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I I zs8xn]) l. m. grist's sons, Publishers. ] % Ifamilj JPemsgaper: |[or 'M $romotion of the political, facial. Agricultural and (Eommential Interests of the feopte. {wpi.?? c*!raVAItCK * ESTABLISHED 1855. YORKVILLE, 8. C., FRIDAY, JUNE 5, 1908. ~ ISTO. 45. i 01 I 1 t ' | By CLARENCE I^WIHftHHWWfWWWWWWfHl I CHAPTER XXXII. "As All the Rivers Runt Into the Sea." It was several days since Senn found and rescued Elsie, since Lurline Bannottle disappeared, since Walter Aidrich came too late to find more than the dead man who had given his life to his trust?only to fail In that trust after all. Elsie was at home again, in the old Barron mansion, sad. pale, quiet, but prettier and sweeter than ever. Aldrich and Elsie had had one or two interviews, and both had been frank and straightforward. Theirs was an affection which would outlast 1 90 the life that depends on such gross ' things as air and food and blood-currents" and nerve-force. Theirs was a love which would lust for ever, if I knowledge and personality does not fall and fall at the brink of the grave! 1 Each of these two understood the other fully. Each knew how deep and ' lasting a regard held sway over the heart and life of the other. But Elsie's ' resolve was firm and steadfast. ' What I did. I did of my own free will and accord; I shall not do that from which my conscience shrinks; the future Is in the hands of God," she said. 1 Senn had seen Prier Immediately on his return to Boomville. These two ' had several long conversations. Senn ( had gone with Prier, one afternoon, J when that gentleman made his peace with Elsie. She had already learned, ' from Senn, to respect and admire the [ old detective, and the afternoon had 1 been a pleasant one. Senn and Prier had called on Rev. John Kane. They had thought it wise ' to acquaint him with the true charac- ! ter of Miss Bannottie. He had been 1 terribly shocked, of course, and very ' l>ale and silent. But they had had the satisfaction of seeing him take her photograph from his album, lay it face ' downward in the hottest part of his ' bright fire, and watch it turn to ashes. 1 Mr. Prier had called upon Aldrich. ' There had been several things upon 1 4: which these gentlemen had found it 1 interesting and profitable to converse. ' All differences and doubts had been 1 swept away from between thehi. 1 Senn and Aldrich had not yet met. ' I can scarcely say why. Perhaps the 1 curious complications to which they 1 were parties had had something to do ' with it. though Aldrich had been made 1 to understand what Senn's purpose had 1 been, and had forgiven him all the re- ' suits which his error had caused. He loved Senn. His love had struggled in : his heart through all the months of 1 distrust and doubt, and had never died 1 ^ out. He loved Senn; he had never 1 ceased to love him; and. standing in ! the full light of the knowledge of how ' much Senn had loved him, and of the 1 fearful risks he had taken and the cross 1 ^ he had borne for the sake of that love. ' he knew that in the future he should 1 care more for his true and loyal friend ' than ever before. I And still, they had not met yet. not since Klsie's rescue and Lurline's * flight. It was the fault of neither. 5 Each may have had a diffidence?a 1 sensitiveness?which made delay. But 1 their meeting, their friendliness, their warm hand-clasps, their looks and 1 words of love?these were only delay- ' ed: they were certain to fall into the ' near future of these two men?unless? 1 That is the word, kind reader. Un- ( less! ' * Pophecy of loss and sorrow, of va- 1 cant places in the sunshine of home, 1 and of open graves across the path of ' life, we use it with our hopes, our ] fears, our doubts. Would life be ' worth living, were there no world be- ! yond this, in which eternal forgetfulness shall be the fate of that wretch- 1 ed word?unless! 1 The people of Roomville had learned 1 4 just enough of the true state of af- ' iairs UJ nwuie UICII avnie tions to supply the rest of the story. You may be sure, therefore, that there : were many versions of the history of our friends?and foes?accepted and ' ^ current on the streets of Boomville. I wish I had time and space (and : patience) to write down some few of the many wild stories told and monstrous theories held by the Boomvilleans on the subject which so much interests us. They would be entertaining: they might even he instructive; nn?. like most fiction (true to the old saving), they would be stranger than the truth I have written?but for one 4 thing. "Hamlet." with Hamlet left out. might indeed out-Shakespeare Shakespeare's self?but for the missing Hamlet. And so?strange as were the tales they told?we may well let them fade into the silent air. since they took no account of Lurline Rannottie! What Boomville's men and women and children knew, was much They knew that Senn was a hero?in some way. They knew that Mrs. Menn was somehow a heroine. They knew that Prier was the greatest detective of the age. though they didn't know why. They knew so many good things of ^ Mr. Walter Aldrich that they didn't have time to enumerate them. Rut they didn't know anything of Miss Lurline Bannottie, beyond the fact that she had been the hired companion of Mrs. Senn. They knew she hadn't reV turned, of course, but they didn't know why: they didn't even think to ask: what did she count in the matter, anyhow? You won't find Room vi lie on your map, kind reader, and you will waste your time if you look, but I have no doubt there are so many Roomvilleans in your town that you'll find them in a decided majority in the next excited crowd you find discussing ^ the latest and most startling news on your streets. Don't you think so? There was one thing which troubled the Boomvilleans very much. They would look at Elsie and sigh: they ^ would gaze at Aldrich and shake their heads: and