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A oomp/eto Jyove/e^e 

8 — ' ®£ tlh.® Es.m@lk® w 


naT PirSt installment oP 

our now serial B@©>mfe : 



fbr Motion Picture Plots 

Grand Prize Contest— Amateurs Only 

Those Who Have Already Sold Photoplays Cannot Compete 

New Ideas, by New Writers, Wanted 

How To 



Elbert Moore 

former Scenario Editor of oat 
of World's largest companies. 


Your chance to win a prize is as good as anybody's. If you 
attend the movies" you know the kind of ideas they want. One 
of your ' ' happy thoughts ' ' may become one of the ' ' movie ' ' sensations of the 
year. Previous experience or special education not necessary. I show you how. 
Any person willing to take my few easy lessons can compete for these prizes. 
Beginners wanted; no experienced writers allowed. 

This Book Is Free to You WSt* 

Simply mail me free coupon below, and you will get this most 
interesting book, as well as full particulars of prize contest, free. 

First Prize $200 Cash 

Three prizes $50 cash each. Two prizes $25 cash each. Five 
prizes $10 cash each. And many other prizes; total over $500. 

Photoplay Winning $200 Prize, Will Former Scenario Editor 

be Produced by United Photoplays Co. Guarantees You $ 10 

30,000 Movie Theatres are changing their 
program every day and demanding new photoplays. To 
meet this demand the producing companies are clam- 
oring for New Ideas for Plots. Many persons, young 
and old, all over this country possess the kind of ideas 
which are wanted and I am offering these prizes as an 
inducement to them to obtain the needed training. You doubtless 
possess ideas of this valuable sort or yon would not be interested in 
this advertisement. The winning photoplay will be produced as a 
featureby the United Photoplays Co. and shown in theatres all over 
the civilized world. Investigate, by using free coupon below. 



Box 772FA4 Chicago 

Send free booklet, "How to Write Photoplays" and all facts 
about guarantee and $500 prize contest. 



Besides these prizes, and other big=prizes which are 

continually being offered by the producing companies, I guarantee 
you at least $10 for the first photoplay you write by my method. 
This means you; no matter who you are. If you have the least trouble 
in selling your first photoplay, simply let me know and I will pay you 
$10 for it without delay or question. As former Scenario Editor of one 
of the world's largest producing companies I speak with authority. 

Learn at Home, in Spare Time 

Previous experience is not necessary. Persons who 

lack the literary experience necessary for writing novels and stage 
plays are now finding it possible to express in the "Silent Drama" 
(or Photoplays) the strong and original ideas which many of them 
possess. You can learn and practise this most profitable and inter- 
esting profession in spare time right in your own home. 

Grasp this Lifetime Chance — Use 

Free Coupon at Once, Before 
"*•■ Prize Contest Closes 

This is your opportunity; grasp it. Persons no more 

talented than you are earning $15 to $50 a week writing photoplays 
in their spare time. It costs nothing to investigate. Use free coupon 
at once, before the prize contest closes. 


(Former Scenario Editor) 

Box 772FA4 Chicago, Illinois 


Reg. U. S. Paf. Off. 


"The National Movie Publication" 




"THE ROSE OF THE RANCHO" Bruce Westfall 39 

Novelized from the Lasky feature film, based on the play of David Belasco and Richard Walton Tully. 


"SWEENEY'S CHRISTMAS BIRD" Marie Coolidge Rask 28 

Illustrations from the Vitapraph Film. 

THE BOMB ....... ...Richard Dale 63 

Illustrations from the Lubin Film. 

"THE SOWER REAPS" Helen Bagg 73 

A .story that proves the truth of the old saying that "As ye sow, so shall ye reap." 

Illustrations from the American Film. 

THE BLACK SHEEP. Dorothy Chase-. .. 87 

"""'."-•-' Illustrations from the Kalem Film. 
THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT Vivian Barrington 108 

Proving- that doing- a good deed has its own reward. Illustrations from the Nesior Film. 

An original story illustrated with pictures from the "Cinderella" film produced by the Famous Players 
Company. ■'"'" 

"THE TEST" . John Oscar 154 

In which a man goes thru fire and water for his sweetheart. Illustrations from the Selig Film. 


BEAUTY TO BURN. George Orcutt 129 

The first installment of one of the greatest serial stories ever published. Read the beginning of it and 
see if you don't agree with us. 


She talks about clothes— and other things. 


An interview with David W. Griffith. 

NINE OF THE MORNING Mabel Condon 69 


Edwin August is after a variety of featherless poultry, and he'll get it, just as he gets everything else he 


PLAYS Harvey Peake 38 


The good resolutions of the photoplayers, also some others, not so good. 

THEN AND NOW .William Carlotte . 94 

GROWING UP WITH THE MOVIES .....'. Florence Lawrence in collabor- 

The third part of the life story of Florence Lawrence ation with Monte M. Katterjohn 95 

How the men and women of the motion picture world will spend their Christmas this year. 


MAKE THEM. . . Pearl Gaddis 121 

Some of the Jacksonville players divulge their favorite recipes. 



It took eighteen months to reproduce the citv for the movies— and 20.000 people to fill its streets and houses. 

"PLAYERS WITH THEIR OWN PLAYS" Vanderheyden Fyles 148 





Issued monthly. Yearly subscription, $1.50, in advance. Single copy, ISc. Canadian postage, 30 cents 
additional. Foreign postage, $1.00 additional. Do not subscribe through persons unknown to you unless they 
have proper credentials signed by the publishers. 
EDWIN M. COLVIN. President JAMES R. QUIRK. Vice-President ROBERT M. EASTMAN. Secy.-Treas. 

Published by the PHOTOPLAY PUBLISHING COMPANY, 1100 Hartford Bldg., Chicago 

Entered at the postoffice at Chicago, 111., as second-class mail matter. 






C "Here's a list of the film companies and it tells just where 
to send scenarios and just what kind each company wants. I've 
been looking for just such information for months! 

C "And there's a lot of dandy recipes for delicious dishes — and 
each recipe is by the player herself and she gives full directions 
for the preparation. 

C "And the interviews — short and snappy and lots of interesting 
notes about the players. 

C "Oh, this magazine is so full of good things that it seems too 
good to be true." 

C Those are the exact words of one of our subscribers upon looking 
over the December issue of PHOTOPLAY MAGAZINE. 

C The December number WAS good. And this — the January number 

C It contains so many good things that we can not enumerate here for 
lack of room. But "the proof of the pudding is in the eating." This 
number is SOME PUDDING and— figuratively speaking— WE WANT 
YOU TO EAT IT and let us know how it tastes. 

C The February number will be even better. New stories, interviews 
that are different from any you ever read, a big bunch of stories arid 
over 100 pictures. 

Order your copy now. Better yet, send your 
subscription today. Ma\e sure that you will 
get your copy and that your friends get theirs 

A subscription to Photoplay Magazine would be a welcome Christmas gift. 
Send one in NOW for the friend whose present ybu have not yet selected. 


1100 Hartford Bldg. CHICAGO, ILLINOIS 




The classified section that will get them all, 
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It is live and coming — not a classified sec- 
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The rate is 75 c per line (6 average words to 
the line). Payment must be enclosed with 




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$50 each: all or spare time; correspondence 
course unnecessary. Details free. Atlas 
Pub. Co.. 394. Cincinnati. O. ■ . 


in photo -play writing. §100 paid for plots. 
Constant demand. Whole or spare time. 
Literary ability or correspondence course 
unnecessary. Franklin Co., 628 Pacific 

Bldg.. San Francisco. 


cents. Any length. Fred A. Pita,, 



Building," explains the quickest and most 
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photoplays. Send for it now — it's free. 
MacHatton, Box 610, Chicago. 


words. Mails, Axa Bldg., Leavenworth, 
Kans. . ; 


ten Photoplay as sent to producers, with 
essential- details of technic,_ producers, etc. 
Price 25e. Expert revision, criticism and 
typing. A. Kennedy, 3309 N. 17th St., 
Philadelphia, Pa. 



promptly typewritten, including carbon, 10c 
a page; large list of' producers and 12 
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order. Van Specialties Co., Dept. A, 356 
West 42nd St., New York City. 


page. C. Higene Co.,. F2441 Post St., San 
Francisco. , ' 


sell on commission. Don't waste money try- 
ing to acquire literary ability. Write us. 
Story Rev. Co., Box 12, Smethport, Pa. 


for 50c. Samples mailed if requested. A 
paying side line for agents. The lioyal 
Card Press, Waterbury. Conn. ■ ■* 


shortest possible time. The Omnigraph au- 
tomatic teacher sends telegraph messages 
at any speed as an expert operator would; 
5 styles, $2 up; circular free. Omnigraph 
Mfg. Co.;, Dept. It, -39, Cortlandt St., N. Y. 


clal offer to introduce my magazine "Invest- 
ing for Profit." It is worth S10 a copy 
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paid for hundreds of Coins dated before 
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your favorite Motion Picture Stars for 25 
cents. In beautiful sepia. Each photo is 
autographed by the player. Over 300 sub- 
jects to select from. Send stamp for list. 
American Publishing Co., Security Bldg., 
Los Angeles, Cal. . 


illustrated catalogue, 10c. Taylor Bros., 
P2129 Clifton, Chicago. 


Catalog and samples, lOc. Dp Vitto, (8) 
New Dorp, N. Y. ' * 


ing Post Cards 10 c. Try us satis- 
fied. German -American Post. Co., Dept. 
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colored, and two new pictures by the same 
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The three pictures for 25c. Mack Art 
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M inn "'_ 


Bewitching Poses. Imported; hand-colored; 
no trash. Catalog and three samples, 25c; 
seven, 50c. Kitz Publishing Co. (not Inc.), 
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size, ir" we ao the printing, send one good 
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Sun Photo. Supply. ....Co., Jamestown, N. Y. 


films or plates. Very, highest class of work 
at lowest prices. Send for free booklet of 
information and prices. W. W. Sweatman, 
Box 602 E. Portland, Maine. 


special prices on Quality Kodak Finishing. 
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easy for you to learn at home. Dept. 6, M., 
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3T6.3 lens, exposures to one -thousandth sec- 
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Newark Photo Supply Co., Dept. J, Newark, 

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and sizes. Work just as well as new ones. 
Send for our bargain-list. St. Louis-Hyatt 
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for 40 c; Bert Hedspeth, 29 59 California 
St., Denver. Colo. 


postcard scenes in and around Salt Lake, 
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paid- for 25c in silver. Gem Novelty Co., 
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ported, cabinet size, 4 for 25c; 10" for 50c; 
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zerland; etc., will exchange postcards with 
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College Life, 10c. B. Dunham, 2120A Mil- 
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where, 10c. Ki'mo, 2577D, Cuming, Omaha. 



inches, $1. Ribbons any color or machine, 
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tional bargains. B. C. Welland Sales Com- 
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Oliver Visible Typewriters at a sensational 
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pany.lncvcrwokcuptoallthereisinlife'tilltookit" X JlXi »JMJiIliLjLJ\jry CfK^rLKJKJtj CHICAGO 

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Pages 7-10 

Missing from 


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leading man of the Essanay, Eastern Stock Company, is one of the three most 
idolized actors of the films. Perhaps that is because he is a man's man — an 
expert boxer, wrestler, swimmer, horseman, and swordsman. Mr. Bushman began 
in stock at an early age — he is not thirty yet; but his four years with Essanay 
have convinced him that his life work will be that of appearing in the film drama. 
rlwtograph by Harrington Studio, Joliet, HI. 


who is often called the " Colorado Girl " because she came from Victor, Colorado, 
is not yet twenty years old. She began as a dancer. Now she is a leading woman 
whose vivacious face is familiar in such productions as "The Ghost of Self," 
"The Hour and the Man," and "The Wood Nymph." 

Photograph by Matzene, CM&tgo 


actor, athlete, and Irishman, has never done anything better than his interpreta- 
tion of the title role in Captain Alavarez, but he has done things just as good. 
He is tall and distinguished looking, has kindly gray eyes and a mouth that 
bespeaks humor, and this, of course, accounts for some of his great popularity in 
the Western Vitagraph pictures. 

Photograph by Witzel, Los Angeles, Cal. 


the charming daughter of William A. Brady, has been engaged by the World 
Film Corporation to appear in pictures. Her talents are many, and with her 
training which has included years of work at the Boston Conservatory of Music, 
such parts as Meg in "Little Women," the lead opposite Jack Barrymore in 
"A Thief for a Night," and Pitti San in "The Mikado," are certain to contribute 
much toward a successful debut on the screen. Photograph, by White, N. Y. 


was born in the fine old Southern city of Richmond, Virginia. It is only a little 
more than a year since she joined the Lubin Western branch at Los Angeles, 
California, but her experience in stock with Corse Payton and a year's playing 
the lead in "The Servant in the House" served her in good stead. She has been 
starred this year in a notable series of multiple reel productions. 
Photographed by HemeMvay, Los Angeles, Cat. 


of the Universal Company, is so well known to motion-picture fans that it is 
impossible to tell anything new about him. They call him the "Jack of Hearts." 
He came from the South and has had a chance, in the brief five years since he 
was old enough to vote, to display his handsome profile in many a role from that 
of Sampson in a biblical production to that of a cowboy in a Western drama. 
Photograph by Mojonicr, Los Angeles, Cat. 


the "grand old man" of the Edison Company, first appeared on the stage in that 
famous production at Niblo's Garden, "The Black Crook," which so scandalized 
our grandmothers. He has been associated with many of the great actors of a 
generation ago — with Edwin Booth, Lawrence Barrett, Jno. McCullough, and 
Jno. 11. Stoddard. In the last six years he has impersonated 1,500 characters 
before the recording eye of the camera. Photograph by Barony, .v. i 


besides being one of the most beautiful actresses for the films, is also one of the 
most daring. She can wear a blue checked gingham apron and look stunning in 
it, and she can hang suspended in mid-air from a derrick or take a two hundred 
foot fall down a mountainside on a motorcycle, apparently without blinking an 
eye. She began in stock, played with James K. Hackelt and Virginia Harned, and 
did the Orpheum circuit in vaudeville before she became a motion-picture star. 
I'liotugvaith bu Wit-cl, Los Aiiycles 


has had almost as many names as he has talents. His mother called him Edwin 
August Philip vonder Butz. His friends call him Eddie. He began as little 
Lord Fanntleroy and turned to the pictures only after a long and successful career 
in stock companies and two years in support of Otis Skinner. Now he writes his 
own plays, stages them before the camera in the Eaco Studios, and acts the lead- 
ing part. Photograph '»/ WiUel, Los Amides 


is a star of the Selig films. She was born in Santa Barbara, California, and, 
though her pictures have gone around the world, she herself has never been out- 
side of her native state. Her childhood on Catalina Island, where she swam in 
the surf, and rode horseback in the hills, gave her the daring and endurance 
which, together with her wonderful beauty, have made her a successful actress. 

l'hotograph © Selig Polyscope Co. 


is a Thanliouser favorite who is "expected to <lo something daring all the time,"' 
as she herself says. The exciting experiences and narrow escapes, resulting from 
this demand, have more than once made it necessary for her to stop wi>rk in 
order to recuperate. But she always comes back a rejuvenated Jean Darnell, 
full of fire such as she displayed as Cigarette in " Carmen." 
l'hot<tgra]/h by Unity, A*. Y. 


whose fine face looks so frankly and so boyishly out of the photograph, learned 
the ways of the stage in that old and tried school of actings the slock company. 
He played for three seasons with Countess Elsie de Tourney in Shakespearian 
repertoire. Three years ago he joined the Frontier company and has been 
appearing in their pictures ever since. 

I'hotoyritjih bit it'itzcl. Los Angetcs, Cat. 


was born at Nyack-on-the-Hudson about twenty-two years ago. She went directly 
from the girls' school at which she learned all the fashionable accomplishments, 
into the Essanay Studio without any professional experience whatever. But she 
had the charm and beauty which go a long way toward making experience 
unnecessary, and her success is a notable one. 

, Photograph bu Matzcne, Chicago 


is one of the best-known actors in America. He will soon be seen in pictures as 
Beb Sbemual in the production of Izrael Zangwill's " The Children of the Ghetto." 
Not everybody knows that Mr. Laekaye became an actor by the barest margin — 
he was about to be ordained a priest when he changed his mind. Later his 
acting in an amateur dramatic club attracted the attention of Lawrence Barrett 
and he was launched on his stage career. Photograph by wiute, x. r. 


—From "Dress in the Movies.' 

Special Announcement 

THIS month we publish the first installment of the best 
magazine serial we have read in a long time. It is 
called "Beauty to Bubn" and it is by George Orcutt. We 
think that before you have finished it you will agree with 
us that it is the most unusual love story published in an 
American magazine this year. 

This first installment introduces an American girl, Ber- 
nice Frothinghain, whom you will want to meet and whom 
you will want to know. Bernice Frothingham was brought 
up to expect every luxury that money can buy, as a matter 
of course. She had never done her own hair in her life 
until she was twenty years old — there was always her own 
maid to do it for her. Then she came to hate the life she 
had lived so much that she ran away from it and became — 
but that would be telling. All we have to say is that exciting 
things happen to Bernice. 

But exciting as they are, they are all true. Or they 
might have been. Anybody who reads the newspapers 
knows of the case of a society girl who has done in real life 
more than one of the things that Bernice Frothingham does 
in fiction. Bead "Beauty to Burn" and then let us know 
if there was ever a love story like it. 

Sec Page 129 


A parrot and a pig inter- 
Eve but all are happy over 

Sweeney's Christ- 

By Marie Coolidge Kask 

Illustrations from the Vitagraph Film 

OH-0-0-0-! Oh-o-o-o-! Sure 'tis a 
sorry day for th' Sweeney family." 
The cries of the mourner awoke 
the echoes of the dumb waiter shaft in the 
Hoolihan tenement, but they failed to awake 
the deceased. In vain Norah Sweeney poked 
at the rigid form with a lean forefinger and 
felt of the upturned toes. It wasn't a fit 
this time. 

"Oh, wirra, wirra — " wailed Norah. 
The door of the dumb waiter shaft in the 
fiat below opened violently. A ponderous 

happen so soon, an' him not old, at all, at 
all. Oh-o-o-o!" 

"Th' saints preserve us, Mrs. Sweeney! 
D'ye mean Sweeney's crazy drunk?" 

The wails of the weeping woman ceased. 
The purple rose swayed like a reed in the 

"Sweeney!" she shrilled. "An' d'y think 
I'd be breakin' th' heart af me over that 
man? He's aslape in the parlor this minute, 
an' me off to me duty, wid poor Caesar dyin' 
widout a friend near him on the kitchen 

■nipt the peace of Christmas 
"a foine four legged birrd " 

mas Bird 


Scenario by Arthur C. Lichty 
Produced by George D. Baker 

stay in th' kitchen? A foine man ye are to 
look afther th' house wid me off to me duty 
an' you sleepin' here wid poor Caesar dyin" 
alone on th' kitchen table." 

"Th' divil!" 

Patrick Sweeney's stout form slowly rose 
to a sitting posture. He blinked at the tall, 
aggressive figure of the wearer of the purple 
rose, like a culprit o'erwhelmed with guilt. 

"I — Caesar — " he gasped, uncomprehend- 
ing, "what's th' matter wid him?" 

"He's dead. Oh-o-o-o! Poor Caesar!" 
Norah's grief broke forth afresh. "An' to 
think that only this mornin' he was whist- 
lin' 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary' as good 
as any man." 

"Maybe he had a warnin'!" exclaimed Pat 
in an awed tone, crossing to the kitchen 
table and awkwardly taking the dead parrot 
from his cage. "He was swearin' like the 
divil whin I wint to sleep." 

"May th' saints forgive him," piously ex- 
claimed Norah, drying her eyes on the cor- 
ner of her gingham apron. "He was a swate 
birrd. There'll niver be another loike him." 

"He was that," agreed Sweeney, lugubri- 
ously. "Maybe we ought to have a wake?" 

"That we will not," sniffed Norah. "To- 
morrow's Christmas day!" 

"Well, I'll give th' poor birrd dacint 
burial, anyway," said Sweeney, picking up 
his hat. "Lay him out th' way you want 
him an' I'll fetch a bit av a board." 

Half an hour later Sweeney, his shovel 
over his shoulder, stood waiting. A rough 
board, with the words "Our Polly," painted 
upon it in letters of white, was held care- 
fully, paint side out, before him. His round, 
florid face was puckered, dolefully. 

"It's a long, long way — " he commenced 
to hum, then paused and gulped ponder- 
ously. The corpse was being brought out. 

"I'd betther wrap him in a piece of news- 
paper," said Norah, reverently. "It'll seem 
more dacint and them Clancys down stairs 
won't be havin' th' laugh on us for not doin' 
things proper." 

She produced the paper as she spoke and 
wrapped it about the dead bird. 

" 'Tis a bit large," she remarked, as 
Sweeney took the parcel from her hands, 
"but poor Caesar always liked plenty av 
room, so I wrapped the paper loose." She 
threw her apron over her .head and sank, 
limply, into a chair. 

The Sweeney funeral cortege started on 
its way. 

At the first corner the procession paused 




and gazed 
thoughtfully at 
the sign of a 
large and bel- 
ligerent goat 
swinging idly in 
the cold, Decem- 
ber air. "Sure," 
Sweeney to him- 
self, " "we ought 
to have had a 

Then Mike 
Clancy came 
around the cor- 
ner and he had 
a bundle, too. 
At sight of his 
neighbor Clancy 
stopped abrupt- 
ly, slowly de- 
ciphered the 
epitaph whic h 
preceded the 
pallbearer and 
accosted the 

"My Gawd, 
Sweeney!" he 
exclaimed, in an 
awed tone, 
"what's th' 
manin' av that?" pointing in the general 
direction of Sweeney's stomach on which 
Caesar's head-board rested lightly. 

" 'Tis th' bird," answered Sweeney, sol- 
emnly. "We're afther buryin' him to-day, 
for to-morrow's Christmas." 

Clancy's face cleared. 

"Aw, brace up, me b'y," he exclaimed, 
cheerfully. "Come in an' have a drink. Me 
ould woman sint me down to buy a turk 
for to-morrow's dinner an' I've fifty cents 
left over." 

The burial of Caesar was postponed. Dur- 
ing the period of postponement two news- 
paper enshrouded bundles lay, side by side, 
on a table behind the swinging doors of a 

"We — hie — ought to— li-ic — have ■ had — hie 
— a wake," declared Sweeney an hour later 
as he picked up his bundle. "But the missis 
—hie — wouldn't have it." 

Shouldering his grave-digging implement 
and the mournful inscription, Sweeney set 
forth, groaning dismally, toward the nearest 

He Commenced to Hum, Then 
The Corpse was 

vacant lot. Clan- 
cy, his bundle 
under his arm, 
moved, some- 
•what unsteadily, 
in the opposite 

" 'Tis a foine 
bird that," 
Clancy a n- 
nounced some 
time later, as he 
handed his wife 
the parcel. "It 
took a long 
toime to foind 
him, but th' man 
said — " 

C .1 a n c y 
paused, mouth 
open, hands 
raised in de- 
spair. That was 
not a turkey his 
wife was draw- 
in g from the 
wrapped bundle 
he had handed 
to her. It was — 
it was — Clancy 
clutched his 
hair in despair 
— that devilish Sweeney parrot whose burial 
he had so joyously celebrated. 

For an instant Mrs. Clancy gazed blanicly 
at the prize which she held in her hand, 
then she rose in her might and raised to 
heaven the sound of a voice — the voice of a 
woman wronged. 

"A foine bird, is it?" she cried, flinging 
the dead parrot at the head of her trembling 
spouse. "An' is this what-' ye've taken th" 
whole mornin' to buy an' me waitin' here 
wid th' pots and pans on the stove to cook 
th' same?" I'll teach you — "'' • 

The sound of a heavy body falling, of! 
smashing chairs, of cries and oaths and the ; 
pleading tones of a man ai bay floated Hip' 
the dumb-waiter shaft into the house of; 
mourning above. ' ' 

Norah Sweeney sprang to open the door 
for her returning husband. 

"Whist, Pat," she cried, pointing toward; 
the dumb-waiter, "listen to that! Th' Clah-j 
cys are at it again." 
For the time being the joy of listening 

Paused and Gulped, Ponderously, 
being: Brought' Out 



to the fray below caused both Patrick and 
Norah to forget their grief, but as silence 
fell the sight of the empty cage recalled their 

"Cheer up, darlin' " exclaimed Patrick, 
" 'twas a beautiful grave I made him. He 
was bigger than I thought." Pat sighed, in 
spite of himself. "Sure, he was a foine 
birrd. An' now I'll be afther orderin' a 
Christmas turkey." 

"Tell th' butcher to send it up right away," 
called Norah, as Sweeney plodded down the 
long flights of stairs. 

Clancy, sitting by the. open door of the 
dumb waiter shaft, where he had been hurled 
as the domestic cyclone subsided, heard the 
promise and the shouted admonition. Then 
he dropped off into a slight doze. The rum- 
ble of the ascending dumb waiter aroused 
him. Picking up the dead parrot which lay 
beside him, he peered cautiously over into 
the shaft. It was coming, slowly, but very 
surely, the Sweeney Christmas turkey! An- 
other moment and it was just on a level 
with his hand. Whisk! Off came the tur- 
key, on went Caesar, up went the dumb 
servant of the tenements to pause at the 

floor above. Like a criminal, Clancy hur- 
ried toward the cellar, the turkey clasped in 
his arms. 

"I'll hide it till th' night," he thought, 
covering it with old papers, "an' spring it 
on th' ould woman whin she comes back." 
For Bridget Clancy, in her rage, had fled 
from the Clancy home. 

When Norah Sweeney opened the door of 
the dumb-waiter, in response to the butcher's 
call, she staggered back with a wild scream 
of terror. 

"Caesar's ghost!" she cried. "Holy Saint 
Patrick! Save me — it's alive!" for the vi- 
bratory motions of the dumb-waiter had 
their effect upon the upturned claws of poor 

It was some minutes before Norah could 
persuade herself to make a closer investiga- 
tion of the strange night rider in the dark- 
ness of the shaft. When she did do so and 
realized that it was not a ghost, but poor, 
dead Caesar's own mistreated form that she 
held in her hands, her anger knew no 

"An' Sweeney told me he buried him 
deep!" she exclaimed aloud, tears in her 

It Was— It Was— That Devilish Sweeney Parrot Whose Burial He had Joyously Celebrated 



eyes, fury in her heart. "As if it wasn't 
bad enough to lose him widout havin' him 
come back to me this way. Oh, the villain! 
Just wait till I get hold av him!" Meaning 
Sweeney and not the parrot. 

But Sweeney, having been denied the 
pleasure of a wake, was bound for a Christ- 
mas raffle. Bridget Clancy, returning unex- 
pectedly to her home, found her husband 
chastened, even deferential. 

"Ye'd better behave yourself," she an- 
nounced, as he backed cautiously toward 
the door, "or I'll trounce ye again. Now- 
here," counting out some money into his 
hand, "take that an' go get another tur- 
key. And see that ye don't come home with 
a dead dog or a rat instead of a Christmas 

Mindful of the plump turkey hidden 
away near the coal cellar, Clancy hurried off 
■with remarkable celerity for one so badly 
battered. "I'll find Sweeney," he thought, 
"an' we'll have a celebration." 

At the raffle he found Sweeney, and for 
once in his life Sweeney was lucky. He 
won a pig. 

They carried it home together. At the 
door of the tenement Clancy suddenly 
paused. A fit of trembling seized him at 

the thought of what would happen if Bridget 
caught him without a turkey. 

"You go on up wid th' bast," he exclaimed, 
shoving the pig into Sweeney's arms. "I've 
got to go down cellar a minute." He dis- 
appeared around the corner of the hallway. 
Sweeney trudged on up the long flights of 
stairs, his round face beaming with joy in, 
the possession of the little pig he clasped 
in his arms. He opened the door of his flat 

"Begor, Norah'll give me th' glad hand 
whin she sees this," he said to himself. Then 
something strong, and heavy, and dark, 
something that seemed to be a compromise 
between a blackjack and shilellah, descended 
from out the darkness and smote all further 
reflections from the mind of the astonished 

Norah, flatiron in hand, hauled him on 
into the room. 

"Ye great, drunken, lyin', lazy spalpeen!" 
she cried, wrathfully. "Ye buried Caesar, 
did ye?" — whack — "Said ye'd buried him 
deep" — whack — "Goin' to send home a tur- 
key" — whack — "Ye poor, half-witted fool — 
What did ye do with Caesar?" — whack — "I 
say, what did ye do with — poor— dear — dar- 
lin'— Caesar?" 

" 'Tis a Foine Fonr-legged Birrd," Declared Clancy, "That Sweeney Won'at the Raffle" 



Norah, her 
rage exhaust- 
ing itself in a 
flood of tears, 
turned and 
grasped poor, 
dear, darling 
Caesar's corpse 
in her hands 
and extended it, 
tragically, t o - 
ward her hus- 

The sight of 
the bird he had 
s o reverently 
laid to rest, as 
he supposed, 
only a few short 
hours before, 
was too much 
for Pat. The 
cherished p i g 
slipped from his 
arms and slid 
forlornly across 
the floor. 

" 'Tis — 'tis 
Caesar!" he 

'"Tis t h ' 
same," answered 
Norah in a 
sepulchral tone, 

"Caesar that you buried this mornin' come 
back in th' dumb-waiter shaft." 

"Howly Moses!" yelled Patrick, as a light 
dawned in his brain. "An' Where's th' tur- 
key I sint?" 

" 'Tis divil a turkey have I seen in this 
house th' day, Patrick Sweeney," declared 
Norah through her sobs, and again the flat- 
iron trembled in her hand. 

" 'Tis some of Mike Clancy's doings," de- 
clared Patrick, now in a rage. "Th' low- 
lived, sneakin' scoundrel. He's dug up poor 
Caesar for spite." Sweeney pulled off his 
coat and flung it on the floor. "Now," he 
roared, rolling up his sleeves and making 
for the stairs, "me an' Mike Clancy for it." 

Clancy, down in the cellar, failed to find 
bis hidden turkey. In vain he searched 
among the papers where he had so carefully 
placed it. It was gone. 

"Janitor!" he shouted, peering up into the 
dumb-waiter shaft. "Hey, you, come down 
here a minute. Somebody's stole something!" 

'Tis th' Same," Answered Norah 
Ye Buried This Mornin', Come 

A jovial black 
face appeared at 
an aperture 
above. "I'll be 
right down, 
boss," it said. 

The janitor 

"Yassir, yas- 
sir," he ex- 
plained, "I done 
seen a tu'key. 
Mis' Clancy she 
done seen him 

"Mis' Clancy 
she wuz washin' 
clothes down 
here in th' laun- 
dry," interpo- 
lated the jani- 
tor's wife, peer- 
i n g over his 
shoulder, "an* 
she done seen 
th' dogs carry it 

"That's right," 
declared the jan- 
itor, turning to- 
w a r d the fur- 
nace room. "Mis' 
Clancy she done 
call to me an' I 
done cotch de dogs an' rescue mistah turk, 
but dere wa'n't much of him left." He 
laughed at the recollection. "Mis' Clancy, 
she say as how we bettah take de remains 
fo' de chillun's Christmas dinner, so praise 
de Lord, we's got irn." 

"Well, you give him — " Clancy commenced, 
then stopped short at sight of terrifying 
figure with blazing eyes and muscular arms 
ponderously descending the stairway. 

"Come on," shouted the on-coming Neme- 
sis. "Come on, you rid-headed, freckle-faced 
Mike Clancy; ye dhirty, thievin' scoundrel; 
come on an' foight a man o' yer size!" for 
Sweeney was twice the size of Clancy. But 
the little man was game. 

"Who's a thief?" he bellowed, lustily, 
squaring for defense. "Don% ye come callin' 
names around here, Pat Sweeney, afther th' 
dhirty, low-lived thrick ye played me this 

"Thrick is it?" thundered Sweeney, aim- 
ing a blow at Clancy's eye and missing it 

in Sepulchral Tone, 'Caesar, that 
Back in th' Dumb-waiter Shaft" 



by a close margin. "Who took my turkey 
off th' dumb waiter an' dug up my wife's 
parrot an' sint it up til her, instid?" 

"'Tis a lie," snorted Clancy, dancing 
around like a disturbed bantam. "Ye stole 
my turkey, that's what ye did, right whin 
I was settin' up th' dhrinks fer ye over in 
Schultz' saloon." 

"I'm a liar, am I?" muttered Sweeney, 
puffing from his unwonted exertion, "well, 
ye're another." Sweeney's blows came thick 
and fast. Norah, from the stairway, shouted 

"Give it to him, Pat," she cried. "Hit him 

"Help! Bridget, help! They're after kill- 
in' me!" yelled Clancy, now down on his 

His shouts floated upwards to his wife. 
Bridget, the belligerent; Bridget, the pow- 
erful, sailed forth like a gigantic battleship 
cleared for action. Grasping a three-legged 
stool as she rushed from the kitchen, 
Bridget hurled it ahead of her as she neared 
the scene of action. It struck Sweeney's 
rear anatomy as he bent over the prostrate 
Clancy. With a wild yell he bounded into 
the air just as Norah flew at Bridget like a 
wild cat. 

"Ye'd murthur me husbint, would ye?" 
she shrieked, pulling at Bridget's hair in a 
fury. But Norah was no match for Bridget, 
and Pat soon ran to her aid. Clancy, with 
a fearful groan, rolled over on his back, 
stretched out his legs and remained motion- 
less. It was easier to play dead than to 
fight. With a shriek, Bridget rushed toward 
her husband and lifted his head in her 

"Oh, Mike, avourneen machree," she ex- 
claimed. "Spake to me. Tell me ye're 

Clancy cautiously opened the one eye that 
still responded to muscular effort and turned 
it upon his wife. 

"Janitor, janitor," she called, as running 
footsteps sounded, "he's comin' to — glory be 
to God!" 

But the footsteps were not those of the 
janitor. He had done his duty when he 
telephoned for the police. A wise janitor 
hears nothing, sees nothing, knows nothing. 
The janitor of the Hoolihan tenements was 
wise. The police appeared alone. 

"Whist! Th' cops are after comin'," cried 
Norah, gathering up the shreds of her dress 
and preparing for a leap into the coal cellar, 
but the warning came too late. 

In the night court — the night court on 
Christmas Eve — they sadly told the story of 
their wrongs. 

"He stole our turkey," declared Sweeney, 
pointing a finger at Mike. 

"He buried our turkey an' sint us a divil- 
ish poll parrot instid," stormed Bridget, in 
spite of the Court. 

"But what about the pig?" asked the mag- 
istrate, suppressing a smile. "Isn't the pig 
enough for you all?" 

"'Tis Sweeney's pig," muttered Clancy. 

"He'll divide with you," said the Court. 

"Indade, an' I'll not," grumbled Sweeney, 
"divide wid th' thavin' spalpeen." 

"Then I'll fine you ten dollars," was the 
decision. "Ten dollars or divide up that 

Norah rose to her feet. "May it please 
yer honor," she asked with a quavering 
voice, "to give us tin minutes to think it 
over for — poor Caesar's not buried yet?" 

The request was granted. Ten minutes 
later a meek and subdued quartet trudged 
forlornly down the street toward home early 
on Christmas morning. 

Norah and Bridget roasted the pig while 
Patrick and Mike buried Caesar. At noon 
the dinner was served. 

"Sure, 'tis a foine four-legged birrd," de- 
clared Clancy, "that Sweeney won at th' 


THE tired traveler arrived at the gates of Heaven and was accosted by St. 
Peter. After presenting his qualifications, he was just about to enter the 
sacred gates when he thought of something he wanted to know. 
"Tell me," he said. "Do you have moving pictures here?" 
And upon St. Peter's answering negatively, he turned around and walked 
sadly away. 

The Girl on the Cover 


By Lucy Davis 


r HY don't you say that motion pic- 
tures are taking the place of fash- 
ion books?" It was Winifred 
Kingston who spoke. 

"I will, if you say so," I answered. 

"Well, I do say so," she laughed back 
at me. 

"It is an interesting idea," I said. 

"And true — which is more than can be 
said of some interesting ideas. Given a few 
more years of motion pictures, and there 
won't be anything left to the old joke about 
backwoods people and the clothes they wear. 
How can there be? You know how quick a 
woman — any woman — is to copy the latest 
fashion when she has the chance. Well, she 
has every chance now. When a film is re- 
leased, it is sent all over the country, and 
the woman in the little town has before her 
eyes the latest styles. All she needs is a 
memory, a needle and a hand which knows 
how to use it, to look like the woman in the 
picture — or at least to have her dress look 
like the actress's." 

"Women have always taken styles from 
the stage, haven't they?" 

"Of course they have. But that is quite 
different. For instance, it is only in the 
large cities that the expensive productions 
are put on. And in the large cities women 
have other ways of knowing what the styles 
are. They need only to look into the shop 
windows, or to walk down the fashionable 
streets to know 'what is what' in the matter 
of clothes. But of what use is the theater 
as a fashion guide to the woman in the little 
town? None. That is the answer. But the 
same motion picture which is shown in New 
York and Chicago and San Francisco is 
shown in the town where there is only one 

store and that behind the postoffice. I tell 
you the motion picture is going to make 
every woman in the country a well-dressed 

"But all women aren't clever enough to 
copy fashions." 

"No," laughed Miss Kingston, "but there 
are few women who aren't clever enough to 
get what they want. ' I will never doubt 
that, after something which happened to me 
while I was in Southern California. 'Brew- 
ster's Millions' had just been released. In 
it I wore a Salamander dress. It really was 
very fetching. I had not seen the style in 
California and for a very good reason — 
until the picture was released the fashion 
had not reached the coast. A few days after 
the picture was shown in Los Angeles, two 
young ladies called at the Lasky studios and 
asked for me. They seemed timid, but final- 
ly they overcame it sufficiently to ask me if 
I would give them the pattern for the dress. 
They said they were afraid they wouldn't 
cut the goods just right, from memory, and 
so if I would lend them the pattern. . . 
Well, of course, I lent it to them. A few 
days later I saw them walking — really strut- 
ting would be a better word to use — through 
one of the hotels, wearing exact duplicates 
of my Salamander dress. 

"That makes me think of another inter- 
esting thing about motion pictures," went 
on Miss Kingston. "I've often wondered 
why it is that people seem to regard us mo- 
tion picture folk as more real human beings 
than they do actors and actresses whom they 
see upon the stage. It would seem more 
probable that we, being seen in pictures 
only, would not seem nearly so real to them, 
and yet exactly the opposite seems to be 






Jjt ^HEr* 

ir .^fl K 

r ' 4l^B 




ii 1 

■ '-■' ft 


&£•-* -SS 


true. The incident of tliose young women 
coming to me for the pattern of my dress 
is a case in point. Of course, they might 
have done it if they'd seen me on the stage 
instead of the pictures of me, but I rather 
doubt it. Then, in so many ways we're con- 
stantly learning how friendly our audiences 
feel toward us. 

"Often, of course, we go to private houses 
for the staging of a scene. I don't know 
about all companies, but I know that when 
one of the Lasky plays calls for the interior 
of a fashionable house, the picture is taken 
in such a house. No stage properties or 
painted scenery in our pictures, but the real 
thing! What I was going to say to prove 
my point about people being friendly is that 
some of the most delightful times I've ever 
had have been in some house where we were 
doing a picture. I haven't felt as if I were 
working, but as if I were being entertained 
by friends. Usually, we are entertained, 
too, for we're always being invited to stay 
for luncheon or for tea, according to the 

"Photoplay stars are just as important in 
their way now as the legitimate stars. I 
refused a good offer from a legitimate pro- 
ducer in New York this season, and I'm not 
the only actress, either, who has chosen to 
stay with the motion pictures. 

"Our producers certainly go further than 
the legitimate producers to get their effects. 
For one picture, 'The Call of the North,' in 
company with Mr. DeMille, Wilfred Buck- 
land, Stuart Edward White and Robert Ede- 
son, I traveled far up into Canada for the 
taking of some scenes, and for the 'Squaw 
Man' we traveled by caravan from Holly- 
wood, California, to Green River, Wyoming 
— over 700 miles, I believe. It was a wonder- 
ful outing, really. I don't always envy the 
producers, let me tell you. I don't suppose 
on the legitimate stage it is any too easy, 
but at least there one's responsibility ends 
when the stage door has closed on the actors 
and actresses. But when we are taken across 
continents and through wildernesses and 
deserts, in order to make pictures, of course 
there is the great work of caring for us — 
making sure there is a place for us to sleep 
and things for us to eat. 

"I must say I think the producers manage 
marvelously. I, at least, have never under- 
gone any hardships at all and yet, as I nave 
pointed out, I've traveled endlessly in out- 
of-the-way places. When our company staged 



'Rose of the Rancho,' Mr. DeMille imported 
a lot of Mexicans, and, do you know, he saw 
to it that they had their native food, while 
we had the things to which we were accus- 
tomed. It was like running two commissary 
departments at the same time. Of course we 
didn't always keep strictly to our own na- 
tional dishes. Some of the Americans grew 
very fond of the Mexican dishes, and in 
return the Mexicans, probably out of cour- 
tesy, would eat 
some of our 
food, but I don't 
think they cared 
much for it. 
Pr obabl y it 
wasn't seasoned 
highly enough 
for their taste." 

"There is no 
need for me to 
ask you if you 
like the movies, 
is there?" I said. 

"Well, hardly," 
she answered, 
"I often have to 
stop and pinch 
myself to make 
me believe that 
I am really an 
actress. There is 
no use going into 
the hardships of 
a legitimate ac- 
tress's life. You 
know as much as 
I do about the 
hours one has to 
keep and about 
going on the 
road and about 
never having a 
real home of one's own and never being 
able to celebrate holidays the way ordinary 
folks do, but being a motion picture actress 
has all the advantages, and it seems to me, 

that a trip like the one we are going to 
make is so entirely different from anything 
I have known before. We stop off in New 
Orleans to work, of course, but what legiti- 
mate actress during a three weeks' engage- 
ment in the city ever discovered anything 
about that city — ever got the flavor of its 
distinctive charm. Now, while I am in New 
Orleans, the actual taking of the scenes will 
give me a chance to see a good deal of the 

city and I'll have 
leisure to ex- 
plore the whole 
place. When I 
leave at the end 
of three weeks, 
I'll know a good 
deal about what 
sort of a place 
New Orleans is." 
There is just 
one thing more 
I want to add. 

Miss Kingston 
laughed. "I 
refuse to talk 
about movies," 
she said. "I talk 
about motion 
pictures. I can't 
bear that word 
movie. I think 
it is too bad to 
use such a word 
for our art. So 
please don't use 
it when you 
quote me, will 

I promised. 
And just as a 
friendly word of 
warning — if you 
should ever have the. pleasure .of meeting 
Miss Winifred Kingston — remember that she 
is a motion picture actress. Just forget you 
ever heard or used the word movie. 


" ' ,- --. - 

VISITOR: "Why, little girl, you are a^regular picture!" ... 

Little Edith: "Yes, I'm a Moving Picture." 1 
Visitor: "But I don't understand." \. -'• 

Little Edith: "Well, Mamma says I may squirm arounjJfegU I want to, if I 
won't talk." . _ v . ; ; 3 




The spoken play must doff its hat 

Before the Play of Pictures, 
For Nature's backgrounds better are 

Than artificial fixtures ; 
Then, too, we do not have to list 
To conversation borey, 
But use our eyes 
To get quite wise. 
To all parts of the story. 

That Motion Pictures still improve 

We notice every day, 
It won't be long before each is 

A perfect wordless play; 
We don't know how we got along 
Before they were created; 
But now they say 
They've come to stay. 
And we are much elated ! 

It isn't often that we get 

Such bargains for our money. 
Just think of spending but ten cents 
For two hours, bright and sunny ! 
We used to pay two dollars for 
A drama no more snappy: 
But now we know 
Just where to go 
To save and still be happy ! 

And so we wish that Santa Claus, 

If he desires to please us, 
And win our lasting gratitude, 

Would with surprises seize us ! 
And this is what we'd have him bring, 
With just a few additions : 
A year's supply 
(Or very nigh) 
Of Picture Play Admissions ! 

"The Rose of the Rancho 

Novelized from the Feature Film Based on the Play 
of David Belasco and Richard Walton Tully 

By Bruce Westfall 


Illustrations from the Film Produced 
by Jesse L. Lasky Feature Play Co. 

Chapter I 

AT the head of his 
table sat Don Man- 
uel Jesus Maria 
Calderon y Espineza. His 
table groaned with the 
weight of the good things 
his bounty provided, not 
only for himself and his 
daughters, the t li r e e 
daughters who made up 
his household, but for 
such guests as might 
come beside. Guests were 
welcome, always. The 
latchstring was ready for 
them. In the California 
of those days no guest 
had need to announce 
his coming. Riding upon 
such business as he had, the sun alone 
named his host. At whatever ranch was 
nearest when it was time for a meal the 
traveler turned in, sure of a welcome. If 
he were a caballero, he would dine in the 
great house; if a vaquero he would still be 
cared for, according to his station. 

This evening Don Manuel and his three 
daughters dined alone. Not in many weeks 
had such a thing happened; they had ex- 
changed wondering comments. I say they 
dined alone; the duenna of the three 
senoritas, of course, was , present. Their 
mother was dead; they were safe, however, 
in the care of a lady of blood as good as 
their own. 

The three girls, as became , them, were 
silent, leaving the art of conversation to their 
elders, save when they were called upon to 
answer a direct question. Senora de la 

Jiarra, the duenna, was speaking of the 

"It is well to despise them," she said, 
easily. "Yet, since the government has given 
up California in the treaty, would it not 
be well, ■ perhaps, to comply with the law? 
After all, it is a small thing — this register- 
ing of your title — " 

"Never!" thundered Espineza. "My land 
my forefathers held by patent of the King 
of Spain. Even the revolution and the 
coming of a republic in Mexico did not 
invalidate that! Shall these Gringo pigs 
make a new law now?" 

The lady did not argue. She knew her 
place too well. She was a woman, and. 
therefore, by custom and tradition ignorant 
in such affairs. , . 

"This man — this Kinkaid," she said, "has 
stolen many ranches. Their government is 




behind him, one hears. Of course, when the 
armies of Mexico drive out the enemy, all 
will be well. But for a little peace and 
quiet, meanwhile? No matter! You know 

She stopped. Espineza was staring at 
her, his face fixed in a grimace of amaze- 
ment and fury. Slowly she realized that it 
was not meant for her. She turned, to see, 
behind her, a tall, spare man, who stood 
looking at Espineza. He was tugging at a 
small goatee. A Gringo! For a moment she 
was about to send her charges from the 
table, fearing an explosion from Espineza. 
But the tradition of hospitality was too 
much for the ranchero. 

"You come to share our simple meal, 
senor?" he said, rising. "I bid you welcome." 

"You're right kind," said the American. 
"But — this happens to be my ranch. I'm 
here to take possession. Glad to have you 
take your time moving out — especially if 
the young ladies will stay with you." 

Espineza, speechless with rage, stared at 

I "Your ranch?" he said, finally, in a voice 
choked with rage. 

"My ranch," said the other. "You'll find 
the entry all properly made. I've staked my 
claim. Ezra Kinkaid's my name. On this 
property, which wasn't registered, and was 
therefore open to settlement, under act of 

Espineza clapped his hands. Half a dozen 
servants appeared. 

"Throw this man out!" he ordered. 

"Hold on!" said Kinkaid, quietly. "I don't 
want no trouble, Mr. Espineza — Senor, if 
you like that better. I've got authority for 
this, and the United States troops will back 
me up. Better go easy. I've got men here — " 

"Throw him out!" shrieked Don Manuel. 

