We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
Jack and John Barrymore
63
He talked beneath the stars,
He slept beneath the sun;
He lived a life of going-to-do And died with nothing done.
Let the Bevo burble! Let Barry talk!
“Why couldn’t you go soldiering?”
He shows me a leg that is as fascinating as the sore toe in “Tom Sawyer.”
“I can’t think of anything more honorable than a varicose leg,” I tell him.
“Don’t!” he begs. “I got it standing with one foot on the rail.”
This sounds like Jack Barrymore, like the old-time Jack of the after-night, like Jack of the rascal hours. And therefore does not last. He goes on:
“Some Winter’s night in the years to come, when children sit on my lap and say, ‘Granddad, just what did you do in France to lick the Kaiser?’ I’ll throw out what’s left of my chest and say, ‘I put grease-paint on my nose and made faces.’ Bah!”
I read to him from the Sothern-Ames telegram: “Our soldiers in France vitally need entertainment from home to combat homesickness and keep them fit. This need is emphasized by every important officer.”
“But acting isn’t important — acting isn’t important anywhere,” he derides.
“Your acting of Peter Ibbetson at the Princess is most important,” I say; “it brings back one’s ancient faith in the playhouse.”
“That’s very nice and kind of you, old man, and I appreciate it. But what I mean is this: If there were no such thing as acting — if it were all wiped out — it wouldn’t make a particle of difference to the sort of people who really matter. Wait a minute. Listen!