Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, June 05, 1908, Image 1
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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.
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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.