Kinkaid whistled shrilly. In a moment 
there was a scuffle; a sudden crackling of 
pistol fire. And Don Manuel Jesus Maria 
Calderon y Espineza pitched forward upon 
his own table, with a bullet through his 
brain. His own pistol was in his hands; 
lie had brought his fate upon himself. He 
had resisted the authority of the United 

Chapter it 

'TpHEN, for five minutes, rapine ruled the 
■*■ house. Kinkaid, smiling, sardonic, 
watched the work of his men. They were 
not Americans. Half breeds, Indians, rene- 
gade Mexicans, they were free, for the 
moment. One seized Isabella, the eldest 
daughter of the dead man, as she threw 
herself upon his body. The duenna screamed; 
the two younger girls joined their wails to 
hers, as they huddled together in one corner 
of the patio. For a moment Kinkaid seemed 

He Dismounted and Walked to the 
Side of Her Horse Hat in Hand 



"He Tied lie — and Held a Gun in My Face" 

moved to stop the scoundrel who had seized 
Isabella. But his chief lieutenant, as much 
of a spectator as himself, checked him. 

"It is only one woman," he said. "They 
must have their way, if we are to retain 
them. And— a lesson may be good for the 
others. We do not want them to resist." 

Deliberately Kinkaid turned and walked 
through the gate. As he did so, Isabella, 
freeing herself for a moment, seized the 
pistol from her father's hand. She fired 
once, and sank, lifeless, to the floor. And 
it was in that moment that a new figure 
appeared; the figure of a young man, as tall 
as Kinkaid himself. He had Kinkaid by the 
shoulder. • •" 

"You've gone too far this time, Kinkaid," 
he said. "You have your rights, worse luck! 
But murder isn't one of them!" 

"You make me tired, Kearney," said Kin- 
kaid, quietly. "The man was shot because 
he tried to shoot my men. The girl — you 
saw that yourself. ' I'm 'sorry — she didn't 
rfeed to shoot herself." 
"The newcomer swore; toeneath his- breath. 

"Perhaps your hands are clean — techni- 
cally," he said. "But — I'll get you for this, 
Kinkaid, if I have to wait till I get back to 
Washington! There's another thing for you 
to explain. By what right did your men 
outside here stop me and tie me and my 
servant up?" 

"Pshaw! Did they do that, now, Kearney?" 
said Kinkaid. "My men? They were dis- 
obeying my orders." 

"Pedro Lopez is your man, as all the coun- 
try knows," said Kearney. "He tied me — 
and '-held a gun in my face." ■ 

"He didn't tie you very' tight, or you 
wouldn't have got away," said Kinkaid, dry- 
ly. x Suddenly his voice grew harsh. He 
shook his fist in Kearney's face. "Listen, to 
me, Mister Frank Kearney!" he said. S "You 
may represent the United States Govern- 
ment — but I've got the law on my side! The 
law — and some influence you never heard of! 
Keep away from me, and you'll live longer 
and die richer! I know my rights and* I 
mean to have them. I don't care that for 
"y$u and yodr sniveling """friends! fc I hurt no 



man. who doesn't try to hurt me; J want no 
dealings with any of their women. I try 
to keep my boys in hand. But those who 
take the chance of getting in our way know 
what to expect. Is that plain enough for 

"It is," said Kearney, his face flushed 
with anger. "And is this plain enough for 
you? So long as you stick to the letter of 
the law, I can't touch you. But if ever I 
can prove that you had a hand in a murder, 
in the illtreating of a woman, I'll get you!" 

He strode from the patio without a back- 
ward look. In a moment he was riding 
away. But a sudden thought turned him 
back. A sudden thought and the screams of 
the women who were left behind. He strode 
into the patio again. Off came his hat to 
the duenna. 

"What has been done I cannot undo," he 
said. "I am at your service, senora, for 
what I may still do. I beg that you will 
allow me to escort you to the house of your 
nearest friends." 

Chapter Mil 

AFTER he left the two girls and their 
duenna at a ranch house owned by a 
man who was safe from the raiders of Kin- 
kaid, Kearney, his eyes set in a scowl, rode 
on toward the mission of San Rosario. All 
about him were the lovely fields of Cali- 
fornia. Never had he seen such a fair and 
smiling country. But the waste! 

"They'll be Americanized," he mused. 
"They'll wake up. They'll make this a para- 
dise in every way. But if Kinkaid and his 
kind are to steal their land?" 

The thought of Kinkaid enraged him. It 
was not only the swift tragedy at the 
Espineza ranch. He was ready to believe 
that the old ranchero, in his pride and stub- 
borness, had given some excuse for the 
violence there. The tragic death of the girl 
had moved him greatly. But he was a prac- 
tical young man, this Kearney. He knew 
only too well that he could never punish 
Kinkaid for .what had happened at that ranch. 
He had no proof of murder, of other things. 
And it was his main concern, now, to pre- 
vent such happenings in the future. 

"This is to be the garden of America," he 
•thought. "But if these people are going to 
:hate all Americans, if they are to fear us, 
and '.despise us — how can we govern here? 
Tiat is not the way that we have spread our 

rule over this country. We must make them 
understand what it means to come under the 
flag. Kinkaid! And his political friends!" 

Suddenly his servant, a negro boy, pulled 
up beside him. 

"Look yonder, master," he said. "They's 
folks a comin' this way!" 

"You're right, Sam!" said Kearney. "Reg- 
ular cavalcade, too! By Jove — there's a girl, 
on one of their crazy contraptions — saddle 
like a house." 

Kearney smiled as he neared the strange 
little procession. He had been long enough 
in California to know that what he saw 
was simply the ordinary thing if a senorita 
of good family chanced to go calling. Peons 
and vaqueros for escort, her maid — in this 
case an enormous negress — altogether, quite 
a troop. Suddenly Kearney's lips tightened. 
He was thinking of how Kinkaid's bullies 
would scatter the little troop. At the thought, 
which came to him as he had turned out to 
allow the other party free passage, he 
changed his mind. He had saluted the young 
lady on the horse at first in a grave and 
courteous fashion, and she had replied with 
the faintest of bows. Now, however, he dis- 
mounted and walked to the side of her horse, 
hat in hand. 

"Your pardon, Senorita," he began, in his 
awkward Spanish. "I feel that I should 
warn you." 

She regarded him coldly. 

"You may speak English, Senor," she said, 
her accent perfect. 

"Thank you, Senorita. May I urge you to 
go no further along this road? There are 
those not so far behind me whom it would 
be as well for you to avoid." 

"I travel where I please," she said, haugh- 
tily. "To-day I ride to pay a visit — only a 
mile from here." 

"Ah, that is well, then. You will not meet 
them in that space. But the times are such 
that it is wise to be cautious. There has 
been trouble at the Espineza ranch." 

"Trouble?" she cried, startled. "Tell me, 
Senor, what sort of trouble?" 

"I beg that you will await until others 
tell you," he said. "And that you will be- 
lieve that it is for your own sake that I warn 

For a moment her eyes flashed angrily. It 
was easy to believe that this young woman 
was not wholly Spanish. She had not that 
submissiveness, that shy retirement, that is 
characteristic of the women of that race. 



Nor did she look altogether Spanish. There 
was a hint in her features of Irish blood; 
in her sparkling eyes, as well. 

"If you are quite done with your orders, 
sir — and by what right you give them I 
cannot imagine! — I will proceed." 

Kearney flushed and turned away at the 
words. He was angry; angrier, he knew, 
than he had 
any right to be. 
Among the good 
families of the 
Mexican days, 
Americans were 
not popular. But 
something made 
him turn to look 
at her again. He 
saw that she 
was smiling at 
him, over her 

"That was 
not — nice," she 
said. "You mean 
to be very kind, 
and I am grate- 
ful. My mother, 
the Senora Cas- 
would wish me 
to thank you." 

He bowed, 
very gravely, 
and went back 
to h i s horse. 
Perhaps she no- 
ticed the easy 
grace with 
which he sprang 
into the saddle, 

But for Him! 

the supple giving of his 
lithe body as he cantered away. As for him, 
lie knew who she was now — the Senorita 
Juanita Castro y Kenton, daughter of the 
proudest of all the rancheros who were de- 
fying the government and making possible 
the work of Kinkaid and his kind. Her 
father was dead; he had been an Irishman, 
who, crossing the mountains into California, 
years before, had won the hand of the heiress 
of the great house of Castro. Even for his 
memory, however, his widow had not 
brought herself to tolerate the Gringos. He 
sighed at the stubbornness of these people, 
which threatened to make his task so hard. 
The government had sent him to report 
on the land conditions in California; to check, 

so far as was possible, the work of Kinkaid 
and the other land jumpers, and to try to 
persuade the Spanish families to accept the 
American rule gracefully. There was no 
desire in Washington to maintain a mili- 
tary occupation of California. 

Kearney meant to spend that night at the 
mission of San Rosario. He had a letter of 

introduction to 
Padre Antonio, 
the priest who 
was in charge 
of the mission. 
He had not far 
to ride, after 
leaving Juanita, 
to reach tbe 
mission. There 
he would have 
been welcomed, 
even without 
his letter of in- 
troduction. With 
that, however, 
he was made to 
feel at home at 

Chapter IV 

I WOULD like 
to see more 
Americans o f 
your sort here, 
Mr. Kearney," 
said the priest, 
after the for- 
malities of their 
meeting were 
over. "We have 
fear that we are 

He Cried, Pointine to Kearney, "Who Can Tell What 
They Would Not Have Done!" 

had much trouble here. I 

to have more. My people do not understand 

your government." 

"It is your government, padre, as well as 
mine," said Kearney, gently. 

"My son, I stand corrected. That is so. 
It is the business of my cloth to accept 
meekly such changes of government as God 
ordains. I am not sure that we shall not be 
far happier, when better times come at last, 
than we ever were under the old regime. 
But it is hard to make my people see this 
and submit themselves to the inevitable. 
They are proud; they are stubborn." 

"I look to you for help," said Kearney. 
"Even to-day, this afternoon, I have seen a 
sad and terrible thing." 



Luis, Bending Low from His Saddle, Bowed to Mother and Daughter 

Briefly he told what he knew of the tragedy 
at the Espineza ranch. 

"I was detained on purpose, of course," 
he said. "But what proof have I? I was 
released after a very short time. The man 
who had stopped me pretended that he be- 
lieved me to be an outlaw for whom a posse 
was searching. When I was free to ride on 
to the Espineza place it was all over." 

The priest shook his head sadly. Before 
he could answer they were interrupted by 
another priest. 

"An Indian, who wishes to see you, padre," 
he said. 

"I will see him," said Padre Antonio. 

The man came to them. He fell at the 
knees of the priest and seized the cross that 
hung from the padre's rosary. Kneeling he 
told his story, the story of the raid on the 
Espineza ranch. 

"But for him!" he cried, pointing to Kear- 
ney, "who can tell what they would not have 

"Rise, my son," said Padre Antonio. "Go 
to the kitchen. You will be cared for there." 

He turned to Kearney. "There is the part 
of the story you could not tell, my son," he 
said, sorrowfully. "I believe it is all true — 
but what would such evidence be worth?" 

"Very little," said Kearney, with a short 
laugh. "I see that there is much to be 
done. Padre, can't you help me? Can't you 
persuade your parishioners to yield — to reg- 
ister their lands before it is too late? If one 
influential one, like the Senora Castro-Kenton 
did it, others would follow. I saw her daugh- 
ter to-night." 

"Juanita?" said the priest, his eyes light- 
ing. "The rose of the rancho — we call her 
that! Ah, my son, there is the type that I 
hope to see ruling this California of ours, 
half Spanish, half American. If they were 
all like her." 

"Padre!" said Kearney. "They couldn't 
be! Like her? God could only make one like 

The priest shot a sudden, swift look at 
Kearney. What he saw made him smile, at 
first. But then he sighed. 

"My son," he said, slowly, "you ask some- 



thing that I shall be glad to attempt. But 
the chance of success is small. We must 
fight with the inherited pride of centuries. 
I fear — ah, I fear greatly that there is little 
I may hope to accomplish." 

Kearney's eyes were wandering. A bell 
had begun to toll. And through the gate of 
the patio of the mission came a girl. It was 
the same girl he had seen before. Behind 
her, at a respectful distance, walked her 
maid. Now, however, her eyes, were down- 
cast. He did not see the one quick glance 
she shot at him. But Padre Antonio did — 
and smiled, wisely. 

"Vespers, my son," he said. "Wait here. 
You are not of our faith, I think. I do not 
ask you to come into the mission. I must 
leave you, but I shall soon return." 

Kearney waited. The dusk was beginning 
to fall. Quietly he moved nearer to the 
door of the mission. He could hear the 
voices within, as the brief services proceeded. 
Then there came a rustling. One after an- 
other those who had gone in came out. Last 
of all appeared Juanita. He was directly 

in her path, and he bowed low as he faced 

"Senor!" she said, tremulously, a little 

"I am delighted to see that you returned 
safely, Senorita," he said. "And — I should 
like your assurance that I am forgiven for 
my presumption in warning you?" 

"There is nothing to forgive," she said. 
She seemed to be chastened, in some strange 
fashion. "I was — a very silly girl. I was 
rude to you." 

"Senorita!" he said, in protest. 

"I have heard — of what happened at the 
Espineza ranch," she said. "And that you 
interfered. Oh, Senor, can you not drive 
these Gringos away? These men who dis- 
grace their nation and their flag? I — I, 
myself, am half American. It makes me 

They talked. Kearney sensed, vaguely, 
how utterly against all the conventions of 
her family, her country, such a conversation 
was. And yet, in the growing dusk, in the 
old mission patio, heavy with the scent of 

Juanita, Looking Mutinous and Bored, Held Out Her Hand for Him to Hiss 



flowers, it seemed the most natural thing 
in the world. They passed to talk of them- 
selves. She asked him of places of which 
she had heard her father speak; he answered 
her. But at last she could ignore the dis- 
tress of her maid no longer. 

"Good night, Senor," she said. 

"I shall see you again?" 

"Who knows? One may hope, perhaps, 
that it will be permitted!" 

iard. "You were speaking to a lady who has 
just gone. By what right, Senor? I demand 
an explanation — I, Luis del Terre!" 

Chapter V 

TUANITA did not miss the appearance of 
** Don Luis. She saw him very well indeed. 
She heard him, too, and it is necessary to 
admit that she pouted. She heard Kearney's 

They Pretended, at Least, to Work. But I Think There Was More Talk Than Embroidery 

Again she flashed that look at him, that 
look in which there was so little of the 
Spanish girl of high degree. He wanted to 
follow her; to seize her and carry her away. 
But instead he bowed and let her go. And a 
moment later he turned to face a young 
man of about his own age, a young man tall 
and finely built, dressed in clothes of the 
most gorgeous fashion. He knew him at 
once for one of the old Spanish aristocracy 
of California; one of those whose pride he 
was to try to lessen. 

"A word with you, Senor!" said the Span- 

hot reply. And then she vanished. She 
went home, frowning a little, and smiling a 
little, too, in spite of the frown. Don Luis, 
of course, had a right to be angry. It was 
well understood that Juanita was to marry 
him — by everyone except Juanita. Her 
mother had arranged it. That was the chief 
trouble. She liked Luis well enough; she 
might, perhaps, be willing to marry him. 
But she wanted to arrange the details her- 
self. Her mother, she complained, forgot 
that she herself had eloped. Why, she had 
even married a Gringo! The thought of 



that sent the color flaming to Juanita's face. 
But then she laughed. 

Juanita would have liked to stay to see 
the outcome of that clash in the patio of the 
mission. Not that there was likely to be 
trouble. Padre Antonio would prevent that. 
But she would have enjoyed a sight of what 
passed between them. That was impossible, 
however; she knew that perfectly well. So 
she walked back, very quietly, very sedately. 

said her mother, crossing herself devoutly. 
"He was a son of the Church, and he became 
a Californian. As for this Senor Kearney — 
he is an agent of the Gringo government. 
That is enough. For us he does not exist." 

Juanita considered a reply. Fortunately 
for her, she found none she quite dared to 
utter. And then Luis del Terre came riding 
in, with a great flourish. He might well 
have walked, having been in the mission. 

Into the Patio of the Castro Rancho Rode Juanita that Afternoon 

She sat down in the garden, with her mother 
and answered dutifully the questions that 
that great lady asked her. 

"You will be married very soon, now," said 
the Senora Castro-Kenton. She spoke as of 
a purchase of silks. "It will be better so. 
These Gringos are becoming insufferable. 
You will be better off with a husband to look 
after you." 

"All the Gringos are not like this Kin- 
kaid," said Juanita. "Senor Kearney tried 
to save the Espinezas. And papa — " 

"Your father was an exception to all rules," 

But that would not have been the proper 
thing. He had to make his entrance effective- 
ly. And he did! There can be no doubt of 
that. A fine figure of a man, of his type, 
was Luis. A far finer figure, for example, 
than his friend Don Jose Epinas, an older 
man, and one with an eye for the widow of 
the house — and for her broad acres. 

Luis, bending low from his saddle, bowed 
to mother and daughter. Then he dis- 

"I want to talk to you, Luis," said Senora 
Castro-Kenton. "I am glad you have come. 



These Gringos are becoming intolerable. 
You must rid the country of them." 

"So we will," said Luis, cheerfully. "We 
begin — manana !" 

"But to-night there are other things of 
which we must speak. Juanita — to your 
room. Your embroidery has been shame- 
fully neglected. I wish to speak of things 
that are not for your ears." 

"I am desolated," said Luis. He dropped 
to one knee, and Juanita, looking mutinous 
and bored, held ' out her hand for him to 
kiss. "Buenas nochcs. But I shall see you 

"If your eyes are good you must see me, 
I suppose," she said, ungraciously. And, 
not unwillingly, took her departure. How 
much embroidery she did, it is not for this 
chronicle to relate. She and her maid got 
out the frame, and they pretended, at least, 
to work. But I think there was more talk 
than embroidery! 

Meanwhile in the garden the Senora 
Castro-Kenton decreed the future. 

"Juanita is old enough to wed, Luis," she 
said. "You have been patient — you shall be 
rewarded. To-morrow night I shall give a 
dance. Had this sad affair at the rancho of 
the Espinezas come about in another way 
I should have postponed it. But it is for 
us to show these Gringos that they cannot 
disturb us. I shall give the dance, and your 
betrothal to Juanita shall be announced." 

He voiced his delight gracefully — as he 
did everything. 

"And the wedding shall be — soon?" he 

"Soon," she agreed, with a smile. "You 
are an impatient lover, but it is not for me 
to complain." 

"Fair daughter of a fairer mother!" he 
quoted. "The poet must have seen you in 
his vision, senora!" 

She was pleased, certainly. She would 
never be too old to receive a compliment, and 
to enjoy it. 

"It is well, then," she said. "I shall be 
glad to have a man to lean upon again, Luis. 
In these troubled times a woman is afraid. 
I shall depend upon you. You must protect 
me if I am threatened by this man Kin- 

"Kinkaid!" Don Luis laughed. "He will 
never dare to trouble you, Senora! He has 
run his course, I think. We talked of him 
to-day — I and other caballeros. Perhaps we 
will have to kill him, who knows? We 

shall drive hini away — far, far away — 

"To-morrow — yes. That will be well done, 

She was thoughtful. Was she thinking, 
perhaps, of a man in whose vocabulary 
manana had never taken root? Who never 
left for the morrow what could be done upon 
the day? 

Chapter VI 

■jy"EARNEY had been more amused than 
•*■*- angered by his encounter with Juanita's 
lover. At first, certainly, he had been angry 
enough. But he could allow for the other 
man's point of view; he could bridge, with 
a certain understanding, the vast gulf that 
lay between himself and the Spaniard, a gulf 
of manners, of customs, of upbringing. He 
had refused, simply and sharply, to answer 
any questions, but he had managed to avoid 
a quarrel that might have been serious. And 
he had been rescued, in the end, by Padre 
Antonio himself. The priest had sent Luis 
away with a stinging reproof. 

"Poor Luis!" Padre Antonio 'said. "He is 
like most of my people. He cannot under- 
stand that certain things have passed and 
gone as if they had never been. You must 
forgive him, Senor Kearney." 

"Oh, as for forgiveness! I don't blame him. 
I know something of the customs of this 
country, Padre. He is affianced to the young 

He could not keep a certain note of eager- 
ness out of his voice. 

"Yes — and no," said the priest, slowly. 
"We are all Americans, now, I suppose, 
Senor. Juanita is half American by blood, 
however. Between her and Luis a marriage 
has been in contemplation since both were 
children. But — I sometimes wonder! Would 
they be happy? Perhaps — but I am not sure. 
And I wish to see her happy." 

Kearney had that to sleep upon. He told 
himself, angrily, that it made no difference 
to him whether Juanita married Luis or not. 
A day before he had never seen the girl; 
why, then, should he care? But he did. 
There was the rub. She haunted him that 
night. Love at first sight? Perhaps that 
is going too far. Put it that he could not 
endure the thought of her belonging to an- 
other man; that he wanted his chance with 
her, if, presently, he should want to enter the 
lists. If he was in love he was not quite 
sure of it. But he was willing to be in love; 



She Saw the Look, Almost of Scorn, that Juanita Gave to Luis as He Bowed Low Before Her 

that much, by morning, he understood very 
well indeed. 

Officially, Kearney's position was one of 
considerable delicacy. He might despise 
Kinkaid; he might, and did, resent bitterly, 
the man's claim to political influence. But 
he could not ignore it, for he knew that Kin- 
kaid did, as a matter of fact, have powerful 
friends in Washington, friends who would 
undoubtedly share in the profits of his land 
jumping. He had to be careful, therefore. 
If he sided openly with those whose land 
Kinkaid sought to steal under the cover of 
a necessary law, he might expect to be re- 

His best chance, as he knew, was to catch 
Kinkaid himself in the act of breaking the 
law. And, meanwhile, the only way in which 
he could help the rancheros, with whom he 
sympathized deeply, was by trying to induce 
them to bow to the superior force and* recog- 
nize the hated Gringo government to the 
oxtent of verifying their titles to their land 
by registering it. His duty, under the orders 
lie had received in Washington, was to report 

on the actual conditions, and to use his 
authority to suppress any illegal acts by 
Kinkaid and his fellow jumpers. To this end 
he had certain powers; he had the right, for 
instance, to call upon United States troops, 
if necessary, to enforce such orders as he 

His first move, on the morning after the 
stirring events of the day in which he had 
first seen Juanita Castro y Kenton, was to 
call upon Juanita's mother! Padre Antonio, 
had he known of his intention, might have 
saved him the humiliation that was in store 
for him. Senora Kenton — as he made the 
mistake of calling her — received him, in- 
deed. But she received him as she would 
have received a servant. She let him speak. 
And then she withered him. • 

"I feel competent to manage my own 
affairs, Senor," she said. "The title to my 
land is good. No such law as you speak of 
can affect it." 

"But— I know that Kinkaid has his eyes 
upon your property, Senora," he said. "Will 
you not listen to reason?" 



"I have listened to you, Senor," she said. 
"And now may I be alone? Or does your 
government compel me to receive you?" 

He flushed, bowed, and left her. Once 
more, however, he was more amused than 
angry. Amused, and pitiful. These people 
would not see! He sought out Padre An- 
tonio, and the priest sighed at what he told 

"I, too, have tried," he said, gently. "Senor 
Kearney — you are a good man. You are 
patient when you are insulted. You do your 
best for those who refuse to understand your 
motives. But I am afraid that we are help- 
less. There is, perhaps, one chance. I am 
about to do a thing that is very wrong. 
But, stay here. Talk to the one who will 
soon come. She may listen to you." 

Juanita could not know that she would 
find the American in the patio of the mis- 
sion. And yet — maybe she did know it. 
He stopped her, as she was about to pass by 

"I have been forbidden to speak witli you, 
Senor," she said. 

"Yet it is urgent, Senorita," he begged. 
"Give me a moment. Sit down, for just a 
moment. I must try to make you under- 

She yielded. She listened while he ex- 
plained the new law to her, and the reason 
for its enactment. And she nodded, wisely, 
when he had done. 

"After all — there could be no harm," she 
said. "But, Senor — why do you care so 
much? Why do you interest yourself in us?" 

"It is in you that I am interested," he 
said. "Senorita — can you not guess? Is 
there no mirror in your mother's house?" 

"A compliment!" she wondered. "And 
from you — a cold American?" 

"Ah, I am cold?" he said. Suddenly he 
knew; knew that he loved this girl who 
flouted him, only to smile a moment later. 
He took a quick step toward her; in a 
moment she was in his arms, startled, 
struggling. Then he kissed her. She cried 
out, faintly, but — she returned his kiss. At 
that he released her, trembling. They stared 
at one another. 

"Forgive me!" he said. "I — " 

"I am well rewarded for my disobedience," 
she said. "I was warned that I must not 
trust an American. My mother was right." 

She left him, abject, crushed. But he 
summoned all his courage. 

"Be as angry as you will, Senorita," he 

said. "I deserve your anger. But believe 
me when I say that you must yield to the 
law if you would avoid the loss of your 
home. Kinkaid is merciless; he will have 
his pound of flesh." 

She did not answer. He could not see her 
eyes. They were shining as she walked away 
from him, and her lips were curving in a 
faint smile. She did not look angry. 

Chapter VII 

INTO the patio of the Castro rancho rode 
* Juanita that afternoon. She had been 
out alone with Pepite, the Indian servant 
without whom she never left the patio, save 
to pass into the garden of the mission. Her 
mother and her grandmother were examin- 
ing the wares of a peddler. She expected a 
scolding; she had not had permission to ride. 
But her mother called to her, gently. 

"To-night is to be a great night for you, 
Juanita mia," she said. "Here, when all 
your friends are assembled, we shall make 
a great announcement." 

Juanita stared at her. The color rose in 
her cheeks, but she said nothing. 

'Tour betrothal to Luis will be announced. 
He asked me again last night for your hand. 
Always before I have told him that you were 
too young. But last night I agreed. In 
three weeks you will be married — as soon 
as Padre Antonio can cry the banns. You 
are a lucky girl." 

"Mamma!" The cry was wrung from her. 
"I — I do not know that I wish to marry 

"That does not matter, child. It would 
be unmaidenly for you to have a wish on 
such a subject. I have arranged all that 
for you, as it is proper for me to do." 

"But — it was not so that you married my 
father, mamma!" 

"Enough!" For the first time the mother 
seemed to understand that it was not mere 
modesty that made her daughter speak. "It 
is settled. Ah, here is Luis now!" 

She welcomed the interruption. There 
was something in Juanita's eyes that puzzled 
her. She saw the look, almost of scorn, that 
Juanita gave to Luis as he bowed low before 
her. And then, when Luis straightened up. 
she saw that he was angry, furious. 

"It is with sorrow that I come, Senora," 
he said. "I am mistaken perhaps. I was 
wrong when I believed that you had prom- 
ised your daughter's hand to me — when I 



thought that our betrothal was to he an- 
nounced to-night?" 

"Luis! What do you mean?" 

"I mean, Senora, that only this morning 
my promised bride was in the arms of a 
Gringo — that this morning she submitted to 
his kiss!" 

For a moment Juanita winced. But then 
she faced him, bravely. 

"Juanita!" cried her mother. "Is this 

"Don Luis has said it," said the girl, 
angrily. "Let him add that I resisted — that 
I am weak, without a man's strength. But 
— no, let him add nothing! It is enough. I 
have not promised to be his bride! I shall 
never make that promise now!" 

"Luis," said the senora, slowly. "Leave 
us. I do not quite understand. But you 
have done enough in telling me. The 
betrothal will be announced to-night. It is 
time that you claim your bride, and exercise 
a husband's right to protect her." 

He bowed. He did not meet Juanita's 
scornful eyes. Instead he turned and left 

them. Mother and daughter faced each other. 

"Juanita, is this true?" said her mother, 

"True — yes! The American is a man, at 
least. He would not bear tales! Luis — I 
would not marry him now, if he were the 
last man on earth!" 

"Juanita!" Her mother's voice cut like a 
knife. "You will obey. Everything shall be 
done as I wish it." 

"I will not obey! I am half American my- 
self! I will choose my own husband!" 

With a cry of rage her mother turned. In 
a moment she had snatched up a heavy whip. 

"To your room!" she said. "Will you obey 
— or shall I beat you, like a disobedient 

For a moment Juanita held her ground. 
But then sheer strength, the strength of 
years, conquered her. That, and the tradi- 
tion in which she had been reared. With 
a low moan she turned and went into the 

"Dear God!" she cried, as she flung her- 
self, sobbing, on her bed. "What can I do?" 


"To Your Room!" She Said, "Will You Obey— or Shall I Beat You, Like a Disobedient Doe!" 


What could she do, indeed? Kearney 
might help her. But she had sent him away. 
And, after all, might it not be that he was 
only playing with her? That he thought of 
her only as a girl to be kissed? Men were 
like that, she knew. She must obey. No 
peon on the great rancho was more help- 
less, more wholly at her mother's mercy. 

Chapter VIII 

tpNDLESSLY the hours of the long after- 
noon dragged themselves out. Servants 
came and dressed Juanita. She was young; 
the fascination of new clothes was too much 
for her to resist, after all. She could not be 
wholly unhappy. After all, there were things 
to be remembered. Many there would be, 
among the evening's guests, who would envy 
her. The wife of Luis del Terre would be a 
great lady. It might be that her mother was 
right; that, after all, the young could not 
be trusted to think for themselves in such 

Later she watched the coming of the 
guests, to be received by her mother and 
her grandmother. They sat on a raised dais 
in the patio. All who came bowed to the 
ladies; to those deserving of special honor 
Donna Maria rose and gave her hand. Later 
still a cloth would be spread for the danc- 
ing. And already, in a balcony, the musi- 
cians could be heard, making sweet music 
with mandolins and guitars. 
■ Not until all the guests had come, when 
it was quite dark, did Juanita herself ap- 
pear. Luis, too, had stayed in the back- 
ground. But now, when the time came, there 
was a pretty ceremony. Luis and Juanita 
appeared, together. Senora Castro-Kenton 
■advanced with them. In the presence of all 
the guests she joined their hands. 

Then came congratulations. It was a great 
occasion. With Luis Juanita began the 
dance. Then he danced with her mother. 
And so the night of festivity began. And 
then, suddenly, with no word of warning, an 
alien figure was among them. Into the patio, 
with clinking spurs, strode Kearney. He 
went straight to Senora Castro-Kenton, who 
stood, very stiff and straight, to receive him. 

"Senora," he said, "what I feared is about 
to happen. Kinkaid and his crew of bullies 
are on their way to this place. They mean 
to drive you out to-night and take posses- 
sion. I beg of you to go quietly, before they 

"Luis!" said Donna Maria. A faint smile 
was on her face. "Will you speak to this 
— Gringo for me?" 

Kearney turned, courteously, to the Span- 

"It is as I have said, Senor," he said. "Un- 
happily, Senora Kenton has put herself in 
the power of this scoundrel. Later, I hope, 
I shall be able to secure a change in the law 
that will make everything right. But now 
there is nothing to do but to yield to the 
law, which is on his side. I have come here, 
at some risk to myself, to warn you." 

"We appreciate that, Senor," said Don Luis, 
with a sneer, baring his teeth. "Danger 
must distress you. We are armed ; the dance 
may continue, I think. I thought of this 
Kinkaid ; we are in a position to defend our- 

Kearney sighed. 

"Against Kinkaid — yes," he said. "Against 
the power of the whole United States? I 
think not, Senor. The law is on his side. If 
he meets resistance, he has the right to call 
upon the troops to aid him." 

"Let the troops come," said Don Luis. 
"We will not be afraid, Senor." 

"Good God!" Kearney exploded. "You talk 
like a child, Don Luis! There are women 
here. You may sacrifice your own lives in 
vain heroics — I'll not try to stop you. But 
consider them! I tell you this scoundrel has 
the law on his side. You are helpless against 
him. I begged you all to make him power- 
less. I was insulted for my pains. He has 
sent a man to file his claim to this rancho — 
the law holds that it is his!" 


It was Juanita who spoke. She held up a 

"I believed you, Senor Kearney!" she cried. 
"This afternoon I rode myself to the land 
office. I filed the claim. I registered the 
land. This man has no right to come here!" 

"Thank Heaven that one among you had 
sense enough to do that!" said Kearney. 
"That changes everything. Don Luis, you 
are right. We will fight. If I cannot drive 
Kinkaid off by telling him this, I shall be 
glad to fight with. you. I shall send my man 
for the troops." 

In the confusion that had followed Jua- 
nita's disclosure, he alone kept his head. 
During the turmoil he gave orders to his 
negro servant. Senora Castro-Kenton was 
upbraiding Juanita. And then outside a wild 
yelling rose. Half a dozen shots were fired. 



Pepite, the Indian, ran in, his forehead fur- 
rowed by a bullet. 

"They are attacking us!" he cried. 

"To the roof!" shouted Don Luis. "The 
guns are there!" 

Chapter IX 

TpOR a few minutes there was hot work. 
While the women were pushed behind a 

"Don't worry about me," said Kearney. 
"Kinkaid, this time you've overshot your 
mark. This place is registered." 

"That's a^lie!" roared Kinkaid. "I've sent 
a man to file my claim." 

"I'm telling the truth, Kinkaid. Come in, 
by yourself, and I'll prove it to you. What 
you're doing here is plain murder and rob- 
bery. The law is against you, for once." 

"You can't bluff me, Kearney," said Kin- 

For a Moment Juanita Winced. But Then She Faced Him Bravely 

shelter the men lined the parapet. Kinkaid 
and his ruffians had planned a capture by a 
sudden rush. But they were beaten off, with 
small loss. Don Luis lost a little blood. A 
bullet grazed Kearney's cheek. And then 
Kearney, before any of them could guess 
what he meant to do, rose on the parapet, 
shouting to Kinkaid. He waved a white 

"I want a parley, Kinkaid!" he called. 

"I'm listening, Kearney," shouted the 
raider, from below. "How are you going to 
explain this in Washington? Better come 
down while there's still time." 

kaid, with a sneer. "I'll give you two min- 
utes to come down. You've done all you can 
for your friends. Now save your skin." 

"I've warned you," said Kearney. "All 
right. You know the risk you run. This 
time I've got you, Kinkaid. You'd better kill 
me. If you don't you'll land in jail for this." 

He leaped back among the defenders. . Don 
Luis held out his hand. 

"Senor Kearney, my apologies," he said. 
"You are a brave man! To face those 
treacherous hounds as you did takes cour- 
age. I have wronged you." 

"Never mind that," said Kearney, brusque- 



ly. "They'll be after us again in a moment. 
Post your men, if you're in command here. 
Cover every possible means of approach. I 
know those devils. They'll leav.e no stone 
unturned to get at us. And they must out- 
number us three to one. We can hold this 
place — it's as strong as a fort. But there'll 
be hot work before the troops come." 

"We will not need the troops," boasted 
Don Luis. 

And he could act as well as boast. He was 
a born soldier, and now he arranged the few 
men he had in the best positions. They com- 
manded the approaches to the patio from 
the parapet; it was impossible for any of 
Kinkaid's men to get inside and attack them 
from behind, as long as that withering fire 
swept the approach. 

"That's well done," said Kearney. He was 
a little dizzy, and now he found that his eyes 
were full of blood. 

"Where can I find some water?" he asked. 
"I'll tie a wet rag around this — shan't be 
much good until I do." 

"Where the women are," said Don Luis. 
"It is a good time. We shall need you later." 

Juanita herself bound up his trifling 
wound. And now her mother did not re- 
proach her. Instead she came to add her 
apologies to those that Don Luis had offered. 

"You overwhelm us all, Senor," she said. 
"But one brave enough to act as you have 
done will be generous enough to overlook a 
woman's rudeness." 

"Senora, I beg of you!" said Kearney. 
"You have suffered enough from unworthy 
Americans to be excused for condemning all 
of us. But better times are coming. Your 
daughter has saved the rancho." 

"She has disobeyed me," said Donna Maria, 
"And yet, I do not know. It was so that her 
father might have acted." 

From the parapet there was a renewed out- 
burst of firing. Shouts and yells redoubled 
the din. And Kearney, looking to his pistol, 
ran quickly to the front. The besiegers had 
made an attempt to raise ladders, covering 
their movements with a shield of boards. 
But the Spaniards had been ready for them. 
Below half a dozen of Kinkaid's men lay very 
still ; , two or three others were crawling 
back to the shelter of a clump of bushes. 

And now, from all parts of the roof, came 
exclamations from the defenders. The am- 
munition they had had for their muskets 
was exhausted, only a few rounds having 
been served out with the guns. 

"Where is the reserve stock, Don Luis?" 
asked Kearney. "We'd better get it out. 
There'll be another rush before long. Kin- 
kaid knows that he's got to get us soon — or 
not at all. He won't be content now just 
with getting the ranch. He wants the loot 
for his men. Man, what's the matter?" 

Don Luis was pale. 

"The ammunition!" he stammered. "It — 
is not here! We were to get it — manana!" 

For a moment Kearney was speechless. He 
could scarcely believe his ears. But the eyes 
of Luis told him that he had heard the truth. 

"Then all we have is what cartridges we 
have for our pistols?" he asked. 

"That is all," said Luis. "To-morrow, if 
they had waited, we would have been ready." 

"And they didn't wait!" scoffed Kearney. 
"We should have let them know! Well, 
we've got about one chance in a million, 
now. Get the women down below — to the 
patio. They'll soon know. Without the 
muskets we can't drive them back if they 
make another rush. They'll get on the roof. 
But we can hold them back for a time with 
the pistols, and if we block the stairs we 
can do some damage from the patio. Time 
is what we must fight for now." 

Thus Kearney took command. Luis was 
crushed and broken by the discovery of his 
neglect. He made no excuses; he took the 
blame manfully. And he made no attempt 
to controvert Kearney. All the Spaniards 
seemed to recognize that here was a man 
who knew something of war. They were 
right. Kearney had served under Scott in 
the march from Vera Cruz to Chapultapec. 
He knew the bravery of these people, and 
their incapacity. There were few Ameri- 
cans with Kinkaid; most of his men were 
the riff raff of the border. But Kinkaid 
himself was a rough and tumble fighter, 
veteran of Indian wars, and brave enough, 
when it came to an actual fight. Kearney 
felt that there was little hope. 

His first move was to try to protect the 
women. He marshalled them to the stairs, 
and down below. They were as brave as the 
men. Now that danger was at hand there 
were no hysterics. Juanita smiled as she 
waited for him, the last of the women to go 

"We shall not escape?" she said. 

"I hope so," he said gravely. "But it will 
be very close." 

"We are ready," she said. "We shall not 
be caught. We shall do as Isabella Espineza 



did. See? I can act at the proper time." 

She showed him a little jewelled dagger, 
and he shuddered. But he, too, knew what 
Kinkaid's men might do. 

"Juanita!" he said, suddenly, taking her 
hand. "Whatever comes — I love you! If we 
escape, I will take you, against Don Luis or 
all the world!" 

There was a great light in her eyes. 

"Come — a moment," she said. 

She led him to her mother. 

"Mamma," she said. "Senor 
Kearney lias told me 
that he loves me. 
Perhaps we 
shall a 1 1 

from below there came laughter now, mock- 
ing, jeering laughter. Kinkaid's voice rose 

"Tell your friends to surrender, Kearney," 
lie cried. "We know your guns are useless. 
I can still hold the men. You can all get 
out — women and all. If we have to rush 
you again, I can't be responsible fcr what 
will happen." 

"I'd rather surrender to a wild cat, Kin- 
kaid!" answered Kearney. 

The Spaniards who under- 
stood cheered him for 
his defiance. And 
from below a 
new crack- 

She Watched the Coming of 
Her Mother and 



die to- - ■ 

night. But 

if we live, I 

shall marry him. If 

he dies, I shall die — 

or, if I live, I shall 

take the veil. When 

you were young, you chose your lover. 

so shall I." 

Donna Maria saw a woman, not a girl. 
Quietly she bowed her head. In the girl's 
eyes was the same look that had often been 
in her father's. 

"They come!" called a man, from above. 
"Senor Kearney — they are coming again!" 

Instantly he rushed to the roof. 

"Wait!" he cried. "Hold your fire! Don't 
shoot until they are very near. We will get 
more of them, and perhaps they will not know 
that our ammunition has given out." 

Once more the attack was repelled. But 

the Guests, to be Received by 
Her Grandmother 

ling of 
shots respond- 
ed. Kinkaid meant 
to settle matters 
quickly now. 

Even the ammuni- 
tion for their pistols had to be sparingly 
used now. No shots could be wasted. And 
gradually the attackers drove them from 
the roof. 

"Down, gentlemen," cried Kinkaid, at last. 
"We'll make our last stand in the patio. 
I've had furniture moved out to block the 
stairs when we're down — we can get under 
the balcony and be safe from firing from 

For ten minutes they fought against the 
ever growing attack. But the weight of 
numbers was too much for them. They were 
pressed back from the gate, through which 



a stream of bullets was pouring now. Man 
after man fell ; those who remained snatched 
their pistols and so kept up the fight. Great 
blows fell upon the timbers of the gate. Soon 
they would give way, and that would mean 
the end. And then, above the scattering 
firing, a new sound crashed out. Gunfire — 
but of a different sort. The sharp, steady 
roll of a volley. 

Kearney flung up his head. 

"Listen!" he cried. 

Again the volley sounded. Shrieks of fear 
and anguish came from without. The firing 
died away. And then there was the call of 
a bugle. 

"The charge!" cried Kearney. "Open the 

They flung it wide open. Outside in all 
directions the raiders were in flight. And 
among them rode men in blue, shooting a 
man down here, cutting another down there. 

"Cease firing!" trilled the bugle at last. 

And through the gate, while the Spaniards 
cheered hoarsely and hysterical women cried 
their thanksgiving, rode two officers. 

"We got your message, Kearney," said one, 
a captain. "In time, aren't we?" 

"Just!" said Kearney. "They'd have had 
us in another minute, I believe!" 

For a moment there was silence. And then 
Don Luis broke it. 

"Gompaneros !" he cried, as a trooper rode 
in, bearing the American flag. "We have 
been wrong! There is the flag that saved 
us to-night! Henceforth it is my flag, and 
I salute it!" 

'•Viva Amerigo!" cried another. 

Kearney had slipped away. Juanita seized 
his hands. 

"You were not hit again?" she cried, 

He laughed, as he took her in his arms. 

"When you were waiting for me?" he cried. 
"My life was charmed!" 


T^HE ability of a good director to turn disaster into a stroke of luck was illus- 
■*■ trated perfectly by an incident that occurred not long ago when the Eclair 
company at Tucson, Arizona, were doing an outdoor scene for a western two 
reeler. Henry Stanley, the leading man was being chased by several other men 
on horseback, when, just as they came up close to the camera, his horse 
stumbled and fell. His pursuers, unable even to turn, rode over him, pell mell. 
There was a moment of agonizing suspense and then Stanley's voice was heard, 
calling out, "I'm not hurt." As he tried pluckily to stagger to his feet, Webster 
Cullison, the director, waved the others away and beckoned to the leading lady 
to help him up. The impassive camera man had all the time been grinding 
away, so that, when the rest of the scene had been hastily revised so as to 
enable the rather pale and shaky man to complete the necessary action they 
had secured a corking scene, the sort that no conscientious director can plan for. 


J? VERYTHING was in readiness and the action about to start. Someone 
*"* suggested that they test out the strength of the cable before attempting the 
ride. A weight of about three hundred pounds was put in it and it was started 
on its journey. Just as it reached the deepest part of the canyon, there was 
a sharp snap and the cable broke from its fastenings and the bucket dropped 
with a crash into the chasm. White-faced, the players looked at one another, 
thinking what might have happened if the leading man had been in the car 
instead of the test weight. 

It occurred in the staging of the second episode of the "Master Key," pro- 
duced under the direction of Mr. Leonard and he himself plays the leading role. 

The World's Master Picture 

— H Producer 

By Selwyn A. Stanhope 

IN every branch 
of industry- 
there is some 
one man who towers 
above all others. Usu- 
ally he is an inno- 
vator. Often his 
ideas were so new, 
until he had proved 
them, that they 
seemed ridiculous to 
his rivals. And only 
repeated successes 
have made his 
name an estab- 
lished trade-mark 
o f individuality 

and excellence. Such a man is David 
W. Griffith. 

Though almost unknown to 
the millions of movie fans 
throughout the world, David W. 
Griffith is not only the peer of the 
photoplay producers of the world, 
but also the founder of modern 
motion picture technique. For more 
than six years he has been 
contributing to the public's 
incessant ■ demand for an ever- 
changing array of motion picture 

entertainment. He is directly responsible 
for a greater number of photo dramas 
than any other man in the world. During 
the very short time that he has been 
experimenting with the possibilities of the 
new art he has accomplished a multitude 
of amazingly big things. If you were meas- 
uring the films in miles, you would find 
them long enough to girdle the globe a 
number of times. 
But mere quantity 
is beside the point. 
It is quality that has 
made Mr. Griffith's 

I have talked with 
more than a hundred 
men who are big in 
the realm of the 
movies and I have yet 
to hear one man deny 
David W. Griffith the 
right to be known as 
the world's foremost 

director Of motion pic- 

Discussing: Future Productions 
-with His Office Stuff 



ture plays, be it either drama or comedy. 

Seven years ago, a tall, lanky young man, 
with an astoundingly large aquiline nose, 
an actor, was stranded out in San Francisco. 
Today his salary is mind-staggering, for he 
is listed as one of the few $100,000 a year 
men in the United States. That man of 
yesterday is Director Griffith of to-day — the 
chief producer of all Reliance, Majestic, and 
Griffith photo dramas, the last-named brand 
of films always being feature subjects of 
four and five reels. Under the three brands 
there is released an average of five new 
photoplays every week. Of course, it is im- 
possible for Griffith personally to produce 
this number of plays each week, but to each 
of them he devotes a part of his time. Many 
directors work under him. Frequently 
Director Griffith casts their pictures, and, 
in all cases, he selects their stories. This 
applies to Majestic and Reliance releases 
only. All Griffith photoplays are produced 
solely by David W. Griffith. But I am 'way 
ahead of my story. 

Out in California in 1907 it was a hard 
matter for the best actors to find steady 
employment. Frankly, David W. Griffith was 
not considered one of the best. He had 
ideas o* his own and found it a hard matter 
to get into any of the organizations which 
were conducted according to the ideas of 
the old timers. He was considered a breeder 
of trouble; consequently he was out of work 
and "broke" most of the time. In film cir- 
cles it is repeatedly told that he treked up 
and down the Pacific Coast seeking employ- 
ment, ragged and unkempt, at times not 
knowing where the next meal was to come 
from. He represented himself as an actor 
and a playwright, but failed to interest any 
of the California producers. James K. Hack- 
ett's manager met him in the west and 
secured the manuscript of his play, "A Fool 
and a Girl," which he planned to produce in 
the East. This brought the young actor to 
New York, hopeful and buoyant. But the 
play as presented at Washington was an 
utter failure, and its author was left in 
worse financial shape than before. 

"Larry" Griffith, so nicknamed by his 
stage associates and because of the fact that 
his stage name was Lawrence Griffith, was 
down and out. He seemed to fare worse on 
Broadway than when out in 'Frisco. A 
friend suggested that he look for a job at 
the motion picture studios, and gave him 
the addresses of two recently established 

companies. "Larry" Griffith jumped at the 
chance. At the first studio he was coolly 
informed that no extra actors were needed. 
The clerk at the second studio — that of the 
American Mutoscope and Biograph Company 
at 11 East Fourteenth street, New York — 
placed his name on the book as an available 
actor in case extras were needed for future 
productions. Two days later he received a 
summons to be at the studio the next day 
promptly at nine o'clock in the morning. 
That was the beginning of one of the most 
interesting careers of this wonderful new 
world of the film drama. 

Director Griffith is one of those strange 
combinations, a realist in action and a mys- 
tic in temperament, who sees clearly the 
beauty about him and can transfer his artis- 
tic impressions to others because of that 
side of him which is eminently practical. 
He was a playwright by tendency, an actor 
by opportunity, and he became a motion pic- 
ture actor and director by force of circum- 
stance. He would have succeeded as a 
dramatist — he was valiantly working toward 
that end in spite of hunger and the need of 
clothes — but, while he was looking out of 
the front door for histrionic fame to drive 
up in a coach and four, there came a modest 
knock at the back door, and a poor, little, 
ragged, half-starved new art was there beg- 
ging for a wee bit of stimulus and a spark 
of the fire of genius to keep it from freezing 
to death. That half-starved new art was the 
motion picture play. It was a most for- 
tunate day indeed when David W. Griffith 
was forced to listen to it. 

