Camera - April 14, 1923 to February 16, 1924 (April 1923-February 1924)

Page Eight '•The Digest of the Motion Picture Industry" CAMERA I "Little Bo-Peep" a photoplay by ione Mitchell It happened so long ago — the story of Little Bo Peep— so long ago that there is no one left who can remember. Ireland was much the same then as it is today, a glowing green land set in an amethyst sea — in whose valleys and on whose hillsides the quaint hospitable peasant folk dwelt in primitive content. And it was there among Ireland verdant hills, that Little Bo Peep first opened her eyes upon a brand new world. She was the only child of Patrick and Sally MacMahon. and for almost two short years she had frolicked about the clay floor of the humble cabin that was built of mud and roughly piled stones and filled always with the pungent odor of smoking turf upon the hearth. True, there were those among the inhabitants of the neighborhood village who claimed that Patrick had no love for the child, — he having longed for a son and heir, and having been deeply disappointed when the tiny girl-child had been born. But if this were true, Bo Peep was far too young to understand, and the gentle little mother who had brought her into the world protected and shielded her from the gruff brusequences of the disappointed Patrick. And it is with this child my story is concerned,— the story of Little Bo Peep as it happened many, many years ago. It was fast approaching twilight. The sun had slipped behind the emerald hills, and the lonely little cabin of the MacMahons' nestled drowsily against the hillside in the deepening shadows. From somewhere came the distant low of cattle, and now and again the tinkling of bells the returning herds broke the sweet stillness of the twilight hours. Patrick MacMahon stood at the edge of the gently flowing stream, driving his sheep ahead of him into the shallow water — urging them on with wide sweeps of his powerful bare arms — his deep voice ringing clearly through the silent hollows of the hills as he called to the barking sheep dogs. On the other side of the stream he picked up the winding path again, and soon the sheep were swarming into the fenced-in pasture lot. His flock safely stowed away for the night, Patrick turned his steps toward the cabin of mud and stone that dozed among the shadows. He was hungry— and he knew that within those homely walls a fire of turf would be burning on the hearth, and over it the savory odor of his supper would seep out from beneath the lid of the huge black kettle to greet him. He quickened his step, urged on by his contented anticipations. Then in the open doorway he stepped short — there was no fire glowing on the hearth, and the huge kettle on its crane was silent. The two roughly built stools were over-turned upon the clay floor. The worn stubby broom lay across the hearth as though it had been suddenly dropped there. Several copper pans had fallen from the walls where they were wont to hang in neat rows. The place bore a look of hurried departure — of neglect — as though she who had left had no thought of the man who had come home, hungry, in the twilight. Patrick entered the cabin and looked quickly about, his great fists clenched at his sides. The door to the tiny room opening off the larger one stood ajar. He threw it wide and peered within. Sally, his wife, was gone. For a full minule he stood leaning against the low frame of the doorway, his deep chest rising and tailing with his heavy breathing, his shaggy brows drawn low above his deep set eyes, his strong white teeth clamped together with the firmness of a steel trap — making the muscles stand out like cords around his cheek bones. The room was just as it had always been, — save that the peg on which her shawl had hung was now vacant. And in that first awful moment, Pat, ever ever quick at drawing his own conclusions, arrived at what was to him the only plausible excuse for the emptiness of his little home. She, his wife, had left him! * * * and not alone! she had destroyed his honor — and dragged his good name at her heels through the muck of the path she had chosen to follow — and she had not dared to face him in her weakness! She had gone while his hack was turned — and left him only the dregs of a life gone suddenly bitter! Then, into the burning tumult of his thoughts crept the consciousness of the little plaintive cry of a child. Patrick turned back into the deepening shadows of the strangely changed room. In a corner a tiny mite with tumbled golden curls sat on a heap of straw, her little shoulders shaken with her sobbing, her dirty little fists digging themselves into the eyes from which the tears were streaming. Patrick stares at the quivering little figure in silence: and as he stares there deepened in his eyes a look that was not good to see. He AMBITION By Eric Mayne "Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away Ambition. By that sin fell i In angels." * » * Wolsey's la.ll had dislocated his ideas, or, at any rate, his power of expression. * * * Ambition is not a sin. * * * Ambition did not cause either Wolsey or the angels to fall. * * * Milton mi tributes the fall of the angels to Pride,— he also was guessing. * » * Without Ambition Wolsey never would have been a Cardinal. With Ambition and good judgment he might have been a Pope. * * * Ambition led Wolsey to a position of great passed one hand across his forehead, and for a moment seemed as though his great body was about to crumple and fall. Then, with a sound like that which comes from a wild thing fatally hurt, he lifted his great bare arms above his head, and in a voice that was choked with fury he cried — "May every curse in God's universe descend upon him who has taken her from me! And may he drag her to the very depths of the bottomless pit at his side!" Then he turned toward the sobbing child in the corner. Two little hands went out to him in a pathetic appeal for comfort, and between her convulsive sobs the child repeated again and again: "Mama! — Bo Peep — want — Mama! Bo Peep — want — Mama!"' The man's muscles grew taut as he looked at the pitifully helpless little figure — "and she left me — that!" he muttered beneath his breath — "she left me something that will grow up to look like her, — a living curse that will keep me from forgetting! A weak fool-* ish thing that will grow to be — a woman!" Far into the night Patrick MacMahon sat beside his cold hearth and stared before him; through the tiny window that framed a bit] if moonlit world beyond. And in a corner of the darkened room the half smothered] wail of a child rose and fell, until, from the: sheer exhaustion the sobs that trembled, through the little body grew longer and farcontinued on Page 20) power, then he became proud, arrogant, des^ potic, and — he fell. * * * It is better to be Ambitious and wise;' than to be Ambitious and otherwise. * * * Napoleon was Ambitious; but not wise; He sacrificed the men of France, he under* mined its financial stability, he destroyed its prestige to salisfy his desire for power! * * * It is not a compilment to a man to call him a Napoleon of finance, or a Napoleon of anything else. * * * Napoleon was a bankrupt. If he hadj fallen leading the troops, he professed tq love so much, in that last charge, he woula have had desperate heroism to his credit. J * * * In 1811 Napoleon terrorized Europe. In 1815 he was protected from those he had led* to ruin, by those he had tried to destroy. * * * Lincoln had Ambition. Ambition to solvej a great problem. To enlarge the freedom of humanity. To give civilizing strength and dignity to the people he loved an^ pel ved. * * * Ambition to do good to all, made him one of Hie world's greatest men. It spurred him to do a noble work that commands our admiration and reverence. * * * "Fling away Ambition," and stand in the bread line of mediocrity. * * * Contentment without Ambition retards the progress of humanity. * * * Let wisdom guide our Ambition and we shall march with those who help to make life better and brighter. * * * Lincoln did not fling away Ambition, but he held fast to love, honor, devotion to Ids country, reference for his God.