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New York Plays and Players

TOW AND THEN a play,


unheralded, sneaks into town, has the usual difficulty in finding a theater-and, once that difficulty has been surmounted, proceeds to establish itself as a hit of the first water.

Such a play is Hatcher Hughes' "Hell Bent Fer Heaven," surely one of the most unusual plays not only of this, but of many past seasons. Hatcher Hughes, it may or may not be remembered, assisted in devising a play called "Wake Up, Jonathan," which Mrs. Fiske used for awhile. But Mr. Hughes is going to ride to fame on the new play, whatever the old one may have done for him. "Hell-Bent Fer Heaven" takes place in the Blue Ridge mountains, among those little-known people, the Southern mountaineers. It deals with the doings of Rufe Pryor, finely played by John F. Hamilton, a mental as well as physical weakling, whose little, creeping, ugly soul has been overcome by a sort of "hell-fire and brimstone religion" a brand so well known in these old mountains. When Rufe's religious fanatearthly


cow-boy in Alice Brady's play, "Zander the Great," has the role of Sid and does it very well; Glen Anders makes Andy Lowry a thoroughly enjoyable young man; and the two women, Clara Blandick as Sid's mother, and Margaret Borough as his sweetheart, are entirely adequate.

Another new play that is playing to capacity business is Frederick Londale's "Spring Cleaning," now running at the Eltinge Theater. The locale of the play is England-though it could just as well happen in America, or France, perhaps. A curious thing about "Spring Cleaning" is that the younger people are "for" it strong, voting it clever, amusing, subtle, and entirely plausible, while the older generation insist that it is absurd, tawdry, impossible and not even entertaining. However that may be, it is playing to capacity audiences of both the younger, and the older sets!

icism gets mixed with hgious fanat, "S

passion for pretty Jude Lowry, the
betrothed of Sid Hunt, his reason be-
comes still further unbalanced. Too
much of a coward to fight Sid with his
fists, he lets loose a stream of rumors,
gossip and half-truths which send Sid
Hunt at the throat of Jude's brother
Andy-and Andy
being a lovable,
reckless, happy-go-
lucky lad who
'loves his cawn lik-
ker even when he
can't handle it s'
good" isn't slow to
accept the chal-

All in all, Rufe Pryor is, perhaps, one of the most despicable characters that the stage presents this season, at least, in New York. The whole play is well writen, splendidly staged by Augustin Duncan, who, by the way, plays splendidly the role of David Hunt, a fine old patriarch of the mountains, George Abbot, who so securely established himself last season as "Texas," the

PRING CLEANING" is the story of a man, a famous novelist, who very much disapproves of his wife's friends-a group of young married women who openly boast of expensive gifts from men other than their husbands, and who consider it "quite smart" to know absolutely nothing of the whereabouts of their husbands. Each woman

has her "tame robin" lover-and when Richard Sones sees the pretty feet of his attractive wife headed in that direction, with a good-looking and very wealthy idler waiting for surrender, Sones takes desperate steps. He brings to one of his wife's smart dinner-parties, a common woman of the streets-and when the wives at the dinner haughtily refuse to know her, Sones says, much puzzled, "That's funny-I never heard of an amateur billiard player refusing to play with a professional." Thus launched, he makes it quite plain that he considers Mona, the girl whom he has brought in, as far superior to the women with whom his wife is surrounded. Eventually, of course, Mona gives both the husband and wife some very frank, straightforward, and perhaps, sound advice on "How to be Happy, Though Married." And all ends well, which is pleasant.

The lines of the play are very clever and amusing, rather breathlessly frank at times, but not offensively so. "Spring Cleaning" is, perhaps, daring, but never risque-that is, there is almost appalling frankness, but it is the wholesome sort that doesn't leave you with the feeling that the writer was deliberately striving for a "smutty" effect. We found "Spring Cleaning" a thoroughly entertaining play, cleverly written, beautifully staged, and acted by a thoroughly com


"The Cloud." From the etching by Roi Partridge

petent cast, the three leading roles-that of the wife, Mona, and the husbandbeing played by Violet Heming, Estelle Winwood and Arthur Byron, respectively, being particularly well played.

