Bellefonte, Pa., November 7, 1930.
SE
DISABLED.
The bugle’s call—the drum’s low beat—
Crowds surging through the flag swept
street—
And straight, young figures marching by
To music flung against the sky—
Yet on this day of peace I see
Another, lonelier company:
These are not they who fell—these still
Are tortured on Golgotha’s hill!
And one is here who not again
Will feel the pulse of rapture when
The high, hard trail has yielded to
His conquering steps—Another who
No longer now will joy to see
The April dawn’s swift ecstasy
Of blue and gold—And here one lies
With pitifully staring eyes,
To whom the drum’s low beat will bring
Remembrances of osme hideous thing—
So, on this day of peace, I see
Another, lonelier company:
These are not they who gladly died
But they who still are crucified!
' THE VERDICT.
I had always thought Jack Gis-
burn rather a cheap genius—though
a good fellow enough—so it was no
great surprise to me to hear that,
in the height of his glory, he had
dropped his painting, married a rich
widow, and established himself in a
villa on the Riviera. (Though I
rather thought it would have been
Rome or Florence.)
“The height of his glory”—that
was what the women called it. I
can hear Mrs. Gideon Thwing—his
last Chicago sitter—deploring his
unaccountable abdication. “Of
course it's going to send the value
of my picture 'way up; but I don’t
think of that, Mr. Rickham—the loss
to Arrt is all I think of” The
word, on Mrs. Thwing’s lips, multi-
plied it’s rs as though they were
reflected in an endless vista of mir-
rors. And it was not only the
Mrs. Thwings who mourned. Had
not the exquisite Hermia Croft, at
the last Grafton Gallery show, stop-
ped me before Gisburn’s ‘“Moon-
dancers” to say, with tears in her
eyes: “We shall not look upon it’s
like again?”
Well! —even through the prism of
Hermia's tears I felt able to face
the fact with equanimity, Poor
Jack Gisburn! The women had
made him—it was fitting that they
should mourn him. Among his own
sex fewer regrets were heard, and
in his own trade hardly a murmur.
Pofessional jealousy? Perhaps. If
it were, the honour of the craft was
vindicated by little Claude Nutley,
who, in all good faith, brought out
in the Burlington a very handsome
“obituary” on Jack—one of those
showy articles stocked with random
technicalities that I have heard (1
won't say by whom) compared to
Gisburn’s painting. And so—his
resolve being apparently irrevocable
—the discussion died out, and, as
Mrs. Thwing had predicited, the
price of “Gisburns” went up.
It was not till three years later
that, in the course of a few weeks’
idling on the Riviera, it suddenly
occurred to me to wonder why Gis-
burn had given up his painting. On
reflection, it really was a tempting
problem. To accuse his wife would
have been too easy—his fair sitters
had been denied the solace of saying
that Mrs. Gisburn had “dragged him
down.” For Mrs. Gisburn—as such
—had not existed till nearly a year
after Jack’s resolve had been taken.
It might be that he had married her
——since he liked his ease—because
he didn’t want to go on painting;
but it would be hard to prove that!
he had given up his painting because |
he had married her,
Of course, if she had not dragged
him down, she had equally, as Miss
Croft contended, failed to “lift him
up”—she had not led him back to
the easel. To put the brush into
his hand again—what a vocation for
a wife! But Mrs. Gisburn appeared
to have disdained it—and I felt it |
might be interesting to find out why.
The desultory life of the Riviera !
itself leads to such purely academic
Speculations; and having, on my way
to Monto Carlo, caught a glimpse of
Jack’s balustraded terraces between |
the pines, I had myself borne thither
the next day. ie
Y found the couple at tea beneath
their palm-trees; and Mrs. Gisburn’s
welcome was so genial that, in the
ensuing weeks, I claimed it fre-
quently. It wasnot that my hostess
was “interesting:” on that point I
could have given Miss Croft the
fullest reassurance. It was just be-
cause she was not interesting—if I
found her so. For Jack, all his
life, had been surrounded by - inter.
esting women; they had fostered his
art, it had been reared in the hot-
house of their adulation. And it
was therefore instructive to note
what effect the ‘deadening atmos-
phére of mediocrity” (I quote Miss
Croft) was having on him.
I have mentioned that Mrs .Gis-
burn was rich; and it was immedi-
ately perceptible that her husband
was extracting from this circum-
stance a delicate but substantial
satisfaction. It is, as a rule, the
people who scorn money who get
most out of it; and Jack’s elegant
disdain of his wife's big balance
enabled him, with an appearance of
prefect good-breeding, to transmute
it into objects of art and luxury.