then they would say. slowly and sadly. "If?only?Senn " They didn't finish, not aloud, at least, for most of theni would have i BOUTELLE. wmmmmm mmrnm w mm m \ been horrified.at being confronted with the fact that they had wished the death of a true, blameless, and more than noble man. But Senn could not always avoid hearing their "If?only " and it troubled him. Luriine Bannottie had not been found. Prier and Senn had searched, but Prier's work had seemed to lack something of its old-time earnestness. Senn had questioned him regarding the matter. "It will all come right of itself," had been the old man's reply; "we have only to wait patiently. What has all our labor and fret done for us? Has not all the good come in God's own way? Walt! Be patient! It is the lesson of life. Though the courses be lugged and the way be long, all the rivers run into the sea!" ' But. Prier- " "Well " "If that be true, is not 'If?only? Senn ' a prophecy?"* "Possibly, but " "But I love life." "And deserve long life. And yet?" "I am ready? Was that it? Thank you for your faith in me and your love for me. I try to be." It is night?night, and several days have passed since Jahnway Park was 3eserted. It is. curiously enough, the anniversary of the night on which Walter Aldrich risked his life in behalf of the unknown and helpless tramp who has since come so closely into all the hopes and fears, joys and' sorrows, of his life. There are many people waiting at the station, some to see friends depart, some in the hopes of greeting friends among the arrivals, some for no better reason than the strange fascination ivhich makes the railroad station a farorite loafing place almost everywhere. Prier and Senn are waiting, as they have waited every night since Senn returned from Jahnway Park?waiting?because it has grown into a habit to wait?though each has given up all hopes of seeing Lurline Bannottle ?ieep from the cars some night, to slip iway in the darkness, led back to the most dangerous spot in all the world, is so many criminals have been, much is the moth tries again and again the fervor of the candle's heat. It may ho that Lurline Bannottle is strongerminded than the usual criminal; it may be she has lived long enough to' >utgrow the habits of the moth. Aldrich is waiting too. I cannot say for what. He is talking, gravely ind quietly, with a group of ladies and gentlemen, just inside the brilliantly ighted waiting room. His strong face shows well under the light. Pain has >nly purified and beautified it. He is more than handsome, standing there, ind only pity would fit the case of me who had given all happiness in ;his world?to say nothing of hopes for another?In a vain endeavor to ifht invp's fires in his >ves and plant n"? " ? - love's tenderness upon his lips, if such i one could be hiding in the outside shadows, somewhere, and looking in it him. And such a thing might be possible, you know. Mr. Prier and Mr. Senn are out on :he platform, walking slowly back and forth, arm-in-arm. and talking earn?stly. They might as well go in; it ivill be half an hour before the regular lown passenger train passes, and the limited "lightning express," which is iue in a few minutes, will only slow t twenty miles an hour or so, to throw >ff and take on mail as she thunders through. They might as well go in; it would be a very inexperienced person?or a very bold and desperate one ?who would try to get off of, or on to, the limited "lightning express" tonight. Since all is going "as the rivers flow into the sea." it would be much better to go in. But neither Prier nor Senn know that. Senn hates to face the crowd inside; hates to risk hearing some careless one quietly whisper, "If?only? Senn " But it would be better to hear them say it than that some things should happen: better than that there should lit- ll?> nunc <riva.-'i_i ..v.. v saying it, for instance. Senn glances into the warmly lighted window as they go by, and on into the darkenss and the shadow. It is very cold outside. He shivers. Perhaps it is not altogether the cold which causes it. "I?I am still the "man outside,'" he says, and a little bitterly: "outsideof human sympathy and kind, good wishes.* "But I am with you," replies Prier. "Even unto the end?" Benn's voice is inexpressibly sad; his face is gloomy. "Yes, even that: in love, and friendship, and hope, and good wishes?even unto the end. But you must cheer up: you have many long years of usefulness and happiness before you, I doubt not: you seem dispirited tonight." "I am. Do you believe in presentiments?" "I? No. I don't know. What do you mean?" "This is the anniversary of the night when A id rich saved my life." "Yes. A truly noble deed, wasn't it?" "Indeed it was." "A man might offer his life for a friend?that is grand." "Yes." "But to do it for a mere stranger? that is sublime!" "It is. But do you know, Prier. I would go further than that. Do you know the lesson I learned under the shadow of the engine wheels that night? Do you know the lesson which not all the years between them and now have been able to lessen or dim?" "No. What was it?" "The beauty and glory of heroic selfsacrifice. I would risk my life, not only for a friend, not merely for a stranger, but for the lowest and meanest and most contemptible of mankind. I would honestly and faithfully try to save and serve my worst foe?in such a situation as that from which Walter Aldrich saved me so long ago." "Would you?" They have turned in their walk now, and the light falls upon the earnest honesty in Senn's face as he replies. I "I would," is his answer; "God knows I would." Prier shudders. He is not quite able to understand this. He would like to change the subject, but he cannot bring himself to the necessary abruptness. Besides, the whole matter has a strange fascination for him. There is surely a keen appreciation of the weird and marvelous in the brain behind his