He made good as an actor before the 
camera, being placed in the company's stock 
organization after playing in three or four 
pictures. His value was demonstrated from 
the start, since he knew how to take orders 
and still show his superiors how to do 
things. After several weeks of steady work 
as an actor it fell to Griffith to direct a 
picture, or at least a part of one. The 
regular director was sick in bed and unable 
to complete a picture previously started. 

The company heads had been noticing the 
young man with the big nose, and rather 
liked his ways. In the pinch, they selected 
him to finish up the picture. Though he 
had never directed a photoplay in his life, 
he took hold at once and began pulling 
away from the beaten paths. In one of the 
scenes in that first production a barrel was 
shown floating down a stream. It occurred 



sick director heard of what Griffith was doing he 
twisted his lips and shook his head. When the 
finished picture was flashed on the screen it was 
so utterly different and new to the company's stock- 
holders that they really didn't know what to think. 
When exhibited to the public it was acclaimed a cork- 
ing production, and David W. Griffith was allowed to 
try his hand on another play which turned out even 
better than its predecessor. He has been directing 
motion picture plays ever since. 

As the scope of the picture broadened and di- 
rectors began to strive for naturalness, the name 
Biograph became a leading one in the picture 
world through the genius of Director Griffith, who 
as early as 1909 and '10 was responsible for a 
half hundred or more picture plays of all types 
which have never been surpassed. In this list one 
will find the famous "Muggsey" series of comedies 
which are still conceded to be the best productions 
of their kind ever offered the public. "Billy" Quirk, 

Seven Tears Ago. a Tall, Lanky, 

Young Man with an Astoundingly 

Large Aquiline Nose, an Actor, was 

Stranded Out in San Francisco 

to Griffith that it would 
be interesting to s h o w 
what the people on the 
bank were doing while the 
barrel was floating down 
the stream. When the 

Directing the Cabaret Scene from "The 
Battle of the Sexes" 

now of the Vitagraph forces, 
appeared as "Muggsey" and 
Mary Pickford and Florence 
Lawrence were also fea- 
tured. These comedies are 
still so popular that exhib- 
itors all over the country 
are demanding their re- 

In 1911 and '12 Director 
Griffith followed with such 
wonderful one and two 
reel productions as "The 
House With Closed Shut- 
ters," "The Battle," "The 



Barbarian," "The Eternal Mother," "A Blot on the 
Escutcheon," "Ramona," "Iola's Promise," "The Mus- 
keteers of Pig Alley," "Oil and Water," and "The 
New York Hat." In settings, acting and technique, 
these productions of two and three years ago were 
superior to many of the present-day releases. 

The recent revival of all of the Mary Pickford films, 
produced by Director Griffith while with the Biograph 
Company, is sufficient proof of the above statement. 
One of these, "The New York Hat," provides the most 
realistic bit of real life ever seen on the screen. Mary 
Pickford has never equaled her work in this, though 
she has since appeared in many seemingly splendid 
vehicles, proof positive of how much of the intrinsic 
value of a picture play is in the directing. 

Prior to his departure from the Biograph studio in 
October, 1913, Director Griffith devoted his attention 
to the production of feature photoplays, giving us "The 
Battle of Elderbrush Gulch," "The Massacre," and 

Though He Gets $100,000 a Year. He 

Takes Advice and Suggestions from 

Anybody, from the Office Soy to the 


All are dramas of the sort 
that few motion picture di- 
rectors would attempt to 
handle, presenting in the 
scenario such difficult tasks 

A Scene from "The Escape." Left to 
Bight, Robert Harron, a Stage Carpen- 
ter, Donald Crisp, Mae Marsh, and David 
W. Griffith with His Megaphone 

A Consultation with Geo. Betzer, His 
Camera Expert 

"Judith of Bethulia," and it is 
the opinion of the many people 
I have talked to about Director 
Griffith and the growth of the 
picture play, that many weeks, 
yes months, will pass before the 
above-named photo dramas will 
be eclipsed. 

Since becoming associated with 
Reliance, Majestic and Griffith 
brands, this master producer 
has turned out several note- 
worthy offerings such as "The 
Avenging Conscience," "Home 
Sweet Home," "The Battle of 
the Sexes," and "The Escape." 



as would take the heart out of the most- 
ambitious producer. 

As this is being written he is engaged in 
producing "The Clansman," by Thomas W. 
Dixon. If my readers could gain admittance 
to the big lot across from the Mutual studio 
on Sunset' Boulevard, Los Angeles, he would 
probably see a whole line of little negro 
cabins . .. befo' the war days, and more than 
a hundred colored and white people min- 
gling about waiting for Director Griffith to 
start things. 

A good-natured roar- comes from the mid- 
dle of the crowd. One turns to look upon 
a tattered straw hat, from under the edge 
of which protrudes a big, commanding nose. 
He sits on a wooden platform with a mega- 
phone to his lips, and begins wheedling, 
coaxing and joshing his actors up to 
dramatic heights they do not realize them- 

No scenario, no notes are in his hands as 
he works. He has studied his production 
thoroughly before starting the company on 
it. He directs with his right hand, which 
always clutches a huge, black, burned-out 
cigar. He always has the cigar. He lights 
it after breakfast and it does for all day. 
In his left hand he holds a megaphone. He 
waves either cigar or megaphone at his 
people and they obey. That cigar serves 
him as the baton serves an orchestra di- 

For "The Clansman" he built two vil- 
lages. One depicts a Southern village dur- 
ing the reconstruction period, showing a 
street lined with houses and a church in 
the background. Foliage and flowers have 
been transplanted to places along a picket 
fence and they look as if they had been 
growing there for years; the village itself 
looks as if it had been standing for years, 
though the paint is scarcely dry. 

In this street the visitor will see old- 
fashioned street lamps, the hitching-posts 
and racks of the old days. When this vil- 
lage is peopled with film actors and actresses 
in suitable costumes, one is transported 
back to the days of the period and feels the 
atmosphere of it. Because of this at- 
mosphere thus created, better work is done. 

The other village is a group of negroes' 
cabins, the negroes' quarters of the old 
South. Director Griffith was producing a 
scene here when first I saw him. Two hun- 
dred people were before him; two hundred 
more were behind the ropes watching. Ne- 

groes of every age were at work rehearsing. 
Mule carts were being driven back and forth. 
Banjo players were there, barefooted negro 
dancers, old colored men, pickaninnies under 
foot. His eyes watched them all. 

And the methods that make him a $100,000 
a year director are as characteristic as the 
man. He sits in a chair on a little platform 
in front and a little to the side of the 
camera, wearing a tattered straw hat, his 
cigar and his megaphone in action. A half- 
dozen negro boys are "acting" in the fore- 
ground. He doesn't scream to them that 
that will not do. His .hand dives into his 
pocket; it comes forth full of dimes. He 
tosses a dozen into the group. 

"Scramble for 'em!" he calls. "That's it! 
Laugh and cut up! Now, there's another 
dime, for each of you if you do it again, and 
do it right. That's it!" 

Then his eye travels two hundred feet 
away, the megaphone comes to his lips: 

"Out a little more back there! Hit it up. 
Bill! You two men near the cabin get to 
dancing! That's it!" 

Back to the foreground again: 

"Take the hat off that banjo player — it 
shades his face. Now — all ready! Dance, 
there — dance! That's it! You children run 
right back through the crowd now. You 
white folks come up to the center! You — 
in that chair! Put back your head — go to 
sleep and snore!" 

It is a real snore that answers him. The 
snore is not depicted on the film, of course, 
but it gives atmosphere, and that is worth 
its weight in gold. And these details are 
not in the scenario. 

Now he looks down the street and spies 
an aged negro man. The camera has ceased 
to whirr. That particular scene is finished. 
He sends a sub-director for the old darky, 
looks him over from head to foot and smiles. 
He has found a type. 

This aged negro, who is but an extra, has 
struck Director Griffith's eye. He is "made," 
though he doesn't know it yet. He is placed 
in the foreground with the dancers. The 
music and the dancing begin again. Griffith 
tells the camera man to get busy. The aged 
negro dreams of the days of his youth. He 
dances better than the young men. He 
dances the old plantation steps. He pats 
the top of his bald head with the palm of 
his hand. He forgets he is working before 
a movie camera — he is back in the old days 
and these folk around him are his people. 



Wait until you see "The Clansman" and 
you'll see the aged negro dancing up to the 
front of the screen, the look of enthusiasm 
on his face. If you didn't know you would 
say he was a great actor. But he isn't. He 
isn't an actor at all. He is simply an old 
negro living over again the days of his 
youth, the spirit of youth dragged from him 
again by the genius of D. W. Griffith — and 
that is why that particular scene will be so 

Even in early Biograph days Director 
Griffith much preferred the untrained actor 
with talent to the actor with a reputation, 
and many interesting stories are told by 
those who were associated with him at the 
Biograph studio regarding the methods used 
to make his people rise to sufficient heights 
of emotion during the playing of their first 
important parts. As illustrated by the old 
darky incident, Director Griffith's ability to 
make people act approaches real genius, and 
he will go to almost any length to get an 
actor to give him the effect demanded. 

In the early days of Mary Pickford's ca- 
reer, when she was engaged to her present 
husband, Owen Moore, who was working 
with her in Biograph productions, Director 
Griffith would charge Moore with lack of 
intelligence. Miss Pickford, you must re- 
member, was only a child — just sixteen years 
old. She would lose her temper and become 
angry. Then he would turn quickly to the 
camera man and whisper, "Go ahead! 

The result was always an exhibition of 
temperament on the part of "Little Mary" 
that exactly fitted the character she was 
portraying. "Wilful Betty," a Mary Pick- 
ford-Biograph revival, was made under such 

Some insight into the secret of Director 
Griffith's success may, perhaps, be gained by 

noting that although he demands the hardest . 
kind of work from his players and is most 
exacting during the making of a picture, 
the regard in which he is held by them 
amounts almost to worship. It is not un- 
usual to hear his people, by whom he is 
affectionately called "Larry," claim that he 
is the greatest man this country has pro- 

And here another incident of the visit to 
the Mutual studio comes to my mind, one 
which illustrates just why his people love 
him. Miss Mae Marsh was standing near 
him just before he gave the camera man the 
word to start grinding. Calling her to him, 
he commanded: 

"Look down the line and see what you 
think of it!" He knew that four eyes, in 
matters of that kind, were better than two. 
I think he told her so at the time. 

Miss Marsh suggested that the clothes of 
one of the darkies looked too new and un- 

"That's right," shouted Director Griffith. 
"Go get some older looking clothes!" he 
commanded the negro. 

"Anything else, Miss Marsh?" he asked. 

Some one else whispered that the insignia 
on one of the officers' uniforms was not cor- 
rect. The military expert was called, the 
mistake corrected, and other mistakes in 
detail were looked for. Two or three changes 
here and there, all at the suggestion of his 
players, and the scene was begun. You see, 
though he gets $100,000 a year he takes 
advice and suggestions from anyone from 
the office boy to the "stars." This advice is 
applied scientifically, and he doesn't waste 
many seconds applying it. That's why he is 
valuable and successful, why his players 
love him, why his films are different, and 
finally, why he is the highest paid and most 
talked-of man in all filmdom. 


JONES had sat through the long reels and curiosity moved him to wake his 
neighbor on the left. "Who is the author of that play they just ran?" was 
his question. 

"Durned if I know," was the sleepy rejoinder, "but I should think he'd be 
afraid to tell anyone." 

—There Would Be a Flash— a Little Cloud of Duet— and You and I Would Be Gone 

THE BOMB By Richard Dale 

Illustrations from the Lubin Film 

COUNT IVAN looked curiously at the 
contrivance on the table before him. 
It was a commonplace thing enough; 
seemingly it was just a box, filled with a few 
pieces of wood, and some curious arrange-' 
ment of string and leather. Yet to bring 
it to this state had taken him the better 
part of three years, and he regarded that 
small, trivial looking bit of mechanism as 
the crowning work of a life that had won 
him honorary membership in a dozen world 
famous scientific societies and degrees from 
as many universities. Other inventions of 
his were known all over the world; they 
brought him the wealth that had made it 
possible for him to devote himself, in the 
last few years, wholly to the real research 
that alone satisfied him. 

"Marie Feodorovna!" he called. 

His daughter answered at once. She was 
always within sound of his voice when she 
was in the house at all. She came only 

when he called, because there were many 
times when it was necessary that he should 
be entirely alone. But he liked, very often, 
to have her with him, to make her sit down 
and listen to his talk. And so she was 
likely to be, as she was now, in the next 
room, reading or sewing, ready to come to 
him when he called. 

"It is finished, Marie Feodorovna!" he 
said, solemnly. 

She gave a little cry of delight. 

"Finished?" she said. "Really, father? 
But I thought you said only yesterday that 
it might be weeks, even months, before you 
had finished?" 

"I had been disappointed before," he an- 
swered, "when I thought the secret was 
mine. But now there is no longer any 
doubt. See! I am pulling this string. If 
I should pull too hard — there would be a 
flash — a little cloud of dust! And pouf! 
We should be gone, you and I, and this 




room — we should be a part of a pile of 
dust! Nothing more!" 

She shrank back, appalled, frightened. He 
relaxed his hold on the string. And then, 
very carefully, very methodically, he dis- 
mantled the little mechanism. 

"Watch me now," he said. "You must 
share this secret. I shall not patent it. But 
I shall leave this box, so. If there is ever 
occasion to use it, before I have completed 
the arrangements I shall make, add the con- 
tents of this vial to what is in the box. 
Then any chemist will know as much as I." 

"Why won't you patent it, father?" 

"Because no government shall ever learn 
this secret! No government shall have the 
right to use this explosive that I have found 
for the killing of men. With this secret in 
its possession any government could make 
war — and be sure of victory. There is work 
to be done which my discovery will make 
easier. It will even make possible some 
things now utterly impossible. Tunnels can 
be driven now through mountains that have 
been impassable barriers before this day. It 
is in industry, in engineering works, in the 
wars of peace, that my explosives shall be 

Marie's face clouded a little. 

"But they will try to make you give up 
the secret," she said. "The government 
knows already what you are doing, doesn't 

"Yes," he answered. "But I shall not tell. 
Boris Zazonoff has come to me several times, 
representing the government. A fine lad, 
Boris. But I have refused him. I must do 
so again to-night." 

"He is coming to-night?" said Marie. 
There was the faintest touch of color in her 
pale cheeks; a more observant man than her 
father might have noticed that sign. 

"He should be here now. 1 am willing 
to receive him. But — " 

There was a knock at the door. The 
servant announced that Boris Zazonoff was 

"We will receive His Excellency in the 
drawing room," said Marie, after a glance 
at her father. And, at his questioning look: 

"Yes, father. I should like to hear what 
is said." 

Boris Zazonoff rose to greet them when 
they came into the room where he waited. 
He was a Russian aristocrat of the best 
type, with sensitive features, and the quick, 
alert sympathy that marked him as one 

wholly apart from the reactionary group, 
that just then ruled the court, and, in fact, 
all Russia. Now his eyes were troubled. 

"Good evening, Boris," said Count Ivan. 
"What may I do for you?" 

"Ivan Nicholaievitch," said Boris, earnest- 
ly, "I beg of you to obey the Imperial order. 
I sympathize with you. I agree with your 
desires. Like you, I wish to see peace rule 
upon the earth. But what can one man do 
against an autocrat? Give up your secret. 
You will be well paid!" 

"I have no need of money," said Count 
Ivan. "I have all a man could want. No. 
My answer is the same." 

"My mission to-night is not an official 
one," said Boris, slowly. "I risk a great 
deal to come here. I come to warn you. If, 
by to-morrow, you have not yielded to the 
government, you are to be banished to 
Siberia. You estates will be confiscated. 
Your experiment will be stopped. Your 
work will be ruined. You will have brought 
utter, irremediable disaster upon yourself 
and upon Marie Peodorovna, your daughter. 
And to what end ? You cannot stand against 
the power of the Czar." 

Count Ivan rose, towering above them. 
Marie, her face white, stared at him. 

"My answer is the same!" said Count 
Ivan. "It is still— No!" 

"And I say that he is right!" cried Marie, 
suddenly. "If you plead with him to change 
for my sake, I tell you that I would not 
have it! Better for him, for me, to suffer, 
than for misery to be brought to hundreds 
of thousands to spare us! Go back to the 
government that sent you, the government 
that men will tear down and destroy some 
day, to punish it for such crimes as this!" 

"Marie Feodorovna!" cried Boris. "I 
come as a friend, not as an agent of the 
government. I come to warn you." 

"A friend!" she said, scornfully. "One who 
serves the Czar can not be our friend! Go!" 

Scornfully, bitterly, she followed him to 
the door. Then she returned to her father. 

"Father!" she said. "Let us fly to-night! 
Perhaps, we can get away — there may yet be 
time! Father — " 

For a moment she thought he was not 
there. And then she saw him, lying across 
a sofa. In a moment she was bending over 
him. She felt for his heart; there was no 
beat. She knew what had happened. His 
heart had been weak for years. The shock 
had killed him. 



"Now hear me, 
God of Russia!" 
she cried. "I will 
avenge him!" 

C HE had made 
° n o idle 
threat. There 
was in Marie 
the same spirit 
that had made 
her father pur- 
sue the elusive 
ideas, the secrets 
that he had con- 
quered, one af- 
ter another. And 
she had a great 
instrument, the 
last secret that 
he had won. She 
had the money 
that he left her, 
too, since his 
death had pre- 
vented the con- 
fiscation of his 
estates. The gov- 
ernment did not 
know that he 
had completed 
his work; it sup- 
posed that he had died with his secret still 
unshared. And so Marie had her chance. 

Almost at once she joined a group of 
revolutionaries, Nihilists recruited from the 
intellectual class that the government both 
feared and hated. They were men and 
women of education, and, while many of 
them were fanatics, they did not repel her, 
as some groups would have done, by their 
uncouthness. There were writers and ar- 
tists among them, famous men and women, 
whose works had been translated into a 
score of languages. 

And they were consumed by a desire to 
see Russia free, to see a day when art and 
science need not be pursued in dark cor- 
ners, when education should leaven the Rus- 
sion people, and freedom of thought and of 
action should be universal. In their eyes 
there was but one way of securing that 
freedom. They ha'd begun, all of them, as 
philosophical anarchists. Nonresistance, 
peaceful spreading of a propoganda had been 
their policies. But that stage had passed, 
and they had come to the fixed belief that 

"Now Hear Me, God of Russia!" She Cried, "I Will Avenge Him 

only by revolu- 
tion could their 
objects be 
achieved. First 
there must be a 
campaign of ter- 
r o r i s m. The 
great reaction- 
aries, the men 
who were the 
bulwarks of the 
autocracy, must 
be removed. 

They could not 
see the futility 
of murder. They 
could not see 
that there was 
a s little hope 
for a free Rus- 
sia in an intel- 
lectual oligarchy 
as in one that 
was political 
and military. 
They could not 
grasp the great 
truth that it was 
vital for them 
and all like 
them to under- 
stand and before 
there could be hope of a free Russia — the 
truth that every revolution must come from 
below, that the people must be aroused to 
demand the freedom that belonged to them. 
They thought that freedom was a gift. Yet 
all history was before them to show them 
that freedom was something to be fought 
for, to be won by those who were to enjoy it, 
never something to be conferred as a gift. 

Marie joined this group to secure her 
revenge. Her hatred of the autocracy was 
personal; it was inspired by the memory of 
her father, lying dead before her. Smiling, 
she swore to be bound by the decree of the 
group. Happily she heard Michael Putkin's 
recital of the work that she must pledge 
herself to do. 

Boris Sazonoff, meanwhile, though he had 
obeyed Marie, and had gone from her, did 
not give up the hope that he had long cher- 
ished. He had loved her long before he had 
been brought officially into contact with her 
and her father. And before that night when 
he had, in all sincerity, warned them of the 
danger that faced them, he had believed that 



Marie was ready to listen to him, that lie 
had more than a chance of winning her. 

He had means of finding out what she had 
done. And when he learned of her rash 
step in joining the revolutionary group, he 
determined at once that he must save her. 
He dared not argue with her ; that, he knew, 
would only make her determination stronger. 

He could see 

only one thing 
to do. He must 
win her confi- 
dence. And this 
he did by taking 
the desperate 
risk of himself 
joining the same 

"My eyes have 
been opened by 
your father's 
fate, Marie Feo- 
d o r o v n a," he 
said. "Hence- 
forth I shall be 
on the other side 
— on your side." 

He concealed 
his identity 
from the group. 
To Marie he ex- 
plained that for 
many reasons he 
must continue to 
serve the gov- 

"For me to 
defy it openly 
now would mean 
ment," he said. 

"And then I could do nothing. I must seem 
to be as I have always been. And if the 
group knew this they would not trust me." 

Marie, knowing what she did of the inner 
workings of the Russian system, could un- 
derstand this. And she was glad, despite 
the fierce anger that had flamed in her 
against Boris, to know that he was with her. 
There were things about some of the new 
associates the group forced upon her that 
frightened her, disgusted her. She could 
respect their desires, their hopes. But they 
themselves sometimes seemed to her poor 
instruments for a righteous cause. They 
were not like her father, though in many 
ways their sentiments resembled his. What 

Happily She Heard Michael Putkin's "Recital of the Work She Must 
Fledge Herself to Do 

they lacked, of course, was the balance, the 
sanity that had distinguished him, and had 
made him a great inventor. It was that lack 
that she felt, vaguely, at first, and without 
being able to lay her finger on the precise 

It was not long before she had good reason 
to be thankful for the presence of Boris 

among the Nihi- 
lists. For one 
day, after a 
Michael took her 
aside. He wanted 
to speak to her, 
he said, on an 
important mat- 
ter. But when 
she was alone 
with him, she 
found that it 
was what h e 
called love that 
had moved him. 
He seized her ; 
tried to kiss her. 
She screamed. 
And the next 
moment Boris 
was upon 
Michael. He 
throttled Kim: 
drove him back. 
Pa n t i n g , he 
tried to kill him, 
and it took all 
of Marie's per- 
suasion to pre- 
vent him from 
doing so. 
She might 
have drawn back, then. But already she 
was deeply involved. Already she had half 
promised to allow the group to use the won- 
derful explosive her father had invented, in 
a great scheme that had for its object the 
destruction of a train on which the Czar was 
to ride. Michael came to her, too, abject 
and humble. He said he had been mad- 
dened; that he knew what a wrong he had 
committed. She forgave him. 

For a time, however, it seemed to Boris 
that she was almost ready to marry him. 
Then one thing and another came between 
them. He protested, at a meeting, against 
a certain outrage that was planned; he was 
denounced as a traitor. That she overlooked. 



But when, a few days later, he tried to 
persuade her to give it up, to abandon the 
group and marry him, she turned on him. 

"So that is your devotion to the cause!" 
she cried, bitterly. "It was only to make 
me trust you, to lead me to marry you, that 
you joined us! Bah! I would rather marry 
Michael than you!" 

He pleaded 
with her in vain. 
Her confidence, 
once lost, he 
was further 
than ever from 
his desire. And, 
meanwhile, he 
had been taking 
chances. At any 
moment his con- 
nection with the 
Nihilist group 
might be discov- 
ered; the conse- 
quences he could 
only guess. For 
his own sake, 
above all, for 
Marie's, that, in 
case of need, he 
might be in a 
position to help 
her, he was 
obliged to with- 
draw. And 
chance put him 
in Michael Put- 
kin's hands. 
Michael discov- 
ered his real 
identity. He sus- 
pected, moreover, that Marie had known it 
from the first, and that she was treacherous. 

His suspicions once aroused, Michael acted 
quickly. In a secret meeting of the inner 
council of the group, sentence of death was 
passed on Boris. At Michael's demand, 
Marie was chosen as the instrument of ven- 
geance. He told her what she must do. 

"We are in danger, all of us, Marie Feo- 
dorovna," he said. "A single man has us in 
his power. At a word from him we may all 
be arrested, tried, condemned. It has fallen 
to your lot to remove him, to provide for 
the safety of all of us." 

"Who is the man?" she asked. 

"It is safer for you not to know," he said. 

"It is a splendid chance to test the bomb 
of which you have the secret. We will take 
you to a room that he will surely enter at a 
certain hour. You will place the bomb. 
Then your part will be done. We shall be 
safe; the revolution will go on." 

Marie shuddered at the prospect. But 
she had known from the first that she must 

be ready to un- 

He Throttled Him; Drove Him Back. Punting, He Tried 
to Hill Him 

dertake such a 
task if the lot 
fell to her. And 
she nerved her- 
self to the task. 
She prepared 
the bomb; 
Michael and an- 
other of the 
group accom- 
panied her, first 
binding her 
eyes, to the 
rooms of Boris. 
She had never 
seen them; even 
when the band- 
a g e was r e - 
moved from her 
eyes there was 
nothing to tell 
her that it was 
Boris whom she 
was to kill. 
Quietly she 
placed the 
bomb; she ar- 
ranged the 
string, so that 
anyone, entering 
the room, would 
touch it. The 
bomb was so constructed that the touching 
of this string w r ould light a fuse; within 
three minutes the bomb would explode. 

"You will stay here, with this revolver," 
said Michael. "If, by any mischance, the 
bomb does not work, you will know what 
to do." 

"I understand," she said. 
"We shall be outside. .Call if you need 
our help," said Michael. 

Then she waited. The room was dark. 
Half an hour passed. Then the door was 
opened. The string was disturbed by the 
man who entered; she saw the tiny flash 
as the fuse was ignited. And then the lights 
went up. She saw the man — -Boris Zazonoff ! 



Shrieking, she sprang for the bomb. She 
lifted it; it was already smoking. She knew 
that nothing could avert the explosion now. 
But Michael and the rest did not know. 
They heard her scream; they came rushing 
up the stairs. As they came she flung the 
bomb at them. There was a roar; a crumb- 
ling of all about her. When she recovered, 
she was in the arms of Boris. 

Breathless, she tried to explain. 

"I understand," he said, gently. "They are 
dead, now. We will believe that they were 
sincere, though they were wrong. They 
have paid. I shall not let you go again, 
Marie Feodorovna. We can make Russia a 
happier land. But it will not be by 

And, silently she gave consent. 

Photoplay Posies 


'TPHEY wreck a "truly" touring-car 
■*• To make a realistic scene; 
And yet, when Mary plucks a rose 
For John, her lover on the screen, 
They use one from a last year's hat 
And have to let it go at that. 

They let real horses break real legs 
In battle-scene and runaway; 
And yet, when Alfred, courting Jane, 
Stops at the florist's on the way, 
She views without the least surprise 
The paper Beauties that he buys. 

With equanimity I watch 

Each night, some thrilling wonder new; 

I'm stoical toward aeroplanes 

And all the terrors of the zoo; 

But what would happen, goodness knows, 

If I should see a real live rose! 

Hot Chocolate and Reminiscen- 
ces at Nine of the Morning 


Miss G aim tier Played in "The 
Maid of '76" with a Powdered 
White Wis over Her Glossy, Black 
Hair and in a flowered, 
Hooped Gown 


it a wonderful success. So you know, now 
that when she declares house-keeping de- 
lightful — per-r-r-fectly delightful — she 
has found a new vehicle for her 
versatility; and you can also 
know that she is doing it 

So, too, with Gene 
G a u n t i e r when she 

In "The Gov- 
ernor and His 
Daughter" This 
Costume in Par- 
ticular Proved 

■O USE- 
ING ," 

announced Gene 
Gauntier from the 
forty-five degree 
angle of her cozy 
chair, "is per-r-r-fectly 

It was a decisive statement, 
this of Miss Gauntier's which she made early 
one morning in the dining-room of her little 
apartment on West Fifty-third St. And, as 
Miss Gauntier had been housekeeping for all 
of a week — this week included three or four 
days she had spent at the Gauntier Feature 
Players studio, also situated on West Fifty-third street 
— she most certainly knew whereof she spoke. But in 
all justice, you must remember that Gene Gauntier is 
a MOST capable person. 

For instance — never having written a multiple reel 
feature before, she went to the Holy Land for the 
Kalem Company three years ago, and while she was 
there, she wrote, and played the lead in, that master- 
piece, "From the Manger to the Cross." The Kalem people 
were so pleased with this wonder-film that one of the com- 
pany's officers, Mr. Marion, crossed the ocean simply to shake 
hands with Miss Gauntier and with Sydney Olcott, the director. 
Then Mr. Marion took the next steamer back to the States. 

This is a typical example of Miss Gauntier's dauntlessness: 
She does something she has never done before and makes of 



made lier motion picture debut. It dates 
back to six years ago and the Bio- 
graph Company, in thirty feet of 
water — and she couldn't swim a 

"I had no idea it was going to be 
like that," Gene told me as she 
replenished our cups from the 
tall and slim and blue and white 
chocolate pot. "After I said I'd 
be pleased to work in the pic 
ture, the director said by way 
of an afterthought, 'Oh, by 
the way, Miss Gauntier— 
you may have to get your 
feet wet. Will you mind?' 
And I replied obligingly, 
'Certainly not!' So when 
it came time for me to 
'get my feet wet' the 
camera man planted his 

machine on the edge of a thirty-foot 
deep lake and the director said 
'Jump!' " 

"Yes — and?" I filled in the pause 

"And — I didn't jump," Miss Gaun- 
tier answered. "Not just that min- 
ute," she modified. "I waited to tell 
everybody in sight that I had never 
been in a lake or a swimming suit in 
my life and when the director — he 
was Mr. Marion, now of the Kalem 
company, by the way — decided, 'I 
understood you were a swimmer, 
but we'll pack up and go back,' I 
told him no! that I'd jump into 
the lake if somebody would be 
near to catch me. So he bright- 
ened up and the camera-man and 
all of us got busy again and I 
jumped when Mr. Marion gave 
the word. That experience made 
me feel as though I belonged to 
pictures. I continued to play 
with the Biograph Company for 

Rene Gauntier Has a Trick of Looking Absurdly and Irre- 
sistibly Young at All Times and in All Parts 

a year and then I went to the Kalem studio. 
'Colleen Baun' was one of our best-known 
pictures there, though the later one and 
the biggest one of all 'From the Manger 
to the Cross' was considered our mas- 

"And it's an odd fact," went on 

Gene reminiscently, "that it 

was a film we had NOT 

started out to make. It was 

terribly hot in the Holy Land, 

and because we worked steadily day 

after day in a heat that was more awful 



than I had ever known, I suffered a sun-stroke. It was when I was 
recovering from it, that I wrote the scenario 'From the Manger to 
the Cross.' There were five reels of it — and we made them in a 
heat that was terrific. The hotel in Jerusalem where we stopped 
was dirty and smelly. We worked until late into the night every 
night preparing for our work of the next day — and then the next 
day would be spent under the burning sun on the burning sands. 
"And one night, a group of ten ministers who had come to 
Jerusalem for a conference, called at the hotel to talk to me 
about my knowledge of the Bible. 
They had learned, as soon as 
they came into Jerusalem, 
about the picture we were 
making, and were curious to 
know how long it had taken 
me to prepare the story. 
Well," continued Miss 
Gauntier after a little 
pause, "we sat down in 
that stuffy hotel parlor 
until midnight — and 
those clerygmen asked 
me every question re- 
ferring to the Bible that 
they could 
think of. 

Aboard Ship on 

Her Way to 


Worn by Miss Gauntier in 
"The Maid of '76' 

One thing that sur- 
prised them was my 
saying that Mary, 
the sister of Martha, and Mary 
Magdalene were one and the same 
person. They said 'Yes, but not 

Another Beautiful Costume one in a hundred people knows 

that.' But I knew it because I 

had read and studied the Bible 


•'And so, 'From the Manger to the Cross' was filmed. 

One hot day succeeded another hot day, and one sticky 

night was just like the 

| preceding sticky night. 

But we felt repaid, for we 

knew the results were 


A shrill ring sounded in 
our immediate vicinity and 
Miss Gauntier sprang from 
the forty-five degrees chair 
with the cry: 

"What's that! " 

Having not the 

faintest idea, I 

said so, in the 

faintest of 

voices. The ring 

sounded again 



more shrilly and commandingly, even, than 
it did before. 

"Oh," Miss Gauntier breathed with great 
and evident relief, "it's the dumb waiter!" 
She hurried into a tiny room on our left 
and talked down the shaft to somebody 
three floors below. 

"It's the ice-man," she announced, return- 
ing. And then, as she sank into the chair 
she had deserted a few minutes previous, "I 
don't think I'll ever get used to all the bells 
and buzzes there are in this apartment. 
There," springing up as the dumb-waiter 
bell clamored loudly, "that's the ice coming 
up. Yes, the third floor — that's it," she 
called down into the shaft and the waiter 
groaned its way up. There were a series of 
"Ouchs" and unintelligible murmurs and 
when Miss Gauntier returned, shutting the 
door upon the troublesome shaft and bell, 
she asked, "Did you ever juggle a piece of 
ice? Well, it's most unpleasant." 

And she hoped nothing else was going to 
happen for a while. 

But something else did right then. It was 
a telephone call from the studio and it was 
Jack Clark, Gene Gauntier's husband, who 
was calling for her advice on some scene 
which was being put on at the studio. But 
after that there was uninterrupted peace for 
a time and Gene talked of many things; of 
her girlhood in Missouri when she mothered 
all the homeless cats and dogs in the neigh- 
borhood and pretended she was a grown-up 
actress and had the world at her feet and 
the people of her home town humbled (those 
who were scandalized because she avowed 
she was going on the stage). And when she 
wore her first really long dress, she did go on 
the stage. 

"Since I've had my own company, the 

work has been more fascinating than ever, 
though also ever so much harder, because 
of the tremendous responsibility it has en- 
tailed," she told me. "The pictures I've most 
enjoyed making were the Irish ones and I've 
crossed the sea eleven times in the making 
of them. We know the people over there, 
now, in certain parts of Ireland and they are 
always wonderfully nice to us. And we can 
always take pictures on the White Star Line, 
we have traveled on it so much. Why I 
know them so well that I came back from 
Europe last fall on fifteen dollars." 

"Just now," she went on cheerily, "we're 
planning for double sets of pictures, short 
ones and long ones and dramas and comedies. 
And Jack is to direct one company and I'm 
to direct another; so we expect our studio 
will be a very busy one this winter. You've 
seen the studio — it's an old church, and the 
convent is still beside it and my dressing- 
room and Jack's are where the choir-loft 
used to be. It's quaint and comfortable and 
roomy, and we have a splendid lighting sys- 
tem in it. We've put on some big pictures 
there," she added. " 'Maid of '76' was an 
early one we made; it was a six reel one — 
remember it?" Yes, I remembered it for I 
had been there during the making of a scene 
and Miss Gauntier was the 'Maid* and cov- 
ered her dark, glossy hair with a powdered 
white wig and drew black shadows under- 
neath her gray-green eyes and donned a 
flowered, hooped gown. Truly, she looked a 
maid of '76! 

And truly she looked a maid of 1914 that 
morning in her very modern apartment and 
in her very fashionable morning gown — 
and truly, she made a most gracious and 
charming hostess even at nine in the morn- 

¥F ALL things were perfect and nothing was wrong 

This dear old life would be one grand song, 
Everyone happy and nothing to fear, 
Nobody cross and nary a tear. 
But life like that would be empty indeed 
With everyone happy and none in need, 

For life is worth while with its twists and bends 
And the good little deeds we do for our friends. 

"The Sower Reaps" 

A story that proves the truth of the old saying that "As 
ye sow, so shall ye reap" 

rj TT 1 T) Scenario by Robert A. Sanborn 

£>y rieien tSagg Hl u ,tration» from the American Film 

HAM, district 
attorney o f 
Rollinsville, Texas, 
and candidate for 
the state legislature, 
sat in his office star- 
ing disgustedly at a 
paragraph in the 
R611insville "News." 
The paragraph 
hinted with more 
force than tact that 
unless the Rollins- 
ville political ma- 
chine came to the 
front with some un- 
usually smooth work, 
its candidate, Peter 
Pelham, stood a re- 
markahly good 
chance of being left 
out in the cold, while 
his rival, Benjamin 
Rolfe, sailed into the 

legislature on the wings of the reform 
party. The fact that Pelham himself had 
a shrewd suspicion that the "News" was 
correctly informed only made the affair more 
aggravating. In fact, Ben Rolfe's popularity 
in the county was a puzzle to the older man, 
who, in desperation, was wont to lay it to 
the fact that the young fellow had had the 
sense to attach himself to "those reform 
guys," as he disgustedly called his oppo- 

"Something's got to be done," he told 
himself, as he rolled his cigar around in 
his mouth nervously. "If I could bluff the 
boy into thinking he hadn't a chance! It's 
a slim show, but — " He took up the phone 
on his desk and called up young Rolfe. The 
young man at the other end of the wire 
agreed to call upon Mr. Pelham as soon as 

The Old Man was Enjoying Himself Counting: His Money 

he finished talking 
to a man who was 
then in his office. 
Pelham, a pleased 
look upon his hand- 
some face, put down 
the receiver and 
turned to face a vis- 
itor who had entered 
while he was talking 
over the phone. The 
pleased look changed 
to one of anger and 

"Oh, it's you?" he 
snarled. "I thought 
it was about time for 
you to be showing 
that pretty smile of 
yours around here." 

The old man who 
stood by the desk 
grinned horridly. 
"Old Miser Pike," 
the small boy popu- 
called him, and he 

lation of Rollinsville 
looked the part. 

"You're real witty, ain't you, Mr. Pel- 
ham?" he chuckled, not at all taken back. 
"Suppose you drop the pleasant remarks 
and come across with the money on this 
little note, eh? My mare ain't very good 
at standin'." 

"I wish she'd bolt one of these days and 
break your infernal old neck!" remarked 
Pelham fervently as he groped in his desk 
for a bundle of notes. Evidently the trans- 
action was not a new one, for the amount 
was ready. 

"You'd better wish you hadn't been fool 
enough to get yourself mixed up in that 
bribery case fifteen years ago, Peter Pel- 
ham," retorted the old man, sneeringly. "Or 
to let them papers that gave you away get 




into my hands. That's what you're payin' 
for— bein' a fool. That's what half the folks 
in this world are payin' for, too, so you're 
in good company." 

"Take your money and get out, you 
damned blackmailer, before I lose my grip 
and kick you out." Pelham's face was crim- 
son and his hands twitched. 

"I'm gettin' out, don't you worry. I ain't 
so stuck on this office that I want to come 
here an' set," replied the old man, putting 
on his hat. "I'm a poor man with a daugh- 
ter and I mean to git my rights. You can't 
do me like you done the public, Mr. Pelham, 
an' don't you fergit it," and he hobbled to- 
ward the door. "An' don't you think you're 
goin' to get rid of me, either. I'm keepin* 
my eye on you, I am." 

"Get rid of you? There's no such luck 
unless I forget myself and knock you on 
the head some dark night!" thundered Pel- 
ham, starting from his chair. He stopped 
and collected himself, however, for Ben Rolfe 
was standing outside the door waiting for 
the old man to shuffle through. 

"How are you, Rolfe? Sit down. I want 
a chat with you about this election busi- 
ness." Pelham pulled out a chair cordially. 
"That old fool," he continued, "comes around 
here periodically to bother me. He has some 
absurd idea that he's got a claim on me." 

"I'm afraid you've lost his vote, Pelham, 
judging from his expression as he went out," 
remarked Rolfe, smiling. He was a good- 
looking young fellow with clear-cut features 
and an agreeable voice. He took the chair of- 
fered him and glanced good-naturedly at 

"I can spare it," was the brief reply. 
"Speaking of votes, Rolfe, don't you think 
you're overestimating your chances in this 
campaign ?" 

"No, sir, I don't think so. Do you?" 

"You know, boy, this reform stuff has 
been up before the public before and they've 
turned it down hard. People like to talk 
about reform, but when it comes to action 
they like the old way best. It's easier all 

"If that's the case, Pelham, all they've got 
to do is to vote for you. What's the use 
mauling the subject beforehand?" 

"Because I like you, Rolfe, and I'd like 
to save you the humiliation of defeat." Pel- 
ham's eyes shone. He was a good actor and 
could throw himself into a part until even 
that most critical audience, himself, was 

deceived. "Why not give it up while there's 

"Oh, I don't know. I never was much 
good at giving things up," drawled Rolfe, 
thoroughly amused. "As for defeat, I dare 
say I can stand it if I have to. If that's all 
you wanted to say I'll be going along." He 
rose and took up his hat. 

"Wait a bit." The older man rose also. 
"There's another side to this, Rolfe. Do you 
think your brother Tim's record will look 
well to the voters of the reform party?" 

"Tim's record?" Rolfe started angrily, 
then controlled himself. "Oh, I reckon 
everybody knows poor Tim's record, Pelham. 
You won't do yourself any good by drag- 
ging that into court. Everyone in Rollins- 
ville knows that poor Tim can't say 'no' 
to a drink, and that's the worst they do 
know of him." ... 

"Are you sure?" It was a chance shot 
and Rolfe knew it. 

"Quite sure," he replied firmly. "Good 

"You won't reconsider?" 

"I can't reconsider. Good afternoon," and 
the young man stepped out of the office. 

TV/IISER PIKE lived in a cabin about half 
a mile from town, quite miserable and 
shabby enough to satisfy even the penurious 
tastes of its owner. Here, he and his eight- 
een-year-old daughter, Laurel, lived quite 
alone, for the old man did- not encourage 
visitors. In fact, Laurel was the only crea- 
ture about the place that was neither old 
nor ugly. She was a slim sprite of a girl 
with black hair and eyes and a mouth that 
would have liked to smile had there been 
anything to smile at. 

Lately there had been a bit of sunshine 
in the girl's life, for Ben Rolfe, whom she 
had met some weeks before at a dance, in- 
dulged id without the old miser's consent, 
had fallen into the habit of strolling by the 
Pike cabin almost every evening. Of course 
the meetings had to be very carefully man- 
aged, for young men were an abomination 
to her father; but Laurel, smiling and blush- 
ing, could usually manage to steal down the 
road for an hour while the old man was 
enjoying himself counting over as much of 
his money as he ventured to keep in the 
house. The greater part of his hoard he 
had secreted away from the cabin in a spot 
which no one, not even Laurel knew, but 
the location of which had formed the chief 

"Well, Why shouldn't Somebody Be in Love With You i ", Demanded Ben, Indignantly 




topic of conversation in certain Rollinsville 
circles for years. The old man's white hair 
would have stood upon end had he dreamed 
that in many a saloon in town half-grown 
rowdies were debating where "old man Pike 
kept his cash box." 

On the afternoon of his interview with 
Pelham the old man came home in a rare 
good humor. These monthly visits to the 
district attorney always filled him with a 
renewed sense of his own importance. To 
make Peter Pelham, the most successful 
man in Rollinsville, cringe and pay was an 
achievement to be proud of, he reasoned. 
Not every one would have known how to 
make use of that bit of bribery evidence so 
skillfully. Pelham had been young in pol- 
itics when he made that mistake; he knew 
better these days. He would never be 
caught in that way again. As Pike with his 
catlike tread drew near the cabin he caught 
sight of Laurel within. What in the name 
of reason was the girl doing? He crept 

On the dingy wall of the cabin hung a 
cracked mirror and into it the girl was peer- 
ing wistfully. She had let down her long, 
dark hair, and was coiling it on the top of 

her head, pausing every now and then to 
look, first in the mirror and then at a fashion 
plate on the table. The result was ravish- 
ing. Laurel, a real young lady for the first 
time in her life, clapped her hands in 
triumph. Then she saw her father standing 
in the doorway. 

"So that's how you put in your time when 
I'm out slaving to get your bread and but- 
ter, eh?" he said, his cracked old voice 
trembling witli rage. "That's all you think 
about — how to look gay and fine when your 
poor father's half in the grave trying to 
keep you from the poorhouse! Next thing 
it'll be money for clothes, I suppose?" 

Laurel turned on him half in fear and 
half in anger. Her big eyes flashed. 

"It'd be better for us both if you'd give 
me some money for clothes instead of mak- 
ing me go around like a beggar when you've 
got money hidden away — yes, you have, you 
know you have!" she cried as the old man 
seized her arm and shook her in his wild 
fear that some one might hear. "I don't 
care if they do hear!" sobbed the girl, 
angrily. "You have got it — lots of it — and 
it's wicked to make me live like a gypsy 
and not let me go to school." 

' Why, Peter, Look at the Black Marks on His Wrist : Did You Do That! " 


Poor Tim Went AU to Pieces and Confessed His Fart in the Tragedy 

"Will you hold your tongue or shall I 
make you? Do you want every loafer that 
goes by the house to know that I've got 
a bit of gold put away for my old age? Get 
out and get some wood for the fire, you 
lazy gypsy, you! That's a good name for 
you, sitting around all day doing nothing, 
while I go hungry. Get my supper and have 
it ready when I come back or I'll make you 
sorry you ever saw a mirror." 

Laurel, still angry but frightened by the 
old man's rage, took up her basket and 
stole out of the house. He watched her slyly 
and when he was sure that she was out of 
sight, took from his pockets the precious 
papers with which he had blackmailed the 
attorney, and the gold the latter had given 
him. The papers he locked in a tin box 
and deposited in a cunningly contrived hole 
in the wall, neatly concealed by a picture. 
The money he dared not risk in the house. 
The girl was getting too free with her 
tongue; he would have to look out for her. 
Carefully looking to see that she was out 
of the way the old man crept out of the 
house and down the road. 

Laurel, still sobbing angrily, filled her 

basket with wood and went back to the 
house. Then glancing at the clock, she 
smiled faintly and straightened her trim 
little figure in its calico gown. This was 
Ben's afternoon to stop and chat a bit be- 
fore supper. Her father had evidently gone 
to visit his hoard and would not be back 
for an hour. Quickly she ran down the 
road to the old tree where, screened both 
from the house and the road, she and young 
Rolfe waited for each other. As she stood 
there she heard his voice down the road — 
Tim was with him, evidently. Laurel lis- 
tened, smiling. 

"You go on home, Tim, and I'll be with 
you in half an hour. I haven't seen Laurel 
since Sunday, the old brute has kept her 
shut up. Think you can make it?" She 
heard Tim's voice, husky and uncertain mut- 
ter something. Poor Tim was evidently 
again in the clutches of the enemy. Laurel, 
peering through the bushes, saw him walk 
uncertainly down the road. Then turning, 
she came face to face with Ben. He held 
out his arms and she ran into them. 

"I — I didn't know whether you'd be here 
or not," she said, shyly. 



"I've been here every day since Sunday," 
he answered reproachfully. 

"I know — I couldn't get away. He watches 
me so close, Ben, I'm afraid he suspects that 
I — that somebody's in love with me." 

"Well, why shouldn't somebody be in love 
with you?"' demanded Ben indignantly, as 
they walked down to where the little moun- 
tain stream crossed old Pike's land. "What 
does he think he's going to do with a sweet, 
pretty little girl like you? Keep you hidden 
away from every one?" 

j; "Oh, I don't know! But let's not talk 
about him. I'm so happy with you; Ben, 
■ why can't we be happy all the time, like 
other folks that are engaged?" 

Ben kissed the pretty, wistful face that 
looked up at him. 

"We're going to be happy like married 
folks just as soon as I win the election," 
, he said, cheerfully. 

"Oh, Ben, do you think you will?" 

"You bet I will. The Powers of Evil 
are quaking already. Old Pelham has been 
after me to withdraw. Doesn't that show 
he's scared?" 

"Oh, Ben!" 

"You just wait two months for me and — 
what's that?" 

"It's a gun. Somebody's hunting." 

"Nobody hunts around here, there's some- 
thing wrong going on." 

"Ben, if father—" 

"Come on', we'll see in a jiffy what it is," 
and helping the frightened girl to her feet, 
he plunged into the undergrowth, with 
Laurel clinging to his hand. A second shot 
rang out before they had gone- far. Then 
some one came crashing through the brush 
and out into the open. It was Tim Rolfe, 
sobered by fright, who fell on his knees 
before his brother. 