To the latter, I must add, he re-
mained relatively indifferent; but he
was buying Renaissance bronzes and
eighteenth-century pictures with a
discrimination that bespoke the
amplest resources. Larno 4
‘Money's only excuse is to put
beauty into circulation,” was one of
when; on
appointed luncheon-table,
a later day, I had again run over
from Monte Carlo; and Mrs. Gis-
burn, beaming on him, added for
my enlightenment. “Jack is so
morbidly sensitive to every form of
beauty.” Sa :
Poor Jack! It had always been
his fate to have yoed say such
things of him: thé fact sHould be
set down in exXtenuation. What
struck me now was that, for the
similar tributés—was it the conjugal
note robbed them of their savour?
No—for, oddly enough, it became
apparent that he was fond of Mrs.
Gisburn—fond enough not to see
her absurdity. It was his own
absurdity he seemed to be wincing
under—his own attitude as an ob.
ject for garlands and incense. :
“My dear, since I've chucked
painting people don’t say that stuff
about me—they say it about Victor
Grindle,” was his only protest, ashe
rose from the table and strolled out
onto the sunlit terrace.
I glanced after him, struck by
his last word. Victor Grindle was,
in fact, becoming the man of the
moment—as Jack himself, one might
put it, had been the man of the
hour. The younger artist was said
to have formed himself at my friend’s
feet, and I wondered if a tinge of
jealousy underlay the latter's mys-
terious abdication. But no—for it
was not till after that event that
the rose Dubarry drawing-rooms had
begun to display their “Grindles.”
I turned to Mrs, Gisburn, who had
lingered to give a lump of sugar to
her spaniel in the dining-room.
Why has he chucked painting?”
I asked abruptly.
She raised her eyebrows with a
hint of good-humoured surprise.
“Oh, he doesn’t have to now, you
know; and I want him to enjoy
himself,” she said quite simply.
Ilooked about the spacious white-
panelled room, with its famille-
verte vases repeating the tones of
the pale damask curtains, and its
eighteenth-century pastels in delicate
faded frames.
“Has he chucked his pictures too?
I haven't seen a single one in the
house.”
A slight shade of constraint cros-
sed Mrs. Gisburn’s open countenance.
“It’s his ridiculous modesty, you
know. He says they're not fit to
have about; he’s sent them all away
except one—my portrait—and that
I have to keep upstairs.”
His ridiculous modesty—Jack mod-
est about his pictures? My curi-
osity was growing like the bean
stalk. I said persuasively to my
hostess: “I must really see your
portrait, you know.”
She glanced out almost timorously
at the terace where her husband,
lounging in a hooded chair, had lit
a cigar anddrawn the Russian deer-
hound’s head between his knees.
“Well, come while he’s not look-
ing,” she said, with a laugh that
tried to hide her nervousness; and
I followed her between the marble
Emperors of the hall, . and up the
wide stairs with terra-cotta nymphs
poised among flowers at each land-
ng.
In the dimmest corner of her
boudoir, amid a profusion of delicate
and distinguished objects, hung one
of the familiar oval canvases, in the
inevitable garlanded frame. The
mere outline of the frame called up
all Gisburn’s past!
Mrs. Gisburn drew back the win-
dow curtains, moved aside a jardi-
niere full of pink azaleas, pushed
an arm-chair away, and said: Tr
you stand here you can just man-
age to see it. I had it over the
mantelpiece, but he wouldn't let it
stay.”
Yes—I could just manage to see
it—the first portrait of Jack’s Ihad
ever had to strain my eyes over!
Usually they had the place of hon-
our—say the central panel in a pale
yellow or rose Dubarry drawing-
room, or a monumental easel placed
so that it took the light rough
curtains of old Venetian point. ¢
more modest place became the pic-
turé better; yet, as my éyes grew
accustomed to the half light, ail
the characteristic qualities came out
—all the hesitations disguised as
audacities, the tricks of presidigita-
tion by which, with such consummate
skill, he managed to divert attention
from the real business of the pic-
ture to some pretty irrelevance of
detail. Mrs. Gisburn, presenting a
neutral surface to work on—form-
ing, as it were, so inevitably the
background of her own picture—had
lent herself in an unusual degree to
the display of this false virtuosity.