wrinkled brow. He does not change the subject, not exactly?he only turns it a little aside. "Tell me of that night," he says; "you never told me all the story." "Well, I will. It may lighten my load of gloom. It may make me happier." "I hope it will." "I was only a tramp, but I loved life, loved it almost as well as I do now, loved it as a condemned prisoner or a hunted criminal must love " "As Lurline Bannottie loves it?" "I think so." Prier shuts his teeth. They grate ami grind upon one another. His breath comes in great gusty sighs. "I?I hope she does love life," he says; 'i hope it will be the keenest torture, the most unutterable agony, for her to have to give it up. I'll be blamed if 1 don't hang Lurline Bannottie." "I was only a tramp. I was penniless, almost. All about me was wealth and comfort and happiness. On every side of me there were homes In which there were tangible reasons for a strong and abiding hope for long life. I alone?I of all about me?might have been excused for being weary of existence. But no one clung to life more strongly than did I." "Yes, I understand that. Tell me the rest." "I will. It was much such a night a:, this. The wind was cold. There were thick clouds?thick clouds?and I think they covered all the sky?I am not sure. You see there are banks of them now, but only along the horizon. It is light overhead, tonight." "Yes; it is light overhead." "The rails ran under the lights, and into the darkness?just as they do tonight." "Yes." "The shadows covered them ere they went far?far just as tonight." "Yes." "I heard the thunder of the coming train. Listen! The limited express is coming now, and " It rounds the curve. It has scarcely slackened its speed in the least. There is a heavy down-grade. The rails are frosty and slippery. "I studied engineering once," said Prier, "before I became a detective, and " A woman starts out from some shadowy hiding place, and runs madly across the platform. Desperate indeed, to dare try getting on a train running as is the "lightning express" tonight, running as it will be when it passes Boomville station. "For God's sake give her a chance!" ? L?l/Hr>rr Deior'c arm T h PD ITira Ot-IIII, liuiuillg i I.V. o ... , as the woman's foot slips on the icy planks, he dashes toward the place where she has fallen, and springs down upon the rail where she is lying. And as he goes, his terror for her finds a voice: "My God, it is Lur " And then the train dashes on, the compressed air whistling shrilly as it escapes from the brakes which are too weak tonight for their duty?too weak and too late. The train dashes on. It comes to a stop only when it has passed far beyond the station. But something it found in its way is thrown high in the air, and falls in a ghastly, bloodstained heap at Prier's very feet. "Well. I'll be blamed!" said he, as he hent over her. Not Lairline Bannottie! Oh, no! These broken bones, this crushed skull, this torn face, are not her. But this broken and crushed and torn mass, this heap from which all beauty and grace are gone for ever, was the body in which she lived. These bones and muscles did her bidding; this skull hid her cunning: this face was the mask turned toward a world of men she dazzled and deluded. It is not Lurline Bannottie! But it is all earth has left of her. Cover her up! Carry her We are done with her! Senn Is not dead. I wish I could say he is not dying. But I cannot. He Is. Aldrich kneels on one side. Prier is on the other. Aldrich has his arms about him. He holds him as though he would never let him go. Senn speaks. Prier stoops nearer. "As?as all the rivers?" he falters. Prier turns away his head. There are tears in his eyes. "Don't, don't. Oh, my Ood!" Senn speaks again. "It?it is light overhead: it is light all the way. I?I love you. Walter, aqd?and?be very good to Elsie; never forget how much she has cost. Lift me a little higher, and?and? It is dark again, so dark. Take my hand, dear old Aldrich, just as you used to do. You?you?have not?taken?it? since?since " The voice weakens, falters, ceases. Aldrich reaches down to obey his friend's request. But It is not Senn's hand you have. Walter Aldiich! It is only a lump of clay! Clay to love tenderly, to caress regretfully. to weep hot tears over, perhaps, but only clay still. Senn has gone. oil tho He is as tar away as nmusu orbs of God's universe were circling in their mighty orbits between you iwo; and a moment ago he was in your arms, and ids voice was in your ears. I cannot even pretend to understand death, Can you? They raise him up tenderly. They carry him into the waiting room. They lay him down, while the hushed lips of the onlookers forget to say. "If? only?Senn?" They bring a snow white sheet. Prier lays it reverently and lovingly over him. He stoops for a long look at the face of the dead. Then he draws the covering over the face too and turns away. " 'The pure in heart shall see God,' " he says, solemnly. "Let us thank Him that in another and a better world than this, among the good and the happy. Gilbert Senn shall be no more for ever 'the man outside!" " THE END. ittiscrllancous Reading. DEFEAT OF GONZALES. Shrewd New York Newspaper Sizes Up South Carolina Incident. Not a ray of light has been thrown upon the great Gonzales mystery of Columbia. S. C. The state convention has met, resolved, chosen delegates to Denver, instructed for the Nebraska prophet and done other more or less futile and foolish things; but nobody knows to this day how the Hon. William E. Gonzales, editor of the Columbia State and fugleman in ordinary to the peerless one, came to be beaten for delegate in a Bryan convention which he had done more to create than any twenty men in South Carolina put together. There is something very odd behind it all, as odd almost as the domination by Roger Sullivan of the Illinois delegation, also instructed for Bryan, but presided over by a man whom