What's the matter with Cecil B. De Mille? There will be no loud outcries of "He's all right." In response to this question at least, not by those who have seen "Triumph," for what, in the Satur

mous opera star, only to lose her voice overnight, and come back to life in the can factory, is good; Rod La Rocque, rather uninteresting and a picture that when he isn't running races with himself, or bursting into insane shouts of laughter, is an acceptable hero. And that's about as much as can be said for the picture.

Harold Lloyd's new pictures are always events of keen interest, and his latest, "Girl Shy," is as, usual, mighty good entertainment. The picture permits Harold more room to show us that he is a real, honest-to-goodness actor than

some of his former pictures those that depend on stunts and thrills rather than acting. Harold does some work in "Girl Shy" that is faintly reminiscent of some of the things Charles Ray won his fame for doing-though we say quite frankly that we consider Harold the better actor of the two-and we don't care who hears us say it. Lillian Gish's "The White Sister" is beautifully donebut you knew that it would be, didn't you? She is quite lovely, and entirely credible as Donna Angela, and her work is all that one has come to expect of this slight young girl who has been acclaimed by many as the screen's greatest emotional actress. Ronald Colman, a newcomer to the screen, is most acceptable as the hot-headed, tempestuous

"Sierra Slopes." From the etching by Roi Partridge

day Evening Post, proved, last season, to be one of the most interesting and gripping serials offered by this enterprising publication, most certainly misses fire when it reaches the screen. There are some very entertaining moments in the picture-but, taken as a whole, it is rather uninteresting and a picture that scarcely seems worthy of the man who made "For Better, For Worse," and "The Ten Commandments." Leatrice Joy, as the girl who begins the picture as forewoman of a can factory, becomes, within two years, an internationally fa

young Italian officer, and the entire picture is mighty well worth seeing.

"Wild Oranges," a Joseph Hergesheimer story recently transferred to the celluloid by King Vidor is a picture that will interest all classes and types. The beauty of the back-grounds-the swampcountry of Southern Georgia-grips one. There are only five characters in the picture-which has been hailed as a "pschylogical study of fear"-the girl and her grand-father, held in the grip of terror by a huge giant of a man, who is a homicidal maniac; the hero, and his trusty servant. Charles A. Post, as the the bondage of terror in which the girl maniac is superb. There are times when

and her grandfather are prisoners, almost extends to the audience. The lonely, dilapidated old house, the glimpse of the ruined barn, with its bats, spiders, the opossum hiding in the walls-most of all, the terrific, hideous fight between the hero, and the maniac in the old house, at night-all are thrills that hold you. Frank Mayo is the hero; Virginia Valli a most appealing heroine; Nigel de Brulier, that sterling actor who can make even an "extra" bit stand out, plays the grandfather, and Ford Sterling, one of the most dependable men in the business, and who is the sailor, and, of course, Post, as the maniac, are all supurb. King Vidor has done a splendid thing in this gripping picture, and his employers are to be congratulated on having his name on a contract!




He giveth His beloved sleep.

O weary world, O heart opprest,

He giveth His beloved sleep

And rest.

Yea, when the long day ends

And shadows creep,

He giveth His beloved rest

And sleep.

He giveth His beloved sleep.

-Gilbert Moyle.

"Out West." From the etching by Roi Partridge


(Called forth by the poems:

"Black Armor.")

An armored soul peers from a hiding place,

Steps forth to take its one brief hour of grace

A Page of Verse


As night came on, the wind began to blow a bit, and moan,

The cattle bunched, and tossed their horns; I saddled the old roan And loped to help the boys, who worked with bronch and lash, and tongue,

The hour articulate. The most high To keep the steers from crowding in; gods

Must heed such words: Round, final

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and as they rode, they sung: "Go..'long,..ye..little..dogies, Go 'long, ye little dogies, Go 'long, ye little dogies! What makes you so slow?"


The herd will do a hard day's trail to that old droning tune;

I've seen the calves and browsing cows, calm as a day in June, When maybe something ailed the steers. to make 'em want to break, For you can hold a milling herd by warbling,-less'n they take

A sudden notion to stampede;-an' that was what we feared,

For cattle's got no use for wind; it gets 'em all high-geared.

A coyote yelps-Was that a shot,or but a snapping stick? Oh, Lord, they're off; Ride, ride like

Hell! and head 'em at the crick! The good old roan, he knows his job; he races tense and grim, And turns the leaders just this side the steep arroyo's rim. And as they swerve and check their

stride, the bronchos all jump clear, For you might stop the ocean's tide

before a crazy steer!