The picture was one of Jack's
“strongest,” as his admirers would
have put it—it represented, on his
part, a swelling of muscles, a con-
getting of veins, a balancing, strad-
dling and straining, that reminded
one of the circus-clown’s ironic ef-
forts to lift a féather. It met, in
short, at every point the demand
of lovely woman to bé painted
“strongly” because she was tired of
being painted “sweetly”—and yet
not to lose an atom of the sweet-
ness. i
“It's the last he painted, you
know,” Mrs. Gisburn said with par-
donablé pride, ‘The last but one,”
she corrected herself —‘“but the oth-
er doesn’t count, because he destroy-
ed it.” ;
“Destroyed it?” I was about to
follow up this clue when I heard
a footstep and saw Jack himself on
the threshold.
As he stood there, his hands in
the pockets of his velveteen coat,
thé thin brown waves of hair push-
ed back from his white forehead,
his lean sunburnt cheeks furrowed
by a smile that lifted the tips of a
self-confident moustache, I felt to
what a degree he had the same
quality as his pictures—the quality
of looking cleverer thay he was.
His wife glanced at him deprecat-
ingly, but his eyes travelled past
her to the portrait.
“Mr. Rickhand wanted to see it.”
she began, as if excusing, herself.
He shrugged his shoulders, still
smiling. ? :
“Oh; Rickham found me out long
of
the axioms he laid down across the
Sevres and silver of an ‘exquisitely
jhis arm through mine:
ago;” he Baid lightly; then, passing
“Come. and:
first time, so often, basking under |
ES —
see the rest of the house.”
He showed it to me witha kind of
native suburban pride: the bath.
rooms, the speaking-tubes, the dress-
closets, the trouser-presses— all the
complex simplifications of the mil-
lionaire’s domestic to economy. And
whenever my wonder paid the ex-
pected tribute he said, throwing out
his chest a little: “Yes, I really
don’t see how people manage to live
without that.” :
| Well—it was just the end one
might have foreseen for him. Only
he was, through it all and in spite
‘of, his pictures—so handsome, so
! charming, so disarming, that one
longed to cry out: “Be dissatisfied
{with your leisure!” as once one had
prolonged to cry out: ‘“Bedissatisfied
i with your work!”
- But with the cry on my lips, my
diagnosis suffered an unexpected
| check.
“This is my own lair,” he said,
leading me into a dark plain room
at the end of the florid vista. It
was square and brown and leathery:
no ‘“effects;” no bric.a-brac, none of
the air of posing for reproductinin
a picture weekly—above all, no
least sign of ever having been used
as a studio.
The fact brought home to me the
absolute finality of Jack’s break
with his old life.
“Don’t you ever dabble with paint
any more?” I asked, still looking
about for a trace of such activity.
“Never,” he said briefly “Or water-
colour—or etching?” ;
His confident eyes grew dim, and
his cheeks paled a little under their
hansome sunburn.
“Never think of it, my dear fel-
low—any more than if I'd never
touched a brush.”
And his tone told me in a flash
Yhat he never thought of anything
else.
I moved away, instinctively em-
barrassed by my unexpected dis-
covery; and as Iturned, my eye fell
on a small picture above the man-
tel-piece—the only object breaking
the plain oak panelling of the room.
“Oh, by Jove!” I said,
It was a sketch of a donkey—an
old tired donkey, standing in the
rain under a wall.
“By Jove—a Stroud!” I cried.
He was silent; but I felt him close
Detuiel me, breathing a little quick-
y.
“What a wonder! Made with a
dozen lines—but on everlasting foun-
dations.
You lucky chap, where
did you get it?”
He answered slowly. “Mrs. Stroud
gave it to me.”
“Ah—I didn’t know you even knew
the Strouds. He was such an in-
flexible hermit.
“I didn’t—till after-—She sent for
me to paint him when he was dead.”
“When he was dead? You?”
I must have let a little too much
‘amazement escape through my .sur-
prise, for he answered with a dep-
recating laugh. “Yes—she’s an
awful simpleton, you know, Mrs.
Stroud. Her only idea was to have
him done by a fashionable painué
—abh, . poor Stroud! She thought it
the surest way of proclaiming his
blind public. And at the moment
I was the fashionable painter.”
“Ah, poor Stroud—as you 3
Was that his history?” y a 1
“That was his histoty., She be-
lieved in him, gloried in him—or
thought she did. But she couldn't
bear not to have ail the drawing-
rooms with her. She couldn't bear
the fact that on varnishing days,
one could always get near
to see his pictures. Poor woman!
