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.
It was in 19 1 6 too, that Blanche Macintosh wrote Sowing the Wind from a play and this was produced by me during the year and met with considerable but not very conspicuous success. I am not very clear about it however and my memory keeps crouching back behind a defensive fence composed of the various and many troubles of the time, the difficulties of 'keeping on, keeping on5 in the face of the ever-diminishing staff and the continuingly increasing demands of the war-racked country. Food was difficult to come by and many things were unobtainable. As far as I can remember this film, with the somehow faintly appropriate title, was the last one of all for which I had the help of my camera-man, Geoff. Faithfull. Anyhow, both he and his brother Stanley were called up in the early autumn of this year and from that there was no further reprieve.
This was a double loss to me, of course, and when in the following month Tom White was also irrevocably called in the same great cause, poor Henry Edwards was left as high and even drier than I. How we managed is nobody's business, as the saying is, and I doubt whether anybody can recall it now. But it is certain that we did manage, and we kept on turning out films which, by the grace of God, the people liked.
In October my indefatigable script-writer gave me another scenario to be getting on with, this time called The Touch of a Child, which sounds rather sloppy but, as neither she nor I are much given to that sort of thing, it probably 'turned out,' like a good pudding, sufficiently solid to stand up by itself.
It was in early October, 19 17, that my wife died — the best and truest wife that any man could ever have had. Three months of very serious illness, from which at one time there seemed to be some hope that she might be recovering, proved to be too much for her remaining strength. I was left with three small children — the eldest not yet thirteen. After the funeral I could think of nothing better to do with them than to take them down to Lulworth Gove where we had often had such happy times. We got into a little cottage and did what we could to comfort one another. The eldest one, Barbara — she of Rescued by Rover — became at once a good companion and she and her sister have been that to me ever since. The sister, Margaret, aged eleven, had terribly fine golden hair, almost as fine as spider-web it seemed. I remember — I shall never forget — trying to comb it out each evening. It was
154