"I didn't mean to do it, Ben," he gasped 
wildly. "Before God I didn't. I only meant 
to scare him when I followed him." Ben's 
face turned white. He clutched Tim fierce- 
ly. Laurel screamed. 

"It's father! He's shot my father!" 

"I didn't. I swear I didn't," cried the 
frightened boy. "I saw him crawling down 
by the bridge an' I followed him for a lark. 
t wanted to see where he kept his money. 
Then he saw me and jumped at me and I 
threw him down. Save me, Ben, I didn't 
mean to hurt the old guy." 

"Who fired those shots?" demanded Ben, 

"I don't know, I beat it when he fell. I 
didn't hear any shots." 

"I heard them! Oh, Ben, father's in dan- 
ger! Help me find him!" Laurel cried. 

Ben turned upon his brother severely. 

"Go home and stay there till I come. Don't 
say anything or do anything, do you under- 
stand? I'll try to get you out of this. Come, 
Laurel," and with Laurel crying and hang- 
ing on his arm, Ben continued his tramp 
through the brush, while Tim, shaking with 
fear, started for home. 

Down by the bridge, in the thick under- 
growth, old Miser Pike had contrived a 
hiding place for the bulk of his gold, and by 
it Ben and Laurel found him lying dead 
with a bullet hole in his breast. A revolver 
lay near the body, with Tim's gray hat 
beside it. Laurel threw herself frantically 
upon the body while Ben stood thinking. 
He stooped and picked up the gun. 

"See here, Laurel," he said, putting his 
arm gently around the crying girl. "You 
must be brave and help me save poor Tim. 
I know he didn't shoot your father. Tim 
never carried a gun in his life and he 
wouldn't kill a fly, but it looks mighty bad 
for him just now. Did you ever see this 
before?" Laurel stopped sobbing and exam- 
ined the revolver. 

"It's father's," she said, simply. "I've 
often seen it. Oh, Ben, what shall we do?" 

"I've got to save Tim," he said quietly, 
and taking out his handkerchief he wrapped 
the pistol carefully in it. "Listen, what's 

"It's some one coming through the brush," 
whispered Laurel. "Go before they come, 
for my sake, Ben! If anybody finds you 
here — " 

"Hush, it's too late, dear. Don't be fright- 
ened, nothing's going to happen. Hello 
there! Help! This way!" 

"Ben, what are you doing?" Laurel's lips 
were white. She sank down on the ground 
beside the dead man. The steps drew near- 
er. Three people appeared from the road. 
To Ben's surprise they were Peter Pelham. 
his wife and Jack Crane, a neighbor. Mrs. 
Pelham, had heard shots and had been ter- 
ribly frightened. She had run down the 
road to Crane's house, had found him at sup- 
per and had persuaded him that something 
wrong was going on in the woods. As they 
started, Pelham, who was returning late 
from his office, had met them and joined the 



"Well, what's this and what are you two 
doing here?" demanded Crane, eyeing Ben 
suspiciously. Rolfe explained that they had 
been walking in the woods, had heard the 
shots and had just arrived on the scene. 
To Laurel's surprise, he said nothing about 
the revolver. Crane then examined the 
body and picked up the hat. "Was this your 
father's hat, Miss?" he said to Laurel. The 

"Looks that way," muttered Crane, who 
was slow witted but had great admiration 
for Pelham. 

"Nonsense, Pelham, don't be a fool! I 
tell you — " 

"You can tell the Sheriff; that'll do just 
as well. Come along," and Pelham placed a 
rough hand on Rolfe's wrist. Laurel 
screamed and sank to the ground. Rolfe 

Ben Presents His Evidence at the Constable's Office and Fastens the Guilt on Pelham 

girl trembled and faltered; "I — I don't 
know," she said, softly. 

"That's queer," remarked Pelham, dis- 
agreeably. "Don't know her own father's 
hat." Laurel shrunk away from him and 
Rolfe, his eyes blazing stepped forward. 

"That'll do, Pelham," he said, angrily. 
"Let the child alone. Can't you see she's 
frightened nearly to death?" 

"She's got cause to be frightened, I should 
say," replied the district attorney, an ugly 
look in his eyes. "Crane, this looks rotten 
to me. I saw that gray hat on this chap's 
drunken brother yesterday, and these two 
haven't been here for any good. Ten to one 
they knew where the old man kept his 
money and tracked him here." 

wrenched himself free from Pelham's grip. 

"You'll take me to the Sheriff when you 
show me a warrant for my arrest, not one 
second sooner," he said, angrily. But Mrs. 
Pelham broke into the scene. 

"Why, Peter, look at the black marks on 
his wrist! Did you do that?" 

Pelham with an oath stepped back. 

"And look at the hole in your coat sleeve! 
Why, Peter Pelham!" 

"Keep out of this, Mary," Pelham's voice 
was loud and angry. "I can't go through 
brush without getting torn and dirty, can I? 
Take that girl home with you and see that 
she doesn't get away. As for you, Rolfe — " 
he turned. Rolfe had disappeared. No one 
but Laurel noticed him as he made use of 



Mrs. Pelhani's second interruption to make 
his escape. 

An hour later, the Sheriff and his posse, 
mounted and armed, accompanied by the 
district attorney, drew up at the house oc- 
cupied by the Rolfe brothers. They found 
Tim, alone and badly scared, and confronted 
him with the gray hat found near the body. 
Poor Tim went all to pieces and confessed 
his share of the tragedy. 

"But I didn't shoot him, honest, I didn't!" 
he repeated over and over again. "I never 
even had a gun." 

"That'll do; bring him along. We've got 
to get hold of the other one. It's evidently 
a family job and the girl helped." The 
Sheriff put the handcuffs on the unfortunate 
Tim and turned him over to one of his 

"His horse is gone, Sheriff," volunteered 
another, who had just come from the stable. 
"And there's tracks leading through the 
field, yonder." Hastily the pursuit was re- 
sumed, Pelham and the man who had charge 
of Tim returning to town with their pris- 

In the meantime, Ben Rolfe, mounted on 
"Copper," his big bay, a horse that for speed 
and endurance he could match against any 
in Rollinsville, sped down the road. He had, 
he reckoned, at least an hour's start. Pel- 
ham could scarcely get the Sheriff out in 
less time than that, and undoubtedly they 
would stop to arrest Tim before directing 
the pursuit toward the older brother. He 
and "Copper" could do much in an hour. 
It was a good ten miles to Vaughn, the town 
for which he was heading, but he could 
make it. 

The first three miles went like a dream, 
then to Ben's horror, Copper began to limp. 
One of his feet was undoubtedly giving him 
trouble. Ben dismounted and examined the 
foot. There was nothing to be seen and he 
resolved to give it another trial. "Copper" 
kept bravely at it for another mile, then 
he slowed into a walk. There was no doubt 
about it; he was going steadily lame. At 
the same time that he made this discovery, 
Ben heard the tramp of horses coming be- 
hind him. The Sheriff and his men had 
found his trail and were gaining on him. 
With a lame horse he was practically power- 
less. He turned into a lane, dismounted and 
turned his horse loose. 

"I've got to dodge them somehow," he 
told himself. "They know every turn in 

this country better than I do, worse luck." 
He was not far from a road house and 
struck out desperately for it, hardly knowing 
what help he expected to find there. But 
inspiration had not deserted Ben yet. 

In front of the roadhouse stood a big 
touring car, and in front of the touring car 
stood a chauffeur, evidently wondering why 
Pate had ordained that one man might get 
out of a car and take a drink, while another 
had to stand outside and wait. His reflec- 
tions were cut short by a good looking young 
man who bobbed up, apparently from no- 
where, with a bandage on his left wrist — 
and who, leveling a nasty looking revolver at 
him, requested him, curtly, to get in and 
start the car. At the same moment, the 
owner of the car came out of the roadhouse 
and was very much surprised to see a 
stranger getting into his machine, while the 
chauffeur helplessly threw in the clutch and 
the car started. The owner made a frantic 
protest, the stranger struck out with his 
right, the chauffeur groaned and the big car 
shot out of the yard. Ten seconds later, a 
furious sheriff and his posse dashed up on 
horseback and explained the situation. 

"Where to, boss?" demanded the chauffeur, 
as the machine sped down the road. 

"To Vaughn, to the office of the constable," 
was the reply, whereupon the chauffeur 
groaned again, this time from pure amaze- 

"Well, hully gee, if that ain't goin' some!" 
he murmured, with admiration. 

TT WAS the following morning and Laurel 
Pike was weeping in her cabin. Seme 
neighbor women, among them Mrs. Pelham. 
were with her trying to cheer her, but 
Laurel refused to be cheered. Her father 
was dead, her lover a fugitive, Tim under 
arrest. The world seemed very dark to 
poor little Laurel. Suddenly, the door 
opened and Peter Pelham entered. Laurel 
jumped up in terror. What did this dread- 
ful, man want now? Nothing, it appeared, 
but to speak to her alone. Gesturing to his 
wife to get rid of the women, he said, gently, 
to Laurel: 

"Don't be afraid of me, my dear. I am 
trying to help Ben." Then as the girl stared 
uncomprehendingly, he went on: "Your 
father and Ben had quarreled and the papers 
over which they quarreled are somewhere 
about the house. I want to destroy them 
for Ben's sake." 



"But they hadn't quarreled, and Ben was 
with me when the shots were fired. How 
can papers hurt him?" 

"They had quarreled. Your father told 
me. As for your evidence, no one will be- 
lieve you. Help me to find those papers, 
quick!" Pelham's face was distorted and he 
seemed about to choke. Terrified, Laurel 
pointed to the hole in the wall where her 
father had kept his tin box. Pelham tore 
it from its hiding place. It was locked 
so he put it in his pocket. ' The precious 
bribery evidence was safe! He turned to 
reassure the girl, when, to his amazement, 
the door opened, and Ben Rolfe, followed 
by the Sheriff and his men, entered. 

"Ben!" Laurel fell trembling into his 

"So, they got you!" Pelham turned to the 
Sheriff. "Hard chase, Sheriff?" The Sheriff 
looked a bit embarrassed. 

"Rather hard," he said, uncomfortably. 
"We caught up with Mr. Rolfe in the con- 
stable's office." 

Pelham stared. 

"The constable's office!" he muttered. Ben 
put Laurel gently aside. "Pelham," he said, 
"we might as well be frank about this 
affair. You shot old man Pike and I've got 
the proofs. I took them to Vaughn and 
gave myself up." There was a scream from 
Mrs. Pelham, who had just entered the 
cabin and Pelham glared at his accuser furi- 

"You lie! You know you lie!" he 

"Easy there, Mr. Pelham!" The Sheriff 
stepped forward. In his hands were a re- 
volver, wrapped in a handkerchief, and a 
bandage bearing the marks of blackened 
fingers. "These are your finger marks on 
this bandage; they came off Mr. Rolfe's left 
wrist where you grabbed him. They agree 
exactly with the finger marks on the powder 
blackened revolver that he and this girl 
found lying by the dead man. Don't you 
think you'd better come across with your 

Pelham gave one wild look around the 
room; from his wife's face to that of the 
trembling girl in Rolfe's arms, he saw 
horror and fear but no mercy. There were 
the tell tale marks and he stood alone to 
face them. "With a groan he sank into a 

"I shot him," he said. "But it was in 
self defence. I was walking home from the 

office and took the short cut through the 
woods. As I passed the bridge I thought 
I saw something in the long grass. It was 
Pike's body. I thought him dead and went 
nearer. As I came up to him he got up, he'd 
evidently been stunned, and when he saw 
me he drew his revolver and shot. The 
bullet went through my sleeve. He was 
afraid of me because I had threatened him. 
He's made my life a hell for fifteen years, 
blackmailing me for these papers." Pelham 
threw the tin box on the table. "He leveled 
the gun at me again and I seized it. It 
went off and he fell dead. I left him there 
and went home. Just as I came within 
sight of the house I met my wife and Jack 
Crane and in order not to excite their sus- 
picions I went back with them." 

"Peter!" Mrs. Pelham sank down by his 
side. . 

"And then you did your best to throw 
suspicion on three innocent people; don't 
forget that, Mr. Pelham," said Rolfe angrily. 

"I was wild with fear. I didn't know what 
I was doing," faltered Pelham. 

"Well, I reckon this settles your chances 
for the Legislature, old man," said the 
Sheriff, cheerfully. "Now, suppose we all go 
back to town and leave these young folks to- 
gether, eh, Mrs. Pelham?" 

"DEN, dear, I don't understand" said 
Laurel, when they were alone again. 
"I was so frightened when those men went 
by on horseback and I knew they were after 
you. How did you — " 

"How did I think about the finger marks?" 
Ben drew her down beside him on the old 
settee. "Why, it was just a chance, Laurel. 
When I picked up the revolver, it was all 
blackened with powder and the finger prints 
were plain as day. I knew they were the 
finger prints of the man who had fired it, 
so I wrapped it up in my handkerchief, hop- 
ing it would save poor Tim's life. Then 
when I saw the bullet hole in Pelham's sleeve 
and saw how furious he was when his wife 
discovered it, I knew he'd been mixed up 
with the killing in some way. I made up 
my mind to see if the prints on my wrist 
agreed with those on the revolver, so I tied 
up my wrist and started for the constable's 
office, before Pelham had a chance to destroy 
the evidence. That's all." 

"No, Ben, dear, not quite all," and Laurel 
threw her arms around the young candi- 
date for the legislature and kissed him. 

Photoplays and Chickens 

Edwin August is after a variety of 
featlterless poultry, and he'll get it, 
just as he gets everything else he wants 

me that he had just had a wire from the front which 

told him that the last batch of little chicks out of the 

incubator were proudly waving merely a queer little 

ball of fuzz where first signs of tail feathers should be. 

Some day the world will know about the great secret, for 

the featherless chicken is on the way. In fact one is tempted 

to assert that it was on the way the moment Edwin August 

decided he would produce it. 

It might have been better if I had not approached with the 
secret in my mind but it is a fact that I did want to find out 
some things about this man who is president of the new Eaco 

Films Inc. and "star," photoplay- 
wright and producer, that were 
not to be found in the batch 
of newspaper clippings at 
hand. You can find in 
almost any dramatic 
dictionary that Ed- 
win August of Bio- 
graph and Univer- 
sal, of the sterling 
companies of Mrs. 
Leslie Carter and 
Otis Skinner on 
rjp the legitimate 
stage, is one of 
I the bright lights 
/ of Filmdom, but 
where can you find 
anything of 
the man? 





One of the 



Most Popular 

of Our Screen 



r HY should any man care to de- 
velop a type of featherless chick- 
ens," was the question that I 
wanted to ask Edwin August when I first 
heard of the ranch at Lawndale, California. 
But if that question was ever uttered, Mr. 
August did not hear it, and as far as anyone 
knows, the answer is still a secret. Enough 
that when the actor-manager-author has leisure 
it is devoted to the ranch in California; enough 
that his poultry expert is trying to produce that 
kind of a chicken; enough that the owner admitted to 



Ask him? 

Well the office boy didn't seem to think I'd better, 
but life in hand, as I supposed, the den was 
bearded. In a moment I was at ease and en 
gaged in the most pleasant of talks, which 
skipped from the latest efforts of his company 
to the question of the best cheese to grate on 
a dish of Italian spaghetti, and I finally left 
when I learned that Mr. August wished to 
write his daily letter home and get it off in 
time to catch the evening train. 

"When we talk of commercialism," said 
Mr. August, "most of us think of the sort of 
photoplays that people are enthusiastic about, 
and it means to most of us that we are going to 
forget all about art. The 
plan of the Eaco Films will 
be to remember art and put 
on the things that people 
want in an artistic way. It 
is the business of the 
photoplay to make strong 
impressions and we believe 
that the standards can be 
raised. I believe that the 

He Is President of the New Eaco 
Films, Incorporated, and Leading 
Man, Fhotoplaywright, and -Pro- 

one reel play will come into 
its own again, even though 
no program is complete with- 
out a feature today." 

I was a little more sober 
when I walked away from 
my interview. I had talked 
to a man who knows and be- 
lieves in the motion picture, 
to a graduate from D. W. 
Griffith and the legitimate 
stage who has come to the 
front as a star, not only as 
an actor, for that he was that 
at a time when he was still 
on someone's payroll, but as 
a producer and as an author. 
Married? No, Mr. Edwin 
August is not married and 
his daily letter goes to his 
mother and not to a fiancee, 
but at the same time — what do you suppose he could have been 
thinking of when he said as I left the studio: 

"Don't forget to tell them that I am not married?" Given tin- 
most romantic profession in the world, and given 
one of the leaders in that profession, such a com- 
bination waits for someone. But no more would 
he say on the subject and I don't know whether 
he has secret thoughts that make him dream at 
desk or not. However, he is a human being, and there 
must be times when the pressure of make-believe romance 
is replaced by dreams of the real romance. Or per- 
haps Mr. August finds this release in his quest 
for the featherless chicken. 

This, however, is hard to believe. 

Sowing Next Year's Crop 

The Good Resolutions of the Photoplayers s 

Also Some Others, Not So Good 

LIKE the poor, New Year's resolutions 
are always with us. Sometimes they 
are made in January, again in June, 
and occasionally in September. Always they 
are made under the stress of intention to 
change the face of the world. Everybody 
makes them at ' some time or other. But 
since movie actors are the most f acilely ex- 
pressive" people in the world, they are per- 
haps the most frequent makers of resolu- 
tions. There are of course photoplayers who 
never will indulge in the human luxury of 
make-over decisions. But the majority of 
the players have five-reel resolves, all wool 
and guaranteed to last at least until the sec- 
ond day of the first month of the New Year. 

Mary Puller, who is one of the best little 
makers of resolutions in the game, says that 
it's a pernicious habit, but that she can't 
break herself of it. She has made thirteen 
resolves for next year, but she'll tell only 
twelve. She says it's unlucky to tell the 
thirteenth. The twelve run: under the pref- 

"My resolutions, I think, are good ones 
and helpful to others as well as to myself. 
At least, they are the result of some observa- 
tion and experience and are worthy to be 
tried. Here they are: 

1. Conserve your health, for that is the 
keystone of the arch. Deal judiciously with 
that wonderful mechanism nature has given 
to you. Be gentle with yourself and not 
full of violent harshness and grindings. Re- 
member that some one else is constantly 
getting an impression of you and from you. 

2. Select for yourself. Eliminate the non- 
essentials. Take hold of your own prob- 
lems. Live your life as you think it ought 
to. be, not as it happens along. Judge what 
your life should be from the standpoint of 
broad views and high ideals. Let not the 
securing of your own ends be the sum total 
of your existence. Remember your struggling 
brother beside you. 

•3. .Do not fall into the groove, the routine. 
Preserve your interest in each thing you 

do. Preserve your buoyancy, resiliency. 
Don't dwell heavily on the trivial thought. 
In other world don't let the "dwell" be long- 
er than the thought; don't spend your sub- 
stance on anything unworthy of it. . 

4. Dare to be brave in life. "None but 
the brave deserve the fair" means after all 
that only those who dare deserve the fair 
things of life, honor, esteem, .. success. 

5. In so far as you can, surround yourself 
with the beautiful, the artistic, the clean, 
whether it be but a flower or a picture. The 
mind is open to subtle influences. 

6. Don't let your balance be disturbed by 
little things. Be proof against the waves of 
trivialities. Stand your ground; but be 
magnanimous. . 

7. Have faith in yourself and understand- 
ing therein. This does not mean egotism 
nor yet trusting entirely to luck or to the 
inspiration of the moment, but to foster in- 
herent strength and resist bad forces both 
without and within. 

8. Do not grumble. It never does any 
good, and only wastes energy and time which 
might be expended in remedying the matter 
which has gone out of joint. Often our 
difficulties are just obstacles which take a 
little extra pushing, a little higher effort, to 
land us above them. 

9. Keeping your mind open to the music 
of the plodding little tasks and the weary 
little minutes will fill the hours with the 
beauty of life. In the greatest epic songs 
many simple little cadences are repeated. 

10. Don't be a wastrel of yourself, of time, 
of money. The wastrel pays the heaviest 
price for folly. The sluggard never wins 

11. Do not be over-impatient, for the big 
things will come to you as you grow ready 
for them. Do your best and trust in provi- 
dence. Happiness is an empire of our own 
building or of our own destroying. 

12. Work when you work, and play when 
you play. 

Aren't those some weighty resolves for 



little Mary Fuller, who thrusts her hands in 
her pockets when she looks out across the 
screens in the Dolly of the Dailies pictures? 

Mabel Trunelle, another Edison star, 
thinks that she makes New Year's resolu- 
tions, but that she must also break them 
speedily. "I generally look back on the past 
year with a guilty conscience," she acknowl- 
edges, "for the things I've left undone. -And 
so the best I may resolve is to make the 
most of the coming year and to avoid the 
mistakes of the past." Not bad, is it? 

Herbert Prior's attitude toward the com- 
ing of the New Year is even more abrupt. 
"I have ended the making of New Years' 
resolutions," he announces. "I found that I 
aever kept them." 

Away out in California Eddie Lyons of the 
Christie Comedy company has already 
pasted up this set of rules: 

"I Will not drink (too much). 

5 T will not smoke (all the time). 

"1 will not lose my temper (too often). 

"I will not owe my tailor (too long). 

"I will not speak ill of others (too 

"I will not break any of these resolutions 
(too soon)." ; - 

Lee Morah of the same company, inspired 
by Eddie's efforts, has also gone on record 
to this effect: a 

. "On New Year's morning I will swear (I 
have sworn before). I will place articles 
of temptation before me and see whether I 
am strong enough to resist them. In the 
course of an hour or two I shall know if I 
am strong enough to resist them. I will 
not burden my ihind with unnecessary 
things longer than necessary. I resolve to 
proceed on the same delightful way. Mod- 
erations are better than resolutions." 

Miriam Nesbitt of the Edison has made 
aight resolutions for guiding stars. They 
are: "'' . 

1. To conquer my intense aversion to the 
great unwashed with whom I travel during 
rush hours, and to realize that in poor dis- 
tricts ill smelling cars of packed in human- 
ity will always exist Until the rest of us 
make conditions better for the toiler. 

2. To guard against impatience when I am 
tired, for mistakes which try me may be 
caused by fatigue on the "other fellow's part. 

3. To do what I can to help war victims, 
but not to be distressed or constantly de- 
pressed by the situation here or abroad. 

4. To try to reply to all my fans' letters. 

5. To keep my ideals and, if possible, to 
raise the standard of them. 

6. To live on less than I earn. 

7. To be optimistic, but not aggressively 

8. To let those I love know it and to keep 
those I dislike from knowing it. 

The Essanay stars, Francis X. Bushman, 
Ruth Stonehouse, and Beverly Bayne, have 
all resolved. Bushman never makes addi- 
tional New Years' resolutions, but he has 
one stock resolve, "to be worthy of the 
friendship of all my friends," he says, "and 
to fulfill their expectations of me." Nor 
does Beverly Bayne make new resolves. 
"What's the use of waiting till a special 
day?" she asks. "The sooner you do a thing, 
the better." Ruth Stonehouse has just one 
word "Smile" for a resolve, but she explains 
it further. "Not the fatuous smile that fol- 
lows a well-cooked meal, not the easy smile 
of indolence, but the brisk, hearty smile of 
friendship is the one to be sought and found. 
I want to meet everything and everybody 
with a smile. I want to feel a comrade of 
the world where we are all here to help 
each other over the rough places. The smile 
is the sunshine that drives off the shadows. 
I want to see the good in everyone. Char- 
acters are like plants. If the bad points 
are set under the light, they will flourish 
like weeds. If they are kept dark, they will 
die. I would like to be the careful gardener. 
My one resolution is therefore, Smile." 

Clara Kimball Young has no resolutions, 
but a philosophy. "I never make any resolu- 
tions," she declares, "for then I don't have 
to break them." But Lottie Briscoe has 
made ten that she herself calls "impossible." 
They run: 

1. I will answer all my correspondence. 

2. I will not buy more than one new dress 
each week nor more than one new hat every 
two weeks. 

3. I will not regret that the motion picture 
camera does not register color. 

4. I will not forget to do a half hour's 
physical exercise every morning before my 

5. I will write two pages of my diary 
every night before I go to bed. 

6. I will never grumble at Philadelphia 
and wish I were in New York. 

7. I will never argue with my director. 

8. I will never read what Photoplay says 
about me, but will keep up my subscription. 

9. I will get married if I have to lasso a 



man to do it or use a halter to lead him to 
the altar in 1915. 

10. I will refuse any increase of salary 
offered. . --.". 

Frank Farrington, who plays Braine in 
"The Million Dollar Mystery," has a New 
Year's ambition, "to make the world happier 
as I portray human emotions on the screen." 
Farrington evidently desires to depart from 
villainous parts. 

Maurice Costello wants "to make next year 
more successful than last— if possible." Sid- 
ney Bracy is going "to strive by good work 
in pictures to repay in some measure my 
thousands of friends through: the country 
for i the appreciation they have given my 
attempts at portrayal of character." As the 
butler of the Million Dollar Mystery Bracy 

has become one of the most talked of film 
actors in the world. "If my work improves," 
he continues, "it will be to the credit of the 
friends who urge me to endeavor." - 

Mae Hotely, comedienne of the Lubin com- 
pany, has resolved not to break the speed 
laws of 1915, not to beat any more husbands, 
"as my fists make no impression on solid 
ivory," she_ insists, "not to go up in another 
airship until the next time, to answer all 
love letters, and to do all the good she can 
(otherwise) in all the ways she can." 

Such a galaxy of resolutions deserves to 
win some lasting measure of success in their 
keeping. If they're all to be kept, it begins 
to look bad for the movies. Such characters 
as the actors would become are altogether 
too good to be true. ■ 


With apologies to the photoplayers whose New Year resolutions 
are set forth in the foregoing article 

r^ACH year we vow to begin anew 
And live a life so good and true 
That there'll be no doubt of e'erlasting life 
After this world's battle and noisy strife. 
We swear we'll do this, and we won't do that 
And we make many bets — two or three for a hat. 
We swear to quit smoking — we'll- drink never more, 
And old Dad will quit swearing — to that he swore. 
We will lead lives of virtue — no harm will we do 
To our fellows and neighbors and all who are true. 
Yes, we'll even forgive those who treated us mean 
Such deeds as we'll do never were seen. 

But alas and alack — as the days quickly fade, 
We forget the resolves we so willingly made. 
We sigh and are sorry and lay down our pen. 
And wait till next New Year's to do it again. 

The Black Sheep 


Illustrations from the Kalem Film 


rHY should I lend you money?" 
Frank Clark was losing his tem- 
per; he had lost it, indeed, some 
minutes before. And now Joe, his brother, 
dropped the attempt he had been making to 
get his way by persuasion. 

"Oh, you can preach!" he said. "You got 
your education! There was money enough 
for you to get through college and medical 
school! You've got your profession! I'm 
the one that had to go without! When it 
was time for me there wasn't any more 
money — " 

"Shut up!" cried Frank. "It wasn't my 
fault, was it? Did anyone know that the 
money would be lost? You talk like a fool, 
Joe! I was older than you, and naturally I 
got the sort of education I did. I know it's 
hard luck that you couldn't go to college. 

If I'd been able to do it I would, certainly 
have seen you through. I've told you that 
a thousand times." 

"It's easy to talk," sneered Joe. "The 
point is that you did have all the best of 
it. And now when I ask you for a loan 
you preach to me! Is it my fault I lost 
my job?" 

"Whose fault is it if not yours?" asked 
Frank. "Oh, Joe — can't you see that I'm 
talking this way for your own good? You 
go around with a lot of bums — men who 
are a disgrace to this town. Gamblers — 
and worse. Lord — I saw you in the street 
with Grath myself, only to-day. And it's 
not the first time. What bank would keep 
a man who was in the habit of going to a 
gambling house? No business house would 
stand that for a minute." 




"What business is it of theirs? I wasn't 
gambling with their money!" 

"No one ever does gamble with the bank's 
money — in the beginning, Joe. But that's 
the way it usually ends. You know that as 
well as I do. Don't you, now? Joe — if 
you'd only take a brace — ! I'd help you, 
then — I could. As it is now, it seems to me 
that every time I do something for you it 
just makes you that much less inclined to 
do something for yourself. It isn't helping 
you, Joe, old man! That's the trouble. Can't 
you make yourself see this the way I do?" 

"I don't want to! God save me from ever 
being a sniveling hypocritical sneak like 

Frank's eyes flashed. For a moment he 
seemed on the verge of striking the younger 
man. And then the door opened, and a 
woman with silver hair came in. Her eyes 
were troubled. 

"Boys — boys," she said. "I can hear you 
all over the house! Quarreling again! If 
you knew how you hurt me! Frank — can't 
you be gentler with poor Joe? He's down- 
hearted over the loss of his position — " 

"It's his own fault that he lost it," said 
Frank,' doggedly. "I've been — " 

"Frank! How can you say such a thing? 
I saw Mr. Blair at the bank myself, and he 
said they were all sorry to see Joe go, but 
that there were necessary changes, and it 
was impossible to keep him. I didn't quite 
understand him — it seemed very confused. 
But I'm not a business woman. It was 
something about a reorganization. And I 
know how hard Joe worked! Why, he was 
down there night after night, doing extra 
work on the books, and never getting paid 
for it, just because he wanted to get ad- 
vancement, and be able to help you more in 
looking after me." 

Frank gritted his teeth. But he kept 
silent. He had learned the uselessness of 
arguing with his mother when the idolized 
younger son was in question. He submitted 
to the injustice of her reproaches rather 
than try to explain that Mr. Blair had in- 
vented the fiction of a reorganization rather 
than hurt her feelings, and he knew how 
useless it would be to tell her how Joe had 
really passed the evenings when he was 

Herbert Dragged Him into the House and Introduced Him to Ruth 


"Joe's Well Again, Sis— You'd Never Think He'd Been Sick, Would You!'' 

supposed to be "working on the books." 

The ringing of his office bell helped him to 
avoid answering. He went in, to greet a 
patient. This patient, however, had come, 
not for treatment, but to pay a long stand- 
ing bill. 

"Here's the coin I owe you, doc," he said. 
"The whole two hundred dollars! Thank 
God I can pay it at last. You're a white 
man, doc. Never a word out of you — " 

"Forget it, Casey," said Frank, smiling. 
"I knew you'd pay when you could, didn't 
I? And I knew you could, too, when you 
got those contracts going. If I hadn't I'd 
never have charged you so much." 

"So much, is ut?" said Casey. "Ah, doc 
— faint half what you did is worth — to say 
nothin' of the little chap." 

He departed, muttering. And' Frank, 
smiling, the bad taste of his scene with Joe 
taken out of his mouth, went to look for his 
brother. He had better make up with him, 
he decided. It always ended in some such 
fashion. For his mother's sake he over- 
looked everything. 

But Joe was not to be found, curiously 

enough. It was not until two hours later, 
when Frank had returned from a hurried 
call, that lie understood the reason. He had 
left the money Casey had brought on his 
desk; now it was missing. For- a moment 
his anger mastered him; he was on the 
point of telling his mother the truth he had 
so far concealed from her, and declaring 
that he would not allow Joe to stay any 
longer in the house, all the expenses of 
which he had to bear. But second thoughts 
restrained him; after all, this was something 
he should have out with Joe. After that 
he could decide what, if anything, he should 
tell his mother. 

Joe had taken the money. And he had 
done what Frank, when he could not find 
him, after a renewed search of the house, 
guessed he must have done. He had gone 
to Grath's gambling house. He was play- 
ing roulette. And, for the first time in 
weeks, he won. 

"I can put the money back," he thought. 
"Frank will never know I took Uneven if 
he's missed it I'll be able to make him think 
it was there all the time." 



And then there fell the blow of an axe 
on the door. It splintered; the next moment 
the room was full of policemen. Joe, with 
a dozen others too slow in trying to escape, 
was arrested. His money was gone. Grath 
would never pay his winnings now. Joe 
was in despair. And now, in the emergency, 
he did what he always had done. Giving a 
false name, he was held in hail. And he 
sent for Frank to help him out of the hole 
he had dug for himself. 

Prank came. With cold, hard eyes, he 
listened to Joe's story. Then he bailed him 

"Honest, Frank," said Joe, sobered now, 
and really penitent, "I'm going to keep 
straight. I'll work like a dog — I'll pay back 
that money. But wasn't it just my cursed 
luck? I was a couple of hundred ahead — I 
was going to quit. If they'd held off a min- 
ute longer with their damned raid I'd have 
been out of there with the money." 

"It wouldn't have made any difference," 
said Frank. "I'm not going to try to make 
you see the moral side of it, Joe. I don't 
think you're able to. And — I'm glad things 
have happened this way, after all. I can 
do something for you now." 

"What do you mean?" asked Joe, startled 
by Frank's tonei 

"I mean that you're going to leave town — 
how, to-night. I'll tell Mother you got the 
offer of a good job. You'll never be able to 
brace rip here, Joe. If you go to a new 
place and make a new start you may be able 
to make good." • ■ 

"I — Frank — I don't want to do that! I — " 

"You've got to, Joe. Don't you understand? 
If you're here in the morning you'll be up in 
court. Everyone will know you. You may 
be sent to the workhouse as a common 
gambler. There's been talk of making an 
example of the next lot that were arrested. 
I'll stand the forfeiting of your bail. It'll 
be cheap at that. And if you make good 
and come back here things will have blown 
over, "especially: if you've been" showing that 
you've got' some' good in you." 

-For once Frank held the whip hand: And 
he' had his way.' Joe took the money Frank 
gave him, arid left town on the midnight 
train. ' - ■ ; • - 

Frank could ill afford the money that" this 
cost him." Arid yet, as he had said, the 
peace, the freedom from anxiety, that he 
secured were well worth the price he paid. 
He began to find that he could^enjoy life 

again. The constant anxiety as to what 
mischief Joe would get into next was gone. 
He prospered, too, in a small way, and his 
professional standing improved. And then 
a small thing happened that was to have a 
big effect. He and his mother moved. 

In the house next door there lived a small, 
rotund boy, who made friends with Frank 
at once. And this small boy had a sister, 
older than he, who was the girl of girls 
for Frank from the moment when he first 
saw her. This was Ruth Sanders. Herbert, 
the small brother, proved that the brothers 
of adorable girls, as they are presented in 
comic papers, are a much maligned class. 
Frank liked Herbert. When Herbert 
dragged him into his house one day he 
did more than like him. For it was Herbert 
who introduced him to Ruth. 

Between Frank and Ruth there was com- 
radeship from the beginning. Frank dared 
not try to press his suit at first. He was 
still a poor man; his future was bright 
enough, but he was carrying a heavy burden 
alone, since his mother had never fully ac- 
customed herself to the deprivations occa- 
sioned by the sudden cutting off of the 
income her husband had left her. She did 
not mean to be extravagant, and Frank, as 
a matter of fact, loved her to have every- 
thing she wanted. But it made it necessary 
for him to wait a long time before he could 
think of marriage. And he had been crip- 
pled, too, by the heavy outlay that Joe had 
represented. ' • >' 

Yet he was beginning to think of the 
time when he should be able to speak to 
Ruth. And then there came bad news. Joe 
had found work in the town to which he 
had gone the night of the raid. -But he 
had had trouble there, too; occasionally he 
bad asked Frank for small sums, .and ob- 
tained them. : Now he wrote that he had 
been sick; that a local doctor had advised 
a long rest." What was he to do? ;He wrote 
to his mother as well as to Frank, and she 
insisted that he should come home. . Frank 
did not welcome the idea, but once more he 
was helpless. He sounded the'' authorities 
and found that there ' was no danger : of 
prosecution on the old gambling charge; 
then he sent for Joe to come home, i ■• • • 

Joe had been sick ; one look at him was 
enough to change all of Frank's soreness 
and anger into a feeling. of pity. The doctor 
in him, as well as the brother, noted Joe's 
appearance with concern. And Frank, once 



A Few Days Later He Saw Ruth in His Brother's Arms 

that feeling was aroused, thought no more 
of his wrongs. 

"Maybe I've been hard, Joe," he said. 
"But it was all for your own good, old chap. 
You know that, don't you?" 

"You bet I do, Frank!" was Joe's answer. 
It was frank and manly; his absence had 
improved him. "I've been a beast of a 
brother and son, Frank. But I'm going to 
follow the straight and narrow path now. 

Fix me up, won't you? Then I'll get to 
work and stop being a burden on you." 

"Time enough for that," said Frank. 
"You've got a spell of loafing in front of 
you. I'll give you a tonic. Then, as soon 
as you're up to it, get out in the open air. 
Play tennis, or golf, or baseball. You were 
quite a pitcher in your school days. See if 
you can still curve a ball. It'll be slow 

That was his first impression. The thor- 
ough, searching examination upon which he 
insisted only confirmed his opinion. Joe 
had protested against that, but he had been 
forced to yield. 

"Well — I suppose you know all about it, 
now!" he said, sullenly, when Frank had 

"Yes, I do," said Frank, with a sigh. 
"I'm not going to say 'I told you so.' I guess 
there's nothing anyone could say that would 
make you feel any worse, Joe. It's pretty 
bad. But you can hold it down. It doesn't 
need to get any worse — and it'll get better, 
with the proper care." 

"I'll get that from you, I know," said Joe, 

He was a tractable patient; he had really 
changed for the better in many ways. Mrs. 
Clark was delighted by the better relations 
that now existed between her boys. And 
Joe grew stronger and began to recover his 
strength. He played baseball with Herbert 
Sanders; he played tennis and golf with 
Ruth. He saw more of her than Frank, 
with his growing practice, had ever had 
time for. And his fascination, his undeni- 
able charm, had the effect upon her that 
might have been foreseen. There had been 
a time when she would have welcomed very 
readily the attentions that Frank's strict 
code of honor prevented him from offering 

She had fancied herself slighted; she had 
the feeling that a girl often has, that she 
had been forward, had made advances. 
Feeling herself rejected, she grew almost to 
dislike Frank. And just for that reason 
she was the more easily fascinated by Joe. 

"Joe's well again, isn't he, sis?" said Her- 
bert. "Feel his muscle! You'd never think 
he'd been sick, would you?" 

She obeyed, and her fingers ran down 
over his arm, down to his hand, in a gesture 
that was almost a caress. 

"You certainly have improved, Joe," she 



"It's old Frank's work," said Joe. "He's 
some doctor, believe ine, if lie is my 

Joe took life as it came. His motto was 
that something would turn up. And so, 
when he realized that he was in love with 
Ruth, and felt that she was ready to accept 
him, none of the things that had made 
Frank hesitate and refuse to test his fate 
even occurred to him. Much less did they 
restrain him. He proposed to her; she ac- 
cepted him. And Frank, a few days later, 

"Why not? Lord — because you haven't 
got a cent, for one thing!" 

"Mr. Sanders will give me a job. I've 
spoken to him about it. He says he's got 
just the right place for me. And I've 
changed, Frank. I'm not the rotten '.aster 
I used to be. Why, since I've known Ruth, 
since I've been in love with her, I've lain 
awake nights thinking of what a mucker 
I used to be. I've wished — Lord, how I've 
wished! — that I could wipe all that out — 
even the memory of it." 

On Frank's Knee Was a Boy Who Looked Like Both of Them 

came out of the door of the Clark house, to 
see Ruth in his brother's arms! He almost 
cried out in his astonishment, his anger. 
But he waited. Not until he was able to 
speak to Joe alone did he break his silence. 

"Joe," he said, "I saw you with Ruth 
Sanders last night. You were — you — " He 
did not know how to put it. But Joe, flush- 
ing, saved him the trouble. 

"I was kissing her!" he said. "Why 
shouldn't I? We're engaged," he went on, 
after a moment's pause. 

"Engaged!" said Frank. "Good God! Joe 
—you can't get married!" 

"Why not?" Joe was hot with anger. 

"But, Joe," said Frank, gently, "you can't 
wipe it out! Don't you see?" He spoko 
sorrowfully; there were tears in his eyes. 
There was no doubting Joe's sincerity; the 
real quality of his reformation. "That's 
your punishment, Joe. You can't marry. 
You're not fit to marry. You're diseased. 
You can't ask a girl like that to share your 
life. You've got to bear the punishment 
for what you've done alone. It's hard, boy — 
don't think I can't see it. You didn't know. 
You did just what others did. But they 
escaped, some of them. And you — didn't." 

"Oh, nonsense!" said Joe. "You talk as 
if I was a leper. Frank! I know dozens of 



chaps who — who are just like me, and mar- 
ried, and are happy." 

Prank shook his head. 

"You don't know that they're happy, Joe," 
he said. "And, if they are, you don't know 
how long that happiness will last. You 
don't know when they may find out what 
they've done. A leper! I wish you were, 
Joe — because then you'd know that you had 
no right to marry Ruth Sanders or any other 

"But I'm well — I'm cured!" said Joe. 

"In a sense, yes," said Frank. "You're 
not likely to suffer any more yourself. But 
you're still a source of danger to others, 
Joe. You're like a typhoid carrier, who, 
without being in danger of typhoid himself, 
can spread disease through a whole city. I 
tell you you can't marry!" 

"And I tell you that I shall!" cried Joe, 
rising, furiously. 

For a moment their eyes clashed. 

"I shall tell Mr. Sanders the truth," said 
Frank, at last. 

"You'd never dare!" cried Joe. "You 
couldn't — " He stopped. His eyes had 
fallen on the Hippocratic Oath, that ancient 
charter of physicians. "You can't! Look 
at that Oath! The Oath you swore when 
you became a doctor! You found out this 
thing about me under the seal of your pro- 
fession! You can't violate the secrecy that 
Oath binds you to! I didn't tell you — you 
found it out when I was your patient!" 

Frank stared at him. 

"You're right!" he said, heavily. "God 
forgive you! Joe — don't do tkis thing! 
Think of her!" 

"I am thinking of her!" said Joe. "I'm 

not going to see her happiness ruined. 
Other doctors disagree with you. I'll bet I 
could find a dozen who would tell me to go 
ahead and get married." 

He left the office. Frank, desperate, tried 
to convince himself that this was a time 
when he must reveal a secret he had learned 
as a doctor. But he could not. The code 
of his profession was too strong for him; 
the code that told him he had not the right 
to decide, even though in this instance he 
might be justified. The rule was one to 
which there could be no exceptions. He did 
write to Ruth, begging her to give up her 
marriage. But he gave no reason, and she 
ignored his appeal. 

But two days later Joe, coming in sud- 
denly, early in the afternoon, found Ruth 
with his mother. She was crying. 

"Why, Ruth!" he said, holding out his 
hand. "What's the matter, dearest?" 

"Don't touch me!" she screamed. "Don't 
touch me!" 

"Joe," said his mother, in a voice he had 
never heard her use before, "I heard you 
and Frank talking in his office. I have done 
what Frank's Hippocratic Oath forbade him 
to do. I have told Ruth the truth about 
you, my son!" 

THREE years had passed. Joe had gone 
away. Frank and Ruth sat together 
on the steps of their piazza. On Frank's 
knee was a boy who looked like both of 

"I had a letter from Joe to-day," said 
Frank. "He's doing splendidly, Ruth." 

"Poor Joe!" she said. There were tears 
in her eyes. 


'IpHEY left the confetti behind them, 

And sped on their glad honeymoon : 
The train took them into a tunnel. 
Affording a fine chance to spoon. 

There were smackings of lips in the darkness — ■ 
A scramble when daylight was seen: 

By the space of a foot they were parted, 
With a brown paper parcel between. 

"That's a very long tunnel," said hubby, 
"I wonder just how much it cost?" 

"Don't know! But it's worth it," she answered, 
As her pert little headpiece she tossed. 

Then and Now 


OLD Grandfather Burns, in his coml'y chair 
Settled down for his afternoon nap. 
His eyes slowly closed, his pipe went out, 

For the world he cared not a rap. 
His breath softly came, and as softly it went 

His thoughts wandered far away, 
And a smile slowly spread o'er his fine old face 

As dreams brought back many past day. 
He thought of his days as a little boy, 

Of the good old times he'd had. 
Of the lickins he'd got with a willow branch 

At the hands of his good old Dad. 
And then thoughts turned to the one great day 

The circus was coming to town! 
And oh, how he hustled and bustled around 

To get money to see the clown. 
How he sawed hard wood and cut people's grass 

Why, work was never so shy! 
The blamed old town had no jobs to do! 

And the cost of the circus was high! 
But at last came the day when the show arrived 

In awe inspiring parade 
All work stopped — the town stood still, 

To eat peanuts and drink lemonade. 
Oh, those were the days of real old sport, 

They just had the time of their lives! 
And how when Dad gave a few pennies more 

Their delight climbed right to the skies. 
But pleasant dreams and an afternoon nap 

Were brought to a sudden end. 
For down the street came his boys and girls 

And he had his troubles to tend. 
"Oh Grandpa, let's go to the picture show! 

Let's all go sure tonight. 
There's goin' to be things you never saw." 

"All right?" Why they're wild with delight. 
So they all troop off for their evening meal, 

Leaving Grandpa to ponder long: 
"In my young days 'twas the circus tent 

And the candy butchers' song. 
But times do change, and the kiddies too 

Have different places to go; 
Instead of the circus we used to see 

Why — now it's the picture show." 

Growing Up with the Movies 

By Florence Lawrence 

In Collaboration with Monte M. Katterjohn 

Part Three 

MOVING Picture Artists in the Making" 
would surely be a fit title for this chapter 
of my story, which shall concern that 
period of time when I was associated with the 
American Mutoscope and Biograph Company — more 
recently known as the Biograph Company — for more 
of the present day's recognized artists began their 
motion picture careers in the Biograph studios dur-* 
ing those twelve months than in all the other 
studios combined. 

And it seems such a little while ago that many 
of the men and women whose names are to-day 
gracing the lobbies of hundreds and hundreds of 
photoplay theatres were glad of the opportunity to 
work even as "extras," putting in from two to three 
days in a week's time. Of course, there had to be 
some sort of a beginning, and I suppose that was 
the way Dame Fortune intended their beginning 
should be. In fact, all of the picture people I know 
came into their own through some fortunate acci- 
dent. Holding their own has been and is still quite 
a different matter. 

As in my own 
- ... case. It was 

Under the Tutelage of 
"Larry" Griffith I Not 
Only Improved My 
Work, but Ono 
Bright Morning: 
Woke Up to Find 
Myself Famous as 
"The Biograph 

Matt and Owen 
Moore Are Excellent 
Picture Players, and 
When I Founded the 
Victor Company I En 
gaged Both of Them 




just an accident that I was engaged to work in the 
Daniel Boone picture by Mr. Porter; a still greater 
accident that Mr. Blackton selected me to play the 
role of Moya in "The Shaughraun" and, as shown 
by Mr. Katterjohn's account of my advent in Bio- 
graph pictures, that was a still greater accident. 
Fate's dark conspiracies concerned me not in the 
beginning. "Getting in" seemed rather easy. Mak- 
ing good was a horse of another color. 

Generally speaking, the actors and actresses em- 
ployed in those days were far below to-day's stand- 
ard, and still a few of them were superior to many 
of the present-day players. Ours was a motley col- 
lection. We came from here, there, and everywhere, 
and from all walks of life. Some of us had had 
stage experience and some had not. We were merely 
a collection of ambitious beings, each harboring the 

belief that he or she was destined . 

to become famous. How? We 
did not know. 

When I commenced 
working at the Bio- 
graph studio there 
was no stock com- 
pany. That is, a 

In "The Slave" Mr. 
Solter's Portrayal of a 
Yotmsr Roman was 'Well 
High Perfect, and Mack 
Bennett Proved an Ex- 
cellent Guard. (Mr. 
Bennett Stands at the 
Extreme Right of the 


IPJUUM © .Vin><6', -V. I '. 