She’s just a fragment groping for
other fragments. Stroud is the
only whole I ever knew.”
“You ever knew? But you just
| said—" Gisburn had a curious smile
in his eyes.
“Oh I knew him, and he knew
me—only it happened after he was
dead.”
I dropped my voice insti
“When she sent for you?”
“Yeés—quite insensible to the irony.
She wanted him vindicated—and by
me!”
He laughed again, and threw back '
his head to look up at the sketch
of the donkey. “There were days
when I couldn't look at that thing .
—couldn’t face it. But I forced
myself to put it here; and now it’s
cured me—cured me. That's the
reason I don’t dabble any more, m
dear Rickham;
himself is the reason.”
For the first timé my idle curi-
osity about my companion turned
into a serious desire to understand
him better, .
by! | wish you'd tell me how it hap-
ctively.
and twirling between his fingers a
cigarette he had forgotten to light.
Suddenly he turned toward me.
“I rather like to tell you—be-
cause I've always suspected you of
loathing my work.” i
I made a deprecating gesture,
which he negatived with a good-
humoured shrug. :
‘Oh, I didn’t care a straw when
I believed in myself—and now it’s
an added tie between us!”
Heé laughed slightly, without bit-
terness, and pushed one of the deep
arm-chairs forward. “There: make
yourself comfortable—and hére are
the cigars you like.”
He placed them at my élbow and
continued to wander up and down
the room, stopping now an then be-
neath the picture. ;
“How it happened? I can tell
you in five minutes—and it didn’t
take much longer to happen—I can
remember now how surprised and
pleased I was when I got Mrs.
Strcud’s note. Of course, deep
down, I had always felt there was
no one like him—only I had gone
with the stream, echoed the usual
platitudes about him, till I hdlf got
to think he was a failure, one of
thé kind that are left behind. By
Jove, and he was left behind—be-
cause he had come to stay! The
rest of us had to let ourselves be
swept along or go under, but he
was high above thé current—on
everlasting foundations, as you say.
“Well, I went off to the house in
,my most egregious mood—rather
greatness—of forcing it on a pur.’
enough *
y |
or rather Stroud’
He stood looking up at the sketch,
moved, Lord forgive me, at the
pathos of poor Stroud's career of
failure being crowned by the glory
of my painting him! Of course I
meant to do the picture for nothing
—1I told Mrs, Stroud so when she
began to stammer something dbout
her poverty, I remember getting
off a prodigious phrase about the
honour being mine—oh, I was prince-
ly, my dear Rickham! I was posing
to myself like one of my own sitters.
“Then I was taken up and left
alone with him. I had sent all my
traps in advance, and I had only to
set up the easel and get to work.
He had been dead only twenty-four
hours, and he died suddenly, of
heart disease, so that there had been
no preliminary work of destruction
—his face was clear and untouched.
I had met him once or twice, years
before, and thought him insignificant
and dingy. Now I saw that he was
superb.
“I was glad at first, with a mere-
ly aesthetic satisfaction: glad to
have my hand on such a ‘subject’
Then his strange life likeness began
to affect me queerly—as I blocked
the head in I felt as if he were
watching me, what would he say to
my way of working? My strokes
began to go a little wild— I felt
nervous and uncertain.
| “Once, When I looked up, Iseem-
ed to see a smile behind his close
grayish beard—as if he had the
secret, and were amusing himself by
holding it back from me. That ex-
asperated me still more. The se-
cret? Why, I had a secret worth
twenty of his! I dashed at the can-
.vas furiously, and tried some of my
tricks. But they failed me, they
‘crumbled. I saw that he wasn’t
the showy bits—I couldn't distract
his attention; he just kept his eyes
on the hard passage between, Those
were the ones with some lying paint.
'And how he saw through my lies!
“I looked up again, and caught
sight of that sketch of the donkey
hanging on the wall near his bed.
His wife told me afterward it was the
last thing he had done—just a note
taken with a shaking hand, when he
was down in Devonshire recovering
from a previous heart attack. Just
:a note! But it tells his whole his-
tory. There are years of patient
scornful persistence in every line. A
man who had swum with the cur-
rent could never have learned that
mighty up-stream stroke.
