Motion Picture Magazine (Feb-Jul 1920)

ihirraissLT Deli irac iW6mans depilatory 58 The Perfect Hair Remover WHEN you use DeMiracle there is no mussy mixture to apply or wash off. Therefore it is the nicest, cleanliest and easiest way to remove hair. It is ready for instant use and is the most economical because there is no waste. Simply wet the hair with this nice, original sanitary liquid and it is gone. You are not experimenting with a new and untried depilatory when you use DeMiracle, because it has been in use for over 20 years, and is the only depilatory that has ever been endorsed by eminent Physicians, Surgeons, Dermatologists, Medical Journals and Prominent Magazines. Use DeMiracle just once for removing hair from face, neck, arms, underarms or limbs, and if you are not convinced that it is the perfect hair remover return it to us with the DeMiracle Guarantee and we will refund your money. Write for free book. Three Sizes: 60c, #1.00, #2.00 At all toilet counters or direct from u<, in plain 'wrapper, on receipt of 63c, $1 04. or $2.08, which includes War Tax. to iraeie DeptP-29 Park Ave. and 129th St., New York We Had With Us— Ralph Graves! A two weeks' vacation is a rare thing for the cinema folk — perhaps that's why Ralph Graves beamed so the day he came over to the magazine offices to lunch with us a la boheme. Yet somehow I shouldn't be one whit surprised if he always beamed that way. Griffith — the great D. W. — had told him to take a fortnight's vacation and he was going to spend it with his mother in the little Western town which he calls home. No hectic weeks amid theaters and cabarets ; no fashionable resort with its foibles and forced gayety — none of these things for this six-foot specimen of American manhood — rather home and a real rest, — with books, — good books, I would say. And he'll come back rested and ready to undertake the stellar roles Griffith has planned for him, for he's to be with Griffith himself now — no longer leading man to Dorothy Gish. He kept the conversational ball rolling thru lunch, the entire learned (well, — er, they think they are) staff waxed enthusiastic and every one interrupted every one else in the endeavor to express an opinion. He is very well informed and cognizant of the things people are both doing and reading, cognizant of them, I might say, with an understanding and an enveloping sense of things, especially humorous things. You'll think he's perfectly serious in what he is saying until you catch a twinkle in his eye — that then becomes your cue. To Griffith he is very grateful — grateful for helps along the way and teachings most valued. Of Griffith he is very appreciative— appreciative of him as both a great man and a great artist. Too, he voices his gratitude and his appreciation in a way which becomes a tribute. When he spoke of Griffith's greatness as a man, I queried: "He is then a great man as well as a great artist?" Ralph Graves smiled and his smile said that he was about to say something which he had proven to himself. "I dont think," he mused, "that it is possible to achieve a greatness in material things unless you are possessor of what might, for the sake of identification, be called a spiritual greatness. Man reflects himself not only in his actions but also in his work, especially when it is a creative work." "You dont then," I persisted, "believe that a man not personally worthy can do great and worth-while things?" "Not consistently," he emphasized. "Once, perhaps, by accident but not consistently. Only those with something of greatness are constructive and one must of necessity be constructive in order to construct — greatness always is achieved by construction." No person will ever step upon his beliefs. They are of him a part — and his beliefs today are not revolutionary to those he had when he first left that little Western town. His taste of life has strengthened rather than destroyed them because he has never lost his perspective. I asked him the best remedy he knew for a failing perspective and he answered without a moment's hesitation : "A spell out and away from it all— in some wild park if the country isn't possible — a long walk and respite from the thing which threatens to consume you — those things and good substantial food — the kind you used to eat when you were a kid at heme." And because it seems a prescription worth remembering I pass it on. When he came into my office, he spied a proof of an interview with himself lying on my desk. I handed it to him and as he read he exhibited the lost art — the art of blushing — for he blushed an honest-togoodness schoolboy blush. And when he finished reading it, — every single word of it with an interest not even tinged with the blase — he looked up with a broad grin as he said : — "Gee, that's fine but it's much too good. I'm not nearly like that. Why, that," he ejaculated, "is like what my mother thinks I am." He had to leave early in the afternooa so that he might return and pack, in order to _ catch the midnight train. He wasn't going to miss a single, solitary day back home. It was good to have him with us, there at our luncheon table and in our offices — he was a delightful guest. We of the editorial staff were never so appreciated before— never were our opinions harkened to with a greater interest. And we hope — when he returns from home and mother and gets a few minutes to himself in his new stellar existence — that we may have him with us again — there at our Round Table. We are glad that we have had with us — Ralph Graves ! A. W. F. The Courage of Marge O'Doone (Continued from page 72) Marge O'Doone brushed the dark hair back from her face impatiently. Her eyes, on David, were hostile and defiant. "If you've come to try to get me to go back to the Nest you may as well turn right round now and tell Brokaw and Uncle Hauck I wont come ! And if you try to make me, I'll tell 'Tara,' and he'll kill you!" The huge grizzly stirred and growled softly. She laid one tiny hand across his mouth. David sat down limply on a nearby rock. Things were behaving very queerly before his eyes. "I suppose," he said, "I suppose I'm very stupid, but I dont understand, and God knows I wouldn't hurt you for the whole world. If you could just tell me about the — the Nest and everything " So, Marge O'Doone, gentled and no longer at bay, told David of the evil building on the outskirts of a lumber camp three miles to the northward that the loggers called the Nest, and of the little, humpbacked man with a nose that twitched as he talked who sold bad whiskey and called himself her uncle. "There was a woman — she was big and had a black mustache like a man," the girl explained with childlike candor; "she said she was my aunt and sometimes she would beat me when I would not wait on the men. But she is dead now, thanks to le bon Dieu. After she died Uncle Hauck wanted me to go with Brokaw, but I hated him and so I unchained 'Tara' and we ran away. We have been hiding_ in this cave" — she waved toward an opening in the rocks — "for two weeks now." David Raine had never met a woman like this, a woman who could look at him without showing that she knew that she was a woman and he was a man. Her small face between the wings of her dusky hair was of a warm pallor, with the sharp, full red of her lips against it like a stain. Her very unconsciousness was like a cloak (Continued on page 114)