"There Is Something 
About Miss Lawrence 
that Hakes Everybody 
Love Her," Reads a Let- 
ter Received by the Edi- 
tor of PHOTOPLAY. 
The Letter Continues, 
"She Is the Spirit of 
Youth Itself' 

regular company 
was not maintained 
which listed a leading 
man, leading lady, in- 
genue, character man, char- 
acter woman, and villain as 
being regular callers for the 
weekly pay envelope. True, 
there were three or four reg- 
ularly employed actors and actresses who were paid 
a weekly guarantee, as in my case, but it was not 
uncommon to make actors out of the property men, 
actresses out of the factory stenographers, and now 
and then to call in some passer-by, never caring or 
even inquiring as to his vocation, and turn him into 
a picture actor. 

Some four or five months after I joined the Bio- 
graph Company, a permanent stock company was 
organized, the first, I believe, ever maintained for 
motion picture acting exclusively. Those of the 
extra people who had demonstrated some ability dur- 
ing the months that preceded the stock company's 
organization were the fortunate members of that 
company. We were David W. Griffith's selection of 

I Came to be Known as 

"The Girl of a Thousand 




find myself world-famous as "The Biograph Girl." 

Seven years ago Harry Solter and David W. Griffith 
were stranded actors out in San Francisco. They were 
unable to get work — steady engagements — and their 
friends had loaned them just as much as they cared to. 
Aside from acting, Mr. Griffith had taken to writing 
plays during his spare time. Failing to get any of 
them produced out on the Coast, he came East, Mr. 
Solter accompanying him. They arrived in New York 
City without money and soon discovered that the im- 
mediate prospects for work were none too flattering. 

Jin Interlude by Harry Solter 

"Larry" Griffith — his nick 
down and out, and so was I, 

name was "Larry" — was 
for that matter. Neither 
of us could find work in 
New York; we seemed 
to fare worse on Broad- 
way than when out in 
'Frisco. We decided we 
could do best by look- 
ing for work alone. 
Each was pledged, if he 
got a job and a pos- 
sible chance for the 
other, immediately to 
cinch it. After inquir- 

what he thought to 
be the best avail- 
able talent in New 
York City. 

The story of Di- 
rector Griffith is as 
necessary to my 
account of B i o - 
graph days as is 
flour to the making 
of biscuits. That 
is, my story cannot 
be told coherently 
without consider- 
able mention of 
David W. Griffith. 
As for biscuits, I 

doubt very much if they would be coherent without 
the use of flour. Frankly, there would not be any 

David W. Griffith is a big man in the motion picture 
world to-day, for it has been said that he is the high- 
est paid motion picture director in the world. There 
can be no doubt but that he is a very able artist. 
Five years ago he was struggling and striving with 
the rest of his company of players, and it was under 
his tutelage that I not only improved my work 
enormously but also woke up one bright morning to 

Tom Moore, a Brother of Owen's 
and Matt's, is Also a Photo- 
player at present Identified with 
Ealem Films, He Is Married 
to Alice Joyce, the Beautiful 
Kalem Star 

" The Best Actors and Actresses of the 
Stage," Writes Florence Lawrence, "Do Not 
Invariably Make the Best Moving Picture 




ing at the accustomed places and learning 
that there wasn't anything for me in the 
way of a stage engagement I went over to 
the Vitagraph studio in Flatbush, Brooklyn, 
and secured work as an extra actor. It was 
during this engagement that I became ac- 
quainted with Florence Lawrence. Every 
day that I worked I received five dollars, 
and I managed to get in four or five days 
every week from the start. 

After my first day's work I joined "Larry" 
in a little New York restaurant. He was 
dog tired, having made the rounds of all 
the different offices, and was about as down- 
hearted as any man I have ever seen. Well, 
I told him of my good luck, and suggested 
that he try getting work at some of the 
different motion picture studios. I gave him 
the addresses of three. I knew he would not 
be able to get work over at the Vitagraph 
studio, since a notice had been posted that 
evening that no "extras" would be needed for 
a week or so, and that all casts were filled. 

I suggested to "Larry" that he try the 
Kalem Company; also the American Muto- 
scope and Biograph Company. All casts 
were "full-up" at the Kalem studio, so he 
learned, but they promised to notify him if 
anything turned up. At the Biograph studio 
his luck was better, for he was engaged as 
an extra actor and began work immediately. 
The first week I think he worked three days, 
receiving five dollars a day for his services, 
but later he began to show what he could do 
and was retained as a regular actor. 

A couple of months after he made his 
initial appearance before a picture camera, 
the regular Biograph director failed to show 
up at the studio and inquiry brought out 
the fact that he was ill and would probably 
not be able to resume work for several 
weeks. The company was behind with their 
productions. A director was needed at once. 
By chance the heads of the company asked 
Larry if he thought he could produce a pic- 
ture, and he promptly told him that he knew 
he could. 

His first production was a picture which 
had been previously arranged for by the 
sick director. The actors and actresses had 
all been engaged, the sets arranged and or- 
dered, and practically all of the preliminary 
work done. And Larry took hold of the 
work like an old-timer, whipping out a cork- 
ing production. The heads of the company 
liked it and let him try his hand on another 
which turned out even better than the first 

picture. Larry Griffith has been directing 
ever since. 

Shortly after he began directing picture 
productions I found myself out of employ- 
ment and Larry, learning of this, gave me 
work in Biograph pictures. I had been 
working over at the Vitagraph studio, in 
Brooklyn. Under Mr. Griffith I was a sort 
of studio jack-df-all-trades, being actor, as- 
sistant to the director, and general utility 

Picture producing in those days was con- 
siderably more of a job than it is today, and 
a director certainly had his hands full. 
Griffith was put to it many times for capable 
people — actors and actresses who could do 
something else besides wave their arms and 
roll their eyes. He began to cast about for 
his players, his selections, in most instances, 
being governed by youth, beauty and am- 
bition. One of my duties was to keep him 
posted on the different people wanting work. 

Florence Turner had attracted his atten- 
tion through some extraordinarily good rid- 
ing she had done in a Vitagraph western pic- 
ture. The demand was strong for western 
pictures and Larry had a notion that pic- 
tures which breathed of the prairie and had 
a beautiful maiden as the heroine were 
bound to "go big." He decided to get Flor- 
ence Turner if he could, so he sent me to 
open negotiations with her. As you have al- 
ready learned, I interested him in Florence 
Lawrence instead, but it was through no pre- 
arranged scheme. I had failed to find Miss 
Turner, had encountered Miss Lawrence and 
accidentally told her that the Biograph was 
wanting a leading woman. The result was 
that Larry engaged her because he wanted a 
leading woman who could ride a horse at 
break-neck speed, at once. 

Florence Lawrence Resumes 
the Story 

When I presented myself at the Biograph 
studio I was exceedingly anxious and nerv- 
ous. I have always been so in new and 
strange surroundings. I inquired for Mr. 
Solter, who had urged me to try my luck 
with the Biograph, and later, brought me 
word that Mr. Griffith desired to see me. 
While waiting for Mr. Solter an exceedingly 
lanky and tall young man came into the gen- 
eral waiting room. He seemed to know who 
I was at a glance, and, though he was 
shabbily dressed and wore a badly battered 



I was just inquiring about you, Miss Lawrence." 
Then I knew that he was Mr. Griffith. Mr. Solter 
entered the room at the moment and was a little 
surprised to find Mr. Griffith talking to me about 
the work to be done. 

"Can you ride horses?" asked Mr. Griffith. 
"I would rather ride than eat," I told him, 
which was the truth. My folks used to say 
that they never waited meals for me if they 
knew I was horseback riding. When I am 
riding before the moving picture camera, I 
really forget the picture and everything else. 
And I always act better in such scenes be- 
cause I am not acting at all. I am just having 

Mary Pickford Is Utterly Charming. 
She Has a Captivating Pout and a 
Frown All Her Own that Are Irre- 

hat, I grasped the fact that 
he was an important official 
of some sort. It was a cer- 
tain matter-of-factness about 
him that impressed me. He 
came towards me, saying: 

Owen Moore, the Husband of Mary 

The Home of Commodore Benedict, One of the Most Beautiful 
in America, Was Used as a Stage-Setting for The Cardinal's 
Conspiracy," in which Billy Quirk Assumed a Minor Part. 
Mr. Quirk Is the Young Man Standing on the Porch, to the 
Bight— The Young Man with the Mustache 

fun. Of late the pictures I have appeared in 
have not called for much of this kind of work, 
but that fact has not dampened my ardor for 
galloping 'cross country at break-neck speed. 
Also, I intend working in some pictures soon 
in which my equestrian abilities will be 
needed, and then you shall see, 

"You worked in Vitagraph's 'The Despatch 
Bearer,' didn't you?" Mr. Griffith asked. 

"You were very good in that — it was a good 
picture," he added, after I had answered his 
question and explained the difficulties under 
which the picture was produced. Mr. Solter 
had stepped to one side and was standing near 
a door that led back into the studio, when Mr. 
Griffith turned away saying: 

"Wait just a few minutes. I'll be right 

"I think she is the very person I want," I 
heard him say to Mr. Solter as he passed out 



ing me work, I was the person to be told and 
not Mr. Solter. Hardly a minute had passed 
when he re-entered the room accompanied 
by a great, big, dignified man who 
stopped just inside the door, looked 
me over from head to foot, spoke a 
few words to Mr. Griffith, and dis- 
appeared back into the recesses 
of the studio. As Mr. Griffith 
came forward I came near ask- 
ing who the dressed-up in- 
dividual was, then thought bet- 
ter of it At the Vitagraph 
studio I had learned that it 
didn't pay to be inquisitive. But 
Mr. Griffith 
knew what 

Miss Lawrence about the Time She Joined the American 
Mutoscope and Biograph Company 

I was about to ask. 

"That was Mr. Kennedy," he explained. 
"He said he hoped you could ride just as 
well as you look." 

After I had got over my embarrass- 
ment we talked of the salary to be paid, 
the work expected, and a lot of other de- 

"You might as well begin right now," he 
remarked and, though I was just a little 
afraid of myself, I was eager to do so. One 
hour later I was dressed like a cow-girl — 
knee-length skirt, leggings, blouse waist 
with sleeves rolled above my elbows, pistol 
holster swung about my waist, a water 



pouch slung carelessly over my shoulder, and a 
big sombrero on my head. My hair was loose. 
The camera was clicking off a scene for "The 
Girl and the Outlaw." Charles Ainsley was the 
outlaw and I was the girl. 

As the title suggests, it was a story of the wild 
and woolly west, and produced in the vicinity 
of peaceful Coytesville, New Jersey, a town which 
was the scene of most all the sensational western 
dramas until about three years ago, and this in 
spite of the fact that it was almost impossible 
to make a scene that even remotely resembled 
the west. There was always a telephone pole 
around close enough to come within range of the 
camera which was never discovered until after 
the scene had been photographed. In "The Girl 
and the Outlaw" one of the scenes was supposed 
to represent a section of primeval forest on a 
mountain side. The finished print showed some 
perfectly lovely and well pruned maple trees on 
the slopes of the towering moun- 
tain. It was only after the 
film manufacturers realized ^ 
that California afforded 
continuous sunshine as 
well as an infinite 
variety of background 
that the fields and 
hills of New Jersey 
were discarded for the 

Mr. Laemmle Flattered Me 
Greatly. "You Are Such a 
Lovely Girl," He Said, "That You 
Can't Help Making Me Rich' 1 
Photo by Unity, j\\ ) '. 

Photograph l-y BaHgSt 'Vrt» )\<rk 

This Is One of a Series of Uncom- 
monly Attractive Photographs of 
Miss Lawrence Taken in 1913 

real thing. While with 
the Biograph Company 
I appeared in no less 
than a dozen wild west 
pictures, all of which were 
made just outside of New 
t'ork City or in some New 
fork park. 
There was certainly need of 
good horseback rider for 
leading woman in "The Girl 
and the Outlaw," and I was 
in the saddle in almost all of 
the exterior scenes. The story, 
if my memory serves me 
rightly, concerned a young 
eastern girl who had gone west and fallen in love 
with an outlaw. She brought about his refor- 
mation by keeping him from holding up the 
stage coach, or robbing the village bank — I for- 
get which it was. In several of the scenes I had 
to ride like fury to overtake the outlaw and pre- 
vent him from carrying out his plans. I think 
it was my riding in that picture that made me a 
permanent fixture around the Biograph studio: 
But the work was so severe and trying that I 
was unable to work in the next western picture 
Mr. Griffith proposed to make. He was rather 
disappointed, too, but soon "framed-up" a story 

In a Series of Pictures 
Produced by Director 
Griffith, Billy Quirk Be- 
came Famous asMttggsey 
with "Little Mary" 
Pickford as His Sweet- 
heart. In Vitagraph's 
"The Girl from Prosper- 
ity," Mr. Quirk Was But 
An Older Mttggsey 



with many interior scenes. "Betrayed by a 
Handprint," was its melodramatic title, and 
in which I portrayed a society belle, who, 
losing at bridge, stole a beautiful diamond 
necklace from her hostess only to be found 
out by a handprint she made in the dust on 
the dresser while stealing the necklace. 
.From cow-girl to society belle was rather a 
change, but all in the day's work just a few 
years back. Nowadays if a director should 
ask his leading lady to do as much she 
would certainly have something to say. 
Edith Storey of the Vitagraph players and 
Pauline Bush of the Rex-Universal pictures 
are the only two actresses I know who seem 
to be as much at home on the back of a 
cayuse as in a drawing room. 

The very next picture in which I appeared 
was a Mexican drama with soul stirring 
action. Throughout my year at the Biograph 
studio I worked along this plan — a western 
picture, a society drama or comedy, and 
then a frontier or Indian picture. "The 
Red Girl" was the title of the first Indian 
picture produced by Mr. Griffith after I be- 
gan playing "leads," and of course I was 
the red girl. Every time I think of that 
picture I have to smile. My make-up was 
so realistic that I looked more like a tramp 
than a fetching daughter of Lo. At the 
studio I canvassed the opinions of every- 
body to learn just how to make up for the 
part. Nobody seemed to know how I ought 
to look. So I did the best I could and the 
result was hideous. And the strange part 
of it all was that Mr. Griffith did not object 
to my make-up in any way whatsoever. I 
hope that picture is never re-issued, for I 
don't want anyone ever to see my idea of 
what an Indian girl should be. No, I won't 
tell you how I was painted up. Suffice it 
to say that 1 was anything but "darling." 
And think of it — that picture was one of the 
first Biograph features, being one thousand 
and fourteen feet in length, and positive 
prints sold for fourteen cents a foot. It 
was released for exhibition on the fifteenth 
day of September, 1908. 

One of the greatest bothers we had to con- 
tend with during my Biograph days was the 
assembling of large crowds whenever we had 
to make an exterior street scene. I say 
"exterior street scene" to make it plain that 
we frequently made interior street scenes. 
I recall several pictures in which I worked 
in which the street scenes were painted 
sets and all the camera work was done in- 

side the studio, though the finished picture 
looked much as if we had found the very 
location we wanted right in New York City. 
All the directors were bothered with the 
crowds which gathered whenever it was 
discovered that we were going to do out- 
side work, particularly if the scene was to 
be made in the business section or in a 
tenement district. And even today the col- 
lecting of large crowds, the tying up of 
traffic occur as a result of the insatiable 
curiosity of the passers-by and are a source 
of annoyance to the director. Nowadays it 
is the custom to "slip" the first policeman 
who comes upon the scene a five dollar bill 
and everything is O. K. until another "cop- 
per" comes on the scene. Then the wheels 
of progress must be greased anew. 

Crowds annoy most actors and actresses. 
I confess I have always felt a little shy 
when a boisterous throng surrounded me 
during the making of a picture. In a great 
many of the Biograph comedies I worked in 
we were frequently forced to do all sorts 
of "funny stunts" out in the open and in 
front of large crowds. I always felt par- 
ticularly foolish when we were doing comedy 
business in the open. Mr. Griffith used to 
trick the crowds by concealing the camera 
in a carriage. We would drive to our loca- 
tion, hastily go through our parts, get back 
into the carriage and be off before very 
many people could collect. 

It has always been the delight of children 
to try to force themselves in front of the 
camera. The grown-ups seem to think it 
great fun when some little dirty-faced, 
ragged urchin interferes with the taking of 
a scene. And it is really very hard for a 
"rattled" and nervous player to forget the 
surroundings and play a part as he should. 
When large crowds collect rehearsals are 
passed up and the scene made in a sort of 
hit or miss fashion. 

In the studio we generally have two re- 
hearsals of a scene before it is finally re- 
corded by the camera. The first is called a 
rehearsal for "mechanics." That is, we just 
go through the pantomime which the direc- 
tor tells us is necessary for that particular 
situation. Next, we go through it with "feel- 
ing," as the saying is. Then we are ready 
for the camera. It often happens that a 
player is called upon to rehearse comedy, 
drama and tragedy, one after the other. 
Once Mr. Griffith directed me in a scene 
for a comedy — "The Road to the Heart," I 



think it was called — in the morning, in sev- 
eral scenes of a problem melodrama called 
"What Drink Did," immediately after lunch- 
eon, and we completed the day's work by re- 
taking a scene for a near-tragedy — "The 
Romance of a Jewess." This is one of the 
most trying experiences that happens to the 
moving picture player who conscientiously 
tries to feel his part. 

This matter of "feeling the part" injects 
into the picture just the element needed to 
make it a convincing and true life portrayal. 
I once heard an actor chide a little girl 
who was with me at the Biograph studio 
because she became "worked-up" over her 
part and cried as if her heart would break. 
The situation demanded just that. I told the 
actor what I thought of him. And the 
"moral" of it is that the actor is still listed 
as an available "extra" and the little girl 
is one of the best known motion picture 
actresses in the country. 

Picture players have many difficulties to 
contend with — even more than their fellows 
of the legitimate stage. Upon one occasion 
which is but an instance of many, I saw 
a moving picture actress collapse purely as 
a result of the strain caused by a defective 
camera. She had gone through the emo- 
tional rehearsal of a strong situation to the 
satisfaction of the director, and the scene 
was then begun for the camera. While she 
was at the height of her dramatic situation 
the film in the camera "buckled" and the 
whole scene had to be done over. This hap- 
pened a second time, and even a third. It 
was more than high-strung human nature 
could stand. The result was a swoon not 
of the studio variety and the actress was 
unable to work for several days. 

When I first began acting before the pic- 
ture camera I did not realize the importance 
of the work I was doing. I was totally un- 
aware that the time would come when silent 
drama acting would be criticised and judged 
by the regular dramatic critics of the the- 
atre as severely as that of the regular 

I have seen many players lose their nerve 
in front of the camera — old-timers, at that, 
who think nothing of acting before a vast 
throng of people within a theatre. Others 
can't keep from looking into the camera 
while they are performing, which is "bad 
acting" in the movies, and something we are 
never supposed to do unless we have a 
situation that requires us to look directly at 

an audience. This is frequent in comedy, 
since there are many scenes which require 
the player to look straight at his audience 
and to go through facial contortions to bring 
the laugh. It is especially so in the lower 
forms of comedy such as slap-stick, and 
rough-and-tumble. As a general rule the 
best actors and actresses of the stage do 
not make the best moving picture players 
because of the fact that their stage success 
is due too largely to a magnetism exercised 
by means of the voice. Quite recently I 
saw one of the best known actors in the 
United States in a five reel motion picture 
play, and though the audience "stood for it" 
I am confident that there were many who 
would vastly have preferred to see their 
movie matinee idol portraying the role. The 
actor I speak of would strike a pose in 
nearly every other scene which seemed to 
ask, "Now am I not the handsome lover?" 
or "Don't you think I'm some hero." To 
me, the picture was disgusting in spite of 
the fact that the play was a picturization of 
one of the best novels I have ever read. 

I had been with the Biograph Company 
but a short time when plans were begun 
for the formation of the Motion Picture 
Patents Company. Up to this time the 
method of distributing the positive prints of 
the picture plays being manufactured was 
very poor. Also, certain manufacturers had 
sprung up almost overnight whose business 
methods were questionable. It was neces- 
sary to place the motion picture industry on 
a better footing and one which would pre- 
serve it as well as protect those manu- 
facturers who had paved the way. Negotia- 
tions were begun by the interests controlling 
the Edison studio. At this time the Es- 
sanay, Selig, Kalem, Lubin, Biograph, Vita- 
graph, Pathe, Edison and Melies films were 
the best to be had. Some of these brands 
of films were being marketed under licenses 
issued by the holders of the Edison camera 
patents. The other big factor was the 
licensees of the holders of the patents on the 
Bioscope, or in other words, the Biograph 
Company. Of course all of the individual 
manufacturers possessed certain patents, but 
decisive law-suits might have proven these 
to be infringements on either the Edison or 
the Bioscope patents. Under the name of 
the Motion Picture Patents Company the 
nine different manufacturers pooled their 
patent rights and formed the General Film 
Company for- the owning of film exchanges 



throughout the country. With the excep 
tion of Pathe, this arrangement still stands, 
and no one questions the statement that the 
General Film Company is the most thorough 
and efficient agency of its kind in the world, 
and in spite of the fact that there are numer- 
ous other large agencies, namely, the Uni- 
versal, the Mutual, the Paramount, the Eclec- 
tic and the World. 

The formation of the Patents Company 
with the Biograph Company as one of the 
chief producers gave added impetus to our 
work, for the studio output was increased. 
Prior to that time there had been talk of 
long legal battles, seizure of cameras, and 
the like, and no one would have been sur- 
prised had the studio been suddenly closed 
and notices posted. But the motion picture 
industry began to get its second wind. 
Many of the mushroom concerns which had 
not been included in the Patents Company 
were forced out of business. The elimina- 
tion of their product made way for more 
and better pictures. Mr. Griffith was now 
permitted to spend from $500 to $600 on a 
single-reel picture, although he had been 
getting along with allowances of $300 and 
$400 previously. Better studio sets, better 
costumes, and better studio conditions were 
now possible. The feeling of more freedom 
had as much to do with the result as did the 
actual change. 

Followers of the photoplay will recall 
"The Voice of the Violin," "The Lure of the 
Gown," Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven," 
"The Song of the Shirt," "The Resurrec- 
tion," "The Test of Friendship," "The Slave," 
"Lady Helen's Escapade," "The Way of a 
Man," "The Fascinating Mrs. Frances," 
"The Reckoning," "The Note in the Shoe," 
"The Deception," and the "Jonesy" com- 
edies as some of the memorable early Bio- 
graph productions. Not only are they 
memorable because of acting and settings, 
but because of the story itself and the 

Mr. Griffith was most fortunate in securing 
scenarios suited to the players he had. Mr. 
Lee Dougherty, Mr. Roy McCardell, Mr. 
Stanner, E. V. Taylor and Mr. Griffith him- 
self composed the scenario staff, although 
their other duties were manifold. Mr. Mc- 
Cardell was not an employee of the company, 
however. When the Biograph began to 
progress there was never a time when I felt 
that the many parts for which I was cast 
were not suited to me. 

Biograpli photography has always been a 
marvel. Arthur Marvin, who had much to 
do with the perfection of the camera used 
at the Biograph studio was Mr. Griffith's 
camera man, and he came as near to getting 
one hundred per cent results as any camera 
man I have ever known. " Mr. Marvin was 
interested in the Biograph Company, as was 
the Mr. Kennedy to whom I have already 
referred. Both men were indefatigable 
workers with a penchant for details. Mr. 
Marvin has been dead for several years. 
Mr. Kennedy is still the active head of the 
Biograph Company. 

I came on the studio stage one day to find 
Mr. Griffith and Mr. Solter hustling around, 
brooms in hand, sweeping, cleaning and 
straightening up things generally. It looked 
as though preparations were being made to 
take a wind-storm scene on the Sahara 
Desert. When I made inquiry as to the rea- 
son for this sudden determination to beau- 
tify the studio both Mr. Griffith and Mr. 
Solter said, "Sh — sh — sh," and placed their 
fingers on their lips. Then they whispered. 
"Mr. Kennedy is coming to examine the 
studio." So I too, piled iu and helped them, 
plying the duster and mop with telling re- 
sults. We were so busy that we did not hear 
the door open, but suddenly, out of breath 
from our exertions, we ceased work simul- 
taneously, turned, and there stood Mr. Ken- 
nedy, a broad smile on his face, enjoying the 
scene as much as though he were watching a 
"Jonesy" comedy. At that moment one 
would not have thought him the President 
of the Motion Picture Patents Company — 
the man who has done more to put the mo- 
tion picture business on a sound commercial 
basis than any one else. 

"My children are very industrious today," 
was his sole remark. 

When I joined the Biograph Company the 
players then engaged for regular work were 
George Gebhardt, Charles Ainsley, Ashley 
Miller, David Miles, Anita Hendrie, Harry 
Solter, John Cump&on and Flora Finch. Two 
or three weeks later Mack Sennett, Arthur 
Johnson, Herbert Prior, Linda Arvidson and 
Marion Leonard were added to the company. 
Arthur Johnson had been playing extra 
parts for Mr. Griffith before I joined the 
company. Miss Leonard had been a mem- 
ber of the company prior to my advent 
among them, but had left to go on the road 
with a theatrical company. I had always 
admired Miss Leonard for her remarkable 



beauty, and when she renewed her connec- 
tions with "the Biographers" as we came to 
call ourselves, we became close friends. 

Of these pioneers, only John Cumpson has 
passed over the great divide. It was Mr. 
Cumpson who helped to make the "Jonesy" 
pictures so popular, for he was "Jonesy." 
When we undertook the first picture there 
was no intention of making a series of 
comedy productions, but when the exchanges 
began asking for more and more "Jonesy" 
pictures, we kept it up until I left the Bio- 
graph Company. Mr Cumpson was the most 
serious comedian I have ever known. 
Nothing was ever funny to him, and he never 
tried to be funny. When all the rest of the 
company would laugh at something he had 
said or done he would become indignant, 
thinking we were making fun of him. What 
turned out to be the first of the "Jonesy" 
pictures was called "A Smoked Husband," 
a play in which groundless jealousy gets its 
just deserts. Instead of being called "Jones," 
Mr. Cumpson as the jealous husband, was 
called "Benjamin Bibbs," and how the pub- 
lic ever came to calling him "Jonesy" is 
more than I know. I played the part of 
Mrs. Benjamin Bibbs. Here, let me quote 
a line or so from the bulletin synopsis issued 
at that time by the publicity department. 

"While our friend Benj. Bibbs was not 
exactly parsimonious, still there were occa- 
sions when he kicked most vigorously 
against his wife's extravagance. Such an 
occasion opens our picture. Miladi Bibbs 
has just sent home a hat and gown, for 
which poor Bibbsy has to give up, but when 
he sees her attired in the duds, he softens, 
for she certainly looks stunning. All is 
well until she turns around — when. Oh! 
Horrors! — it is a sheath gown of most pro- 
nounced type. One flash is enough. 'You 
brazen hussy, to appear thus! You— You — !' 
He could say no more, for he fairly choked 
with rage." 

And so the story goes, "Bibbsy" spying 
upon me. When the maid's sweetheart 
calls, my husband believes he is my lover, 
and "Bibbsy" hides in the chimney to watch 
and wreak vengeance. Just at this point in 
the production of the picture Mr. Griffith 
gave orders to light a fire in the open grate 
so as to get in an added comedy situation. 
An old grate was being used, and one which 
would not permit Mr. Cumpson's crawling 
out at the back, as are most "property" 
grates. The fire not only gave Mr. Cumpson 

a warning but smoked him pretty well. It 
was very hard, afterward to make him be- 
lieve it was a part of the picture and not a 
trick that had been played upon him. He 
was the most ludicrous sight, and his in- 
tense indignation made him all the funnier. 

The "Jonesy" comedies kept up with the 
fashions of the times, as was evidenced by 
the "sheath" gown in "A Smoked Husband." 
One of the most enjoyable as well as laugh- 
able of this series was "A Peach Basket 
Hat," in which I wore one of those inverted 
baskets which every other woman in the 
United States wore for a season or so. Then 
there was the pantaloon skirt which also 
came in for an inning in these comedies. 
We were quick to seize upon any new style 
and make it the basis for a comedy. Of 
course all the time-honored differences be- 
tween husband and wife were picturized, as 
in "Her First Biscuits." 

Mr. Cumpson left the Biograph Company 
to appear in Edison pictures at about the 
same time I became identified with "Imp" 
pictures. There he was known as "Bump- 
tious," but the series of comedies put out 
under that name failed to interest as had 
the "Jonesy" pictures. 

Arthur Johnson and I played opposite 
each other in a great many Biograph pic- 
tures, the first of which I think was "The 
Planter's Wife." Others were "Confidence," 
"The Test of Friendship," "A Salvation 
Army Lass," "The Resurrection," and "The 
Way of a Man." Mr. Johnson was such a 
delightful artist that it was always a pleas- 
ure to be cast to play opposite him. He is 
even funnier off the stage than on. When 
he gets one of those sanctimonious parts, 
which he just delights in, he keeps the whole 
company in a roar. He likes to josh the 
other players and he sometimes says the 
funniest things. 

I enjoyed playing opposite him in "The 
Resurrection" more than any other part 
during my Biograph days, unless it was in 
"The Way of a Man," and about which I 
shall tell you later on in this article. But 
in "The Resurrection," Mr. Johnson seemed 
so earnest and looked so handsome, and 
I so poor and ragged — I was playing the 
part of a housemaid in his gorgeous palace 
— that the play appealed to me greatly. Ac- 
cording to the story, he makes love to me, 
surreptitiously. When we are found out, 
and I, the maid, must pay the penalty "the 
woman always pays" Mr. Johnson seemed 



the most broken-hearted man in the world. 
Afterwards, as the story continues, we meet 
again in Siberia, and his penitence seemed 
so real and earnest as he repeated the words 
of the Father, "I am the resurrection and 
the life; he that believeth in me, though 
lie were dead, yet shall he live; and whoso- 
ever liveth and believeth in me shall never 
die," that our souls seemed to rise above 
our earthly thoughts and surroundings. 

During those early days of motography's 
struggle for existence there was no greater 
student of the art to be found than was 
Mack Sennett, now the famous star of Key- 
stone comedies. He was known around the 
Biograph studio as "the villain in the play." 
Excepting the western dramas, Mr. Sennett 
played the role of the villain in nearly every 
picture in which I appeared. There were 
one or two exceptions. In "A Salvation 
Army Lass," he was the leader of the Sal- 
vation Army band; a guard in "The Slave," 
in which some one else played the villain. 
He was always the bartender, in a saloon 
scene, too. It seems strange that he never 
worked in comedy. 

Mr. Sennett and Mr. Solter were always 
planning and arguing with Mr. Griffith. Mr. 
Sennett wanted to do certain things his way 
— Mr. Solter had an entirely different view 
of the matter, and Mr. Griffith, being the 
director and boss, insisted on having his 
way. They say that the proof of the pudding 
is in the eating, and when Mr. Sennett was 
given his way some few years back, his 
famous Keystone comedies leave little if any 
cause for complaint. 

About four months before I left the Bio- 
graph studio an elfin like little girl, hardly 
more than a child, with beautiful golden 
hair, came into our midst. Mary Pickford 
was her name. From the first, Mary won 
our hearts with her charming ways. She 
possesses a pout and a frown all her own, 
which are irresistible. I am unable to recall 
all of the pictures in which we worked to- 
gether, but my scrap book reveals a scene 
from "The Way of a Man," in which the 
three chief characters were portrayed by 
"Little Mary," Arthur Johnson and myself. 
In this, according to the story, I am blind, 
and my lover falls in love with my sister, 
"Little Mary," and I discover this fact when 
my sight is restored and relinquish my claim 
upon the man to make my sister happy. 

"Little Mary," Gertrude Robinson — she 
had joined us about the. same time as did 

"Little Mary" — and myself were all jealous 
over our height. Mary did not like being 
called little and Gertrude claimed to be tall- 
er than Mary and me. In spite of our argu- 
ments not a one of us would ever stand the 
test of measurement. But the truth will 
out. One day Mary wore a dress that I had 
worn on a previous occasion, and I noticed 
that it touched the floor as she walked, while 
it certainly did not on me, so after starting 
a happy little argument I remarked on this 
fact and they all agreed that I was the 

"Well, I knew it all the time," said Mary 
with a frown and a pout, then smiled, and 
forgot the matter. Even to this day, and 
now that all three of us have really grown 
up, whenever I meet Mary we always start 
that same old argument. 

I am glad of Mary's success, and hope 
that she will always remain just as un- 
spoiled, as little and sweet and dear as she 
really is today. 

A very short time before I departed from 
'the Biograph studio a young man, Owen 
Moore, by name, worked in one or two pic- 
tures, the titles of which I forget. He 
couldn't help but see Mary, and, being so 
handsome, he was the target for Mary's 
eyes. The Goddess of love soon claimed 
their hearts, and they were married, though 
that was some time after my Biograph days. 

And the name of Owen Moore suggests the 
name of his brother — Matt Moore, who has 
been my leading man during the past year 
'in Victor pictures. Both Owen and Matt 
Moore are excellent picture players, and 
when I founded the Victor Company I en- 
gaged both of them. And I might mention 
here that Tom Moore, the Kalem star, is a 
brother to Matt and Owen. Like his brother 
Owen, he married a motion picture celebrity, 
and Alice Joyce now signs her name Mrs. 
Thomas Moore. 

Billy Quirk, "the boy comic," as he signs 
himself, worked in one picture with me, 
"The Cardinal's Conspiracy." The palatial 
home of Commodore Benedict, the million- 
aire, was used as a stage setting for this 
production and in my scrap book T have 
written as follows: 

"The most beautiful place I have ever 
seen. I wish I owned it. I think Billy 
Quirk intends growing a moustache like the 
one he is wearing." 

In the picture accompanying this install- 
ment showing a scene from "The Cardinal's 



Conspiracy" you can identify Mr. Quirk by 
finding the young man who wears a dainty 
moustache and stands on the porch, to the 

No one ever intended that Mr. Quirk 
should play in heavy drama. He is a com- 
edian, first, last and all the time. After I 
had left the Biograph studio Mr. Griffith 
directed him in the famous "Muggsey" com- 
edies with "Little Mary" playing opposite 
him, and these attained even greater pop- 
ularity than the "Jonesy" pictures. Oh, yes, 
I am always willing to acknowledge the 
truth. In Vitagraph's "The Girl From Pros- 
perity," Mr. Quirk was but an older 

What seemed to annoy us "Biographers" 
very much and hold us back from achieving 
greater artistic success was the speed and 
rapidity with which we had to work before 
the camera. Mr. Griffith always answered 
our complaint by stating that the exchanges 
and exhibitors who bought our pictures 
wanted action, and insisted that they get 
plenty of it for their money. 

"The exhibitors don't want illustrated 
song slides," Mr. Griffith once said to us. 

So we made our work quick and snappy, 
crowding as much story in a thousand foot 
picture as is now portrayed in five thousand 
feet of film. Several pictures which we pro- 
duced in three hundred feet have since been 
reproduced in one thousand feet. There was 
no chance for slow or "stage" acting. The 
moment we started to do a bit of acting in 
the proper tempo we would be startled by 
the cry of the director: 

"Faster! Faster! For God's sake hurry 
up! We must do the scene in forty feet." 

In real life it would have taken four min- 
utes to enact the same scene. The reason 
for this is explained as follows — the buyers 
of the films saw. their money being wasted 
if there was a quiet bit of business being 
portrayed. They didn't want, as Mr. Griffith 
had said, "illustrated song slides," when 

they had to pay so much money for the il- 
lustrated celluloid. 

About this time the Pathe Company im- 
ported several one reel length pictures which 
they called features since the leading actors 
and actresses of the prominent theatres of 
Paris appeared in them. These pictures 
were released under the Film D'Art brand 
and created quite a stir in motion picture 
circles and especially among all directors. 
In naturalness, they were far ahead of any- 
thing yet produced in this country, and 
largely for the reason that the important 
artists portraying the chief roles were per- 
mitted to do things as their training had 
taught them to do. These artists would 
never have consented to appear in motion 
pictures at all if they had had to follow 
the instructions of the ordinary directors. 
The purpose of the Film D'Art pictures was 
to record the work of the best artists of 
France by means of cinematography as a 
permanent tribute to that artist's ability. 
So naturally they were permitted to act be- 
fore the camera as they thought proper. 

Following the appearance of the Film 
D'Art pictures nearly all of the Biograph 
players asked Mr. Griffith to be allowed to 
do slow acting, only to be refused. He told 
us it was impossible since the buyers would 
positively not pay for a foot of film that did 
not have action in it. 

But before I severed my connection with 
the Biograph Company Mr. Griffith did com- 
mence the production of pictures employing 
"the close-up" and slow acting, working 
along the lines suggested by the French 
actors and actresses. And simultaneously, 
the American film manufacturers woke up 
to the fact that they were on the wrong 
track in producing pictures showing human 
beings doing things at about four times the 
speed of real life. 

This, then, is the story of my Biograph 
days, those days in which I was always 
known as "The Biograph Girl." 

'/ 'HE fourth installment of Miss Lawrence's own story, "Growing Up With the 
Movies," will appear in the February issue of Photoplay Magazine, ichich will be 
for sale on all news-stands January 10th. You will not want to miss this installment. In 
it Miss Lawrence tells hoio King Baggott broke into 'the movies, how she icas forced to go 
out to St. Louis to deny that she had been killed in an automobile accident, and above 
all, how she came to be known as "The Girl of a Thousand Faces." Then there are 
numerous little stories of studio life, anecdotes, and some very intimate pictures. You 
won't want to miss this. Order your February issue from your news dealer today. 

- At 

* ••"* . > 

The Christmas 

Proving that doing a good deed 
has its own reward 


m 1 1 B. 

| '•» 

By Vivian Barrington 

Illustrations from the Nestor Film 

PERHAPS the brakeman had forgotten 
that it was Christmas Eve. He might 
have remembered it earlier in the 
evening; it is likely, indeed, that he had 
been celebrating. He had been drinking, 
certainly, and if, at any time, it had been 
with the idea of marking the coming of 
peace and good will, that time had passed 
long before he came upon the old man who 
was shivering in a car that had housed 
cattle. The convivial stage of the brake- 
man's celebration had long since passed. 
He knew only that it was cold and that he 
hated his task. And, to vent his spite, he 
kicked the tramp out on the snow-covered 
tracks. The train was not going fast; the 
ground was deep in snow, and beside the 
track it had drifted. To those two things 
the old tramp owed his life — his escape from 
broken bones. 

Groaning, he lifted himself. The train 
had passed through a little town not long 
before; its lights were still in view, not 
more than a mile away. Toward those 
lights the old man began to make his plod- 
ding way. He had to find food and shelter; 
it was still snowing, and it would mean 
death to stay out in the storm all night. 
Even if he were arrested and locked up, it 
would be better than death, he thought. 
Such is the will to live, that keeps us 
plodding, despite discouragement, defeat, 


He came to the town at last. As he passed 
along, he looked at house after house. He 
was looking, searching, for some indication 
that he would not be rebuffed before he 
made his plea. There was no way to know; 
that much he did know, from bitter experi- 
ence. And yet he wanted to have the feel- 
ing, even if it was nothing more than in- 
stinct, that he might succeed, before he 
tried his luck. His luck! A bitter word 
for what life had done to him. 

It was the sound of children laughing 
that caught his ear at last. He looked in 
through a window that let him see a happy 
group about a great table. There were three 
children there. And there were older peo- 
ple, their parents. There were two fam- 
ilies, he guessed, united for the holiday. 
Two mothers, two fathers. They looked 
kind. He slipped around' to the back door 
and knocked timidly. And then a little 
louder, since there was no answer. 

Then one of the young men came, and 
held open the door. His eyes were bright 
and kind; he smiled, cheerfully, encourag- 
ingly, at the old tramp. 

"Well, sir?" he said. 

The derelict's lips quivered. It was not 
thus that most of those who opened kitchen 
doors to his feeble knock answered. 

"I'm pretty hungry, young gentleman," he 
said. "I've had nothing to eat since yes- 
terday — " 



"Here— hold on! That's enough. You'll 
have something as quick as I can get it for 
you!" cried the young man. 

He was back in a moment, holding out a 
plate that was full to overflowing. The old 
tramp tried not to be too eager, too wolfish, 
as he devoured what that plate held. As he 
watched the young man's eyes grew dim. 
Then, suddenly, he smiled ; he gave the smile 
full play and laughed aloud. 

"By George! The very thing!" he said. 
"Pop — you don't mind if I call you pop, do 
you? It seems to suit you. Pop — will you 
do something for me? You're not going on 
to-night, you know. You're going to stay 
here with us, and have a breakfast on top 
of this, and some Christmas dinner, too, to- 
morrow, if you will. But will you do some- 
thing for me?" 

The derelict straightened up. It was so 
long since it had been suggested to him even 
that he could do anything for anyone! 

"I will — and gladly," he said. "But — 
what can I do?" 

His voice fell pathetically on the question. 

"You can play Santa Claus for the kids!" 
said the young man, with a great laugh. 
"I was going to do it — but they'd know me 
in a jiffy! You — -why, you're just the man. 

He Was Back in a Moment, Holding Out a Plate 
That Was Full to Overflowing 

We've got the rig all ready. By George, 
you'll be the finest Santa that ever was! 
Will you do it, really? You won't mind?" 

"Mind?" said the derelict, brokenly. 
"Mind! Young man, you don't know — " 

He broke down utterly at that. But so 
bright, so cheery, was the young man, so 
full of enthusiasm for his plan, that the old 
tramp's self-possession soon came back, and 
he entered into the spirit of the play. 

"Anna! Mary! Harry!" cried the young 

They came, answering his call, his wife, 
and his sister, Mary, and her husband, 
Harry. It was so that the derelict knew 
them; last names were not mentioned. 

"What's up, John?" said Harry, coming 
in, pipe in mouth, a laughing girl on each 
side of him. 

"Yes — whatever are you up to now, Jack?" 
asked Mary. "Anna — you haven't kept him 
in order at all! He's the same wild boy he 
always was!" 

"He suits me!" said Anna, loyally, and 
there was a roar of laughter. 

"Here's our Santa Claus!" said John. He 

pointed to the derelict. "He's willing. 

Rustle up some clothes in the attic, can't 

you, girls?" He lowered his voice. "He's 

an old corker, despite his looks! 

Got the manners of a prime minister, 

for all his rags. Poor old chap! I 

think it'll make him happy — and 

we'll fool the kiddies for once. 

They're getting so wise that that's 

worth doing!" 

One and all they caught the in- 
fection of John's enthusiasm. The 
girls went to the attic to find clothes 
that would replace the rags in which 
the derelict had come; John and 
Harry explained what he was to do. 
They pointed out the children, nam- 
ing them — two of John's, one of Har- 
ry's — so that he could tell them apart. 
"We'll send them to bed, see?" said 
John. "Then we'll let them come 
down, in their nighties, on the stroke 
of midnight — just as soon as it's 
Christmas. You'll give them the 
presents, Pop." 

"I know how!" said the derelict. 

"I did it once, years ago, at a Sunday 

school treat! Oh, I can play Santa 

Claus all right!" 

He added touches of realism. 

"Make them turn their backs!" he 



said. "Then I'll 
seem to come 
out of the chim- 

And they 
managed it just 
as he said. 

"Now, then, 
children — 
here's Santa 
C 1 a u s ! " he 

They turned 
then, and he 
filled their eager 
hands with the 
toys and stock- 
ings from the 
tree. And when 
it was time for 
them to go back 
to bed they 
trooped over to 
kiss him and be 
kissed. They 
loved him, and 
by that time the 
gentle, kindly 
spirit of him 
had completely 
conquered their 
elders, too. John 
pered conference. 

"I'm dead against tramps as a rule, John," 
said Harry. "But, by Jove — this old chap 
is different. He's really had hard luck, I 
bet. Wish we could do something for him." 

"You bet!" said John. "Let's try to draw 
him out, eh, Harry? Perhaps we'll hit on 
some way of helping him? It's all right to 
give him a merry Christmas, but I hate to 
think of his having to go up against the 
world again the way he was when he came 

"You're a dear!" said Harry's wife to 
him — and John's wife to him, too! That 
was when they heard of the new idea. 

"Pop, we're organizing a committee to fix 
you up," said John. "Suppose you spin us 
your yarn? There's something mighty wrong 
when a fine old gentleman like you is in 
the fix you were in to-night. Suppose you 
let us see if there isn't some way we can 

"I didn't think there were any more such 
folks as you alive," said the old man 
brokenly. "But you're right. I've had a 

It Was Just a Bit of an Island, 

and Harry held a whis- 

hard time. Are 
you sure you 
want to hear 
about it?" 

"Certain sure," 
said John. "Fire 
away, Pop!" 

They gathered 
around him be- 
fore the blazing 

"I used to be 
a sailor — a sea- 
faring man," he 
began. "I was 
cap'n of as fine 
a clipper ship as 
you ever saw, 
and I owned an 
eighth of her, 
too. The steam 
w a s beginning 
to hurt the 
trade, but it was 
still good." 

"What w a s 
the name of the 
ship?" asked 
Harry, with a 
glance at John. 
"Her name?" 
The derelict passed his hand before his fore- 
head. "Her name? Let me see — I'll think 
of it in a moment." His voice grew apolo- 
getic. "Sometimes I can't remember names 
and such things. Why, do you know — some- 
times I forget my own name? It's so long 
since anyone called me by it. . . ." 

"Never mind that — what do names amount 
to, anyhow, Pop?" said John, hastily. 

"Well — it's curious. I'll remember by and 
by. It was on a voyage from China. We 
were loaded with tea mostly, though there 
were all sorts of rich goods in the hold. 
And in the Indian Ocean we struck a reef. 
We'd been blown far off our course by a 
typhoon. It was still blowing when we 
struck. And I — I guess I was the only man 
that lived to get ashore. It was just a 
little bit of an island I got to, sheltered by 
that reef that wrecked us. ... I was there 
ten years. Do you know what that means? 
It was then I began to forget things, like 
my name, you know. 

"But it was a good island. I had plenty 
to eat, and it wasn't ever cold. I kept my 
shirt flying as a flag, all those years. And 

I Was There Ten Years 



at last a ship that was passing saw it. I 
saw her heading in — and then a boat, com- 
ing for me! I was saved. They brought me 

"They landed me in New Orleans. And 
then I began looking for my wife and my 
children. But I couldn't always remember 
their names. They had the same name as 
mine, but I couldn't think of it just when 
I wanted to ask if people had seen them, or 
could tell me where they were. It was like 
that when I found the town where we used 
to live. It was a town like this one. I 
found the house. But I couldn't remember 
my name, and I couldn't ask folks what had 
become of them! And so I had to keep on 
looking. They put me in jail in that town, 
and they said I was mad — just because I 
couldn't remember. 

"Isn't that strange? I could remember so 
many things! But names — they went from 
me, clean!" 

He stopped. No one asked a question. 
Perhaps none of those who were listening 
could trust their voices just then. Perhaps 
the tears were a little too near for speech. 

"And so I kept 
on looking," he 
went on. "And 
sometimes I'd re- 
member the 
names. But that 
was always when 
I was far away 
from that town 
where I used to 
live. And the 
people that I'd 
ask when I re- 
membered the 
names had never 
heard of them. 
And they laughed 
at me, and said 
I was mad, too. 
But I knew they 
didn't under- 
stand. How 
could they? Poor 
people! They 
didn't mean to 
be hard on me. 

' ' I couldn't 
work, you see. 
I'd never learned 
to work on shore. 
And I couldn't 

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The Day Before My Last 
A Boat for 

get work on shipboard, because I forgot so 
many things. If I could have told them who 
I was they'd have given me a berth, certain 
sure, because I was a famous captain be- 
fore we ran into that typhoon. I knew 
every bit of all the oceans. I'd sailed all 
around the world. I'd been around the Horn 
more times than you've got fingers on your 
two hands. And the Cape of Good Hope. 
I'd seen all the far places of this world. I 
knew where the best tea came from, and 
the spices. I could get cargoes when no 
other skipper knew where to look for them. 
I could smell wind, and I never was be- 
calmed for days and days, like some cap'ns 
I used to know!" 

Again he paused. This time Harry broke 
the silence. 

"And so you never found your family, 
captain?" he said. 