“I turned back to my work, and
went on groping and muddling; then
I looked at the donkey again. I
saw that, when Stroud laid in the
first stroke, he knew just what the
end would be. He had possessed his
subject, absorbed it, recreated it.
| When had I done that with any of
my things? They hadn't been born
of me—I had just adopted them.
“Hang it Rickham, with that face
watching me I couldn't do another
stroke. The plain truth was, I
|
didn’t know where to put it—I had
never known. Only, with my sitters
and my public, a showy splash of
colour covered up the fact—I just
threw paint into their eyés.— Well,
medium those
through—see
tottering founda-
Don’t you know
paint was the one
dead eyes could see
straight to the
tions underneath,
"how, in talking a foreign language,
even fluently, one says half the
time not what one wants to but
what one ¢an? Well—that was the
way I painted; and as he lay there
and watched me, the thing they
called my ‘technique’ collapsed like
a house of cards. He didn’t sneer,
you understand, poor Stroud—he
just lay there quietly watching, and
on his lips, through the gray beard,
I seemed to hear the question: ‘Are
you sure you know where you're
coming out?’
“If Icould have painted that face,
with that question on it, I should
have done a great thing. The next
greatest thing was to see that I
couldn’t—and that grace was given
me. But, oh, at that minute, Rick-
ham, was there anything on earth
I wouldn't have given to have
Stroud alive before me, and to hear
him say: It's not too late—Tll
show you how?’
“ft was too late—it would have
been, even if he’d been alive. I
packed up my traps, and went down
and told Mrs, Stroud. Of course I
didn’t tell her that—
been Greek to her.
I couldnt paint him, that I was too
moved. he rather liked the idea
—she’s so romantic!
But she was terribly upset at not
getting the portrait—she did so
want him ‘done’ by some one showy!
At first I was afraid she wouldn't
let me off—and at my wits’ end 1
suggested Grindle. Yes, it was I
who started Grindle. I told Mrs.
Stroud he was the ‘coming’ man,
and she told somebody else, and so
it got to be true.—And he painted
and she
Stroud without wincing;
hung the picture among her hus-
band’s things.
He flung himself down in the
arm-cair near mine, laid back his
head, and claspng his arms be-
neath it, looked up at the picture
above the chimney-piece.
“I like to fancy that Stroud him-
self would have given it to me, if
he’d been able to say what he
thought that day.”
And, in answer to a question I
put half meéchanically— “Begin
again?” he flashed out. “When the
one thing that brings me anywhere
near him is that I knew enough to
leave off?”
He stood up and laid his hand on
my shoulder with a laugh. “Only
the irony of it is that I am still
painting—since Grindle’s doing it
for me! The Strouds stand alone,
and happen once—but there’sno ex-
terminating our kind of art.”—By
Edith Wharton, in Sc¢ribner’s Maga-
zine,
COUNTY GRANGE TO MEET
AT BOALSBURG TOMORROW,
Centre county Pomona Grange,
No. 13, will meet in regular session
on Saturday, November 8th, at 10
a. m., in the hall of Victor Grange:
at Boalsburg.
V. A. AUMAN, Secretary.
It would have '
I simply said
: 3 It was that,
! that made her give me the donkey.
i
il ALE " .: “ - a .
ARMISTICE DAY :
WILL SOON BE HERE.
By Elmo Scott Watson.
Armistice day is a day for re-
calling the thrill of joy which swept
the world on November 11, 1918,
when the four-year crescendo of the
guns was stilled and the costliest
war in all history came to an end.
For us it is also a day for remem-
bering the Americans who crossed
the Atlantic to play their part in
that titanic struggle and who never
came back—the 30,000 men who
sleep beneath the white crosses in
the Meuse-Argonne, St. “Mihiel, Oise-
Aisne, Aisne-Marne, Somme and
Suresnes cemeteries in France, in
Flanders field in Belgium and near
Brookwood, England. But, most of
all, it should be a time for remem-
bering those who did come back,
not the men who were returned un- |
harmed to their rejoicing families,
but the “human wreckage of war”
—men with blinded eyes, with deaf-
ened ears, with gas-seared lungs,
with several legs and arms, with
shattered nerves, men whose pre-
cious years of youth and opportunity
had been sacrificed for their coun.
try.
How many of them are there?
