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OF THE Films
■ wept noisily, When they brought the baby, a tiny one, from a dingy orphan home To the old world set, and the rumors ran that the Great Director snarled As he told her to come to get the child, that his lips were flecked with foam — That he looked as ugly, and full of spite, as a twisted, sneering gnome.
The baby — fragile and very small — looked out on a world of hate, Its very birth was a tragic thing, for its mother, then, had died;
And it did not know what the noises were, and it did not even care. But it must have sensed, in a groping way, the fury and bitter pride — For it stiffened out and it closed its eyes and, quite suddenly, it cried.
The Great Director was holding it, and he almost let tt fall.
For the baby's form was a rigid thing, and its hands were clenched and hard;
And it cried till its face grew purple-red, while the extras hovered near. And Cora La Due grew white and still and forgot that she was starred^ And the Great Director spoke only once — just once, and he said, " My God: ' '
The woman instinct is hard to kill — oh. the stories folk, had told.
Of broken faiths, and of broJien hearts and of romance gone awry!
It may be that Cora, herself, scarce knew why her yearning arms reached out. Why she said, "You beast! Say, I'll murder you if you've made that baby cry!" But her eyes as she spoke were sweet and kind as a wistful lullaby !
Her hands were slender and very long, as she took the crying child
From the frightened arms that were holding it, they were gentle hands, as well.
And she seated herself on a heap of straw, it was from the manger set — And her voice was soft as the half hushed note of a murmured bndal bellAnd her down bent face gave the lie to all the stories that people tell!
She hushed the baby with words that came irom a self she had not known.
She cuddled it to th.^ robe of white that was drawn across her breast; And as she held it the knowledge grew that her eyes had looked on life.
In a surface way — that her glance had missed life's meaning, life's very best!
Oh, her face was tender, and rather wan, as the baby sank to rest!
For it stopped crying — its puckered brow grew soft as a new born rose.
Its eyelids drooped and its fragile hands groped up to the woman's hair And fastened into a strand of it — oh. her head was bending low.
And her face that was famed for loveliness — had never been half so fair!
And her lips were soft as the lips of one who has heard a faith filled prayer!
She sat, at ease, on the mound of straw — in the built up stable placeAnd no one whispered a scornful word, for even the extras fell
The thrill that grew in the waiting air; the thrill of the long ago
Thatcame to earth on an angel song, while the shepherds heard, and kneh — And one could guess — through the sudden hush — how the myrrh and incense smelt!
The Great Director? He raised his hand, and the cameras were fixed. But Cora La Due — she had laughed at hope! — was playing her first great part, And the lights glared down but she did not know, for the baby, smiling, slept— And on!y the Great Director spoke, and he murmured, "This is art!" But the weight of the baby's head lay warm on the woman's throbbing heart!