But now the herd is settling down, and soon the boys croon low: "Go 'long, ye little dogies, Go 'long, ye little dogies, Go 'long, ye little dogies, What makes you so durn slow?" -Mary B. Eyre.


Ain't they blessed, blessed days, These sweet days o' June? Seems to me my inmos' soul's Jes' been put in tune!

Seems to me my heart'll bust

From such happiness! Want to sing, jes' like them birds Yonder by their nes'.

Ain't it good to be alive

While June sunshine stays? With the roses all in bloomAin't they blessed days?

By Pearl Barker Hart

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Long Distance Interviews-"Poet Beloved"


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The Beloved Poet: reflectively: "I can't remember which one inspired the obituary-post-mortem."

The P. I.: "If you will permit-?

Ina died of too high living

In the season of Thanksgiving;

-, in this ambrosial slaughter,

Had accomplice in her daughter-"

The Beloved Poet: "Hold! Enough! I was the Other One."

The P. I.; producing further incriminating evidence: "Our Beloved Poet, 'Ina of Ours,' evidently is a member in good and regular standing of the Clan of March Hares. The interviewer has here a Nonsense Jingle, rhymed in honor of the March birthday of Cs F. L


The Beloved Poet: "Guilty as charged." The P. I.:

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-which the Interviewer takes the liberty

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Something of a span

Clear across a continent;

But I guess I can

And with tight grasp, too,
Seeing it's you,

And I just another

Of the March Hare Clan.

A mad world, my masters!

From what I know,

I haven't a doubt

That it is so.

But look at the record

Of worth-while brain,

And see what a list

Old March has had!

No doubt the rest of it is insane;

But dear old March

Is just sanely mad.

This is the judgment and the law!

My hand upon it

I mean, my paw!"

The P. I. harks back to the days following on the Historic Fire. The Beloved Poet, visiting the spot where once had stood her Treasure House, bore away-a handful of ashes. "This is left of half a lifetime of work."

Not all of it work of which the public had knowledge. No! The Poet of the Twinkle had dwelt here, with the Other One. "CAP AND BELLS," a book of poems to be published "sometime," had been born of the Twinkle; they danced on rainbow-dust, those poems, they floated on golden bubbles of laughter, they piped merry elfin tunes.

The P. I.: to the Beloved Poet: "Where did you find them?"

The Beloved Poet: "Thoughts are Things. The air is alive with them. If one came to me, and I took it, the Thought was mine. If, at the moment, I chanced to be the Other One, and sent the Thought away-Who knows where it may be now?"

The Twinkle is in Retreat; the Other One has come forth. The P. I.: "And which of your poems, oh, Poet Laureate, has been accorded the greenest Palm of Popularity?"

The Poet Laureate; judicially: "It may be--I don't know. Perhaps "

The P. I.; answering the question: "In Blossom Time," first published in Overland Monthly, since included in many Anthologies of Famous Poems.

"It's O my heart, my heart!
To be out in the sun and sing;

To sing and shout in the fields about,

In the balm and blossoming.

For O, but the world is fair, is fair;
And O, but the world is sweet!

I will out in the gold of the blossoming mold
And sit at the Master's feet.

Then sing in the hedge-row green, O thrush,
O skylark, sing in the blue!

Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear,
And my soul shall sing with you.'

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The Poem of Hope, old, yet ever new; the Poem-Joyous; the Poem that points the way to God.


Not the lark, its sky-way winging
Knows the Singer's rapture-song;
Hark the message she is bringing-
Golden-throated, trumpet-strong.
How the music of her singing
Holds the wonder-hushed throng!

Tho' oft-times the music flowing

To a minor cadence falls,

Hope speaks in the sunrise glowing;

Bird to bird ecstatic calls.

Spring is here! The wind is blowing Free, beyond life's prison walls.

-T. C.


A Fisherman's Wage

N ANTICIPATION of a poorer catch of salmon this year, the Alaska Fishermen's Union is demanding as a wage for its members nine cents a fish instead of eight cents as paid last year. The Alaska Packers' Association refuses to pay one cent more per fish, and the result is that the sailing of the fishing fleet is being delayed.