The best answer to that is a state-
ment made by Gen. Frank T. Hines,
director of the United States Veter-
ans’ bureau, that more than six
hundred millions of dollars has been
spent by the government in the re-
nabilitation of nearly 130,000 leg-
less, armless,
wise crippled or physically handicap-
ped men to the point where they
are capable of self-support; that
more than 26,000 men and women
who served with the military forces
of the United States are now re-
ceiving treatment in government
operated or supervised hospitals;
today more than 18,000 ex-service
men are undergoing treatment
for disabilities due to their war
service; and that there are under
guardianship 25,727 veterans who
are incompetent to take care of.
their own affairs. |
“The problem of paying the human
cost of the World war was a huge
one in the beginning,” says General
Hines. “It is still a major national
problem.”
“Across 3,000 milés of ocean, in
1917 and 1918, we transported an
army of 2,000,000 Americans, prac-
tically without loss of life from
enemy guns, torpedoes or mines.
“Across the same expanse of wa-
ter, a little later, 117,000 wounded
and sick were brought back to the
United States—some to live, some
to die, many not to know for years
the price they must pay for their
participation in the war.
Beyond the sea, on foreign soil,
80,000 soldizrs of the American Ex.
peditionary Force were killed in ac-
tion, or died of wounds, injuries or
disease. .
“In the single great offensive
operation of the American" First
army, in the period between Sep-
témber 26 and November 1, 1918
the attack which brought about the
enemy’s appeal for the armistice—
our losses were 117,00 in killed and
wounded.
“These items, large as they are,
do not constitute the total human
cost ef our brief participation in the
World war. There were, in addition,
scores of thousands of young men
who either died in the training and!
concentration camps here in Amer-
ica or in those camps onuracied |
diseases with lasting effects.
“The total toll of war was such
that death or disability claims have
been filed for one-fifth of all the
men who served in the armed forces
of the United States during the
World war. More than half a mil-
lion claims have been allowed. And
nearly ten years after the war—on
July 1, 1928—250,000 veterans, were
receiving disability compensation.
That army of disabled included men
afflicted with anemia receiving from
$40 to $100 a month, depending up-
on the seriousness of their condition.
It included thousands of men with
impaired hearts or arteries. We had
and have scores of thousands of
other cases involving every disease.
or abnormal physicai or mental con-
dition from bronchiectasis to de-
mentia precox.” |
Another aspect of this problem is
presented by General Hines in these
words:
“As time goes on the obligation’
of the government changes, The
average age of the former service
men isnow thirty-four years. That
age is beyond the period of greatest
susceptibility to tuwmerculosis. We
shall have in Veterans’ bureau hos-
pitals, therefore, fewer and fewer
cases of tuberculosis. In 1922 we
had 12,000; now we have 6,500.
“So, too the surgical and general
mental cases, including, of course,
shot and shell injuries. sustained in
the war, have béen decreasing. We
had 10,000 in 1922. Now there are
only 6,700.
“But in another direction the gov.
ernment’s obligation is increasing.
There has been a steady, upward
trend in the number of veteran pa-
tients with mental and nervous af-
flictions. In 1919 tnére were less
than 3,000 such patients, including
those who bore the so-called “invis-
ible scars of war’; the shell-shocked
veterans. Now there are 13,000.
Our medical experts estimate that
the peak of such cases will not be
reached until 1947, when, with the
veterans at an average age of fifty-
three, there probably will be be-
tween 40,000 and 50,000 suffering
from nervous and mental disorders.
We may have to provide hospital
facilities for 16,000 of these unfor-
tunate veterans.”
Another estimate ot the increas-
ing importance and scope of rehabil-
itation is given by the Disabled
American Veterans of the World
War, a national organization of dis.
abled ex-sérvice men established in _
1921. This group has been named
by Congress as an official represen.
sightless and other-'
PICKFORD GIRLS
~ "ROSE FROM POVERTY.
| Any theatre manager on Broad-
way today would pay half of his
night's profits to secure a personal
appearance of Mary Pickford, her
sister, Lottie, and Lillian and Doro-
thy Gish at his ormance. There
would be fanfare and flashlights and
a battalion of police to keep back
the crowd. But theré was a summer
not many years ago when this same
now famous quartet literally whee-
dled their way into Broadway play.
houses—and as often as not were
turned down at the mbox office.
A writer in the current Photoplay
Magazine discloses this interesting
episode in telling how many of the
contemporary stars of the movies
fought poverty and adversity to win
their way to success.