"Captain!" The old man sprang up. In 
uncontrollable excitement he paced the 
room. And his stride was the rolling, wide- 
spread stride of the sea captain on his 
quarter deck. "How long it is since anyone 
called me that!" His voice changed. It 

had been high, 
uncertain. Now, 
suddenly, it was 
a deep, rolling 
bass. "Aloft 
there! Take in 
that stun'sail! 
You lubbers — do 
you want me to 
come up there 
and show you 
how to do it?" 

The next mo- 
ment he was 
back in the room 
with them. He 
sank back into 
his chair with a 
sagging lip. 

"Was I shout- 
ing just now?" 
he asked, in the 
high- pitched, 
trembling voice 
that was now his 
normal one. 
Once more he 
passed his hand 
over his eyes. "I 
get spells like 
that sometimes," 

Voyage I Finished Carving 
the Children 



he said, apologetically. "You mustn't mind 
me, folks. I wouldn't hurt anyone. There's 
no call to be afraid of me. I'm only a poor 
old man. Does anyone here know Mrs. — 
Mrs. — Mrs. — " 

His voice trailed off. He looked about him 
stupidly, helplessly. 

"I almost remembered then," he said, 

came back there was an old, battered boat, 
hand carved, in his hand. He slipped it into 
the old derelict's arms. 

"Where did you get that?" said the old 
man, suddenly. His voice had changed 
again; it was that of a commander of men. 

"That's the boat I made for my boy John 
the day before I sailed on the old Arethusa!" 


• : j , j . Jt£~fm- % 



.^^ * 

■ - "■'... 7 


And While They Sat in His Lap He Told Them the Story 

seeming to speak to himself, rather than 
to them. "And then I lost it again. Cap- 
tain — Captain Harper? No — he commanded 
the old Endymion when I was second mate." 

"I can't remember!" he broke out trag- 
ically. "There's so much I can remember — 
and it doesn't help. Why, the very day 
before I sailed on that last voyage, I fin- 
ished a boat I'd been carving out of a piece 
of teak for the children. They thought it 
was the finest boat that ever was! I was 
showing them how to sail her. And they 
took her to the river, and sailed her, that 
very day." 

They were all staring, first at him, and 
then at one another, now. Very quietly, awe 
in his eyes, Harry slipped away. When he 

"The Arethusa!" said John, chokingly. 

"The Arethusa — Captain Harry Ward!" 
roared the derelict. "That's the name I 
couldn't remember!" 

"Ward!"- cried John. His voice broke. 
"Mary! Mary!" He turned to the old man. 

"My name's Ward!" he said. "So was 
Mary's — before she was married to Harry 
Massey here! Our father was captain of the 
clipper ship Arethusa! She was lost at sea 
twenty years ago! She sailed from Hong 
Kong and was never heard of again!" 

"Roll up your sleeve, John Ward!" said 
the derelict, in a great voice. 

"Oh, it's there — it's there!" cried Anna 
Ward. "Do you mean the birthmark on his 
left arm — just above the elbow?" 



Memory, once released, came back in an 
overwhelming rush. In a moment there was 
no more doubt. Captain Ward held son and 
daughter in his arms again. And then he 
held off the son who could have mastered 
him in a minute's wrestling. 

"Don't you dare call me pop!" he said. 
"I told you I'd lick you if you ever did that 
again ! " 

"So you did — the day you sailed — father!" 
said John. 

"But — I reckon you're too big to lick!" 

"Don't you believe it, father!" cried John, 
hugging him. "But you wouldn't lick me 
on Christmas day, would you?" 

Anna had vanished. But now she came 
back into the room, bringing the three chil- 

"Kiddies!" she said, her voice breaking, 
"this is your grandfather!" 

"But — he's drowned," said Harry Ward, 
the grandson, his big eyes staring. "Mum- 
sy's always told us so!" 

"He isn't — he's come to life!" roared John. 
"Oh, isn't that the finest Christmas present 
you ever dreamed of?" 

They rushed for him then, all three of 
them. And while they sat in his lap he 
told them the story — but this time with no 
missing words. 



A man's defense of moving pictures against the legitimate stage. 

TN the present generation 
A Movies are the rage, 

The cops make chase, and bump into 

A bundle-laden man, 

And the moving picture journals 

An English lord, a beggar blind — 

Claim they'll knock the stage. 

They knock down all they can. 

For one night you see a picture 

They all get up, and start to run, 

Of lovers, false and true, 

And catch the boy well-nigh; 

And then mayhap you see a drama 

But he jumps in the bushes there, 

Of the Russian Jew. 

And watches them go by. 

Yes, the movies have some others, 

For photo-dramas, you can see 

Ones called "Current Events," 

Some stories, new and old; 

Where you see some baseball men 

Our hero bids farewell, and goes 

Lined up along a fence. 

To Klondyke for some gold. 

Or perchance you see some swell 

A smart young doctor saves a girl, 

With his thousand dollar pup; 

And takes her for his wife; 

And then up in a grandstand box 

And then a silent stealthy sleuth 

Some mayor holds up a cup. 

For art risks his own life. 

For farces, movies have enough 

And then you say: "The plays are punk, 

To satisfy — or more; 

The farces lack in mirth!" 

A boy knocks down, as off he runs, 

But still you watch the show thrive through, 

Cops, one, two, three, and four. 

To get your money's worth! 

Stars and Santas 

How the Men and Women of the Motion 

Picture World Will Spend Their 

Christmas This Year 

TO THE "profession," the players of the 
regular drama from Broadway to 
Skagway, Christmas Day is the time 
for remembrance that they are of a world 
apart. To the players of the motion picture 
world whose likenesses are entertaining 
more thousands of theatregoers than ever 
packed into performances of the older drama 
Christmas Day is a time for rejoicing that 
they may live like home folk. Those who 
have known both ways of life most appre- 
ciate the advantage of working for the film 
drama when Yuletide emphasizes their free- 
dom from the matinee and evening perform- 
ances, usually in strange cities, that took 
them away from any possibility of real cele- 
bration of the great holiday of the year. 
Throughout the anticipation of delight that 
the stars of the movies have expressed for 
Photoplay Magazine runs the strain of 
added pleasure in contrasting their good for- 
tune with the drawback of the usual the- 
atrical Christmas. 

Perhaps this is most vividly expressed by 
Miriam Nesbitt, the famous player of the 
Edison Company, whose pictures have shown 
her a Mrs. Fiske of the films in the fine 
finish and artistic thoughtfulness of her 
work. Miss Nesbitt, now at the New York 
studios of the Edison company, has had 
plenty of road experience in Christmas 
dinners and Christmas matinees. 

"My Christmases, ever since 1898, she says, 
"have been spent as most theatrical people 
pass them, with a late breakfast, a matinee, 
a hotel Christmas dinner afterward with 
some congenial friends of the company, an 
evening performance, a bite to eat, and then 
to bed. 

"For most people on the road Christmas 
is not a very happy time. The more phil- 
osophical assume a Christmas spirit and en- 

deavor to keep from being wet blankets, but 
tears are often near the surface and thoughts 
will travel to those who are missing the 
absent one. So the day passes, and the twen- 
ty-sixth day of December comes as a relief. 

"Since I have been in moving pictures I 
have had five happy Christmas days with 
my family. I have a tree for the little ones 
(and I am one of them). I help trim the 
tree and on the night of the 24th I have 
a sort of ceremony for the giving of presents, 
one of us acting as spokesman and reading 
the humorous messages that go with each 

"Then Christmas morning and the tree; 
Christmas dinner at two, and dancing to a 
pianola in the afternoon ; the pleasure of the 
company of a few invited, homeless friends; 
a brisk walk about dusk; a light supper 
about eight; then a tired, happy, cheerful 
little family retire. 

"This Christmas will be spent in my 
brother's house in the country, a new little 
house, a clean and pretty little house, a 
half mile from any transportation. There 
I shall have my fifth home Christmas." 

Mabel Trunelle, also of the Edison Com- 
pany, grows equally enthusiastic over the 
prospect of a home Christmas. She too has 
the memory of road Christmases to point the 
joys of staying at home on the home holiday 
of the year. 

"Now that I am in the movies," runs her 
testimony, "Christmas is the day of all days 
that I love the best. I love the preparation 
for Christmas, the undoing of packages and 
all the mystery that goes with it. I never 
go to the theatre on Christmas Day, for to 
me Christmas is a day to be spent at home 
and with one's own family. I always go to 
church on Christmas morning, then have my 
Christmas dinner at home. 



"When I was on the stage Christmas was 
one of the bluest days of the year. It meant 
extra matinees, no Christmas dinner such 
as other folks outside our life were having, 
none of the family with you. All the con- 
solation I had was to read my mother's let- 
ter about a week later and learn how all the 
family were at home that day, that the 
presents I had sent were lovely, and that 
they hoped I had had a pleasant Christmas. 
Now, thanks to the movies, I can have Christ- 
mas in my own home, and I am glad that 
it is so near." 

Sidney Bracy, who plays the inscrutable 
Jones, the butler, in "The Million Dollar 
Mystery," has acquired a little of the mys- 
teriousness of his role for use when he tells 
about his Christmas plans, but the people 
who know him say that part of his holiday 
scheme is always the making of Christmas 
happier to some one in need. Around the 
Thanhouser studio in New Rochelle float 
tales of Bracy's Christmas kindnesses, of 
fat turkeys and all their accessories sent 
to people who would be otherwise forgotten, 
but all that the prototype of Jones will say 
is the quotation from Maurice Maeterlinck: 

"Let us not forget that an act of goodness 
is of itself an act of happiness. No reward 
coming after the event can compare with 
the sweet reward that went with it." 

Maurice Costello out at the Platbush 
studio of the Vitagraph Company, is wait- 
ing for Christmas with a purely domestic 
ideal that is no surprise to any one who 
knows him. "The way I like to spend 
Christmas, the way I always do spend 
Christmas, the way I am going to spend 
Christmas," he declares, "is right here at 
home watching Dolores and Helen enjoy it." 
And the enjoyment of the two small Costello 
children is something well worth watching! 

Lottie Briscoe, away down east this year, 
is looking forward to Christmas with many 
anticipations of pleasure. "T don't know 
that I can truthfully be said to spend Christ- 
mas," she announces, "for by Christmas 
morning it is I who am 'spent,' and not 
Christmas. Though I have no near rela- 
tives but one sister, yet my semi-relatives, 
and the relatives of my semi-relatives, and 
my own dear friends seem to be legion. 

"My preparations for Christmas begin 
about the first of October when I make a 
list of the people to whom I shall send 
presents. The list is long. I don't know 
whether it is because I was born in St. 

Louis and insensibly inherited or acquired 
the French spirit about gifts at holiday 
times that my list sometimes staggers even 
myself. This year I am sending one hun- 
dred and ninety-four different presents to 
different persons, and it is not the cost but 
the difficulty of selecting the right one for 
the right person that makes the anxiety 
about the days before Christmas. 

"If one could just buy the present and 
order it sent directly to the recipient the 
work would seem little for the pleasure in 
the giving; but there are the woes of shop- 
ping, the time spent in going from shop to 
shop, the packing, the battles with express 
companies, the sending of each at its proper 
time so that it will get to its destination 
on Christmas Day. Movie actresses don't 
get much of a Christmas holiday, and so 
every Christmas Eve as I send the last par- 
cels for delivery in Philadelphia on Christ- 
mas morning I breathe one long sigh of 

"But then comes Christmas Day with its 
pleasures as compensation for all the work 
before. There are the letters and cards 
from my movie friends. There is the un- 
packing of my presents, the curiosity and 
excitement wondering what each contains. 
There are the rooms covered with wrapping 
paper, inches deep in excelsior and tissue 
paper. There are the gifts that speak of 
remembrance, love, and affection. Then 
come the friendly Christmas visits, then out 
to dinner somewhere and then, like Samuel 
Pepys, "home and to bed," with a prayer 
that all may have had as happy a Christmas 
Day as have I." 

Herbert Prior, who spends most of his 
winters in Florida or California, goes motor- 
ing on Christmas Day, coming back to an 
old-fashioned Christmas dinner "with the 
joy," he says, "that I belong to the movies 
and that I do not have to hurry away to a 
performance. Christmas Day used to mean 
to me the hardest day's work in the year. 
Now it's the best." 

Mae Hotely of the Lubin Company hopes 
she'll get another kangaroo this Christmas. 
One came to her from an unknown admirer 
in Australia last year. It was a baby kan- 
garoo that came in a crate to the Philadel- 
phia studio and that was not explained until 
a letter in the following mail stated that 
the man off in the antipodes had been so 
beguiled by Mae's strenuous efforts to speed 
the hours right merrily that he wished 



to send some expression of his pleasure to 
the comedienne. He hopes it would please 
her. It did. Mae was so pleased she wants 

Clara Kimball Young of the World Film 
Corporation frankly declares that she likes 
Christmas best of all holidays in the year 
because it is the day when she gets presents. 
"I like to get presents," she acknowledges. 
"I am so anxious to know how my friends 
regard me that I never. overlook a Christmas. 
I have made a stocking of red cotton flannel 
to hold the presents. For five years I have 
hung up that stocking. And I shall do It 
again this Christmas." 

Frank Farrington, who plays Braine in 
the production of "The Million Dollar Mys- 
tery," is going to spend Christmas at home 
with his wife and two children, "not for- 
getting to marvel with the children for the 
good things that Santa Claus has brought 

Edwin August of the Eaco Films is going 
to play Good Fellow to a group of little 
crippled children this year. Last year he 
took out a crowd of them in his car, then 
gave them a real turkey dinner, and took 
them to a matinee. Eddie says that he had 
the time of his life that day and that he's 
going to repeat. 

Beverly Bayne of the Essanay always 
spends her Christmas Day at home. "I 
haven't outgrown the habit," she says, "of 
hanging my stocking on the fireplace on 
Christmas Eve. It's babyish, perhaps, but 
there's the fun of getting up by candle- 
light to find a real surprise gift. Then 
through the day I try to live just an old- 
fashioned Christmas." 

Francis X. Bushman of the Essanay comes 
from Virginia and has a love for a home 
Christmas. "I don't believe that any one in 
the world loves Christmas more than I do," 
he says. "I always spend Christmas with 
my mother. We have a happy reunion, my 
brothers, sisters, and myself. My brothers 
come from the four ends of the earth to 
spend the day at home with our mother. 
The house is always decorated with glow- 
ing holly berries and sprays of the mistletoe 
for which the south is famous. I am a 
regular boy about Christmas and insist on 
having a regular Christmas tree. We gen- 
erally gather around a big grate fire after we 
have distributed the gifts and watch the 
flames from the huge logs die down until 
just a bed of ashes remains. I think we all 

ought to get the true Christmas spirit, for 
it fills our hearts with love and makes each 
one of us younger in the fulfillment of our 
childish joys." 

Ruth Stonehouse of the Essanay is going 
to have this Christmas "the happiest of her 
life. It has begun already," she confesses, 
"and it is going to last a long time. For 
weeks I have been planning and making 
things for little children who might other- 
wise wake up to empty Christmas stockings. 
I hope it will be snowing on Christmas Eve, 
for I want to be a real Santa Claus as I go 
about. Christmas should mean giving to 
others as much as you can. I've started to 
do my best, and that's why I know this will 
be the happiest Christmas." 

Mary Fuller has her Christmas already 
planned. "I suppose that I shall work up 
to the last minute on Christmas Eve," she 
thinks, "but when I close the door of my 
dressing room I will leave all 'scene plots' 
behind me and prepare for a real holiday 
season of cheer, holly wreaths and mistletoe. 
It is my privilege. to be a guest at a week- 
end house party in the country where there 
will be a good old-fashioned Christmas, 
where there will be children, both big and 
little, hanging up their stockings, where 
there will be a Christmas tree, and presents 
and open fires, and roasting apples. There 
will be romping in plenty. And, if there is 
snow, there will be an old-fashioned sleigh 
ride over the hills. And I hope my Christ- 
mas will not be one of altogether selfish en- 
joyment, for Christmas isn't Christmas un- 
less you help to make other people happy." 

Eddie Lyons of the Christie Comedy Com- 
pany is going home to his own folks for 
Christmas. As this is the first time that 
he has been able to be with his mother at 
Christmas for many years Eddie is talking 
so much about it that Lee Moran. of the 
Christie, is growing jealous and declaring 
that the best fun he ever knew is strolling 
around to the Photoplayers' Club in Los 
Angeles on Christmas afternoon and hearing 
the other fellows tell how glad they are that 
they aren't playing matinees. 

And so it goes all over the country, Skag- 
way to Broadway, the Golden Gate to the 
Bronx. Home — if you have one, some one 
else's home if you haven't, but always a 
longing for a real, genuine, old-fashioned 
Christmas is the hope and the prayer of the 
men and women of the movies. Here's to 
them — may they have it! 

Dressing for 
the Movies 

Photo by 
Floyd, N. 1 

In This Azure Blue Velvet Frock with Its Bodice of Dawn Pink Chiffon and Its Garniture of Tiny Pink Rosebuds, 
Mary Fuller Has Insisted on the Extreme Simplicity that is the Height of Sophistication 

WOMEN and motion pictures are ex- 
actly as old as they look. And, as 
a woman's age may be detected or 
ameliorated by her raiment, so the age of 
a motion picture film may be discov- 
ered altogether by the style of the gar- 
ments in which the leading woman and 
her aids are garbed. There may be ex- 
ceptions, like costume plays that defy the 
finger of time, but the rule stands that the 
length of a film's life may be determined 
with certainty and surety by the rule of 
clothes. That's why clothes play so im- 
portant a part in the movffes. And so im- 
portant is that part that every motion picture 
actress in the profession thinks first of all 
of her clothes for any part, then of the art 
with which she is to portray the role. 

For art is long and time is fleeting and 
clothes take time to make. Therefore, when 
a movie actress is given a new part, she 
has to design her dressing of the role before 
she thinks of another angle of the work. 

She has to make a "dress plot," a sort of 
scenario for her own guidance, which sets 
down all the garments that she has to wear 
in the course of the photoplay. Some of 
these may be found in the stock rooms of 
the studio. More usually, the role calls for 
raiment that has to be made for the special 
needs of the photoplay. As a movie actress 
has to furnish her own costumes, except 
those used for special character work in 
costume plays, she has to either order or 
make her own. Some of the women in the 
work sew not, neither do they spin. Others 
are real Griseldas of the needle. Both of 
them have to plan the gowns in connection 
with the play. 

Because of this necessity there has arisen 
a phase of photoplay work that is of ex- 
treme interest to women. Just as the stage 
has always been one of the principal factors 
in style distribution throughout the world, 
the motion picture play has become an even 
more active agent in setting styles. The 




distribution of motion pictures in towns and 
villages outside the metropolitan range and 
the attendance at photoplays of women who 
seldom frequented the theater gives to the 
screen actress a wider audience of interested 
watchers than ever actress had in the reg- 
ular spoken drama. The elimination of 
voice from the picture dramas calls the 
greater attention to movement and raiment. 
The movie actress has to look well. She 
must be chic, elegant, dainty, daring, as 
suits her particular style; and she must 
always be up-to-date. 

Some of the women in the profession have 
become known as leaders of style, just as 
various actresses on the regular stage have 
won similar titles by reason of the time and 
taste they devoted to dress. Mary Fuller, 
when she isn't playing character parts, 
Pauline Bush, Barbara Tennant, Grace Cun- 
ard, Ethel Clayton, Clara Kimball Young, 
and Beverly Bayne are among those who 
wear charming clothes with distinction. All 
of them have definite theories of style. To 
all of them dressing for a part requires as 
much art as does the playing of it. 

Clara Kimball Young, who wears gorgeous 
gowns gracefully, has the most decided theo- 
ries upon the subject. She believes de- 
cidedly in the psychic effect of certain clothes 
for the expression of moods. She thinks 
that colors affect moods to such extent that 
even if these colors do not appear in the 
picture the effect is so noticeable that an 
actress must give as much thought to con- 
sideration of whether she will wear red or 
pink as she would if the tone were to be 
produced in the pictures. 

"Every woman knows," she paraphrased 
Barrie, "that certain colors bring out certain 
elements latent in herself. To some women 
red is like a fire, bringing out the glow. To 
others red is deadening, as if it killed their 
paler fires. Unless a woman feels that red 
is essentially related to something within 
herself, she should avoid wearing it as she 
would avoid the plague. On the other hand, 
if she can wear red, she should wear it at 
such times as the desires to express these 
qualities that its warmth and richness bring 
out by its contact with herself. 

"Red is generally conceded by color psy- 
chologists to be the tone of passion, of tre- 
mendous emotions. Therefore, if I am to 

Plwlo hy WhUt, N. Y. 

Extremely Smart is Clara Kimball Young's Street Suit of 

Taupe Elephant's Ear with Fox Bands, and Her Smart, 

Side-Tilted Hat to Hatch 



Dainty Even in Its Apparent Voluminousness that Suggests 

the Mid-Victorian Era is Grace Canard's Black Brocaded 

Velvet, Chiffon and Lace, with Its Shadowy Sleeves and 

Velvet Roses 

Pkoto by Hoover Art Co., Los Angeles 

play parts that require such emotions por- 
trayed, I choose red as the color of my 
gowns, because, although the color itself 
does not show, the effect of the color upon 
me does show, and I have found that I can 
get better effects by its use than by black 
or green or blue. 

"On the other hand, purple always sug- 
gests to me regal magnificence. Purple is 
therefore the color to be used in gowns for 
those scenes which call for stately effects. 
Dark green suggests the outdoors, and gives 
a freedom of thought that no other dark 
color gives me. Brown has a domestic ele- 
ment of quiet that may be utilized in those 
plays that demand that particularly. Blues 
are a very difficult color for wear in photo- 
plays, although lighter blues suggest spir- 
itual feelings that cannot be set down ex- 
actly, but which may be shown slightly by 
wearing this shade. Pale green gives a 
thought of wide distances of sea and also 
of an ethereal feeling. Blacks are to be 
used, of course, only for grief, for mourn- 
ing, for poverty, for despair, although white 
may be used effectively to suggest grief. 
It is done on the stage, just as white is 
mourning in many countries, and it could 
be made exceedingly effective. 

"Yellow is a difficult color to use in the 
movies, although it is the basis of much 
psychological emotion. That brings up, nat- 
urally, the question of photographing colors. 
Some colors seem so much richer in tone 
than others when they are shown upon the 
screens, so that this must be considered in 
the problem of choosing the color of a gown. 
Nevertheless, the rule stands that for cer- 
tain emotions certain colors are necessary 
to certain actresses. One man's meat is an- 
other man's poison. One woman's joy in 
color may be another's bete noir. A woman 
has to study her own type, her own emo- 
tions, before she decides upon her color 
scheme for gowns. That is as true in the 
movies as it is in real life. In real life, 
however, very few women study their type. 
That's why there are so many frumps. In 
the acting profession women have to study 
their types. It's part of their bread and 
butter and chocolate cake." 

A woman who has studied her type to good 
use is Barbara Tennant, of the World Film 
Corporation. Miss Tennant wears, when 




A Gown of Striking Grace of Line, Combining Individuality 

with Conformity to the Existing Mode, is this Chiffon and 

Chiffon Velvet Evening Gown of Midnight Blue, Worn by 

Pauline Bush 

she has the chance, gowns of Parisian pic- 
turesqueness. In fact her costuming is 
strikingly reminiscent of those French- 
women who get the cream of the Parisian 
costumer's creations. Miss Tennant does 
not enter into the psychology of color with 
Miss Young's pliilosophy, but she has studied 
the cut and line of her gowning as carefully 
as she has studied roles. The result is a 
consistent standard of beautiful clothes of 
unusual cut and exquisite contour. 

Margarita Fischer is another photoplay 
actress who has studied her own type as 
thoroughly as if she were a lay figure upon 
which to set garments for photographic ef- 
fect. As she is dark she wears white to a 
great extent and lightens the extreme black- 
ness of her hair by a white band. She 
usually relieves the white, however, espe- 
cially in a high-necked gown, since there is 
a danger that too much white will blur the 
face of the player. With a black gown, which 
she wears with equal becomingness, Miss 
Fischer effects a relief by white or flesh- 
colored chiffon near her face. 

Adele Lane also wears white very often 
in the pictures. Stella Razeto relieves the 
white with black, usually a velvet bow under 
her chin. Myrtle Stedman, Pauline Bush, 
and Grace Cunard, all being very fair, wear 
dark clothes to bring out their fairness the 
more decisively. 

Beverly Bayne of the Essanay Company, 
although she is blonde in coloring, wears 
light colors more often than do most blondes. 
White and pale greens that give the effect 
of white are important constituents of her 

Ethel Clayton of the Lubin Company com- 
bines the psychology of color with the psy- 
chology of line, effecting gowning in her 
parts that brings out not only her personal 
charms but also the particular emotions de- 
manded by the roles. She is one of the 
women who never dress haphazardly for 
any part, giving quite as much attention to 
the costuming as she gives to the study of 
the scenes. 

And so it goes with hundreds of others 
in the profession. The play may be the 
thing, but even the managers on the Rocky 
Mountain circuit in the neighborhood of 
Moose Jaw know when clothes are out of 
date. The movies are great educators. 


Their Favorite Dishes 

and How They Make Them 

Julia Calhoun's 
"Creole Delight" 
is So Satisfying 
that the Plate is 
Always left Clean 




v .\ 



Pearl Gatldis 

THEIR favorite dishes! What wonder- 
ful subject for a "story!" Neverthe- 
less, I left my home with very little 
hope of success, for the screen's most famous 
idols are usually quite capricious. To para- 
phrase a bit, "When they will, they will, 
and you can depend on it; But when they 
won't, they won't — And there's an end 
on 't!". 

But my lucky star was in the ascendant, 
as proof of which, my first encounter, at the 
Kalem Kottage, was "lovely Alice Hollister," 
and as she has something of a reputation 
for being agreeable and accommodating, and 
so on, I ventured — and won. 

"Yes," she said, with charming readiness, 
"I'll give you one of my favorite recipes. 
It's a distinctly southern dish, and is known 
as 'Ambrosia.' When you taste it, you'll 
agree with me that it's an appropriate name. 
To make it, take six sweet oranges, remove 
peel, seeds and core. Slice, thin. Then take 
one pineapple, slice also, and use one large 
cocoanut grated fine, and some English wal- 
nuts, as many as you like. In a good-sized 
bowl, make a layer of oranges, sprinkle nuts 
over that, then a layer of pulverized sugar, 
a layer of pine-apple, more nuts and sugar, 
and so on, until the bowl is full. Allow to 

stand on ice for several hours, then serve." 

Now, wouldn't you know, just from read- 
ing that, that Alice Hollister had contributed 
it? She's famous for a number of wonder- 
ful dishes, but says this is the simplest. 
So be it! 

I next sought out Helen Lindroth, who 
was engaged quite domestically in doing her 
week's mending. She good-naturedly agreed 
to my demands, and gave the following 
recipe for clam chowder. (Nellie is from 
Providence, you know, where clams are fresh 
— and plentiful.) 

"The materials," she began, "are: One and 
one-half dozen large clams, one cup of water, 
three large potatoes, chopped dice shape, 2 
slices of bacon, and one onion, also cut dice- 
shape, one quart of milk, two tablespoonfuls 
each of butter and flour, one teaspoonful 
each of chopped parsley and salt and a 
pinch of pepper. Fry the bacon, using the 
fat to fry the onion. Add the clam liquor, 
water and potatoes; cook until tender, then 
add the clams and milk. Cook ten minutes 
more, thicken with butter and flour, creamed 
together. Pour the chowder over crackers, 
sprinkle with chopped parsley — and serve. 
It's very simple, isn't it?" 

Yes, isn't it? You're right; it isn't! 




1 met Harry Millarde on my way out, and 
as I remembered that I was to get every- 
body's favorite dish, I promptly asked for 
his. He looked a bit dazed, then grinned 
like a small boy, and said: 

"Swedish meat-balls. But I haven't the 
ghost of an idea how they're made. 'I have 
one idea about 'em ; and that's to love 'em,' " 
he hummed, gaily, and departed. 

"Bob" Vignola, on being questioned, and 
learning that anything he said would be used 
against him, waxed cautious. 

"My favorite dish is planked steak, but 
I don't know how to make it. Ask the Chef 
at the Seminole!" and he fled. 

The Chef at the Seminole not being on 
my visiting list, I am still in ignorance as 
to the proper treatment of "planked steak." 

At the studio of the Prismatic Film Com- 
pany, I discovered an old friend, Julia Cal- 
houn, w h o is 
known and 
loved through- 
out the length 
and breadth 
of Jacksonville, 
and in the 
course of our 
talk, I put the 
question of her 
favorite recipe. 
And right roy- 
ally, as is her 
way, she gave it. 

"It's tripe and 
oysters, a la Cre- 
ole. And there's 
a story con- 
nected with it. 
One night, I had 
cooked a dish of 
this, and having 
some left, I put 
it on the table, 
and covered it 
up, as I was 
troubled w i t h 
mice and was 
afraid to put it 
in the sideboard. 
Late that night 
I was awakened 
by a noise in 
the dining-room. 
I slipped down, 
and saw a bur- 
glar, . seated at 

Mabel Trunnelle is an Expert Cook, though the Picture would 
not Lead One to Think So 

the table, engaged in devouring the last of 
my favorite dish. He had gathered all the 
silver together, and had evidently started 
to tie it up in the tablecloth when he dis- 
covered the 'Creole Delight.' 

"I take several slices of tripe, one dozen 
large oysters, a knuckle of veal, tomatoes, 
green peppers, Spanish onions, French peas, 
mushrooms, a small bit of garlic (of 
course!), a large piece of butter, flour for 
thickening, mixed with milk. I cook the 
tripe and veal together until tender, then 
add the oysters and sauce. After these have 
cooked until tender, I add the other ingre- 
dients slowly, let cook until quite done, salt 
to taste, and paprika. It's really very good, 

I certainly hope Julia sees this and in- 
vites me to dinner some night. I'd pass up 
a great deal in order to accept, so she had 

better not ask 
me unless she 
means it, for I 
shall certainly 

I asked Rav- 
in o n d McKee, 
"Lubin's Boy 
Comedian," t o 
name his favor- 
ite recipe. He 
seemed sur- 
prised, then 
said, quickly: 

"My favorite 
dish is shrimp 
salad, but I'm 
afraid I could 
never make it, 
no matter how 
hungry I was." 
So we'll excuse 
Ray, for this 

Mabel Trun- 
nelle, who en- 
joys the distinc- 
tion of being one 
of the brightest 
stars in the con- 
stellation main- 
tained by Edi- 
son, is an expert 
cook, though one 
would never sus- 
pect it from the 
photograph. It 



was once the prank of a humorous director 
to cast her for the role of a young bride, 
who struggles heroically with a small-sized 
steak and a large-sized cook-book. But the 
picture was never written to express the 
little lady's own difficulties. As proof of 
the fact, notice the decidedly complicated 
recipe which she gives as her favorite, and 
which, she says, with convincing simplicity, 
she just loves to make. 

"Rissoles of partridge. The ingredients 
are three roast birds, half a cup mushrooms, 
scant cup of butter, one of flour, cream, and 
also one of broth (or water) ; a little nut- 
meg, lemon juice, pepper and salt. Cut the 
meat into smallest possible dice, mince and 
add mushrooms, sprinkle with a teaspoonful 
of mixed salt and pepper, grate nutmeg, and 
squeeze lemon over all. Make cream sauce 
by stirring flour and butter together in a 
saucepan, adding broth and cream. When 
it begins to bubble, moisten meat with it, 
stir well, set aside until cold. Then make 
into rolls, size of finger, roll first in flour, 
then in eggs, then crackers, and fry in hot 
lard, pile in dish and garnish with parsley." 

There! Doesn't that give the lie to any 
rumor of Miss Trunnelle's lack of culinary 
skill? And she tells you very simply, that 
"she makes it often" and that her family 

are very fond of it. I should think they 
would be! 

Over at the studio of the Olcott Feature 
Players, I found Florence Wolcott very 
busily engaged in the production of a new 
three-reel feature to be released under the 
title of "The Taint." But she consented to 
talk for a few moments, giving me her 
recipe for beaten biscuit, for which she is 
almost as famous as for her singing. 

"One quart of flour, lard the size of a 
hen's egg, and one teaspoonful of salt-; mix 
with enough sweet milk to make a moder- 
ately stiff batter. Beat for half an hour; 
mold with the hands, or cut with a biscuit 
cutter; prick with a fork, bake in a quick 
oven not hot enough to blister. 

"I have several other favorite recipes, but 
the beaten biscuits are my most popular 

Florence Wolcott is famous for many 
things; for her singing (she was for a 
number of years prima donna with the most 
famous grand opera companies), for her 
acting, which always rings true, but I think 
that her greatest success has been as a 
"home-maker." She is very happily mar- 
ried, and certainly, her prowess as cook 
should help to preserve it. 


T ADY, I'm not long upon flirtation, 

Lack the looks of certain chaps I know, 
Yet I sit in abject admiration 

When I meet you at the movie show. 

And I pale when you grow acrobatic, 

Tempt Atropos on a single strand, 
Ride off cliffs, do other things dramatic, 

All of which get you many a hand. 

Pirates, bandits have I seen do murder 

On yjur form so shrinking and so fair, 
And I hope to see a ten-ton girder 

Miss you by the mercy of a hair. 

Lady, to your author I must hand it — 

He draws more horror than I knew — 
But he's got to show me where he gets the bandit 

Who would harm a lady beautiful as you! 

— Earl Simonson. 

\i : 

Photos hy Siairl SfSvp", PhiladelflUa 

Ethel Clayton, the Charming and Youthful Mistress of the Delightful Home Pictured in the Pages Following 

Ethel Clayton at Home 

is a bachelor girl. 
It sounds odd, 
doesn't it, to refer to an actress as a bach- 
elor girl, but I happen to like the term and 
can see no reason why its application should 
be confined to the independent young woman 
who lives in a city fiat and wears sensible 
low-heeled shoes. Ethel Clayton, for in- 
stance, is nothing if not inde 
pendent. You learn with 
amazement not only that 
this slender, golden- 
haired girl is a lead- 
ing lady, but that 
she has been one 
for years and 
years and years 
and years, a s 
Eleanor Hal- 
lowell Abbott 
would say. How- 
ever, I don't in- 
tend to tell you 
anything about 
those years and 
years and years and 
years of being a lead 
ing lady. For this 
an account not of Ethel 
Clayton the actress, but oi 
Ethel Clayton — bachelor girl 


You can't talk very 
long with Ethel Clay- 
ton without discovering 
what particular things she likes best. First 
comes her work, then her home, then the 
country, then riding and then babies. The 
tone in which she announces that she adores 
babies is quite convincing, just as convinc- 
ing as is her enthusiasm over cross country 
riding or her account of a week's 
motoring (the only vacation 
she has had in two years) 
or of her books or of 
her work at the stu- 
dio. And all the time 
that she is discuss- 
ing her various 
enthusiasms, you 
can't keep your 
eyes from wan- 
dering over the 
lovely room not- 
ing the Encyclo- 
pedia Britannica 
in the limp 
leather, India paper 
edition in its ma- 
hogany case between 
two windows, picking 
out a lovely cloissonne 
vase here, a Hokusai print 

The way into her parlor 
is up a winding stair in a 
great big apartment house midway between 
the Lubin studio in North Philadelphia and 
the Bellevue Stratford Hotel, which repre- 
sents down town in my hasty survey of 
Philadelphia. Winter and summer she goes 
back and forth to work in her own car, 
usually driving it herself. There isn't very 
much more to her apartment than the huge 
living room which you enter direct from 
the hall, the sunshiny chintz hung bedroom 
and the big white-tiled, luxurious bathroom. 
The iron balcony that runs along outside 
the living room windows counts heavily in 
the summertime, but just now the flower- 
boxes are empty, the swing denuded of its 
gay cushions and the awnings furled. 

Ethel Clayton I got up and walked across 

the room for a closer inspec- 
tion of a photograph that interested me, an 
autographed photograph of His Holiness, the 
late Pope Pius X. Miss Clayton explained 
that this photograph was autographed for 
her by the Pope in July of this year at the 
request of the Vatican's official photog- 
rapher, a one-time Lubin camera man and 
a friend of Miss Clayton's. This picture is 
one of her most treasured possessions. 

I suspect that her books come first in her 
affections. Of these she has hundreds and 
hundreds and hundreds. They fill two book- 
cases ranged on the north and south sides 
of the living-room, with the fireplace and 
two tall windows in the wall between, which 
is as should be. Great bookcases should 




Against the north wall 
of the living-room is a 

Schumacher grand 
piano, and over the pi- 
ano, pinned to the wall, 
is a marvelous Manchu 
coat, embroidered in 
exquisite colors. 

Her bedroom is a riot 
of yellow — yellow sun- 
light, andyellow chintz, 
and deep-toned ivory 
enamel furniture. A 
great bunch of pink 
asters furnish the con- 
trasting color note thai 
the room needs. 



In Miss Clayton's apart- 
ment there are flowers 
everywhere — on the 
piano and the desk and 
the table. There are 
swinging baskets of 
ferns in the windows, 
and long boxes of ferns 
on the low window sills. 

Miss Clayton confesses 

to an illogical fondness 
for pillows, and she has 
quite a wonderful col- 
lection of them, from a 
huge, gorgeous, fat, tap- 
estry-covered one with 
a button in the middle, 
to the tiniest and dain- 
tiest of faintly scented 
lingerie pillows. 

Her books come first 
in her affections. Of 
these she has hundreds 
and hundreds and hun- 
dreds and hundreds. 
They fill two book- 
cases ranged on the 
north and south sides 
of the living-room, with 
a fire-place and two tall 
windows in the wall 



always be flanked by tall windows. These, 
she explained to me as we looked them over, 
represented not more than half of the books 
she owned. When she had left Chicago to 
come East, she had gone over her whole 
library, selecting the books that she simply 
couldn't get along without, and the result 
was these two great bookcases full. There 
were sets of French novelists, Balzac, de 
Maupassant, Flaubert, some in the original 
and some in translation. There were Ger- 
man novelists and Russian novelists and 
English novelists, row after row. There 
were books delightful just to treasure — a 
rare edition of "Paradise Lost," more than 
one hundred years old, with ivory yellow 
pages and a wonderful cover of vellum. 
There was a Lansdowne edition of Shake- 
speare. And she showed me with pride a 
plainly bound book that had been given her 
by one of her friends, which contained the 
series of "Famous Affinities in History" 
from Munsey's. She had happened to re- 
mark on her interest in this series and this 
book, which consists of bound-up pages of 
the magazine, was the result. 

Against the north wall of the living-room 
is a Schumacher grand piano. There is a 
little story attached to it. Miss Clayton was 
walking along the street one day when she 
passed a second-hand store. In the window 
stood this Schumacher piano. She noted 
what a wonderfully beautiful case it had, 
but she supposed it was too much to hope 
that the tone would match the case. How- 
ever, in she went and tried the tone, and it 
was even finer than the case, so she bought 
the piano on the spot and it came to join 
her other treasures. 

Over the piano, pinned to 'he wall, is a 
marvelous Chinese coat — not a Mandarin 
coat, but a Manchu coat. I wish you could 
have seen her enjoyment of its beauty as 
she shook out the folds that I might see the 
exquisite colors and workmanship of the 
embroidery. She loves that coat for more 
than one reason. Two friends of hers, two 
collectors of Chinese curios, had watched 
for years for just such a coat to give her 

and had only found it within the last year. 
These same collectors brought her number- 
less precious bits of carved coral and ivory, 
two or three cloisonne vases, and some 
Hokusai prints. 

Also, Miss Clayton confesses to an illogical 
fondness for pillows and she has quite a 
wonderful collection of them, from a huge, 
gorgeous, fat, tapestry-covered one with a 
button in the middle to the tiniest and dain- 
tiest of faintly scented lingerie pillows, just 
the right size to tuck under your cheek when 
you're taking a nap. 

And then there are her lamps — any num- 
ber of them. There were bracket lamps on 
the wall, and lamps on top of the book- 
cases; a Chinese lamp of pierced brass stood 
on the desk (which, by the way, is placed so 
that you get nearly all of the light over 
your left shoulder) ; there were tall lamps, 
short lamps, fat lamps, slim lamps. And 
there were flowers everywhere, too; on the 
piano, and the desk and the table; there 
were swinging baskets of ferns in the win- 
dows, and long boxes of ferns on the win- 

Her bedroom is a riot of yellow — yellow 
sunlight and yellow chintz and deep-toned 
ivory enamel furniture. Gold toilet articles 
glinted on the dressing table and pink asters 
in a vase furnished the contrasting color 
note that the room needed. Miss Clayton 
herself fits into her surroundings. One real- 
izes that they were chosen to match her, and 
that is why she seems to belong so per- 

This article would be incomplete if, after 
describing everything about Ethel Clayton 
so minutely, I failed to tell you what she 
herself is like. She has red-gold hair, very 
soft and thick and wavy, blue eyes with 
enormously long, dark eyelashes, a perfectly 
straight nose and the clearest skin and the 
whitest forehead in the world. On this par- 
ticular afternoon, she wore a blue dress 
trimmed with cretonne in tones of cream 
and pink and yellow that was very fetching. 

She is really too beautiful to be a bachelor 
girl. It simply can't last. 

This interview is the first in a series on the home life of your motion picture favorites. 
Alice Hollister and her cunning bungaloic in Jacksonville, Florida, icill be the subject of 
the second story which icill be printed in the February issue. 

The first install- 
ment of one of 

Beauty to Burn 

the greatest 

* serial stories 

ever published. 

Read the begin- 

ning of it and 

see if you don't 

agree with us. 


ALMOST any one who saw them, that 
delicious soft hazy afternoon in mid- 
October, would have noted wisely, 
though tenderly, that she was in love with 
him. And as for him — well, how could a 
young man help being in love with a crea- 
ture so eager, so spirited, so graciously beau- 
tiful? Slim, almost boyish as to contour, in 
her dark habit and her small, severe felt 
hat, she rode her dancing bay mare as cas- 
ually as some horseman of the plains. He 
who rode beside her, with much of her care- 
less grace, was good to look at, but neither 
so fine nor so firm. His profile was not less 
regular than hers; it was merely less clean 
cut, less like a dry-point drawing by Helleu. 
But either or both might have posed for 
Mr. Charles Dana Gibson. 

All the glories of autumn lay spread out 
before them, the golds and yellows and 
browns and deep reds of the most colorful 
season. And if they had no eye for all this 
perhaps it was part of that which made 
their pulses beat so high. For they were 
one with nature on that day. 

"Rob," she said, turning her face a little 
to look at him, "Rob, you must go home 

She did not mean it.' They were still a 
good mile from the great house on the hill 
overlooking Lake Geneva which he had to 
avoid. But she wanted to hear his protest. 

"Nonsense," he said. "I'm going to stay 
with you till the last minute. I'm going 
clear to the gates of 'Red House.' 

"What if they should see us?" he added 

"They would tell me I couldn't see you 
any more, as they did before, and then you 
wouldn't have to slip away every afternoon 
to meet me or to invent excuses every night 
at dinner for having been away. You could 
spend all your time training the MacCam- 
eron horses. On the whole, it would be much 
better for you if they did see us, Robert." 

"I love you, Bernice." 

As he spoke, his arm reached out as if to 
go around her waist, but the bay mare 
skipped across the road out of reach, in re- 
sponse to the gentlest pressure of Bernice's 

"I love you," he repeated, "and I'm going 
to marry you in spite of all the MacCam- 
erons and the Frothinghams in Wisconsin. 
You're mine and they can't keep you from 
me much longer." 

"You're so serious, Robbie," she teased. 
Satisfied with his response to her challenge, 
her mood had promptly changed. "Anybody 
would think," she continued, "that you were 
a mediaeval baron with a whole company of 
men-at-arms at your command and that 'Red 
House' was the castle you were about to> 
storm in order to carry off the princess 

"I'm serious about one thing, anyhow," 
Robert MacCameron answered, tightening 
the reins in his hands. 

"And what's that, baron?" she mocked. 

"I'm going to kiss you." 

Her answer was to spur her horse. The 
bay mare broke into a gallop, the big black 



•was only a second behind, and down the 
road they dashed. Bernice rode as if her 
life depended on it, nor looked behind, but 
she knew how surely the big horse behind 
her would overtake the bay mare in half a 
mile or so. Head bent, her hands low, she 
gave herself to the swift rush of it, to the 
sheer delight of motion, and to the keen 
pleasure of feeling the play of the great 
moving muscles of the flying animal she 
rode. It seemed in those brief moments 
that life was quite too wonderful, so won- 
derful that it hurt. Faster and faster she 
went, and closer and closer pounded the 
hoofs behind her. 

"Come, lady," she said softly, as she bent 
lower, "Hurry." 

The bay mare, tense as a bent bow, sprang 
on up a little rise of ground with a final 
burst of speed. But it was no use. A black 
muzzle with quivering, distended nostrils 
crept alongside ; then a great black shoul- 
der, playing ceaselessly back and forth, the 
veins standing out in a network of little 
ridges. The bay mare swerved a trifle. But 
at that moment, Rob's arm lunged out and 
caught Bernice around the waist, and as the 
two horses plunged on, he leaned daringly 
out of his saddle and bent his head to hers. 
She turned her face, their lips met for a 
brief, triumphant instant and then they 
pulled their horses down to a walk. 

"That was really clever of you, Rob," she 
said, smiling softly. 

"It was," Rob admitted. "But it wasn't 
completely satisfying." 

He leaned again toward her, his plea in 
his eyes; and, as if drawn by some visible 
compulsion which there was no resisting, 
she leaned toward him, until their lips 
touched and clung. He held her close when 
she would have released herself, kissing her 
eyes, her forehead, her hair. She gave her- 
self freely and gladly until they heard the 
deep honk of a motor behind them and their 
horses danced apart. As the machine dis- 
. appeared round a bend in the road Robert 
kissed the nape of her neck. 

And then they realized that they had in- 
deed ridden together to the gates of "Red 

"You must go now, Robert," she said. "Go 

"All right, sweetheart," he said, and 
stopped his horse. 

Bernice drew rein, put one gloved hand 
on his shoulder, and faced him, her face 

serious. She kissed him quickly, breathed 
"For always," and away sped the bay mare, 
through the gate and along the hill. He sat 
watching. At the turn, she waved her hand, 
and was gone behind the trees. Reluctantly 
he turned his horse homeward. He would 
not see her again that day and he was a 
little sad. At times like this he felt that 
she would be forever beyond him. He knew 
the power that Major Frothingham's mil- 
lions gave him as Bernice did not. He 
realized that her stepfather and her step- 
mother would more bitterly resent her wish 
to marry him than her real parents would 
have done. He was a MacCameron, the son 
of the owner of a famous breeding farm; 
she was a daughter of the only aristocracy 
America has ever had. The gap was too 
wide for Frothingham pride. And besides, 
glorious as she seemed to him, he did not 
feel at home with her. She was a mystery, 
even in her love. Why should she love him? 
He could not think of any good reason ex- 
cept that she was old enough for love and 
he was the only young man she had ever 
really known. He felt, though he did not 
put it that way to himself, that he was not 
equal to Bernice. He sighed. Horses were 
so much simpler than women. He under- 
stood horses perfectly. But was it ever pos- 
sible to understand women perfectly? One 
could not be sure of them. Perhaps that 
was their charm, that one could never be at 
all sure. . . 


Bernice shared none of her lover's doubts. 
She was high-hearted, flushed, triumphant. 
What could be better than to ride a good 
horse and to be in love? 

Just outside the stables she dismounted 
and turned the bay mare over to Triggs, the 

"You'll rub her down well, won't you 
Triggs?" she asked. 

"Yes, Miss Bernice," he answered as he 
touched his cap. 