the latter denounced less than two years .a LU ago as a nignwayman, uemaiiuins ma ejection from the party. There is a difference of detail; to be sure, because Sullivan has successfully triumphed over Bryan's anathemas and now personally conducts u Denver delegation apparently pledged to that gentleman's aspirations and apparently with his condial consent, whereas the faithful Gonzales, whom Bryan has always loved as a brother and concerning whose moral character he has always expressed the most touching sentiments, was rejected by the body which he had devotedly helped to inspire to noblest pro-Bryan attitudes. For months past Gonzales has waged almost single-handed a holy war on behalf of the Nebraska chieftain. In full-faced type, italics and untimely capitals he has launched imprecations against reactionaries. Even correspondents of northern papers who ventured into South Carolina last summer appraising the political situation and consulting friends fell before his deadly fire of special display typography. A majority of the important papers of the state, led by the Charleston News and Courier, were hostile to Mr. Bryan's use of the southern democracy as an annex to his newspaper and lecture platform activities. They wanted the party to go into a fight for political success, not to maintain the Commoner's circulation and provide paying audiences for Bryan's sermons. The district conventions assembled, one after the other, and the result was anything but favorable to the peerless one. A careful estimate made by The News and Courier indicated anything but a victorious upshot for the perpetual claimant. Nevertheless, when the state convention met the effect of Mr. Gonzales's uninterrupted fusillade revealed itself. The convention was a Gonzales convention out and out. All opposition was scattered to the winds, and hard and fast resolutions pledged the South Carolina delegation to Bryan first, last and all the time. Gonzales had done it all, with his energy, his persistency and his judiciously applied upper case expedients. Everybody in South Carolina understood that it was the crowning achievement of a long course of more or less hysterical vociferation. Everybody understood that it was a Gonvnicc rathpr than a Rrvan convention And yet in all that list of delegates, of which he should have been facile princeps, the name of Gonzales was conspicuous by reason of its absence. The whole thing was a tribute to his leadership. Resolutions, instructions, hide-bound specifications?all the rest of It bore the Gonzales impress ineradicably stamped in the bottle. But Gonzales, the genius of the whole affair, the contriver of every act and the breastworks, a lifeless and neglected form. The noise and stress and fury of the occasion has subsided. The shouting of the captains dies upon a languid air. But there are the remains with gaping wounds and none to celebrate them. How different in Illinois, where Roger Sullivan, so very recently denounced and execrated by the peerless one, is now a loving and trusted lieutenant! There is an explanation, of course, but who knows it? And what a fruitful magazine of astonishment seems to lie beneath the surface of this pervasive Bryan harmony!?New York Sun. ? i THE SPLIT-LOG DRAG. How to Build and Use a Useful Road Working Contrivance. One of the latest publications issued by the office of public roads of the United States department of agriculture treats of the split-log drag, an implement which numerous experiments have conclusively shown to be the greatest possible boon to keep earth roads smooth and passable. Because of Its simplicity, its efficiency and its cheapness, both in construction and operation, it is destined to come more and more into general use. With the drag properly built and its use well understood, the maintenance of earth roads becomes a simple and inexpensive matter. At the present time there are approximately 2.000,i)(t0 miles of earth roads in the United States. Some of the most important of these roads will eventually be improved with stone, gravel, and other materials. Many others which are equally important cannot be so Improved on account of lack of funds or su table materials, while still others will not require such treatment because of the light traffic to which they are subjected. For these reasons the majority of our roads must be maintained as earth roads lor many years w ionic, i iu.-> must be done by inexpensive methods and the split-log drag will be a powerful aid if economy is the criterion demanded. In (he construction of this implement, care should be taken to make it so light that one man can lift it with ease, a light drag responding more readily to various methods of hitching than a heavy one, as well as to the shifting of the position of the operator. The best material for a split-log drag is a dry red cedar log, though red elm and walnut are excellent, and box elder, soft maple, or even willow are superior to oak. hickory, or ash. The log should be bebetween seven and ten feet long and from ten to twelve inches In diameter at the butt end. It should be split carefully as near the center as possible, and the heaviest and best slab chosen for the front. In the front slab four inches from the end which Is to drag In the middle of the road bore a two-Inch hole which is to receive a cross stake. At a distance of twenty-two Inches from the other end of the front slab, locate the center for another cross stake. The hole for the middle stake will be on a line connecting and halfway between the two. Then place the back slab In position and from the end which Is to drag in the middle of the road measure twenty inches for the center of one cross stake and six inches from the other end locate the center of the opposite stake. The hole for the center stake should be located halfway between he two. All these holes should be carefully bored perpendicular