It was when Mary Pickford was
still Gladys Smith—her real name—
that she, her sister, her mother, the
two Gish girls and their mother
shared a tiny New York flat for the
summer to keep their expenses as
low as possible. All of the girls,
then in their early teens, had been
on the stage sihce childhood but
since none could get work during
the dull season,
“But poor as they were that sum-
mer, Lillian and Dorothy and Mary
and Lottie managed to see every
worth while play in New York at
one time or another, due chiefly to
Mary's efficiency and aggressive-
ness,” says the Photoplay writer.
“They would go to the box office
of the theater, all of them blonde
and one a trifle taller than thé oth-
ers, and Mary, presenting her card,
would ask if the management rec-
ognized professionals. The card
read “Gladys Smith—Little Red
Schoolhouse Company.” :
“Needless to say, if the house
happened to be crowded, the man in
the box office told them to come
around another time.”
i
CHESTNUTS COMING
BACK TO PENNA. WOODS
Reports made to the Game Com-
mission from some sections of north-
eastern Pennsylvania indicate that
chestnuts may again become the
chief article of diet for the wild
animals and birds during the winter
season.
The blight which for more than
a decade has deprived the woods
dwellers of their one.time most de-
pendable crop is largely responsible
for the annual program of winter
feeding which the Game Commission
directs.
Arlington B. Moyer, a deputy
game protector at Long Pond, in a
report to the Commission wrote in
part as follows:
“Game in Pennnsylvania, especially
squirrels, will find a new source of
food supply this year which their
great grandparents enjoyed just a
little ‘over: a decade ago, namely
chestnut trees have sprung up as
much as eighteen feet and have this
~yedr. given a good crop of the much
appreciated nuts.
busy
Tourists were
recently in sections of the
Pocono mountains and gathered as
many as five quarts in a short time.
For the sake of our game and also
ourselves we hope the chestnut tree
will soon be restored in all parts of
Pennnsylvania.”
A BUS DRIVER FINED
THREE TIMES ON ONE TRIP.
The State record for frequency of
arrest is now held by the driver of
a trans-State bus who was taken in-
to custody three times in five hours
for speeding on the Lincoln high-
way. This driver has been sum-
moned to Harrisburg for a hearing
and the State Highway Patrol wil
endeaver to convince the officiating
inspector that his driving privilege
should be revoked.
Arrested first at Malvern, second
at Lancaster, and third at Geftys-
burg, traveling each time at a speed
in excess of fifty miles an hour, the
busman laughed heartily when pick-
ed up the third time, and said he
seemed to ‘be keeping the entire pa-
‘trol “busy. - He was not. so hilarious,
however, when he paid fines and
costs totaling $43, Before the pa-
trol is finished with him his smile
may have entirely disappeared, of-
ficials said.
erative
REAL ESTATE TRANSFERS.
Kato Coal Company to Common-
wealth of Pennsylvania, tract in
Snow Shoe, Burnisde, Curtin, Liber-
ty Twps., and Beech Creek Twp,
Clinton county; $23,105.85.
L. Edgar Hess, et ux, to Thomas
Sleigh, Jr., tract in South Philips
burg; $1.
J. E. Walker, et ux, to John R.
Styers, tract in Miles Twp.; $10.
George W. Day, et ux, to Thomas
C. Confer, tract in Miles Twp.;
$310.
John W. Walters to Martha Hop-
kins, tract in Philipsburg; $1.
Harriet Ward, et al, to Warren S,
Ward, tract in Ferguson Twp.; $1.
John S. Lightcap Jr., to James A.
Barkley, tract in State College; $1.
Hélen E. Barkley, et bar, to John
S. Lightcap Jr. tract in State Col-
lege; $1.
Charles F. Schad, et al, to Gerald
A. Robinson, tract in Bellefonte; $1.
G. A. Robison, et ux, to Merle C.
Gordon, et ux, tract in Bellefonte;
$7,000.
A. H. Krumrine, et ux, to Agnes
H. Musser, tract in State College;
$1,200. .
Polly Williamson, et bar, to Thomas
Sleigh, Jr,, tract in South Philips-
burg; $1.
abilities incurred during the war.
So when Armistice day comes
around each year, it behooves all
i i i ir
tative of the disabled who present Americans in the midst of the
claims to the government. Accord- Solemn celebration of the day to
ing to William E. Tate, national give a thought not only to those
the next decade,
ex-service men
result of dis-
commander, durin
mn-e fhan 275.00
will fided ely as
a5 a
“who gladly died” but also to that
“lonelier company” of those ‘who
still ruzified.”
~
o
are