing are over, for a time at least.
To tell the truth, I am not at all interested in writing nowadays,
except in so far as writing is the expression of something beautiful.
And I see daily and nightly the expression of beauty in action instead
of words, and I find it more satisfactory. I am a Sergeant in the
Regimental Intelligence Section—the most fascinating work possible—
more thrills in it than in any other branch except possibly aviation. And
it’s more varied than aviation. Wonderful life! But I don’t know what I’ll
be able to do in civilian life—unless I become a fireman!
Please give my love to Stella and believe me always your
affectionate and grateful friend
Joyce.

* * * * *

To Reverend Edward F. Garesché, S.J.

Hq. Co., 165th Inf.,
A. E. F.
Jan. 29, 1918.