Motion Picture Story Magazine (Feb 1914 - Sep 1916 (assorted issues))

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174 MOTION PICTURE MAGAZINE (Continued from page 172) "thirteen" stared at her over her dressingroom door. The studio manager offered to take it down. "Not a bit of it!" exclaimed little M. M. M. . "On the trip from New York, my baggage check was 'thirteen.' Thirteen sat down to dinner at my receph'on last night, and there are thirteen principals in my first play. Let it go at that, it's a lucky number." Charlie Chaplin's violin plajang should be taken seriously. The other day, while waiting for a set to be put in place, he bowed a little Irish ballad all to himself. But an Irish carpenter happened to be working nearby, and he dropped his tools and stood listening until Charlie went into action. The old Irishman remarked to a fellow worker, "Why in the worruld does thot spalpeen tumble down and get up agin for a livin' when he can play a chune loike thot!" Marin Sais says that she is organizing a polo team, composed solely of favorites from among the fair sex in the Los Angeles studio colony. She plans to pit her team against the Coronado, or some other strong masculine five. Even tho defeat is almost inevitable, there is a method in the athletic actress' madness, for the proceeds of the game will be turned over to the Actors' Fund of America. From Bessie Barriscale's home, recently, was mailed a large and beautifully framed portrait of herself to a little country girl somewhere in Mississippi. In common with other stars, Miss Barriscale has been forced to ask a nominal price for her likeness, or otherwise go broke, but the little girl's letter said, "If you charge for your .picture, let me know and I will save up twenty-five cents by selling wildflowers to the rich people in automobiles." It is needless to say that Miss Barriscale's picture was sent as a present to her little admirer. THE VAGABOND (Continued from page 146) As for the gypsy van, it was abandoned by them all, leaning over against the roadside, dingy and forlorn. Its romance had come and gone. There came again the hum of an engine, which C. Rosen cast stoutly out of his ears. It cried out ; it panted ; it im plored close behind him ; then drew up suddenly beside his shambling, frail figure. The girl flung herself out and caught him in strong, young arms. C. Rosen held himself tense, and tried to frown her down with his determined look. But somehow she read the cry of his heart beneath and held him roughly and close. "I am a gypsy no more!" she cried; "I have burst my cocoon, the van. And you, dear, funny heart, with the sweet lips of your violin, must never leave me again !" C. Rosen climbed into the car after her, chained to her hand. It was all very strange. LETTERS TO THE EDITOR Frederick Wallace, 28 Oak Street, Bristol, Conn., contributes a charming essay on one Harry Carey, that, willy-nilly, convinces us: As a constant reader, a frequent contributor, and a general nuisance to your Magazine, I take the floor to demand in carefully pasteurized English, "Why, O Editor, dont we get something now and then relating to Harry Carey?" Having waited for this news to sink in, I again demand, "Why?" and proceed to sit down, amid a death-like silence. The prosecution says that he has watched the aforesaid Mr. Carey's work from the old Biograph days, and is convinced that he is second to none on the screen. He is quiet, forceful, magnetic; he never rants, poses or grimaces; he delivers the goods every time; wherefore, we should be grateful to him, and, being grateful, tell him so. Did you ever see anything better than his work in "Just Jim"? Say, that man can express more by just standing still and looking at a rail fence than most of them can with both arms, all their features and an appropriate background. It always seems to me that he acts just as a real man would under the same circumstances, and not like an actor playing the part of a real man. He is awkward in all his big moments, but so is every man. Did you ever see a real son of Adam face an emotional crisis in a really graceful manner? I never did. In the supreme moments of life, I stand with my toes turned in, my scalp crawling up and down, and my hands sprawled helplessly down at my sides. I dont say any of those tender, soulful things a hero is supposed to say, either ; it is all I can do to keep my Adam's apple from colliding with my common sense. That's why I like Harry Carey. He (Continued on page 176)