or at right angles to the face of the split log. If these directions are followed it [ will be found that when the holes of the front and back slabs are brought j opposite each other, one end of the back .slab will be sixteen Inches nearer the center of the roadway than the front one. That gives what Is known as "set back." The stakes, which are thirty inches long, will hold the slabs this distance apart. When the stakes have been firmly wedged into their, sockets, a brace about two Inches thick and four inches wide may be placed diagonally to them at the ditch end of the drag. A cleated board is placed between the slabs and across the stakes for the driver to stand on. By many it is deemed best to place a strip of Iron along the lower face of the front slab for a cutting blade and to prevent the drag from wearing. The drag may be fastened to the doublelree by means of a trace chain. Th< chain should be wrapped around the left-hand or rear stake and passed over the front slab. Railing the chain at this end of the slab permits the earth to drift past the face of the drag. The other end of the chair, should be passed through' a hole in the opposite end of the front slab and held by a pin passed through a link. For ordinary purposes, the hitch should be so made that the unloaded drag will follow the team at an angle of about 4f>?. The team should be driven with one horse on either side of the right-hand wheel track or rut the full length of the portion to be dragged, and made to return in the same manner over the other half of the roadway. Such treatment will move the earth towards the center of the roadway and raise it gradually above the surrounding level. The best results have been obtained by dragging roads once each way after each heavy rain. In some cases, however, one dragging every three or four weeks has been found sufficient to keep a road In good condition. When the soil is moist but not stioky the drag does its best work. As the soil in a field will bake If plowed wet, so the road will bake if the drag Is used on it when it is wet. If the roadway is full of holes or badly rutted, the drag should be used once when the ground is soft and slushy. This Is particularly applicable before a cold spell in winter, when it is possible to so prepare the surface that It will freeze smooth. Not Infrequently conditions are met which may be overcome by a slight change in the manner of hitching. Shortening the chain tends to lift the front slab and make the cutting slight, while a longer hitch causes the front slab to sink more deeply into the earth and act on the principle of a plow. If a furrow of earth is to be moved, the doubletree should be attached close to the ditch end of the drag, and the driver should stand with one foot on the extreme forward end of the front slab. Conditions are varied in different .localities, however, that it is quite impossible to lay down specific rules. Certain sections of a roadway will require more attention than others, because of steep grades, wet weather springs, soil conditions, exposure to sun and wind, washes, etc. There is one condition, however, in which special attention should be given. Clay roads under persistent draggings frequently become too high in the center. This may be corrected by dragging the earth towards the center of the road twice, and away from it once. There is no question as to the economy of this roadmaklng implement, either in first cost or in operation. In six counties in Kansas In 1906 the cost of maintaining ordinary earth roads, without the aid of the splitlog drag, averaged $42.50 a mile. These figures were furnished by Professor W. C. Hoad, of the university of Kansas, who secured them from official records of the counties. Some figures furnished by F. P. Sanborn and R. H. Aishton, general manager of the Chicago and Xorthwesttrn railroad, have revealed the wonders of this simple device. Mr. Sanborn said "the least expense per mile per annum for split-log dragging was $ 1.50. the greatest a little over $6. and the average expense per mile for 5} miles a little over $3. I have lived along this road all my life and never in forty years have I seen it freer from mud and dust despite the fact that during the season we have experienced the extremes of weather conditions." The testimony ot Mr. Aishton is equally strong. Learning that a township in Iowa had been making an Investigation of the split-log drag and had been experimenting with It for a year on twenty-eight miles of highway. he sent an agent to secure information. It was reported that although the town board had paid the cost of making the drags and of hiring men to operate them, the total expense for one year averaged 52.40 a mile, and the roads were reported to have been "like a race track" the greater portion of the year. He Knew the Painter.?Two men were standing in a picture gallery commenting on the different artists whose work was exhibited. "What do you think of Claymore's 'Portrait of Miss Lawrence?'" asked one. "It's a good deal Mattered," said the other. "Ah, then you've seen her? Who is she?" "I haven't the least idea," was the crisp response. "Never saw her in my life?but I know him."