She slipped into the big house by the side 
entrance, hoping to meet no one. She wanted 
to be alone with her happiness a little while. 
Once in her own quarters she looked long 
at herself in the tall glass in her dressing- 
room. She frankly liked what she saw 
there. She had never seen a girl whose body 
she envied. It is true that she had some- 
times wished she • were a man. But that 
was before love came to her. Now she was 



glad of her young womanhood and glad of 
her beauty. She was ready, even eager, to 
marry Robert. She smiled over that. She 
had resented so fiercely the restrictions of 
her life in "Red House," It was the life 
they had imposed on her that had made 
her wish herself a man, so that she could 
do the things she wanted to do. And now 
there was only one thing that mattered, and 
that was becoming Robert's wife. If they 
thought they could prevent her from being 
that they would discover that she was no 
longer a child. 

Her revery was interrupted by her maid, 
who came in to say: "Miss Bernice, your 
bath is ready." 

"Yes, Johnson," she answered. 

For a moment she wished hotly that her 
maid might address her less deferentially, 
and that she, in turn, might call her maid 
by her first name as ordinary Americans do. 
It was her stepmother's demand that the 
maid should be called by her last name, 
after the English fashion. An English fash- 
ion was always to be respected at "Red 

"Never mind," Bernice thought to herself, 
"it will all be different when Robert and I 
are married. We'll have a little house of 
nine or ten rooms and not more than three 

To Bernice, at that period of her life, to 
have but nine or ten rooms and but three 
servants seemed a wonderfully simple way 
of living. "Red House" had at least forty 
rooms and nearly twenty servants. She was 
not dependent on luxury, as she was to dis- 
cover. She had not been enervated by a life 
in which every sort of iuxury was a matter 
of course. It was characteristic of her that 
after five minutes in the tub-full of hot 
water that Johnson had drawn for her she 
turned on the needle bath icy cold, revelling 
in the stinging shock of it, and pleased with 
the rosy glow which it brought to her skin. 

Clad then in soft, silken things she sat 
obediently while Johnson coiled her hair, 
clasped a rope of pearls that had been her 
mother's, her real mother's, about her neck, 
and slipped on her gown. Bernice did not 
like herself so well in a dinner frock as in 
her riding coat and breeches, booted and 
spurred. But to-night was an exception. 
The vision of herself in the mirror pleased 
her as she stood there in her gown of green 
and silver. Her throat was so round, her 
bare shoulders so firmly modeled. She 

wanted to look her best for Robert's sake, 
even though he would not be there to see her. 

"Am I all right, Johnson?" she asked, 
almost anxiously. 

"You are the most beautiful thing I have 
ever seen in my life," Johnson said fer- 
vently. • 

Bernice blushed. It was not Johnson's 
custom to say an unnecessary word, com- 
plimentary or otherwise. "Oh!" she said to 
herself, "it is good to be twenty and beauti- 
ful and in love!" It was good even when 
a stepfather and a stepmother stood in the 
way. Well, they should not stand long. It 
would be a simple matter for her to marry 
Robert in spite of them, she thought, as she 
went down the great staircase. 

She stopped at the broad landing, wide as 
a good-sized room, where the piano stood. 
Her fingers rested a moment on the keys. 
Then she struck, she did not know why, the 
first notes of "Traumerei." She played well, 
if not as well as she rode. And as she played 
she found herself gently saddened. She was 
not unhappy. But the verve which had been 
hers until now, the bounding sense of life, 
had slipped away a little. She felt as if 
something were about to happen. And yet 
what could happen? She was not ready to 
tell her father and mother about her engage- 
ment to Robert. It was too new to be told 
to anybody. And until she should tell not 
the least thing could happen. 

Her dreaming was interrupted by Major 
and Mrs. Frothingham's appearance at the 
head of the stairs just as she played the last 
phrase. They were rather a fine looking 
pair, Bernice thought, except that they were 
so cold and formal, so swathed in their man- 
ners. The major had white hair and a white 
mustache; his dress clothes were an adver- 
tisement of his wisdom in choosing tailors. 
Mrs. Frothingham was statuesque, and she 
dressed to accentuate the fact. 

"That was beautiful, Bernice," the Major 
said heartily, as they reached the landing. 
"I wish you were fonder of the piano so 
that you would play for us more often." 

"She prefers to ride horseback," Mrs. 
Frothingham commented, with a smile. 

Was their something forced about this 
heartiness of the major's, something mali- 
cious behind this comment of her mother's? 
Bernice thought there might be, but she in- 
stantly decided that it was only her con- 
sciousness of having deceived them about 
Robert which made her suspect them. 


, "Are there no guests to-night?" she asked. 

"None," Mrs. Frothingham answered. "We 
shall dine en famille for once. Mr. Samuels 
was coming up from Chicago, but he tele- 
graphed your father that he couldn't — " 

"I'm so glad," Bernice cried. "He's such 
a bore." 

The major snorted, and Mrs. Frothingham 
put on her most disapproving expression. 

"That can hardly he a mature judgment of 
a man of Mr. Samuels' position," he said. 

Bernice did not answer. She saw that 
they were both deeply annoyed and she re- 
flected that they probably took Mr. Samuels' 
courteous attentions to her more seriously 
than she had ever taken them. Mr. Samuels 
was a bachelor and altogether eligible as a 
husband to Bernice in the view of Major and 
Mrs. Frothingham, even if he was fully twice 
as old as she was. She was sorry that she 
had spoken and she wondered inwardly if 
the dinner would not, after all, have prom- 
ised better had Mr. Samuels been present. 
It was surely as dull an occasion as Bernice 
had ever tried to smile through. The dining- 
room, like everything in it, was large. Great 
branched candelabra of silver lighted the 
table; a great mahogany sideboard twelve 
feet long stood at one side; it was a place 
for a banquet of state perhaps, but not for a 
family dinner. Her father at one end and 
her mother at the other were so calm, so 
unruffled, so evidently satisfied with them- 
selves that Bernice's impatience increased. 
She thought the meal would never end. She 
wanted to get back to the piano. There, 
under the pretense of playing for her father 
and mother, she could dream of Robert, and 
kisses, and the stolen rides that she had 
had, and would have again with him. She 
realized that the Major was about to speak. 
He had cleared his throat, the slightest 
sound, twice. 

"Bernice," he began, "your mother and I 
have determined to speak frankly to you. 
The importance of the matter about which 
we are concerned demands it. You know 
that two months ago we asked you to relin- 
quish your friendship with young Robert 
MacCameron and not to ride with him unless 
you met him by accident. We have known 
for some weeks that you have not observed 
our request; that, indeed, you ride with him 
almost every afternoon; I should not call 
that ah accident. But what is more we saw 
him embracing you in public." 

Bernice maintained her composure with 

an effort. So this was what was coming. 
Well, it might as well come now as later. 

"Yes," she said. 

"Is that all you have to say?" the Major 
asked, his color rising in spite of himself. 

"What would you have me say?" She pon- 
dered a moment. "I have no doubt," she 
added, "that it is true. I love Robert and he 
loves me. We are going to be married." 

Mrs. Frothingham suppressed a gasp. 

The Major opened his mouth as if about 
to speak, closed it again, opened it, closed 
it tightly as if by a great effort of will, and 
glared at Bernice. Finally, he spoke, with 
great deliberation. 

"You and Robert MacCameron are not go- 
ing to be married." 

"And why not, father?" Bernice asked. 

"Because I forbid it." 

"You forget, father, that I am now of an 
age when you can't forbid me to marry the 
man I choose to marry. I can marry Robert 
whenever I like and you can do nothing to 
stop me. You know that, father. Let's not 
get angry about it. It isn't as if a father 
and a daughter had never differed before 
about such a matter. It isn't unheard of. 
I believe it is rather common." 

"Common is precisely the word I should 
apply to such a marriage as you propose, 
Bernice," her mother interrupted. "The 
MacCamerons are nothing and have nothing. 
Robert is not a suitable husband for you. 
I trust you will realize that as soon as you 
are able to think more calmly about it." 

"I shall never realize that because a man 
is not a millionaire he is not a suitable hus- 
band for me," Bernice answered hotly. 

"But he may realize it," her father broke 
in coldly. "It is true that you are of legal 
age and that the law no longer protects you 
from adventurers. But it is also true that 
you have no income except what we allow 
you, and you will have none until you are 
twenty-five years of age. How, may I ask, 
do you expect to support Mr. MacCameron 
and yourself?" 

Bernice was so outraged at this threat, so 
hurt by the whole conversation, that she 
could hardly hold back the tears. 

"I should like to be excused," she said. 
"I have said all that I can say. I am going 
to marry Robert just as soon as I can." 

And she burst from the room and up the 

Bernice slammed and locked her door he- 
hind her and threw herself on her bed in a 


passion of tears. But in a few moments she 
lay quiet, thinking. Then she got up and 
dabbed her face with cold water. She would 
not cry, whatever happened, she thought. 
From a drawer she took a package of ciga- 
rettes and lit one. She did not enjoy smok- 
ing, but the occasion demanded that she do 
something which her parents would vio- 
lently disapprove, something that would hor- 
rify them if they knew. And as she puffed 
she thought. 

It was a serious problem. How could she 
and Robert manage? Robert had no money. 
He had been sent home in disgrace from 
college after two years. He was not pre- 
pared to do anything except the work he 
was doing for his father, and that would 
never be particularly well paid as long as 
his father lived. Too many men were nearly, 
if not quite, as good at handling young 
horses as Robert. His skill was of no ad- 
vantage to him without capital, without a 
farm of his own. The more she thought the 
more difficult her immediate future with 
Robert appeared. It was not as it would 
have been if Robert had been the sort of 
young man who has a knack of making 
money. Robert was of quite the opposite 

She had no doubt that her father would 
carry out his threat to cut off her allowance 
until she was twenty-five and came into her 
fortune. A few things were hers so indu- 
bitably that no one could take them away 
from her — the rope of pearls, for instance. 
She supposed that was worth three or four 
thousand dollars, but it was not readily 
convertible into cash except at a great loss. 
She had a tremendous supply of clothes. 
But what else? 

Would it be possible to wait for Robert 
until she had her money? No. They would 
not be permitted to see each other, to ex- 
change letters. That would be unendurable, 
even if her pride permitted. She had told 
them she intended to marry Robert. She 
would not back out. Would Robert have 
some plan? There must be some way out. 
Would she be able to see him within a few 
hours? Surely her father would be able to 
find no way of preventing that. And she 
began to think of that meeting and the ride 
they would have together and so she fell 

She awoke with a start. It was broad 
daylight. What .was the matter? Then she 
remembered and she put her head down in 

her arms with the pain of it. It occurred 
to her after a half hour that Johnson would 
be in shortly. She did not wish to be found 
dressed in her dinner frock at that hour. 
Hastily she took off her clothes, hung the 
frock up as carefully as she could that some, 
at least, of the creases might come out of it, 
and crawled into bed. But she could not 

When Johnson came it was with a break- 
fast tray. Evidently she had been ordered 
to serve Bernice her breakfast in her room. 
Mrs. Frothingham was thoughtful about 
these little matters, however unsympathetic 
she might be in the larger ones. Bernice 
was sure she could not eat. But the odor 
of the coffee tempted her. That aroma had 
not lost its savor. And there were grapes 
and golden. toast. She ate a good breakfast. 
But she did not pass a good day. It seemed 
as if 3 o'clock would never come. She tried 
a novel, but it was insipid. She turned the 
leaves of a volume of favorite poems, and 
for an hour or two she found some solace 
there. But after that there was nothing 
but to dress and to wait. Robert could not 
be expected in the road they knew so well 
before half-past three. She wondered if her 
father would try to prevent her from going 
for her ride. He might give orders to Triggs 
not to saddle her horse. It did not prove to 
be so. And at three sharp she ran down 
stairs, meeting no one, and rode away at a 
brisk canter. 

Down the road she went, and over the 
hill, a good three miles from "Red House." 
There was no sign of Robert. She rode 
finally up a wood road to the place where 
they had sat the day before, when Robert 
had told her that he loved her and she had 
given her first kiss. She tied her horse to 
a tree and waited. She had almost given 
up hope of seeing him; she was, indeed, 
about to go home through the lengthening 
shadows, sick at heart, when she heard the 
sound of a galloping horse in the highway 
below and in another moment she was 
clasped in Robert's arms. 

She stood off, her hands on his shoulders, 
and looked at him after a moment. He was 
the same Robert, the same adored one. 

"Oh," she cried, her eyes flashing and the 
pink coming and going in her cheeks, "you 
do not know what has happened. They saw 
us yesterday. My father is determined that 
we shall never see each other again. He 



She stopped short at the expression on 
Robert's face. 

"I know," he said. "Your father was over 
at our house this morning." 

"What did he say to you? Was he nasty?" 

"Not to me," Robert answered. "He didn't 
speak to me. He talked to my father. They 
are going to send me to the Argentine. I am 
to sail — " 

"But you aren't going?" she cried. For 
the first time real fear gripped her. 

He took her in his arms, her head resting 
on his shoulder. 

"What else can I do?" 

She could not speak. It was fortunate 
that his arms were about her and her face 
was hidden so that she did not need to 
speak. She wanted to tell him that he did 
not love her, that he was a coward and a 
weakling, that she did not love him. Did 
she love him? Yes. She did love him. She 
clung closer at the thought of leaving him. 

"Dearest," he said, "there is nothing else 
for us to do. They are perfectly right about 
me. I have no money and no way of earn- 
ing any." 

She wanted fiercely to tell him that he 
was not a man, not her man, so meekly to 
accept the verdict of any one. Why couldn't 
he take care of them? She would be willing 
to help. He would need only to provide for 
himself. But she said nothing. She could 

He kissed her neck. It sent a thrill 
through her, in spite of her disillusion, her 
heart-breaking disappointment. She loved 
him in spite of herself. She yielded her 
body to him involuntarily, she clung to him. 
He kissed her eyes. 

"Will you wait, will you wait for me, 
sweetheart?" he asked. 

"I don't know, Rob," she said. "I can't 

"Look at me," he cried, turning up her 
face. "Look at me. Don't you love me?" 

She looked into his eyes. Was he the same 
Robert. He was very dear, at any rate. 

"I am afraid I do love you, Rob," she said. 

"Then kiss me," he demanded. 

She gave her lips to his, saying to herself 
that it should be for the last time. She for- 
got all her pain, her disillusionment, her 
heartbreak, but only for a moment. It all 
came flooding back, so that the tears started 
in her eyes. 

"I've got to go home, Rob," she said. "It's 
goodbye, now, I guess." 

He drew her close, his mouth searching 
for hers. 

"No, Rob," she said, thrusting him away. 

Again, as yesterday, she put her hands on 
his shoulders. But this time she kissed his 
forehead very solemnly. 

"Goodbye, my lover," she said, and turned 

He did not follow her, but stood looking 
after her as she mounted her horse and rode 
away. He understood at last that she was 
not for him. 


Bernice lay awake thinking. She had 
been doing that every night for a week. 
Robert had sailed by now for the Argentine. 
He would be gone three years at least; he 
might never come back. Bernice had thought 
of nothing else but Robert until now. She 
was sure one moment that she would always 
love him, and the next that she never had 
loved him, really. But in the meantime she 
simply could not endure "Red House." Her 
father had shown her unexpected generos- 
ity; her mother had been more kind than 
Bernice had ever known her to be. And yet 
the more keenly they sympathized with her 
the sharper was her realization that she 
could not live with them, that she could not 
continue to live the life she had always 
lived. Life was utterly empty for her at 
"Red House." She wanted to go some where 
to do something to have some new and ad- 
venturous experience which would help to 
blot out her painful memories. There stirred 
in her all the eagerness and the curiosity of 
the young but awakened soul. It demanded 
something more interesting than riding 
horseback, something less enervating than 
going over and over the pain it had suffered. 

Bernice was only half conscious of what 
was going on in her, but she came firmly to 
a decision. It was that she would run away 
from "Red House." She wanted to be "on 
her own." She would he a salesgirl in a 
department store, or an operator of a tele- 
phone switchboard, if necessary. She would 
be anything that was different from living 
on a great country estate, with servants 
everywhere, but with no friends of her own 
age, and with nothing to do. But though 
she made up her mind that she would do 
anything, there was in the back of her mind, 
unexpressed but present, a hope. It seemed 
silly, and altogether unlike her, but she 
wanted to be an actress. 



The next day Bernice had a long talk -with 
Triggs, to the result that after everybody 
had gone to bed she spent hours going over 
her things and packing in a trunk things 
which she thought she would most need, as 
well as those which Johnson would be least 
likely to inquire about. She had few treas- 
ures. A half dozen books, including the 
volume of poems that had helped her once, 
went in. But most of the space was used 
for clothes. It was that ambition to become 
an actress, unacknowledged but active, which 
induced her to take so many. And indeed 
the wardrobe she stowed away with such 
infinite pains was such as no working girl 
ever had use for. 

Before daylight, Triggs appeared with a 
rope. It was a great struggle to let the 
trunk down out of the window without as- 
sistance and without waking everybody 
about the place, but Triggs did it. During 
the day the trunk went quietly from "Red 
House" to a railway junction and flag sta- 
tion five or six miles away and was checked 
through to Hammond, Indiana. 

After midnight, Bernice dressed in the 
riding coat and breeches that she liked so 
well, put the rope of pearls in her pocket, 
and with her boots over one arm and a 
bundle in the other crept down the back 
stairway of "Red House" and out through 
the stable yard. Once in the lee of the sta- 
bles she got into the boots and.hurried over 
the hill to where Triggs stood at the bay 
mare's headstall. It was moonlight and 
cool, though not cold enough for a frost. 
The mare was eager to be off and warm her 
coat with a gallop. 

"All clear, Miss Bernice?" Triggs asked, 
as he touched his cap. 

"All clear, Triggs," she answered, and 
handed him the bundle. He strapped it 

tightly across the pommel, gave her a hand 
up, and touched his cap. 

"Shake, won't you Triggs?" Bernice said, 
as she extended her hand. He grasped her 
hand firmly. 

"Good luck, Miss Bernice." 

"Good luck, Triggs, and be sure I won't 
forget what you've done for me." 

And away the bay mare sped, down the 
road which ran so white in the moonlight. 
Bernice held to a steady pace. She had 
twenty miles to do in three hours or so, in 
order to catch a milk train to Chicago in 
the dawn. The steady motion soothed her 
excited head, and soon she was enjoying the 
ride, the last ride that she would have for 
many a day. As luck would have it Bernice 
did not meet a soul on that long canter, and 
when she slipped stiffly down in a clump of 
hazel brush just outside the little town for 
which she had been riding it was just four 
o'clock. She had twenty minutes or so to 
spare. It was the work of a chilly three 
minutes to slip off the riding clothes and 
into the tailored suit that she had brought 
in the bundle. Then, except for her beauty, 
she was inconspicuous. She put her arm 
around the mare's neck and patted her. 

Bitterly as she had longed to leave 
"Red House" it was the only home she could 
remember. There was a tear in her eye as 
she turned the mare's head toward home 
and sent her galloping off with a slap. 
Bernice hid her boots deep in the thicket 
and then walked boldly out and down the 
main street to the railway station to take 
the train for Chicago. Surely she was the 
most extraordinary young woman who ever 
planned to lay siege to that city — this girl 
with a few dollars in her purse, high deter- 
mination in her heart, and a great rope of 
pearls in her pocket! 

* pHE second installment of "Beauty to Burn" will 
■*■ appear in the February issue of Photoplay 

Order your copy in advance as the demand for this issue is far 
greater than the supply. 

The A. B. C. of Picture Plays 

A is the Actor of popular fame, 

B is the Background o'er which we exclaim: 

C is the Camera, magical thing, 

D's the Delight that the better plays bring; 

E's Escapades that the players go through, 

F is the Film that records what they do; 

G is our Grief when the Motion Play's o'er, 

H is the Howl that we all make for more; 

I is Idea for plot well defined, 

J is the Joy when a new one we find; 

K is the Kinship the audience feels, 

L is the Laughter this feeling reveals; 

M is the Millions of Motion-play fans, 

N is the Nickels that round out their plans; 

O's Operators' continual dance, 

P is for Perils of Pauline, perchance; 

Q is the Quickness with which the time flies, 

R is the Reel that unwinds the surprise; 

S is the Screen, made of cotton or glass; 

T is for Thrills that across its face pass; 

U's the Ubiquity of Photo plays, 

V's the Variety in the arrays; 

W's the Wonder at many things shown, 

X the 'xtent to which they are known; 

Y is our Yearning toward Picture Plays, 

Z is our Zeal, growing greater always. 


On the Films — and Behind 

Illustrations from the "Cinderella" film, produced by the Famous Players Company 

He Looked Down at Her for a Few Seconds, Then Softly Dropped on One Knee Beside Her, Just Looking at Her 

WHEN they first brought on that little 
Marie Orr, I had one of my hunches. 
Lord knows why, but I had it. I 
knew that something was going to happen. 

She was so pretty, so innocent-like, so 
scary; she had that wavy, chestnutty hair 
breaking out in little bits of wisps every 
once in a while; she had those trusting, I- 
want-to-tell-you-something eyes; she had 
that baby mouth, looking up in the middle 
and down at the ends; and she was so shy 
and frightened and she never said any- 
thing and took her orders and never growled 
at her parts or fussed at anybody and just 
stayed off by herself and looked as if she 
wanted sympathy. When they're like that, 
something's going to happen, you bet. 

And, believe me, I haven't pushed scenes 
around for thirty years — legit, movies and 
all — without learning there's no place in the 
• world where there's something so sure to 
break as in one of these show bunches. And 
I never knew a bunch laid out so clean for 
a tangle as this New World Film outfit. 

For some reason, the poor litle kid didn't 
go good right from the start. In the first 
place, I suppose because she was so pretty. 
That got the other girls. When there's a 
lot of girls together and a lot of men, it 
doesn't pay for any one of them to be too 
pretty. Then she just had hard luck. Not 
that she hadn't the stuff. That pretty baby 
face of hers came out great in the films and 
she could register it. She could act, all 
right. She just had hard luck. If anything 
went wrong it was Marie. If anybody 
didn't show up at the right time, it was 
Marie. If the stage manager had a grouch 
and wanted to let it out on somebody, it 
was Marie who happened around first. And 
she wasn't getting much sympathy either. 
She didn't take much with the bunch. She 
wasn't much of a good fellow — just shy. 

If there was anybody she talked to at all 
it was Jim Holmes. And that didn't please 
any of the other girls any the more. Holmes 
was a knockout for looks and he'd had the 
admiring eyes from many of the female side 




of the cast for some time. He was one of 
these tall, handsome, broad-shouldered, lithe 
fellows, the kind just made for the cowboy- 
gentleman parts, the movie matinee idol. So 
all that didn't help Marie's standing with 
the other girls a bit. Especially not with 
Olive Speed. Miss Speed came over from 
the legit with a reputation and she knew 
it. She expected kowtowing and she got it 
— from all, that is, except Holmes. He didn't 
seem to take much notice of her, just look- 
ing on her as a matter of course, part of the 
business. When he was opposite her he 
went through parts as if she were a dress- 
maker's dummy, and when it came to the 
love business, she might have been a stone 
wall or a scarecrow. That got her, too, 
and she showed it. She was out to bring 
Holmes down a peg — maybe as far as her 
feet — and we could all see it. 

There you had your layout. And being 
in the business long enough to get what the 
critic guys call the dramatic instinct I soon 
figured it. 

I remember the first time Holmes took 
any particular notice of Marie. It was one 
Saturday night. The company had a habit 
of going out to supper together on Satur- 
day nights if there was any late work and 
they'd had a long day. Nearly every one 
would go except the married ones, and Marie. 
For some reason she never showed up — just 
disappeared alone. I supposed it was be- 
cause she was shy and maybe she hadn't 
the money — it being Dutch parties and she 
not getting any too much for ingenue parts. 

One Saturday night there were half a 
dozen or so waiting at the door a little late 
just ready to go, when Marie came out alone. 
She saw them waiting, and slowed up. 
Holmes hesitated for a minute and turned. 

"Coming with us, Miss Orr?" he called 

"I — I don't know," she stammered. 

"Come along! Get in the party." 

And with that he just got her by the arm 
and sort of pulled her along without waiting 
for objections. 

Nobody knew just exactly how it happened, 
but when they got to the little German res- 
taurant Holmes and Marie weren't there. 
And it caused plenty of talk. 

Monday noon they were still talking about 
it in little knots. Holmes was already there. 
When Marie walked in they all waited. 

"Good morning, Miss Orr," said Holmes 
cheerily and old-friend like. 

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," she an- 
swered, looking down. Then she smiled. 

After that you could hear some more 
buzzing and you could see a little sort of 
frigidness in Miss Speed when she was 
around Holmes and something more than 
frigidness when she was around Marie. She 
just looked at her the way one woman can 
look at another — up and down and well- 
who-is-this like. And then you didn't have 
to have a hunch to know there was going 
to be something doing. These dramas on 
the film can't hold a candle to the ones be- 
hind it for excitement. 

Well, things went along that way just 
under the surface until the time we put on 
"The Scullery Maid." It was a modern 
Cinderella story with variations, worked up 
in a hurry because a certain scenario had 
fallen down on us. It was a story of a poor 
servant girl in a rich home, with rich but 
homely daughters and a regular Prince 
Charming coming calling and seeing the 
handsome scullery maid — and — well, you can 
imagine the rest. Of course Holmes was the 
Prince Charming. And as there wasn't any- 
body who fitted the servant part in youth 
and appearance like Marie, she got it — the 
best she had had since she was with us. 

It was hard work, putting it on in a rush, 
and Marie, being extra nervous, that didn't 
help it any. And old Hansen, the stage 
manager, was growling at her proper and 
doing some plain talking. It was after about 
an eight hour stretch of work that finished 
up a set of scenes and we were all pretty 
fagged, but we had to go on with a new 
batch of interiors, that is, Hansen said we 
had to, because he was in one of his streaks. 
Everything was going along smooth when 
all of a sudden it stopped. Something had 
hitched. It didn't take long to find out. It 
was the masked ball scene where the hand- 
some gentleman, dressed as a prince, is sup- 
posed to steal out into the kitchen for a 
secret visit to the servant — and there was 
no servant. Marie had missed her cue! 

There was the devil to pay. Hansen tore 
up one side and down another and what he 
didn't say about Marie didn't have to be 
said. And the other girls just snickered. 
You could see they weren't what you'd call 
grief stricken. 

Well, to avoid trouble I set out to look for 
Marie. I admit the badgering had made me 
a little sorry for the kid and I had a sneak- 
ing desire to help her. I went off around 



the drop and looked around in the corners 
around the props. But I was late. Just 
ahead of me was Holmes. I guess he was 
feeling sorry too. And then I saw. 

There was the poor kid, in her costume, 
squatted down on the floor in' the middle of 
a lot of junk, fast asleep with her head on 
a trunk! Well, Holmes was ahead of me 
and saw her the same time I did and I just 
held back. 

He stopped, looked kind of surprised, and 
slowly went over to her. He looked down 
at her for a few seconds and then softly 
dropped on one knee beside her, just looking 
at her. Gosh! it. was just like the scenario. 
There he was in his masked ball costume, 
like an old-time prince, and she in a tattered 
servant's dress asleep in her pile cf straw 
near the stove! You could even imagine a 
waking love light in his eyes as he gazed 
down at her. ■ - • , ' 

He looked at her for a while and then 
touched her on the shoulder. 

"Miss Orr!" he whispered. "Miss Orr! 

She woke with a jump. 

"Oh! Oh! I've been asleep! Mr. Holmes!" 

"You've missed your cue, Miss Orr," was 
all he said. 

She jumped up, half asleep and trembling. 

"Oh! Are they waiting for me? Have I 
stopped everything? Are they angry? Oh, 
don't let anything happen, don't let any- 
thing happen! Is Hansen mad? Don't let 
them fire me! I was tired. I couldn't help 
it. I've been working. I worked late last 
night. I — I'm sewing extra. I need the 

And the poor kid just broke down and 
cried like a baby! 

Well, Holmes comforted her like a big 
brother till she stopped crying and then 
they went around to where everybody was 
waiting, Hansen stamping up and down. 

"Well," snapped Hansen, "where've you 
been? Playing? Do you think this is a 
college girls' dormitory or a — a — •" he stopped 
and looked at Holmes — "or a school for 

Holmes straightened up like a rod. He 
walked over toward Hansen. 

"Miss Orr was tired, Mr. Hansen. She 
was resting." 

That was all he said, but it was the way 
he said it. There was what you'd call an 
electric thrill in the air. Hansen didn't say 
anything and there was too much thrill to 
do any more, so he called everything off till 
the next morning. And Holmes took Marie 
and was careful to see that she got home. 

She Was Gazing at Them with the Haughtiest Look of Scorn 



Well, that didn't change just Holmes. It 
also changed me. I felt for the little girl, 
then. I decided to quit being a spectator in 
this little drama and get into it myself. 
Understand, I wasn't seeing myself as a 
Cupid, but just what they call a deus ex 
machina, I think, in the books. A sort of 
oil for the machinery. I made up my mind 
if Marie didn't have anybody else for a 
friend, she had me. 

There was plenty of thrill left the next 
morning. You could feel it when Marie 
walked in and it just burned when Holmes 
went over to her and they talked alone for 
about five minutes. . 

"Are you rested now, Miss Orr?" said 
Miss Speed with the kind of sweetness that 
cuts. "It was too bad you couldn't stand it 
so long yesterday." 

"I'm all right, thank you," was all she 
answered. . .:. • 

It was a hard day, that day and we worked 
straight through with mighty little let up. 
There wasn't time.' for personal fussing or 
jealousy stabbing, but late in the afternoon 
there was another little scene. I • 

It. was one scene. where the three, sisters, 
after the ball, having learned about their 
rich suitor's bestowing his affections on the 
little servant, come down to the kitchen to 
give her a trimming and threaten her. There 
is a part where the girl wakes up and listens, 
frightened, while they are planning among 
themselves to turn her out of the house 
without clothes or money that night. 

Well, Miss Speed and the others went 
through their parts all right — they very 
nearly lived up to them, in fact. They had 
their heads together and were talking low, 
right up to the business, but what they said 
wasn't in that particular scenario. The 
things they were saying were those nice 
cutting cat-like remarks and they were all 
aimed at Marie, with a few remarks about 
"Your friend, Mr. Holmes," and "Did you 
get rested after he went home with you?" 
and all that. 

Miss Speed, dressed up as a spinster with 
specs and black curls around her neck and 
with a biting smile, did most of the talking. 
She certainly lived up to the Miss Vinegar 
Tongue role all right. 

And Marie was playing her part, too. Sit- 
ting up in her straw bed, she was looking 
afraid enough, but more than that. She was 
gazing at them with the haughtiest look of 
scorn you ever saw a poor servant wear. 

Lordee! I'll bet it made some film. But she 
didn't say anything. She just withered them, 
and they soon shut up. 

At supper time before they broke up to get 
a bite to eat before coming back, Holmes and 
Miss Speed "just happened" to be standing 
near each other. Miss Speed walked over 
toward him. 

"Are you coming for a bite of supper?" 
she said with an inviting coo. 

"I'm afraid I can't," he answered right off. 
"I — I have a little call to make down the 

Miss Speed in her best playing never did 
the "heavy villainess" better than she did 
just then. 

And when Holmes waited at the door for 
Marie and they went out together, you can 

But Miss Speed didn't go out alone. She 
"just happened," again, to be near old Han- 
sen and she went out to eat with him. I 
didn't like the looks of that and I knew 
she was up to something. And I knew when 
she was up to something she usually got 
there. She knew how to handle a man and 
especially Hansen. I wouldn't have given a 
lot for the little girl's job right then. 

All that evening Holmes was keeping a 
protecting eye on Marie. You bet she didn't 
miss any more cues. He was seeing to 
that. And if he hadn't I would have. My 
blood was up, too. 

Once about ten o'clock when Holmes was 
busy and it was near .time for Marie to come 
on, I noticed she wasn't around and I just 
thought I'd make sure. I went to look for 
her. She was always off by herself when 
Holmes wasn't with her. And there she was 
in a corner near a window, sitting on the 
same old straw bed, looking up through a 
little barred window in the bare wall. It 
was worth going far to see. The moonlight 
streaming in, lighting her face and her hair 
falling two great rough golden braids over 
her shoulders. And that face! Turned up 
to the window, the tired droop to the mouth, 
the eyes just begging for sympathy. Like a 
weary little angel calling for help, caught in 
still life. Lord, it got me! I felt like her 
father. If I had thought Holmes was not 
playing square with her — ! But I knew 
Holmes and I knew he was square. So I 
called her and went back. 

There wasn't any disguising anything 
after that. Holmes took Marie home every 
evening and he didn't neglect her in the 



The Moonlight , 

Lighting Her Face and Her Hair Falling in Curls Over Each Shoulder 

studio either. As for Marie, she chirked up 
quite a bit and she was working much bet- 
ter. I had my own little suspicion that he 
was giving her tips those evenings he took 
her home and she certainly showed it. Still, 
a lot of the other girls, Miss Speed being 
right at the front, didn't do anything to help 

her, and if they could queer her they did 
in many little ways. Besides, Hansen wasn't 
liking the way Holmes defended the girl 
and I could see if ever there was a good 
excuse Miss Marie Orr would no longer be 
in the New World cast. And excuses aren't 
so hard to find in this business. 



A few weeks later we were putting on 
"The Harvest," one of these country love 
stories with harvest scenes in the cornfields 
and all that. This was another good chance 
for Marie because it was another poor but 
young and beautiful farm girl story, and she 
just fit that part, too. And she was making 
good at it. You could tell she was getting 
confidence and the "feel" of her parts. 

One of those golden autumn afternoons we 
all piled into autos and made for southwest 
of Homewood, where there is some pretty 
Illinois corn country. It was a strange ar- 
rangement going out in the cars. In one 
there was Holmes, Marie, Miss Speed,- an- 
other girl — a pal of Miss Speed's — and llan- 
sen. I didn't go in their car, but I could 
see while they were waiting that the at- 
mosphere was what you would call tense. 
Miss Speed looked as if she were blaming 
destiny in general and Marie in particular 
for putting her where she had to watch the 
two sitting together and perfectly satisfied. 

Anyway, we got there and set to work, 
speeding it up pretty fast because it was 
suddenly turning pretty cold. It was espe- 
cially tough on Marie because she had on a 
tattered dress costume, with torn sleeves 
and all that. 

So we hurried it up and as soon as any 
of them got through they made for the 
road, about half a mile away, where the cars 
were and started back to the studio, where 
we had to finish up. 

The last thing we did was a harvesting 
scene with five girls working in the fields, 
and it was arranged that the girls were to 
go back on the last car together and I was 
to start out just ahead, wait for the opera- 
tors and take the train in. 

Well, as per schedule, I left just before the 
finish, leaving only the girls. I made my 
way back to the station, and when I got 
there sat down outside the depot to see the 
car go by on its way into town. All the time 
I was feeling a little premonition and won- 
dering if I shouldn't have stayed — I can't 
tell what gave it to me— when I saw the car 
coming toward me, all of them pretty gay 
and carefree like. 

I soon saw why. When they passed me 
I saw there were just four girls in the car, 
and the absent one was Marie! 

Well, it didn't take me long to decide. I 
hit it back on foot to see what was what. 
I made straight for the field, and there, by 
George! playing in the field for all the world 

Flaying in the Field Like a Girl of Twelve, with 
Her Arms around a Big Pumpkin 

like a girl of twelve was Marie, with her 
two bare arms around a big pumpkin twice 
as big around as herself. 

"Marie!" I yelled. "What are you doing 

"Oh!" she said simply, "excuse me. I 
couldn't resist it. I used to live in the 
country and I was just imagining I was back 
there playing again as I used to." 

"But why didn't you go back with them 
in the car?" I was beginning to get out of 
patience myself. 

"Why — why — why — have they gone? They 



said they'd come back for me. They — Miss 
Speed said the cars weren't ready. Have — 
have they gone? Have they left me? Oh! 
Oh! I won't be there on time. I'll stop 
them again. Hansen — he'll fire me. Oh! 
They left me! What am I to do? What can 
we do?" 

And then I saw the game. It made me 
hot through and through. There the poor 
kid was, cold, stalled, and two hours to a 
train. I didn't know the old harridan had 
that in her. I made up my mind to queer 
her little game. 

I left Marie my raincoat, told her to wait 
for me, and I started back for the station, 
hot as I could foot it. I got on the phone, 
called long distance, got Holmes, made plain 
the whole game, and told him to get the 
fastest car in town and burn up the roads 
coming out. 

Believe me, he did. He came up in a long 
roadster, driving it himself, and in a jiffy 
I was in it and we were going toward the 

As I got in, I decided it was time for ad- 
vice from an old man. 

"Sonny," I said, putting my arm on his 
shoulder, "things can't go on this way. It's 
up to you to do something. It might as well 
be now." 

When he looked up at me he saw what I 

"Thanks, Pop, I'm going to do it — right 

And as we shook hands I looked at him 
and I knew what he meant. 

It was just sunset when we got to the field 
and Marie was sitting on the edge of it, 
waiting for us. I knew my business and 
I stayed in the car. Holmes knew his, and 
he didn't. 

It took her a little by surprise when she 
saw he'd come out for her, and that sort of 
broke her. He took her by the arm and I 
saw her head bend and her shoulders shake 
with sobs. 

With his arm in hers Holmes led her 
slowly down the walk along the field and 
I saw he was talking earnestly. He didn't 
talk long — he didn't have to. And then she 
bent her head — but it wasn't to cry. 

After a few minutes they came back to 
the car, Marie smiling sunbeams at me. 

"Pop," said Holmes, "are you in a hurry? 
I want you to come in town with us for a 

"My time's yours," I said. 

Well, we drove to town to a comfy little 
cottage with a minister in it, and after a 
few minutes I kissed Marie and was grip- 
ping Holmes with both hands. 

"Pop," he said, "I want to write a little 
note. Will you take it to the studio with 
my compliments?" 

And he wrote: 

"Mr. and Mrs. James Holmes beg to sub- 
mit their resignation to the New World Film 
Company. They are going on a little trip." 

I^DGAR LEWIS, director of the Box Office Attractions studios on Jersey City 
•*-"' Heights, engaged a number of "extras" recently in New York. In instruct- 
ing them about their work Mr. Lewis said: 

"I cannot give you any better advice, than Shakespeare put into the mouth 
of Hamlet: 

" 'Do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently ; 
for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, the whirlwind of passion, 
you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. Oh, it 
offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion 
to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most 
part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-shows and noise. I would 
have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod. Suit 
the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, 
that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature.' " 

Mr. Lewis completely forgot his audience and "declaimed" the lines with 
such vigor that when he finished a round of applause greeted him. 

"We will now rehearse the wedding ceremony," said Mr. Lewis, much em- 
barrassed. "Larry, turn the crank!" 

Antonio Novelli— the Man on the Horse— Played the Part of Cxsar in This Immense Production 


Rome Wasn't Built in a Day 

It took eighteen months to reproduce the city for the 
movies — and 20,000 people to fill its streets and houses 

R E 

, EMEMBER that a false move spoils 
an entire scene," says George Kleine, 
the film magnate who recently 
startled the motion picture world with his 
mammoth spectacle "Julius Caesar," in an 
interesting discussion of the troubles that 
his producers encountered in handling the 
twenty thousand people appearing in the 
great "mob" scenes. "Remember that aside 
from the cast of principals, nearly all of 
these twenty thousand people were untrained 
picture folk and that many of them had 
never been nearer a motion picture than the 
front seat in a 'cinematograph show.' So it 
was a big task for Director Guazzoni to 
impress each and every one with the gravity 
of the work and the necessity for absolute 
obedience. We needed every man, woman 
and child in those big scenes and we did not 
want to discharge anyone. Yet it was cer- 
tainly aggravating when some fellow would 
grin into the eye of the camera and, in 
the lexicon of the craft, 'crab' the scene. 
And remember, too, if the Director did not 
catch him in the act and the flaw in the 
scene slipped by to be found later when the 
film had been developed and printed, it 
might become necessary to reassemble all 

those people, pay them for another day's 
work and take the scene all over again. 

"Never have I seen a man handle a crowd 
better than Director Guazzoni. He is a 
slightly built man with a strong personality, 
a quick eye and a most remarkable way 
of getting people to do as he wishes. But 
no one man could get around in such a vast 
throng and deliver instructions personally. 
Guazzoni, therefore, appointed a number of 
colonels, captains and lieutenants, each re- 
sponsible to the officer above him from whom 
he received his instructions, and each lieu- 
tenant responsible for himself and nine 
others. In this way he would convey his 
idea to his colonels, who in turn, would 
pass the instructions down the line to the 
officers below them, explaining the purpose 
and action of the scene. In Caesar's 
triumphal procession there had to be en- 
thusiasm, gesticulating, waving of palms, 
etc., while in the scenes depicting Caesar's 
funeral the action had to be quite the re- 

"Guazzoni certainly had his hands full," 
laughed Mr. Kleine, "when he made the 
scenes that followed the assassination. He 
was just three solid days getting the ac- 




tion he wanted. Keeping twenty thousand 
people on your pay roll to get one scene 
puts an awful strain on your artistic ap- 
preciation, but we simply had to have that 
scene. It was necessary to the story. With 
Antony delivering his famous oration in 
the Market Place, the crowd had to be 
stirred from sluggish indifference to inter- 
est and then finally to the fury that results 
in pillage, murder and fire. It isn't hard 
for picture folk, but it did seem impossible 
for that crowd to understand what was 
wanted. The Director was to fire his re- 
volver as the signal for the crowd to begin 
shouting and running. They shouted and 
ran all right, but they ran mostly into each 
other to the vast confusion of the whole 
scene. It was rehearsed again and again 
but not until the third day did it begin to 
look spontaneous and natural. We wasted 
2,700 feet of negative film getting a scene 
that shouldn't have taken over 100 feet in 
the first place. There was no telling what 
temperamental touch any one of them might 
decide to add at the last moment, despite 
repeated rehearsals. 

"In the senate chamber after Caesar's 
death, several hundred senators are seized 
with panic and rush madly through a cor- 
ridor about twenty feet wide. Of course all 
these senators wear their togas, and to 
spring up suddenly and run with those long, 
white garments trailing about their feet 
makes an accident insurance policy desirable. 
Invariably in the rehearsals someone would 
trip and a crowd of dignified Roman sena- 
tors would pile up behind him. To lift the 
gowns up around their waists and run seemed 
the only logical thing to do, and I do not 
doubt but that the senators did that very 
sensible thing when the assassination ac- 
tually occurred, but, of course, we couldn't 
do that without utterly ruining the gravity 
of the scene." 

The staging of any motion picture is no 
small task. In an ordinary picture usually 
twenty or thirty scenes must be built, ap- 
propriate furniture provided, costumes, etc. 
The tremendous labor involved in the mere 
preparation for such a subject as "Julius 
Caesar" can hardly be understood by the 
average layman. Twenty thousand people 

A Scene in the Senate Chamber Which Required Many Re-takes Before a Satisfactory Film Was Secured 


I 17 

The Above Picture Is Evidence of the Great Number of People Who Took Part in this Production 

must be provided with twenty thousand cos- 
tumes, each correct in detail, denoting the 
social station and nationality of the wearer. 
For instance, to distinguish him from the 
freeman, the Roman slave is marked by the 
cut and nature of his garments. The Roman 
civilian is not to be confused, by the passer- 
by, with the patrician. Both the senator and 
the warrior has each his own position in the 
social strata, and his niche in life is desig- 
nated by the clothes he wears. All these 
tilings must be considered in the manu- 
facture of costumes. Eighteen seamstresses 
working steadily, by the aid of electric sew- 
ing machines, consumed five months in the 
manufacture of costumes for "Julius Caesar." 
The material was purchased in wholesale 
quantities direct from the mills at Birming- 
ham, England, and the patterns laid out 
from water color sketches. 

"Caesar" contains nearly two hundred 
scenes, each of which had to be especially 
constructed from colored sketches also. Each 
chair, desk, stylus, every bit of statuary and 
even the ornamental decoration of the doors 
and walls had to be historically accurate. 

These things were the work of not one but 
many minds. Several well known Parisian 
authorities on antiquities were hired to 
supervise the detail of the sketches and 
their word was law. A miniature city 
of Rome was built covering a space equiva- 
lent to six square city blocks. Eight cars of 
concrete were used in the construction of a 
Gallic fortress which Caesar's army storms 
and destroys. Two hundred carpenters and 
stone masons, eighty stage carpenters and 
their assistants and twelve motion picture 
directors were engaged in the big studio 
yards for more than eighteen months before 
the first scene was taken. Then, too, there 
were thirty vessels to construct and make 
seaworthy. When everything had been made 
ready, every employment agency in Rome 
was called upon for unemployed men and 
women. Hence, there is but little wonder 
that even King "Victor Emanuel, accom- 
panied by the President of the Bank of 
Rome, found the time and inclination to 
visit the big motion picture plant during the 
staging of the picture, that is probably one 
of the most marvelous of today. 


Players With Their Own Plays" 

By Vanderheyden Fyles 

THH invading army of "legitimate" 
actors still advances on Screenland 
in astounding numbers. And with 
them, in most instances, they bring pictur- 
ized versions of plays with which their 
names were intimately associated in the 
spoken drama. That is as it should be — 
of what account is the name of Jefferson 
without its twin one, Rip Van Winkle? Un- 
happily, the famous and beloved Joe died 
before the motion picture play had been de- 
veloped to a point quite worthy of his art 
and standing. Since then Sarah Bernhardt, 
Mrs. Fiske, practically all the famous play- 
ers of to-day except Maude Adams, who 
steadfastly refuses to be filmed, have been 
recorded to be seen (if not heard) by future 
generations. Joseph Jefferson and Henry 
Irving missed that privilege by a very few 
years. That the former, at least, would 
have availed himself of it seems certain from 
the frequency with which he bewailed the 
fact, in written words and in addresses to 
more or less distinguished assemblages, that 
whereas the work of the author, painter, 
sculptor, architect endures, the actor's dies 
with him, leaving nothing but a memory, 
rapidly grown dim and soon effaced. "Are 
we so soon forgot?" Had the comedian sur- 
vived until the present high development of 
the motion picture, his lament would have 

been robbed of something of its poignancy 
As it is, a very fair idea of Joseph Jeffer- 
son's personality and charm and methods 
may be gained from the five-part adaptation 
of the Washington Irving story filmed by 
the B. A. Rolfe Corporation and released 
through the Alco Company, because the 
famous role of Rip is filled by Thomas Jef- 
ferson. That son of the comedian resembles 
his father in many physical attributes, and 
through years of constant study he acquired 
every movement, glance and gesture prac- 
ticed by him in the role of the lazy loafer 
of the Catskills. For many years before the 
elder Jefferson's death, Thomas headed his 
company in "Rip Van Winkle" during half 
of every season. The venerable comedian 
was the Rip of the organization during the 
autumn and the spring months, but during 
the winter he left the son, who is most like 
him to face the frosty weather and retired 
to his comfortable estate in Florida — and 

Not many stories among the classics lend 
themselves as readily to pictures as "Rip 
Van Winkle," and the Rolfe Corporation has 
taken good advantage of its possibilities. 
For one thing, the story of the kindly, lazy, 
shiftless lover of children and dumb ani- 
mals — and of the cup that cheers — who is 
driven out into the storm by his shrewish 

W* R l 

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Charles Richman Flays the Lead in "The Man from Home" the Lasky Production 




Not Many Stories among the Classics Lend Themselves as Readily to Pictures as Does "Rip Van Winkle" 

wife, wanders far into the mountains, meets 
strange little gnomes, drinking from kegs of 
some mysterious wine and playing at bowls 
but never speaking, who quaffs deep of the 
liquor himself, sleeps for twenty years and 
finally awakes an old man, to find all 
changed in his native village, is as simple 
as it is imaginative and humorous and ap- 
pealing. There is no reason why any doubt 
or confusion should result because of the 
absence of spoken words and, in tills version, 
there is none. A person who had never 
heard the story (if it were not that there 
ain't no such animal) could follow it with- 
out reading a single subtitle. Only Rip's 
famous toast is missed. 

