The talking machine world (Jan-Dec 1911)

THE TALKING MACHINE WORLD. 45 Do you want Mt. Dealer! THE MUSIC MASTER? Every MUSIC MASTER WOOD HORN sold sells another. The only Solid Wood Horn on the market. It has no equal. There are no shams, no cheapness, no concealed faults in any part of the Mtisic Master Wood Horn as it is solid. Both sides of material used can be seen, no hidden sides glued and parts of material glue soaked as you would make a veneered door, which deadens the acoustic qualities. Many of the largest Talking Machine Jobbers and Dealers in the United States write testimonials unsolicited. "We are pleased with the MUSIC MASTER. It is the best horn on the market. We have a lot in general use and customers like them very much, expect a large sale in Fall." "The Music Master sells machines and helps sell records." Yours very truly, (Names on request.) Only Horn Guaranteed. Why not investigate ? • Should your jobber be unable to supply you, write us. If you are not satisfied, return them to us for credit. SHEIP & VANDEGRIFT, Inc. PHILADELPHIA, PA. THE VICTOR IN THE ARCTIC CIRCLE. George Grenfell, a Trapper, Writes an Interesting Letter to the Victor Co. Regarding the Great Enjoyment Derived from Hearing the Best in Music so Far from Home — How the Indains Were Fascinated by "His Master's Voice" and Affected by the Music. A "human document" is the letter recently received by The Victor Talking Machine Co. from George Grenfell, a trapper who, with a partner, goes up to within three or four hundred miles of the Arctic circle to hunt. Life up there is not much better than death ordinarily, but Grenfell tells of the light brought into the lives of himself and his companion and many wild Indians by means of a Victor. He says : "I suppose you must get lots of compliments from your customers, and I want to send you one, too, but 1 don't know how. Everything I can think of saying, or what we can do to show our thanks for what you have done for us, don't seem to fill the bill. My partner and I are hunters and trappers, with our camp down on the Mackenzie river, about 250 miles to the north of the Great Slave Lake. Just think how hard our winters used to be; the continual darkness with only a glimmer of twilight to relieve the inky blackness. Everywhere we'd go the Indians would make trouble for us because they said we were on their ground; hard perilous work; the continual iiowling of the wolves by day and by night; never the sight of a white man froin fall to spring, and your life a burden because of the want of some entertainment. Life like this lasts about four or five years and then you're welcome in the bug-house with open arms ; that's what it used to be. The spring before last my partner took a trip home and came back in the fall with one of your machines, a No. 11, a big oak horn, a big box of needles and about 150 records, and that's the layout that has made life worth living. I'd heard talking machines before, but this one's got them all skinned. It couldn't be beat; you'd think ,i real singer was singing, and a real band playing. Why, when the night is 70 below without a breath of wind, the air sharp and biting with the sparkling dropping frost, you should hear that machine sing 'Queen of My Heart.' Loneliness and hard luck don't seem the same. You picture to yourself the stage of the singer, the days gone by and the days to come; then a big lump gets in your throat. It's fine. There's another pleasure that's just as grand in the outfit, and that's to watch the Indians and Eskimos. (The machine's made us mighty good friends with them now.) Every day after we've made the line of traps and supper over, we build a big log fire outside, put a windbreak up to windward and start the concert. The Indians come wrapped in ditTerent gaudy-colored blankets and squat on the snow around the fire and listen to the music. They don't know anything about clapping of hands and all that, but their pleasure in every piece was almost holy. You'd see an old buck squatted with a murderous-looking face, and when we'd strike up something pathetic, although he couldn't understand a word of English, his face would change and a look would come into his eyes as he would look at that machine like a wounded deer looks at you before you cut his throat. I wish I was an artist, I'd paint a picture for you of what we saw last spring before we started South. Every Indian for miles around came to say good-bye to the machine. It was a beautiful night and we had the machine outside the door on a table. The blazing log fire threw a red glare over everything. It sure was a beautiful picture, with the Indians seated on the ground with the same old look of amazement and surprise upon their faces. One little girl, about 14, was seated alone, closer to the machine, with her hands clasped in her lap, the red glare from the fire fell full upon her front. She'd a face like an angel's — like you see in pictures. I forget what piece my partner was playing, it was something sentimental. As the music was playing she'd her eyes looking up to heaven. When the music stopped I could see great big tears rolling down her cheeks and her little body shaking with silent sobs. Could anything be grander? Could any compliment or appreciation for your work Be greater than such silent applause as this to the magnificence of your records and the value of your machine to such toilers in the world as us? And this is what I want to thank you for, and wish you luck forever. "A few days after Christmas we start for the hunting grounds again. .Although the forest fires took from our stock over a hundred of our records, it didn't get our machine, and before we leave we'll spend our few remaining dollars for more records to replace 'some of those we lost. Success to you again. I know that nothing but success can be yours, because your work is a godsend." The word "free" should be used only in an advertisement which explains what is to be furnished "free" and enough descriptive matter in regard to the article or proposition so the person who reads the advertisement will understand it and know exactly what he is getting. A REMARKABLE CASE. The New Phonogram for August refers to the case of H. M. Cooper, of W'aterford, Wis., which is quite remarkable. Although totally blind he is able, through the medium of the special sense highly developed in those similarly afflicted, to operate with ease the Amberola purchased recently from B. G. Foat, a dealer at that place. Mr. Cooper has arranged his one hundred two and fourminute records in the cabinet of the Amberola and is sufficiently familiar with their exact location to immediately select any one called for by the many friends who visit him on occasions to enjoy the music from his Edison. The change of reproducers and the shifting of gears for the playing of Standard and Amberol records is no difficult feat for Mr. Cooper — he seems to know by instinct when the mechanism is properly set. The successful merchant is he who gives the people what they want, when they want it.