?Youth's Companion. MAKING MOVING PICTURES. Some of the Tricks Employed in a Wonderful Art. The person who pays his nickel at the little cage and walks into one of the moving picture theatres usually emerges after the show mystified with what he has seen. "How does the saw cut through a piece of wood without apparent human agency?" he may ask himself. "Howdoes the sea maiden descend to the bottom of the sea?" She seems to swim easily to the sea floor through real water; for there can be no doubt about the reality of the fishes observed swimming past as she descends, and the bubbles which arise as she goes down; they, too, are genuine. There are many other singular phenomena observed, such as the hurling over the cliff of what appears to be the hendne; then, again, in one of the spectacles, a skeleton arises from the ground, drinks from a mystic vial, and, lo! he is seen gradually to assume human form. Of course, every spectator Is aware that he is witnessing some remarkable illusions; it Is trickery; but how is it done? Even the most prejudiced visitor to the moving picture shows has discovered that * the most artistic and the most marvelous pictures are those which bear the Parisian trade-mark. For some reason or other the American and the English film makers have not been able to produce equally dramatic results. Product of Laboratories. In France today the manufacture of films is carried on so extensively that it has become an important industry. There are at least three large studios engaged In the work of preparing the films, nnd this means that there are three larg^e establishments where theatrical entertainments are arranged every day, and each of them employs more actors, scene painters, scene shifters and mechanics than the largest theatre in the world. It is In these laboratories that the shows are designed, studied, rehearsed and finally registered on the film, from which innumerable reproductions are printed and sold all over the world, for the moving picture craze is not the especial eccentricity of any particular community, but may be found more or less patronized whereever civilization has extended the desire for theatrical shows. It is popular in Japan, and makes life agreeable in Siberian cities. At the present time the French are the leaders and the originators of practically all that is new in the business. They seem to have just the right kind of invention and appear to be able to command artists who are admirable pantomimists. The necessity for the true theatrical artist is really not'BO great upon the stage as it is essential to the success of the story told in moving pictures. Here no word Is spoken, and in place of it the story must be unfolded with cleverness knd skill by means of pantomime and illusion which is not very different from that practiced on the regular stage. Then, too, the leading lady and the leading man, and all the com pany of fine artists must remain rorever unknown to the public, so far as their names are concerned. This does not simplify the matter of commanding the best artists. Inclosed In Glass. As the methods followed by the French makers of films are almost identical, it is not necessary to describe the process at more than one establishment. This one, which has permitted the intimate pictures shown on this page to be made, is one of the largest in the world. It must first be understood that .the spectacles devised come under two principal heads. These are the scenes taken directly from nature and those taken in the theatre or laboratory. In many of the stories told on the pictures the two are combined. In fact this is far more frequent than otherwise. The stage upon which the scenes are played when natural scenery Is not needed or cannot be obtained is immense. It is 70 feet wide and 100 feet high. The whole laboratory is enclosed in glass, consequently the pictures are taken in the daylight as quickly and as well lighted as if entirely outdoors. It is provided with traps and ample provision is made for "tank dramas." An example of the combination of the natural with the theatrical scene is shown in the spectacular story of """ " " J / "? I..!?? Thi.nn m " At' QQ If" " i ne r^riumi mns uiuim, , ?? .. is in French. "Le Reve du Trottin." In the early scenes the girl Is shown leaving her home in one of the faubourgs, and after embracing her parents. setting off for the shop where she is employed. She is shown at work and then leaving the shop to deliver some goods in an immense box, such as is carried by the apprentices of mrxlistes in Paris. The scenes are shown with natural backgrounds, and then the operator, with his camera, and the heroine of the story, are transferred to the theatre in the Rue des Alouettes, at Belleville, where the laboratory is located. Here the actress is shown still sauntering along the street. She espies a bench and, setting down her box. drops into the seat and soon is lost in a brown study. As she dreams the box lid Is opened and out of it arises a group of little dancers. They bow to her and. after executing a few steps, step down from the box and, the girl joining them, together they all dance on the pavement. Then the dream children step buck into the box, the lid closes, the girl awakes and the scene is at an end. This is not, of course, the whole of the story, but is sufficient to illustrate the manner in which the changes are accomplished. The scene in which the natural harkeround is used does not offer any difficulty, or indeed, require any special attention save that of having it appropriate, but the scenes which are enacted in the laboratory are of the totally different nature. Here the best skill in stage management that can be had is necessary and an army of stage hands is essential. Arret and Fondu. To be taken, as it were, behind the scenes of the moving picture business is almost an education to the majority of persons who have marveled at the effects produced. One at least of the unexplained marvels would be made clear if the visitors were present when the "Errand Girl's Dream" was being produced. It would be patent to the spectator that the. whole illusion is very simple, although Jt would be Just as apparent that considerable skill was required In arranging the scene. This arrangement has to be calculated with the precision of a mathematical problem. Nothing can be left to chance, but must be worked out In the remotest detail In advance. In this story Is found one example of what Is called the "arret," or, in other words, the* stop. This means that the registration on the film is halted until the scene has been