To more than balance that, we have moun- 
tain scenes entirely impossible in the thea- 
tre, mountains whose wonders were not even 
suggested by the scenic artists employed by 
Mr. Jefferson, for he was so generous with 
his own family and with everybody who 
needed help that he had to make his art pay 
to the last penny and, to that end, he em- 
ployed a very inexpensive company and used 
inadequate scenery. The photoplay does not 
cover itself with much glory in the matter 

of the thunderstorm that rages when Dame 
Van Winkle drives Rip and his dog Schnei- 
der from their humble home in the village 
of Falling Water; but the story gains great- 
ly — to say nothing of the pictorial beauty 
of the views — by the many pictures repre- 
senting Rip's wanderings through the Cats- 
kill wildernesses and his ascent of the 
haunted mountain. Then, too, an effect of 
the supernatural not possible on the stage 
is attained in the matter of the silent 
gnomes. The "double exposure" is used 
skilfully, first with the little bearded man 
carrying the cask of potent liquor that Rip 
could not resist, and later and in various 
ways for the appearance from nowhere and 
disappearance to the same place of Hendrick 
Hudson's crew. 

If a photoplay required any excuse beyond 
that of supplying good entertainment, "Rip 
Van Winkle" could be recommended as an 
excellent way of acquainting a child with 
an immortal classic — excellent because there 
is no more agreeable or thorough way of 
being educated than by unconscious absorp- 
tion. On the other hand, there is the mat- 
ter of "Who paid the rent for Mrs. Rip Van 

In 'Lola" All the Pictures Appear the Same Distance from the Camera and the Figures are Life-Size 



Mr. Eichman Bears Tip Bravely in the Production That Was the Making of William T. Hodge 

Winkle when Rip Van Winkle went away." 
In the Jefferson play, that question was 
lightly passed over by dropping the curtain 
on the fourth act with Rip falling asleep on 
the mountaintop and raising it on the fifth 
twenty years later, with practically no gos- 
sip about Falling Water society in the 
interim supplied. Of course, defenders of 
the old play might point out that the ques- 
tion of the rent was not raised until Sam 
Bernard appeared in "The Belle of Bond 
Street." However, with its broader scope, 
the photoplay answers the impertinent ques- 
tion for all time. It shows us with our own 
eyes just what went on in Falling Water 
while Dame Van Winkle's husband was liv- 
ing up to that other blithesome ditty that de- 
clared that Rip Van Winkle was a lucky 
man, Rip Van Winkle went away, and slept 
for twenty happy years in the mountains, so 
they say — how lucky! Who did pay the rent 
for Mrs. Rip Van Winkle? Well, I shan't 
tell you. Go and see for yourself. The film 
is good enough to reward much more than 
your curiosity. 


Highly educational though it doubtless is, 

there is nothing classical about "Lola" — 
unless it is the husky life-saver's legs. He 
parades them in the moonlight on the beach 
at Atlantic City and they reappear in Lola's 
dreams. Di mi, di mi, what goings on! 

The photoplay is an adaptation of the 
drama of the same name by Owen Davis, in 
which Laurette Taylor acted at the Lyceum 
Theatre in New York for just one lone per- 
formance — no more, no less. Perhaps it was 
an occasion, to paraphrase the late great 
Gilbert, when the absence of a pair of legs 
was keenly felt. Anyway, the Apollo of the 
Atlantic City beach is pretty sure to stir 
things up in Screenland. On the other hand, 
Clara Kimball Young is so beautiful in what- 
ever costume that she cannot appear even 
on the screen without starting something. 
"Lola" is the first of the Clara Kimball 
Young "features" to be released by the World 
Film Corporation. 

James Young has made the adaptation of 
the Owen Davis play. The technical nov- 
elty lies in the fact that not one picture 
varies in distance from another. The figures 
always appear on the screen in exactly life- 
size. That means considerable sacrifice in 

Theodore Roberts is Co-Starred with Mr Richman 




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Laura Sawyer Is the Leading Lady in "Ode of Millions'' 

the matter of scenic effects — the backgrounds 
are sometimes simple to the point of bar- 
renness. But those things tend to concen- 
trate attention on the characters, which is 
doubtless the intention, as the drama is a 
psychic study. 

Lola, played with charm and skill by Mrs. 
Young, is the daughter of a scientist who 
has discovered a medical process by which, 
under certain conditions, he can restore life 
to a body several hours after death. Lola, 
a gentle, housewifely soul, whose every 
thought is sweet and pure and whose sole 
concern is the welfare of her father, meets 
with an accident that proves fatal. Some 
hours later, her father restores life to her 
body. Were he more familiar with Long- 
fellow — "was not spoken of the soul" — he 
might have been less hasty. For, while the 
doctor's great invention can restore life, it 
cannot call back the soul. That is God's. 
A fine effect, impossible on the stage, is 
gained by trick photography when the in- 
nocent and lovely girl that is the soul of 
Lola passes out and upward from the body 
that held it. 

The body, if you must know, goes to At- 

lantic City. There it meets the Apolloesque 
life-guard. Lola, bereft of soul but with her 
beauty unimpaired, is "some" siren. She 
throws over her honorable fiance and elopes 
with a married millionaire. Then she meets 
the life-guard. Her scenes with him (except 
for a scanty bathing-suit, he is dressed only 
in moonlight) are bound to make their im- 
pression. Also, they may boom trade for 
Atlantic City. And, furthermore, they an- 
noy the millionaire. However, his money is 
disappearing and Lola is ready for another 
(financially sound) protector. Nor has she 
any difficulty in finding one. But presently 
she falls ill and is informed that she has 
not long to live. So she enjoys several 
dreams about the life-guard that hardly can 
be good for her, under the circumstances, 
and then recalls her father's life-restoring 
invention. She hastens to New York to con- 
sult him. What matters a death or two to 
Lola? — father can revive her. Life with 
Lola is just one death after another. But 
father does not see things her way. He is 
dismayed at the havoc he has wrought 
(among life-guards and others) by turning 
loose a woman with a body but no soul. 

"The Seats of the Mighty" was Produced by T. Haynes Hunter for the Colonial Motion Picture Co. 



With a mighty hammer, he smashes his in- 
vention to atoms. Lola drops dead. Then 
the innocent spirit floats down from heaven 
to gaze on the poor sinful body that once 
held it. 

Probably I am too frivolous and shallow 
to appreciate such a profound study as 
"Lola," but its moonlight scenes kept re- 
minding me of the song about the London 
Johnnies who frequented a certain theatre 
to "study the psychic effect of high kick." 

"The County Chairman" and "His Last 
Dollar" have been filmed with the original 
actors of their leading roles appearing on 
the screen, but new faces are seen in "Shore 
Acres" and "The Man from Home." That 
was necessary, of course, in the case of the 
famous old New England drama, as James 
A. Heme, who wrote it and who played its 
central character, died more than fourteen 
years ago. His place is ably taken by 
Charles A. Stevenson, who surprises every- 
body by showing that he can act without 
white gloves. A New England farmer is 
something uncommon for him, and therefore 
his success is doubly creditable. 

Louis Reeves Harrison has made the five- 
reel adaptation produced by the All-Star 
Feature Corporation, under the direction of 
John H. Pratt, and he has wisely adhered 
pretty closely to Mr. Heme's drama. The 
result is a simple and appealing photoplay 
that retains much of the charm of the orig- 
inal, and not a hackneyed melodrama, which 
might readily have developed. For Mr. 
Heme's story was conventional enough, even 
twenty years ago, and his four acts con- 
tained only one "thrill." A scenario-writer 
might easily have felt required to inject 
more excitement into the story to avoid dull- 
ness and the most obvious suggestions at 
hand would have led to utter hackneydom. 

Nathan'l and Martin Barry are old men 
when the play starts, owners of an unpro- 
ductive farm on the coast of Maine. In their 
youth, Martin won his brother's sweetheart 
away from him — he and the kindly house- 
wife now have a family of sons and daugh- 
ters, while . gentle old Nathan'l is a lonely 
bachelor. But disappointment has tended 
only to keep his lovable nature as sweet and 
generous as ever, whereas happiness has 
made Martin grow hard and cruel. 

.It is the conflict of those characters that 
makes the play, though the story that serves 
as a peg on which to hang it concerns Mar- 

tin's eldest daughter. She loves the village 
doctor; but her father insists that she marry 
a real estate agent from the city, to whom 
he has mortgaged the desirable shore acres 
of the farm. The plan is to convert them 
into lots for summer cottages. Helen can- 
not bear the thought of marrying where she 
does not love; and when she confides in 
Uncle Nathan'l, he tells her what it means 
to be separated forever from the one one 
loves and he connives at her elopement with 
the doctor. 

When Mr. Heme produced "Shore Acres," 
it lacked the "punch," although that word 
was not to be added to jargon of Broadway 
until many, many years thereafter. It was 
simply a rural comedy, starting in the fields 
at haying time, pausing for a delightful pic- 
ture of home life on a winter's evening in a 
down East farmhouse, and concluding with 
a Christmas dinner of assembled relatives 
and neighbors, at which a real turkey was 
cooked and eaten and could be smelled 
across the footlights. But though that com- 
edy was praised by high authorities as a 
notable example of the then new art of 
realism on the stage, it failed to draw the 

Then Mr. Heme wrote in an act to go 
between the third and fourth, illustrating 
what before had only been described, and the 
fortune of the play was made. It is that 
incident that serves the All-Star Feature 
Corporation greatly. To escape the unwel- 
come husband chosen by her father, Helen 
and the doctor elope in a more or less un- 
seaworthy boat on a fearfully stormy night. 
It is part of NathanTs duties to tend the 
lighthouse, on a rocky point off the farm. 
Martin, knowing that his disobedient daugh- 
ter is in the tossing boat, determines that 
the signal shall not light it on its way 
from sure destruction. While the wind 
howls' and the angry waves crash thunder- 
ingly against the rocks, the old men fight it 
out in the lighthouse. That was Mr. Heme's 
new act, ending with a canvas picture of the 
tempest-tossed ship and the appearance of 
the guiding light in the far off tower. Of 
course, that offered a splendid opportunity 
on the screen and it has been well realized, 
with alternating pictures of the old men in 
the lighthouse and of the storm-tossed vessel. 

In these days of talking movies, it may be 
necessary to mention that the aroma of the 
Christmas turkey is not attempted on the 



As far from his accustomed element as 
Mr. Stevenson in overalls instead of evening 
clothes is Charles Richman without a crush- 
hat or a title. However, he bears up bravely 
and appears as the Hoosier cut-up traveling 
in Europe in "The Man from Home," the 
part that was the making of William T. 
Hodge. Theodore Roberts is co-starred with 
Mr. Richman, playing a Russian Grand Duke 
and Anita King is leading lady. 

Several highly effective incidents not con- 
tained in the original comedy by Booth 
Tarkington and Harry Leon Wilson (doubt- 
less mentioned or described — my memory of 
"The Man from Home" is hazy) have been 
added by the unnamed author of the five- 
reel "feature" produced by the Jesse L. 
Lasky Company. One of these is the ex- 
plosion of a mine in Siberia that brings 
about the escape of a convict, the pursuit 
of whom forms the subject of the play. An- 
other exciting adventure is his escape across 
the Russian border. He has contrived to 
bide himself in the hay heaped high on a 
wagon. At the frontier, the Russian sol- 
diers, too lazy to search the hay, load their 
rifles, fire a volley through it and allow the 
wagon to pass on. But the escaped Siberian 
convict comes through alive to make his way 
to Italy to involve the Indiana hero, a crafty 
Russian grand duke, an American heiress, 
an English nobleman and his empty-headed 
son and heir, and the faithless wife of the 
hunted convict in an imbroglio that em- 
braces to many lands. 


David Higgins appears on the screen in 
his old role in "His Last Dollar," which he 
wrote (with a collaborator) and acted in 
about ten years ago. He plays the part well, 
though his age is too evident to make us 
believe in his ability to dash forward at the 
eleventh hour to take the place of a disabled 
Jockey and win the Futurity. That point 
was hard enough to swallow a decade ago 
even with the help of artificial lights. 

However, there are enough thrills in "His 
Last Dollar" to make it an exceptionally 
popular "attraction." 

The play was simply conventional melo- 
drama, well enough carried off, canvasly 
speaking, but the Famous Players' picturiza- 
tion is so good that the great race is very 
much the swooping thrill that it used to be 
in actuality. 


George Ade's comedy of "The County 

Chairman" has been made over into a four- 
reel photoplay by the Famous Players' Film 
Company and the workmanship calls for 
special praise, the film being remarkably 
well photographed and tinted. Then, too, 
the acting is uncommonly good, with Mac- 
lyn Arbuckle and Willis Sweatnam in their 
old parts of the genial, shrewd, well-bal- 
anced, typically American politician in an 
Illinois town and Sassafras Livingston, a 
negro who reaps a harvest of cigars and 
other bribes from each of the contending 
party-managers. Due largely to them, an 
entertaining substitute for George Ade's wit 
is supplied ; but in this instance, it would be 
absurd to pretend that the photoplay is com- 
parable with the spoken one. 

Still another argument against war is put 
before us in "One of the Millions," the first 
"release" in the World Film Corporation 
program of the Dyreda Art Film Company. 
In a scenic sense, it has been surpassed by 
more than one of the many war photo- 
graphs; but whoever conceived and wrote 
the scenario showed a vivid sense of dra- 
matic climax. The land in which the action 
passes is left to conjecture, but Russia is a 
safe guess. A couple of peasants are being 
married amid much merrymaking when a 
courier rides across the village green, call- 
ing for soldiers to defend their country. 
The girls and boys are all excitement over 
the "romance" of war: only the old mother 
of Gladimir, the bridegroom, appreciates the 
reality. Gladimir goes off with the others 
to the war. His young wife dreams of his 
glorious successes and the honors they will 
bring him, these visions appearing in the 
cottage fireplace by means of the "double 
exposure." There is a battle near the vil- 
lage and several girls venture toward it, 
thrilled by the glamour of romantic war. But 
when, instead of something beautiful, they 
come upon a mangled corpse by the road- 
side, they are disillusionized and terrified. 

One of Gladimir's friends is badly wounded 
and sent back to the village. He tells of the 
bridegroom's death. The young wife and 
the mother set forth to recover the body. 
Finding it at last, they bring it home. The 
old mother props it up in a chair in the 
bridal chamber. At this the young bride's 
reason collapses. And then, as if this were 
not enough horror, another and then another 
is added. It is heart-rending though perhaps 
not an effective argument against war. 

"The Test" 

In which a man goes thru fire 
and water for his sweetheart 

JIM LUCAS strode 
along the deck of 
the sailing ship 
"Dauntless" w i t h a 
smile on his lips. He 
was thinking about Jo, 
and a cottage he knew on shore. Jo was 
Captain Duggan's daughter and the girl that 
Jim was going to marry as soon as the 
"Dauntless" reached home on this, the Cap- 
tain's last voyage. For Captain Duggan's 
continued ill health had persuaded him that 
it was time for him to retire. He planned 
to live on shore with his daughter and Jim 
in the white cottage. He was tired of the 
sea; and Jo, who had for two years now 
accompanied her father on his voyages, 
wanted a home of her own and friends. And 
so Jim smiled happily as he walked the 
deck. All that he hoped for was about to 
come to pass. 

But as Jim swung round the corner of 
the after-house he stopped short. There was 
Jo, as he expected. But with her was Hor- 
ace Blake, the young millionaire who was 
the only passenger aboard the "Dauntless" — 
unless Jo was counted as a passenger. Her 

By John Oscar 

Scenario by James Oliver Curwood 

Illustrated from the Selig Film, Featuring Bessie 
Eyton and Tom Sahchi 

face -was partly turned 
away, so that Jim could 
not see her expression. 
But he could see that 
Horace Blake was bend- 
ing over her, talking 
eagerly. His lips were so near hers that Jim 
thought the man was about to kiss her. 
Jim's first impulse was to rush toward them. 
His next to turn and slip away. They were 
so engaged with each other that they neither 
saw nor heard him as he tip-toed out of 

Jim went below and sat down on the edge 
of his berth. Now that he was alone he 
could not believe that he had seen aright. 
"I must have dreamed it," he said to him- 
self. Was it possible that his Jo, who loved 
him, would listen even for a moment, to 
another man? Of course not. He took from 
his pocket the photograph of the cottage 
on shore. He and Jo had often looked at 
it together. Could it be possible that she 
had given up the dream it represented to 
him? It was incredible that she had. There 
might be any number of explanations for 
her apparent acquiescence to Horace Blake's 



lovemaking. Perhaps she did not realize 
that it was lovemaking. In five minutes 
Jim had persuaded himself that it was all 
an optical illusion, that Jo was leading Hor- 
ace on in order to make fun of him after- 
ward, that Jo was an utterly untrustworthy 
creature in whom any man was foolish to 
put the slightest trust, that she was the 
truest sweetheart man ever had, and of a 
dozen other equally contradictory theories. 
He could stand it no longer. He had to 
speak to Jo. He went on deck and paced 
back and forth until he saw Horace enter 
the companionway, then he hurried aft to 
find Jo. 

She welcomed him with the smile he had 
come to know so well, and to love so much. 
He put his arm around her and she leaned 
toward him responsively. He showed her 
the picture of the cottage and she smiled up 
at him and kissed him. But Jim was not 
satisfied. He wanted some assurance from 
her in words. 

"Jo," he said, "I came along the deck a 
few r minutes ago and saw you standing here 
with that Blake. I was sure he was making 
love to you." 

"What nonsense!" Jo answered promptly. 
"Why should he?" 

"Why should he? Why, because you are 
the prettiest girl he ever saw in his life, 
because — " 

"Well, he was trying to flirt with me a 
little," Jo admitted. "But it didn't amount 
to anything. He didn't take it seriously and 
I didn't either. I love you and I haven't 
the least little bit of an interest in Horace 

And when Jo said this she quite believed 
it, for she was an honest young woman. 
Jim believed it also. How could he help it, 
the more especially when she kissed him 

"I've got to go below now," Jo said. "I 
oughtn't to have left father as long as I 

"All right, sweetheart," Jim responded 
cheerily. "Go ahead." 

Jo found her father sitting in his long 
chair staring at the bulkhead in front of 
him. He looked very thin and gray and 
weak. She sat down on the arm of his chair 
and tried to cheer him. But he could talk 
of nothing except the day when the "Daunt- 

She Sat Down to Read Aloud to Him in the Hope That the Book would Take 
His Mind off His Suffering Body 



They Stood in the Stem of the Boat. She Was Dry-eyed but Her Face was Drawn with Pain 

less" should cast anchor in the harbor at 
home and the boat would take them ashore. 
His insistence worried Jo. It was so un- 
natural that her father, who had been so 
strong and who had loved the sea for so 
many years, should turn against ships and 
long for a life on shore, like any landlubber 
with his first touch of seasickness. She 
knew that his fits of depression were always 
followed by the spells of coughing which 
were so dangerous to him. The doctor had 
warned her that her father's heart might 
give way at any moment under the strain. 
She sat down beside his chair to read aloud 
to him in the hope that the book would take 
his mind off his suffering body. In a few 
minutes he was asleep and Jo tip-toed out. 

It was the first spare time she had had 
to herself that day. She realized that she 
would like to meet Horace again. It was 
pleasant to attract the attention of a man 
who knew women of wealth and fashion. 
But how silly of Jim to take Horace seri- 
ously! As she came on deck she saw that 
Jim was busy forward, superintending 
the work of setting some of the light sails 
of the "Dauntless." Horace Blake was lean- 

ing on the rail near at hand. He turned 
and came toward her. He invited her to a 
corner screened by the after-house. She re- 
alized that Horace chose the place because 
it was a secluded one; she felt that she 
ought not to accept his invitation; but she 
was too curious to refuse. At least she told 
herself it was curiosity which persuaded her. 
She knew that she ought to go back to her 
father. But she remained to listen to Blake. 
As he talked she thought how good-look- 
ing he was. And his carefully modulated 
voice, the apparent deference of his manner, 
together with his eagerness, which so flat- 
tered her, were immensely pleasant. She 
did not wish Jim were as well dressed, as 
well mannered, and as well educated as this 
man. She did not think of Jim at all for 
the moment. When Horace put his arm 
around her she would have jerked away, but 
he did it so gently. He bent his head. She 
felt rather than saw his lips approach her 
cheek. Now was the time to run away. But 
she did not want to run. If she ran away 
she would never know whether Horace Blake 
really intended to kiss her or not; and, 
besides, what would it be like? No man had 



ever kissed her, except Jim. And as she 
wondered, his lips brushed her cheek. In- 
voluntarily, or so it seemed, she turned her 
face up and Horace kissed her full on the 
lips. Then Jo, frightened a little at what 
she had done, thrust Horace from her and 
ran down the companionway to her father's 

Her father was sitting just as she had 
left him, apparently asleep. But as she 
closed the door behind her his eyes slipped 
open. He smiled wanly at her and, without 
warning, burst into a violent paroxysm of 
coughing. Jo rushed to the little cupboard 
for the bottle of medicine, poured some 
into a glass half full of water, and held it 
to her father's lips. He tried to drink but 
could not. The cough racked him from head 
to foot. Jo could only look on in terror. 
As the paroxysm spent itself her father's 
head fell back and he slid limply down in 
his chair, breathing painfully. She saw that 
his face was gray. 

"Father," she cried. 

Captain Duggan tried weakly to raise his 
head, his lips moved feebly, and then he was 
still. Jo put her arm around his shoulders 
and tned to raise him. He slipped limp 

from her arms. She felt for his pulse but 
could not find it. She looked wildly around 
the room. Then she screamed Jim's name 
at the top of her voice and waited, listen- 
ing. There was no answer to her cry, but 
there was the sound of running feet on the 
deck; men were shouting hoarsely; some 
one was chopping with an ax; she heard the 
heavy blows repeated. As she stood listen- 
ing in terror Jim came hurtling down the 
companionway and burst open the door of 
the cabin. 

"It's a fire, Jo," he said. "You and your 
father had better come on deck. We can't 
take any chances with oil in the hold. We 
may be able to put it out, but I am afraid 
it is pretty bad." 

Jim was breathless, but he spoke calmly 
enough. Jo seemed not to hear him. She 
stood looking at her father as though in a 

"Look sharp," Jim said, in the tone he 
used on deck when the "Dauntless" was 
coming about on a new tack. "You must 
come on deck, I tell you." 

Jo's only answer was to sink down beside 
her father. Jim saw. 

"Why, he's fainted," he said. 

He Overtook Her as She Reached the Ship's Side and Seized a Rope 



"No," Jo said. "He's— he's— " 

"Dead?" Jim said. 

The next moment Horace Blake's face, 
distorted with fear, appeared in the door- 

"Come up on deck, Mr. Lucas," he cried. 
'The fire is gaining every minute and the 
men haven't begun to lower the boats. 
Hurry. For God's sake, hurry!" 

Jim jumped up the companionway to the 
deck. He saw at a glance that Blake was 
right. The fire was gaining. It was only a 
question of time. He shouted to the boat- 

"Stand by to lower the boat," he ordered. 
He saw the men tear the cover off the boat 
and went back to the cabin. 

"Come, Jo," he said. 

"Father's dead," Jo sobbed. 

"I know," Jim answered, "and we'll all be 
dead too if we don't hurry. It's life or death 
now and the boat is the only chance. We've 
got to leave your father with the ship. He 
wouldn't ask a better way than to go down 
with his ship." 

"But not to be burned," Jo shrieked wildly. 
"Not to be burned!" 

"Come, Jo," Jim said. 

"I won't leave him," she sobbed, crouching 
closer over her father. 

Jim saw that words were useless. He 
stooped and picked her up in his arms, and 
carried her up on deck. As his eye again 
took in the scene, he saw Blake rush blindly 
toward the boat hanging in her davits ready 
to be lowered. He was crazy with fear. 
One of the men caught him a swinging blow 
and knocked him into the scuppers. Before 
he could get up again Jim had placed Jo 
safely in the boat. The men climbed in. 
Horace scrambled madly over the rail. He 
would have crawled under a thwart if some 
one had not pushed him into the open space 

"Lower away!" Jim ordered, and the men 
at bow and stern let the lines they held go 
slowly through the blocks. The boat sank 
into the water on an even keel. There was 
little or no sea. But all about were flying 
sparks. The men pulled sharply away for 
three or four hundred yards and then rested 
on their oars to watch the doomed ship. The 
flames grew redder as the sky darkened 
behind them. The sun had already set. 

Jo stood in the stern of the boat beside 
Jim. She was dry-eyed now, but her face 
was drawn with pain. Her breast heaved. 

Of a sudden, without a word, she dived 
overboard and struck out for the ship. The 
boatswain shouted. 

"Hold her where she is," Jim ordered, 
and dived after Jo. 

Jo swam with the speedy crawl stroke, so 
that Jim, for all his wonderful strength, 
overtook her only as she reached the ship's 
side and seized one of the lines that trailed 
from the davits. Hand over hand she went 
up the side and over the rail. Jim disap- 
peared after her. 

The men in the boat watched anxiously, 
ready for a sharp spurt at the oars the 
minute the two figures reappeared but not 
daring, meanwhile, to row nearer than they 
were lest none of them should escape the 
great swirl when the ship went down. The 
angry flames rose higher and higher; a thin, 
yellow tongue crept up the mainsail; billows 
of smoke poured from the main hatch; and 
the sky grew dark until only the fire lit the 
water that lay between them and the ship. 

"We've got to row around by the stern of 
her," the boatswain observed. "They'll never 
be able to get over her port side. It's too 
hot already." And he gave the order. 

In the meantime, Jim and Jo worked 
fiercely in the cabin. In the darkness and 
the smoke they could hardly see or breathe. 
Jim seized sheets from the berth and 
wrapped the body of Captain Duggan in 
them, after the fashion of the sea. He bore 
it up on deck and laid it on the rail. Jo 
weakened at the last. She could not bear 
to take leave of her father. 

"Remember," Jim said firmly, "you're a 
sailor's daughter." 

Together they recited the Lord's prayer 
over the body and then it was dropped into 
the sea. 

Jim looked about him, every sense alert. 
The fire was raging amidships. There was 
no way to reach the boat which lay forward. 
He looked out over the sea. The boat was 
lost in the darkness. He shouted. But his 
voice was lost in the roaring crackle of the 
fire whose hot breath already scorched his 
hair. He seized two life-preservers from the 
pile on the after-house deck. One he put on 
Jo and strapped it tightly. The other he 
slipped around himself. They needed a 
plank, also, he thought. An ax still lay close 
to the hatch. Ducking his head, Jim ran 
toward it, grasped it, ripped off a plank with 
two movements of his great arms and shoul- 
ders and bore it back. One end of it was 



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already charred. It hissed as it struck the 
cool water. 

"Now, Jo," he said. 

With an effort, Jo grasped the rope Jim 
put in her hands. He helped her over the 
rail and she slid down the ship's side. The 
water felt chill as she sank into it. Revived 
by the shock she looked up and saw Jim was 
sliding down after her. She threw an arm 
over the plank and pushed off. In another 
moment they were together. 

"Kick hard," Jim said. "She'll blow up 
any minute now." 

Together they swam out into the dark, 
the great red glare behind them lighting 
their way a few yards ahead. 

"I can't swim any more, Jim," Jo gasped, 
her breath coming in sobs. "I've got to 
give up." 

Jim turned to look back. The ship was 
barely a hundred yards away. 

"Just ten more kicks," he commanded. 

Jo thrust out with her feet weakly. 


Jo thrust again. 

"Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! 
Eight! Ten!" 

But long before the ten was spoken Jo's 
head rested on the plank, her cheek in the 

Jim looked back. 

There was a rush and a roar and the flames 
filled the ship, bursting through the deck 
from bow to -stern. Higher and higher they 
leaped, redder and redder grew the glare, 
until the blazing ship seemed to fill the sky. 

Then, with a boom like the firing of a 
siege gun, the oil in the hold exploded. The 
ship broke in two amidships, the blazing 
ends sinking hissing into the water amid a 
shower of sparks. The red glare died down 
as the water crept up, a wave rolled back 
and over the two figures clinging to the 
plank, and the ship was gone. All about was 

dense darkness and the slow swell of the 

Jim tried to shout but only a hoarse, weak 
sound came from his lips. The only answer 
was from Jo. She roused herself and said: 

"Forgive me, Jim. I was a vain, silly fool. 
I was interested in Horace Blake. I let him 
kiss me after I told you I hadn't the slightest 
interest in him. I — " 

"I know, sweetheart," Jim said. 

"I know now that I love you, that I never 
did love anybody else. It doesn't matter 
what happens now, Jim, as long as we are 

Jim kissed her wet lips. 

"We'll have our cottage yet," he said. "We 
can't sink as long as we are in these life 
preservers and we can't drown as long as 
we can hold our heads up. And the boat is 
sure to find us before daylight." 

"I thought I couldn't hold my head up a 
minute longer, Jim," Jo said. "But I can 
now," she added valiantly. 

Jim tore a strap from his life preserver 
and lashed Jo to the plank. Then he tried 
to shout again. He thought he heard a faint 
"Hallo" in the distance, but he could not be 
sure. He resolved to save his strength. 

"I love you, Jim," Jo said, as her head 
sank lower. 

It was too dark to see, so Jim got one 
hand free and determined by feeling that her 
nose and mouth would not go beneath the 
surface, even if she fainted, and then he 
braced himself for the long, desperate wait 
for dawn. 

"I love you, Jo," he said. 

"Jim — " her voice trailed off as she sank 
into unconsciousness. 

And so the boat found them in the gray 
of the dawn. Jo was unconscious and Jim 
lay as one in a daze, but there was life in 
them still and when the boat was picked up 
a few hours later they had already revived 
enough to smile at each other. 

•\yf AMMA, 
iyM -"Jslo, yc 


may I go to the picture show this afternoon?" asked Peter, 
you can't," answered mamma, and went down town. 

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"Peter," she inquired, "who told you that you could go to the picture show?" 
"God did," responded Peter. "I asked him if I could go, and he didn't answer, 
and you know you always say that 'silence gives consent.' " 



The Fox Typewriter 




Mr. Edwin August 




FOX TYPEWRITER CO., NeW Y ° rk ' ° Ct - 26 ' 191<L 

Grand Rapids, Mich. 

Gentlemen : — Realizing that credit should be given where credit is due, I wish to 
take the liberty of informing you, as an owner of the Fox Visible Typewriter, that 
I have received satisfaction to the utmost. On your typewriter I have typed over three 
hundred scenarios, of which I was the author, and also produced and appeared in, 
during my long session with the Universal Film Manufacturing Company, by whom 
I was starred for two years. 

Now that I am managing producer of the Eaco Films Inc. I find that the Light 
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9691-9641 Front Ave. GRAND RAPIDS, MICH. 

From the Photoplay Magazine for Jan. 


The Notebook Habit 

NO writer, whether he be a scenario 
writer, a newspaper reporter, a poet, 
a novelist, or a dramatist, can afford 
to get along without a notebook in some 
form or other and the notebook habit of 
mind. The notebook habit of mind makes 
all the difference between having more 
material to write about on hand all the time 
than one can possibly use, and spending 
one's most valuable productive moods in 
looking for something to write about. There 
are times when we feel like writing more 
than at other times. And though no man ever 
became a valuable writer, or entitled to call 
himself a professional writer, who did not 
learn to write whether he happened to feel 
like it or not, no one is so foolish as to 
want to waste the times when he does feel 
like it. The way to make these occasions 
valuable is to carry a notebook (or a few 
cards of the same size) always in one's 
pocket — and to use it. There is not an in- 
telligent human being alive who does not 
see something, or think something, or feel 
something which interests him every hour 
of the day. But at night few people can 
remember anything interesting they have 
seen or felt or heard unless their day has 
been a particularly adventurous one. The 
way to harvest your thoughts, feelings, and 
ideas is to set them down when they happen. 
A word or two is often all that is necessary 
to refresh the memory. And if you carry 
cards three by five inches or four by six 
inches, such as are sold everywhere at sta- 
tionery stores, you can easily file your notes 
according to an alphabetical system (or 
some other) which will make them easy to 
refer to. 

On Appearances 

THE beginning scenario writer almost 
always is at a disadvantage because 
of the appearance of his "copy." The 
script he sends in does not look as if it 
had been written by a professional. That 
might make very little difference if scenario 
editors were absolutely perfect. But they 

are a good deal like the rest of us, in spite 
of their skill and knowledge. They judge 
things by appearances, just as we do, be-, 
cause though appearances are sometimes de- 
ceitful, appearances are pretty generally 
truthful. And scenario editors are occasion- 
ally terribly rushed. The result is that a 
script which looks as if it were a first at- 
tempt stands an excellent chance of being 
thrown into the basket of rejections without 
a careful reading. By the same token, a 
script that looks as if it had come from an 
old hand, simply because of the way in 
which it is typewritten and the form in 
which it is cast, is put aside for a second 
reading even if the first page does not con- 
tain anything which really interests the 
scenario-editor. He wants a chance to think 
twice about "copy"' that bears the appear- 
ance of professional work. And there is no 
reason in the world why the painstaking 
amateur cannot make his scripts look pro- 
fessional. It requires pains, but nothing 
more, to follow an established form for the 
scenario and write clean-looking "copy." 

Prize Contests 

TWO prize contests have been an- 
nounced during the last month which 
should be of especial interest to the 
nmateur photoplaywright. One was inaugu- 
rated by the New York "Dramatic Mirror" 
in collaboration with Thomas A. Edison, 

Mark Swan, author of the "Andy Series" 
and a score of other Edison photoplays, has 
written two-thirds of a one-reel photoplay 
which appeared in the issue of the "Dra- 
matic Mirror" of November 18th. The "Mir- 
ror" is offering a prize of $50 for the best 
ending to the story, four prizes of $10 each 
for the next best endings and a another 
$10 prize for the best title for the play. 

The completed photoplay will be produced 
by the Edison Company with full credit 
given on the screen to the prize winner 
whose ending is used. 

The contest closes January 9, 1915. 

The other contest was announced by the 



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Chicago "Tribune" on November 8th. The 
terms of the contest are given below: 

Five hundred dollars in prizes will be 
paid on Monday, February 1, 1915, for 
the three best two-reel dramatic or melo- 
dramatic scenarios offered in a contest 
conducted by this paper in conjunction 
with the Essanay Film Manufacturing 
Company. The prizes will rank as fol- 
lows : 

First prize, $250. 
Second prize, $150. 
Third prize, $100. 

Following are the conditions govern- 
ing the contest: 

Scenarios submitted must consist of 
neither more nor less than two reels; 
the plots must be either dramatic or 
melodramatic. Comedies, either straight, 
farce, slap-stick, or burlesque, will not 
be considered. 

Scenarios must be either typewritten 
or written in pen and ink and on one 
side of the paper only. 

The name of the author must not ap- 
pear on the scenarios. The author will 
write his or her name on a slip of 
paper, together with his address and the 
title of his manuscript. This slip of 
paper, with postage for return of scena- 
rio if unavailable, must be inclosed in 
a plain sealed envelope. The scenario 
and envelope must then be placed to- 
gether in an envelope for mailing. 

Address offerings to Contest Editor, 
"Right Off the Reel" Page, care of Chi- 
cago "Tribune." 

Stage vs. Screen 

THE encroachment of the movies on 
the theatre of spoken and acted 
drama continues. A significant indi- 
cation of this fact is the announcement 
made by the Chicago center of the Drama 
League of America that a series of lectures 
and discussions of the motion picture show 
will be the chief part of their program for 
the winter^f 1914-15. The first of the lec- 
tures was given on November 19 by one of 
our foremost American poets, Mr. Nicholas 
Vachel Lindsay. Mr. Lindsay lives in 
Springfield, Illinois, and is an ardent movie 
fan. The subject of his first lecture was 
"The Function of the Moving Picture Show 
in the Small Town and in the City Com- 

On December 10, Major Funkhouser of the 
Chicago Police Department will show to the 
Drama League the "cut-outs" that have been 
made by the Chicago Board of Censors dur- 
ing the preceding two months and he will 
speak in defense of the censorship, while 
Mr. Lucian Cary, associate editor of "The 
Dial," will speak against censorship. 

Other lectures, comparing the spoken and 
the movie drama, are being arranged for. 

The point of view of the Drama League 
is that the photoplay is a large and impor- 
tant part of drama in the United States 
which they would like to know more about. 
The leading members no longer feel resent- 
ful toward the moving picture show and 
contemptuous of its. popularity. In this con- 
nection, a letter from Hardley Thaire of 
Humboldt, Kansas, is of interest: 

Comedy vs. Drama 

THE young writer must realize the ne- 
cessity of deciding in advance as to 
whether the possibilities of his mate- 
rial are dramatic or comic. It is a rule, 
though of course there are exceptions, that 
the young writer tends to ignore the possi- 
bilities of comedy and to attempt to turn 
all that he has in his head into drama. The 
dramatic motive seems the bigger thing to 
him; and like all people who have observed 
but little, he tends to see it more often. A 
perception of the comic seems to require 
either uncommon talent or the mellowness 
that comes with years. But as a matter of 
fact there is ten times as much material for 
comedy in the world about us as for drama. 
Any scenario writer who can see this comic 
material is made for life. 

"Dear Sir: 

"The future of the 'Stage' and 'Screen' is 
an almost 'done-to-death' subject; but as 
the majority of opinions along this line seem 
to side strongly with one or the other, I 
hope it will not be inopportune to add one 
of a different trend. 

"You hear some one argue for the stage 
and tell how the 'movies' hurt — another for 
the movies with equal disregard for the 
stage. I will not try to cite their argu- 
ments. You have read them. I merely wish 
to express my opinion as to how ridiculous 
some of their theories appear to me. 

"Why should any one uphold one and cen- 
sure the other? (Of course we have a grain 
of sympathy for the individual who revolts 
when his flock seeks a fresh pasture.) Each 
play has its place and neither can vanquish 


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the other, however it may hinder the other's 
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"Motion pictures have made wonderful 
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Has your scenario conic back ? Or have you another? I will type- 
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25 Bissel Street, 

Where to Send Your Scripts 

The names and addresses of the film com- 
panies that are in the market for scenarios. 

ALL manuscripts must be typewritten. 
They should be folded, not rolled and 
addressed to Scenario Editor, with 
the address of the company following. A 
stamped, self-addressed envelope should al- 
ways be enclosed to be used in case of re- 

American Film Manufacturing Company, 
Santa Barbara, California. 

Balboa Amusement Producing Company, 
Long Beach, California. 

Biograph Company, 807 East 175th Street, 
New York, N. Y. 

Columbus Film Company, 110 West 40th 
Street, New York, N. Y. 

Crystal Film Company, 430 Wendover 
Avenue, New York, N. Y. 

Eaco Films, 110 West 40th Street, New 
York, N. Y. 

Thomas A. Edison, Inc., 2826 Decatur 
Avenue, Bronx, New York. 

Essanay Film Manufacturing Company, 
1333 Argyle Street, Chicago, 111. 

Euclid Film Company, Toledo, Ohio. 

Famous Players Film Company, 213-27 
West 26th Street, New York, N. Y. 

St. Louis Motion Picture Company, Santa 
Paula, California. 

Historical Feature Film Company, 105 
West Monroe Street, Chicago, 111. 

Holland Film Manufacturing Company, 
105 Lawrence Avenue, Dorchester, Mass. 

Kalem Company, 235 West 23rd Street, 
New York, N. Y. 

Keystone Film Company, 1712-19 Allesau- 
dro Street (Edendale) Los Angeles, Cali- 

Lubin Manufacturing Company, Indiana 
Avenue and 20th Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 

Miller Brothers, 101 Ranch, Bliss, Okla- 

Mutual Film Corporation, 4500 Sunset 
Boulevard, Los Angeles, California. 

New York Motion Picture Corporation, 
1712 Allesandro Street, Los Angeles, Cal. 

North American Film Corporation, 111 
Broadway, New York, N. Y. 

The Photoplay Entertainment Company, 
7311 Greenwood Street, Pittsburgh, Pa. 

B. A. Roll'e Photoplays, Incorporated, 1493 
Broadway, New York, N. Y. 

Rochester Motion Picture Company, Ne- 
well Building, Rochester, N. Y. 

Selig Polyscope Company, 20 East Ran- 
dolph Street, Chicago, 111. 

Smallwood Film Corporation, 1303 Flat- 
iron Building, New York, N. Y. 

Sterling Motion Picture Company, Holly- 
wood, California. 

Universal Film Manufacturing Company; 
Eastern ofBce, 1600 Broadway, New York, 
N. Y.; Western office, Hollywood, California. 

Vitagraph Company of America, East 15th 
Street and Locust Avenue, Brooklyn, New- 


C PEEDING down Broadway all decked out in the uniform of a police captain, 
^ and presenting no mean appearance, King Baggot recently had the extreme 
pleasure of seeing every erstwhite haughty traffic cop, rise to full height and 
execute a sweeping salute. King was returning from a picture. 

At the corner of 42nd Street, the officer noticed what he supposed to be his 
superior approaching in a machine. Majestically he halted the vehicles east 
and west. King sped across. The cop raised his hand half way to the peak of 
his cap and then suddenly dropped it. A look of disgust swept over his broad 
countenance and the movie actor heard him murmur as the machine swept by, 

"Ah gee! That's only King Baggot." 








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STORY REVISION CO., 21 Main, Smethport, Pa. 


I have actually paid writers THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS 
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to One Thousand copies — mail your 
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C. B. Hoadley, the Oldest Scenario Editor 

PROBABLY the widest known and oldest 
of all scenario editors is C. B. Hoadley, 
better known as "Pop" Hoadley. He 
is not only the oldest in age but he has 
served in an editor- 
ial capacity longer 
than any other 
scenario editor. He 
is now in charge of 
the scena- 
rio department, and 
though he is, as he 
says, "paid for edi- 
torial work only," 
he writes from 
three to four scena- 
rios every month. 
Asked for a history 
of his past per- 
formances, Mr. Hoadley said : 

"I was born in Ohio a good many years 
ago, and at an early age fostered a genuine 
dislike for work and a fondness for writ- 
ing. My maiden literary effort was on a 
small town daily, where I comprised the 
editorial staff, fed the press, and delivered a 
paper route. 

"After a time I became conscious that I 
was outgrowing the town and my talents 
were not appreciated. I went to Toledo, 
Ohio, and informed the managing editor of 
the now defunct Morning Commercial that 
he needed a journalist of my calibre to in- 
fuse some 'pep' into his sheet. I convinced 
him. I handled sports on the paper for a 
time, and was then made city editor of the 
Evening News. I did newspaper work in 
Toledo for eleven years, serving in various 
capacities, though always attending to the 
sporting page. Finally I discovered I was 
broken in health and decided to get away 
from the incessant grind. 

"To get the benefit of the open I did the 
'home-seeking stunt,' buying a farm in the 
fruit belt of Michigan. There I combined 
magazine and special writing with the grow- 
ing of peaches. I took on flesh and acquired 
an appetite. About this time the motion 
picture was just making itself known. 
"As my scenarios began to sell I wrote 

like fury. They kept selling. Finally I got 
a call by telegraph from my good friend 
Carl Laemmle to come to New York and 
take charge of the Imp scenario department, 
and while with that company, read more 
than 50,000 scripts. Later I became a mem- 
ber of the Universal's scenario department 
as a special writer, leaving them to take 
charge of the script department of the Pro- 
tective Amusement Company, which was con- 
trolled by Messrs. Klaw and Erlanger. My 
business was to supervise the making of 
working scenarios from old stage successes. 
That was my last position before joining the 

George Fitzmaurice, the Pathe Freres 

TX7HEN Pathe Freres, French photoplay 
" " producers, established their American 
studio at Jersey City, N. J., George Fitz- 
maurice was engaged as a sort of interpre- 
ter and man of all 
work — he could 
talk both English 
and French as well 
as help out around 
the office. The busi- 
ness officials all be- 
ing true Parisians 
and the directors 
essentially Ameri- 
can, it was neces- 
sary to have some 
one around who 
could interpret the 
two languages betwixt and between all per- 
sons concerned. 

Though of English parentage, he was born 
in France. He has circled the globe, having 
toured India, Africa, China, and all the Eu- 
ropean countries, as well as the two Amer- 

While serving as an interpreter at the 
studio he took up scenario writing, and soon 
convinced the directors he could deliver the 
real goods with clocklike regularity. He 
was made scenario editor as soon as the 
business officials learned of his ability to 
judge the bad from the good. He has never 
written a scenario for any other company. 




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Pleaso Mention Photoplay Magazine 

Drugless Healing 

Mechano Therapy 
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qualify you for this great vocation with its power, big income and independent future. *^ Extension I 

Don't put it off-don't be satisfied Jr ■5"J p Sf8& 
with a small job. Small jobs pay ^^. . "*Pt*C-»» 
small salaries— offer no possibil- ^ ■ 

Muaiu./ jrwu 1U1 1,1113 glLML VUUiillUII W1LI1 119 pOW 


member we help you— make it easy for you. Send the coupon at once for 
positive proof. Send no money— everything is free. 

LaSalle Extension University, Dept.C-366 Chicago, 111. 

Chicago, 111. 

Send free proof about I 
■ft unities now open to I 

ities for success. Make up your 

m ind„owtowinsuccess,Re- / filf^ikvS.TTZ& , 
^ LaSalle training; also free copy | 
J of "10 Years' Promotion in One". , 







White Cross 



Made of pressed 


Highly nickel 


Electric Stove $ 

Toasting, Frying, Broiling, Tea- 
Making, Chafing Dish, Boiling 

Here at last is a simple electric stove which 
will do almost any kind of cooking. It is inexpensive to buy 
— costs but little to run, may be operated on a table in buffet, 
dining room or living room. Light enough to be carried about. Run with 
no more effort than turning on an electric light. We 

will send you the new White Cross Electric Stove prepaid, so 
that you may see it for yourself. If, after examining, you wish 
to purchase you may do so. The price is only $4. 50. 

After Free 

We prepay the trans- 
portation charges on 
every stove. There is 
nothing for you to pay 
but tue price of the 
stove, SI. 50, and that 
only after examina- 
tion. And this money 
will be returned to you 
any time within 10 
days if you do not 
wish to keep thestove. 

■■■■■■&■■■■ \ 
Smith Co. 

1100-1110 S. Wabash At* V 
Desk 1461 Chicago\ 

Please send me prepaid, ♦* 
by express or parcel post, one ♦ 
WnitcOoss Electric Stove com- ^ 
piece with cord ready to be con-^fc 
nected. If, after I have seen and% 
examined it, I like the stove, I will ♦. 
pay S4.50, total priceof thestove. After\, 
I use stove for ten days I may return itV 
jc I wish and you will send my money backT^ 

Try It 10 Days Free 

Take the stove into your home — make the most 
delicious toast, tea, coffee — fry steaks, eggs, ham — use 
for chafing dish and do many other tilings. Give it a thorough test for 10 
days, and then if you do not wish to keep it, return it to us and we'll 
refund every cent of your money. 

o 1 lkT »y| To get this stove all you need to 

■3611C1 INO IVlOnCy do is to mail the coupon attached 
to this announcement. Pay only after the stove arrives and after 
examination. We prepay expressage or postage. 

Mail This Coupon 

Put your name and address on the coupon and mail 
to its today. Remember, we do not expect you to send 

any money. Upon receipt of coupon we will send you the stove 

prepaid for your examination. Then use your own judgment 

about buying. If you do not think you would like thestove, 

return at our expense. Sent prepaid, express or parcel post. 

Lindstrom-Smith Co. 

Mnfrs. ElectricVibrator.i, Suction C!e<i>trra,Flttt Irons, etc, 

1.100-1 1 10 S. Wabash Ave. Deskl461 Chicago, Illinois 


For tea, coffee or the chaf- 
ing dish. The White Cross 
Electric Stove will start 
them cooking in a jiffy. 
No bother, no muss. Just 
turn the switch and the 
stove starts working. 

Use for boiling anything — 
water, breakfast food, 
eggs, vegetables; heat 
baby's milk, use for candy 

g^sf Y.^ iT^^aT j* 

Address + 


With the White Cross Elec- 
tric Stove you can fry the 
eggs and bacon and make 
toast, all at the same time. 
If you wish only toast it is 
large enough to accommo- 
datef rom fourto six pieces 

flf?/ Electrical Dealer's Na:ne 

Mail postal for literature if you don't want to order'now"