Non-union crews are being secured and a few of the sailing vessels have left, but it is difficult to get experienced fishermen outside of the union. The season is advancing and if by May 10th the fleet will not have sailed, it will be too late to do any fishing this year. That means that less salmon will be canned this year and you and I will probably pay more per can.

A visit to the Alaska Fishermen's Union on Clay Street led to conversation with the hardy and weather beaten fishermen. One of them gave me this picture of the conditions under which they work.

"When we get to Bristol Bay, small sailboats are manned by two fishermen who go out into the bay, half a mile, sometimes two and three miles away from the big ship and haul in the salmon in nets."

"Do you have union hours?" I wondered.

"No, lady, no union hours in the fishing business. You've got to get the fish when you can. There've been times when I went thirty-six hours at a stretch without a wink of sleep. It's when the fish is scarce that we have to work the hardest. You know we get paid by the number of fish we catch. On this side of Bristol Bay," pointing to a map on the wall, "we get seven and a half cents a fish, and on the other side, where there is less fish, we get eight cents a fish.”

"Why are you asking for more pay this year?" was my foolish questionwhy does anybody ever want more of anything? But the answer was interesting.


"We fishermen, have a hunch that the salmon is going to be scarcer this You know, every fourth year there is likely to be a poorer catch. At that, we don't make very much. It's a lucky man who makes $900 a season. The average is around $500 for five months' work. Of course, there is no way of spending money. No moving picture shows, no girls, nothing, only a few Eskimos. But to be a fisherman, it sure does take a strong back."

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a bit scornful of the hospital service provided by the packers' association, and exclaimed: "The Lord help you if anything goes wrong with you."

Although the Alaska Fishermen's Union is reaching a deadlock in its negotiation with the Alaska Packers' Association, it is not making any attempt to influence the Marine Cooks and Stewards' Association. As a result, the cooks and stewards are signing up and are ready to sail with non-union crews.

A bright eyed young Italian who was waiting outside the employment offices of the association felt that somehow the policy of his union was wrong.

"We all ought to be in one union," he said in his delightful naive way, "then the company would have to give in and the fishermen would get their nine cents a fish."

"That's what the I. W. W. preaches -one union," I ventured.

"We have nothing to do with the I. W. W.," he said in the most scornful way. His philosophy was his own and not borrowed.

"The company," he resumed, "is getting a lot of young chaps who don't know anything about fishing. It takes

a lot of experience to handle those sailboats in Bristol Bay. It gets rough and choppy and it takes a good sailor to manage a boat. Now you know what might happen if two fellows go out in a boat alone, one a trade union man, and the other scabbing on the union."


He shrugged his shoulders significant

"But," he went on," the company will break up the union this year; and next year you watch and see-they will be paying five cents a fish and getting all the men they need."

"Do you get enough good food?" a question perhaps unnecessary to ask of a cook.

"Oh, yes, everybody gets fat by the end of the season. The only trouble is that we haven't enough fresh water. We have to make bread half and half; half salt water and half fresh water."

When I asked the very personal question as to his reason for selecting that mode of life, he explained with an eloquent gesture of the hand:

"I don't have to spend a cent the whole five months. I come back and draw my pay of $600. Then I take it easy the rest of the year."

"Any rough house among the men when they get bored?" I asked.

"You know how it is," he seemed. loth to give details to a lady. "Some fellows do get kind of rough, especially the Mexicans that work in the canneries. But a couple of days on bread and water makes them so meek, they say, 'I'll be good.' We've got to lock up some of them and punish them. Six years ago, there used to be ruffians that would just as soon throw a few Chinese overboard as not. But now, rough house allowed."


Further inquiry developed that on board the sailing vessels bound for Bristol Bay, there are not only fishermen, stewards, and cooks, but also a horde of Orientals and Mexicans who put the salmon into tin cans for general consumption. They are not organized into a trade union.

Perhaps right here there is an object lesson in trade unionism versus the open shop. While the men who belong to the trade unions are receiving fair wages and good food, those who are not members of a trade union receive neither adequate wages nor decent treatment according to their statements.

Not only is there insufficiency of fresh water but lack of food as well. In a recent recommendation adopted by the Association of Pacific Fisheries, it was (Continued on page 282)

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