changed or some substitution has taken place. The arret and the "fondu," or blending, are the two aids to the process of providing mystification or illusion in moving pictures. Without them the thing would be almost impossible. and that they have been discovered is due In the main to the "magicians" or conjurors of the stage, who have experience in producing illusory effects. TL. IUI. I I IC Ifl /OkVI J (IWVVM.WW, In the scene where the errand girl falls asleep and sees In her dream the little dancers, the effect Is produced In a perfectly easy manner. Having exposed a part ??f the film on the opening scenes of the story, where the natural background was available, the actors and operator return to the thentre. There the street scene, where the girl last was seen, Is reproduced through the efforts of the scene painters, but with an Important difference. A part of the scene, which Is what Is called In the stage a flat, has an opening which exactly In size and shape may take the place of the cover of the box. This opening Is provided with a cover, upon which the scene Is painted in such a way that Its presence Is not apparent. The girl sits Just beneath it, and the cover of the box Is covered with a black cloth and so contrived that it may be removed. As she sits there, during the halt in registration, the lid of the box is opened by one of the stage machinists, who Is not shown because his action takes place when the lens of the camera is covered and the "stop" Is in play. After he opens the lid, he removes it, and at the same time another stagehand removes the cover from the opening in the flat. It is Perfectly Simple. But the question Is asked, How are the diminutive figures produced? This, too, is perfectly simple. They are seen through the opening against a black cloth and are some 30 or 40 feet further from the camera than is the chief actor. Seen through the opening. which the spectator regards as the lid of the box, the illusion is complete. When the figures come-forward and dance with the girl, the arret again ic called Into play. While the registration on the film is halted the dancers are brought to the front, where, after taking their places, the registration proceeds as before. Their retirement is produced in the same manner. The oover Is replaced over the opening In the flat, the lid replaced on the box and the dreamer awakens. "The Happy Accident." Another example of the arret is to be seen exemplified in the film which pictures the "Happy Accident." The "accident" is one of the daring Illusions. A man is pictured faling asleep on a highway. While he sleeps an automobile swiftly runs over him. The automoblllst recognizing his carelessness. alights, comes forward, and returns to the legless man his two limbs, which have been cut on. xne vicum takes them, replaces them, and then, arising, shakes the hands of the motorist and walks off. This picture has been more than usually responsible for causing surprise among those who frequent the moving picture theatres. It almost makes the oldest frequenters of the places gasp with alarm when they see the careless chauffeur run over the legs of the sleeping man. This alarm, however, is quickly changed to a feeling of relief and then to amusement, when they see the victim awaken, look around for his legs and shake his flst at the motorist. The victim picks up one of his amputated. limbs and his vociferations halt the motorist, who alights and generously places the limbs in position, when, suddenly, the victim arises, shakes hands with the magical autoist, thanks him, and walks off. The Amputation Trick. Here, again, we have an illustration of the arret. First, it should be understood that this trick caused considerable difficulty to produce. What was needed was a man whose lower limbs were missing from the knees. It was, of course, known or surmised that there were such men in Paris, but the city had to be searched before a suitable "actor" could be obtained, and even the immense offer of 550 francs an hour?that is, in American money, about $10?was more than once refused by crippled beggars. The men whose limbs were missing appeared to think the risk was too great. The motorist might waver from the right line at the critical moment, and a r^al accident might result. However, a "victim" was found. The trick consists of having the victim and an actor whose limbs are sound made up to look like each other. First, the actor plays his part, then he lies down on the road. Here the registration on the film is stopped while the legless actor Is placed in exactly the same position as the other. Then registration is resumed until after the "accident," when another substitution takes place, after the legs are fitted to the victim. While the arret, or stop, Is one of the chief secrets of the moving picture making business, there are- several other devices equally important to its success. One of these is called the "fondu" or blending. The amateur photographer who has unwittingly taken two exposures on one plate will readily understand the utility of this method for the production of spectres. The fondu is resorted to when it Is desired to make a figure fade from view, or to gradually bring one forward on the scene, as in a dream. Even in this case the arret is a necessary part of the method. Controlled by Whistle. It should be said that the arret is controlled by a whistle. This gives notice to both actors and operator of the camera of the moment when it is to take place. To the actor, if he is to remain on the scene, he is warned by the whistle to remain in the same pose until the action Is resumed; and the operator Is guided in stopping the registration on the film and in resuming the registration. It is by means of the stop that those marvelous scenes In which a hammer apparently of its own volition drives a nail in a board and a hind saw jumps up and begins to saw wood In a thoroughly weird manner are produced. The quick Jerky motion noted on these occasions results from the fact that really only a very infinitesimal part of the actual motion is pictured because the work has to be accomplished by hand and the tool posed at intervals. In those scenes In which objects are seen rolling quickly up hill and jumping into willows and do ing other things which seem to offend the known laws of gravitation the effect Is obtained by reversing the action. That is to say. If a millstone Is to be shown running up hill the registration is made when It Is actually rolling down, and reversing this with great care gives the astonishing effects desired to be produced. In the Depths of the 8e?. Where the siren Is shown gracefully descending to the bottom of the sea, dropping daintily among the Ashes, the effect Is obtained by making two exposures on the same film. First the film is exposed before an aquarium In which living fish are swimming to and fro. Then the film Is taken to the theatre, where the action with the actress is obtained. A cloth Is laid on the stage. It is painted to represent the plant life of the sea. On this the actress lies, and in this Instance the operator is placed in a high platform above the figure. The camera Is pointed directly over the actress and as she goes through the motions of gracefully swimming the cloth is gently drawn across the painted background and the result is an effect of a siren descending through genuine water among reel fish. While the effect is startling, as has been shown, the thing is very simple In construction. It Is not possible briefly to explain all of the methods which are based upon the same kind of natural magio long practiced by the magicians of the stage. It Is a strict knowledge of theatrical illusion which is the backbone of the business. The playwright, however, is not to be forgotten, for these little dramas played In pantomime Inside twenty minutes have to be devised with the same care and with a far greater knowledge of stagecraft than many four-act dramas, In which the action-is fitted with appropriate language.?Philadelphia Ledger. THE AMERICAN FARMER. The Man Who Tills the Soil Has Come Into His Own at Last. If the American farmer went out of business this year he could clean up thirty billion dollars. And he would have to sell his farm on credit; for there is not enough money In the whole world to pay him half his price. Talk of the money-mad trusts! They might have reason to be mad if they owned the farms, instead of their watered stock. When we remember that the American farmer earns enough in seventeen days to buy out the Standard Oil, and enough in fifty days to wipe Carnegie and the steel trust off the industrial map, the story of the trusts seems like "the short and simple annals of the poor." One American harvest would . buy the kingdom of Belgium, king and all; two would buy Italy; three would buy Austria-Hungary, and five at a spot cash price, wouUl take Russia from the czar. Talk about swollen fortunes! With the setting of every sun the money box of the American farmer bulges with the weight of twenty-four new millions. Only the most athletic Imaginations can conceive of such a torrent of wealth. Place your finger on the pulse of your wrist, and count the heartbeats, one,?two,?three,?four. With every four of those quick throbs, day and night, a thousand dollars clatters into the gold-bin of the American farmer. How incomprehensible It would ? ? - In seem to Fericies, wno saw uiw? ... her Golden Age, If he could know that the yearly revenue of his country la now no more than one day's pay for the men who till the soil of this infant republic! Or, how It would amaze a resurrected Christopher Columbus if he were told that the revenue of Spain and Portugal are not nearly as much as the earnings of the American farmers' hen! Merely the crumbs that drop from the farmer's table (otherwise known as agricultural exports) have brought him in enough in foreign money since 1892 to enable him, if he wished, to settle the railroad problem once for all by buying every foot of railroad in the United States. Such is our New Farmer?a man for whom there is no name in any language. He Is far above the far- ^ mer of the story-books as a 1908 tourling car is above a jinriklsha. Instead J of being an ignorant hoeman in aM (barnyard world, he gets the news b^B daily mail and telephone; and incim dentally publishes 700 trade journal? | of his own. Instead of being a money? less peasant, he pays the Interest (M the mortgage with the earnings of I week. Even this is less of an expense than it seems for he borrows money from himself, out of his own bank, and spends the bulk of the tax money around his own properties. Farming for a business, not for a living?this is the motif of the new farmer. He is a commerclallst?a man of the twentieth century. He works as hard as the old farmer did, but in a higher way. He uses the four M's? mind, money, machinery and muscle; but as little of the latter as possible. Neither is he a Robinson Crusoe of the soli, as the old farmer was. His hermit days are over; he is a man among men. The railway, the trolley, the automobile, and the top buggy have transformed him into a suburbanite. In fact his business has become so complex and many-sided that he touches civilization at more points and lives a larger life than if he were one of the atoms of a crowded city. All American farmers, of course, are not of the new variety. The country is like the city, has its slums. But after having made allowance for exceptions, it is still true that the United States is the native land of the new farmer. He is the most typical human product that this country has produced, and the most important, for, in spite of his egotistical cities, the United States is still a farm based nation.?Herbert X. Casson. In May Review of Reviews.