Susan Glaspell - "Lifted Masks"

Ella Wheeler Wilcox - "New Thought Pastels"

Philip Gibbs - "Now It Can Be Told"

Alfred de Musset - "The Confession of a Child of The Century"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: Merton of the Movies

H >> Harry Leon Wilson >> Merton of the Movies




He was especially interested in the interview printed by Camera with
that world favourite, Harold Parmalee. For this was the screen
artist whom Merton most envied, and whom he conceived himself most
to resemble in feature. The lady interviewer, Miss Augusta Blivens,
had gone trembling into the presence of Harold Parmalee, to be
instantly put at her ease by the young artist's simple, unaffected
manner. He chatted of his early struggles when he was only too glad
to accept the few paltry hundreds of dollars a week that were
offered him in minor parts; of his quick rise to eminence; of his
unceasing effort to give the public something better and finer; of
his love for the great out-of-doors; and of his daily flight to the
little nest that sheltered his pal wife and the kiddies. Here he
could be truly himself, a man's man, loving the simple things of
life. Here, in his library, surrounded by his books, or in the music
room playing over some little Chopin prelude, or on the lawn romping
with the giant police dog, he could forget the public that would not
let him rest. Nor had he been spoiled in the least, said the
interviewer, by the adulation poured out upon him by admiring women
and girls in volume sufficient to turn the head of a less sane young
man.

"There are many beautiful women in the world." pursued the writer,
"and I dare say there is not one who meets Harold Parmalee who does
not love him in one way or another. He has mental brilliancy for the
intellectuals, good looks for the empty-headed, a strong vital
appeal, a magnetism almost overwhelming to the susceptible, and an
easy and supremely appealing courtesy for every woman he
encounters."

Merton drew a long breath after reading these earnest words. Would
an interviewer some day be writing as much about him? He studied the
pictures of Harold Parmalee that abundantly spotted the article. The
full face, the profile, the symmetrical shoulders, the jaunty
bearing, the easy, masterful smile. From each of these he would
raise his eyes to his own pictured face on the wall above him.
Undoubtedly he was not unlike Harold Parmalee. He noted little
similarities. He had the nose, perhaps a bit more jutting than
Harold's, and the chin, even more prominent.

Possibly a director would have told him that his Harold Parmalee
beauty was just a trifle overdone; that his face went just a bit
past the line of pleasing resemblance and into something else. But
at this moment the aspirant was reassured. His eyes were pale, under
pale brows, yet they showed well in the prints. And he was slightly
built, perhaps even thin, but a diet rich in fats would remedy that.
And even if he were quite a little less comely than Parmalee, he
would still be impressive. After all, a great deal depended upon the
acting, and he was learning to act.

Months ago, the resolution big in his heart, he had answered the
advertisement in Silver Screenings, urging him to "Learn Movie
Acting, a fascinating profession that pays big. Would you like to
know," it demanded, "if you are adapted to this work? If so, send
ten cents for our Ten-Hour Talent-Prover, or Key to Movie-Acting
Aptitude, and find whether you are suited to take it up."

Merton had earnestly wished to know this, and had sent ten cents to
the Film Incorporation Bureau, Station N, Stebbinsville, Arkansas.
The Talent-Prover, or Key to Movie-Acting Aptitude, had come; he had
mailed his answers to the questions and waited an anguished ten
days, fearing that he would prove to lack the required aptitude for
this great art. But at last the cheering news had come. He had every
aptitude in full measure, and all that remained was to subscribe to
the correspondence course.

He had felt weak in the moment of his relief from this torturing
anxiety. Suppose they had told him that he wouldn't do? And he had
studied the lessons with unswerving determination. Night and day he
had held to his ideal. He knew that when you did this your hour was
bound to come.

He yawned now, thinking, instead of the anger expressions he should
have been practising, of the sordid things he must do to-morrow. He
must be up at five, sprinkle the floor, sweep it, take down the dust
curtains from the shelves of dry goods, clean and fill the lamps,
then station outside the dummies in their raiment. All day he would
serve customers, snatching a hasty lunch of crackers and cheese
behind the grocery counter. And at night, instead of twice watching
The Hazards of Hortense, he must still unreasonably serve late
customers until the second unwinding of those delectable reels.

He suddenly sickened of it all. Was he not sufficiently versed in
the art he had chosen to practise? And old Gashwiler every day
getting harder to bear! His resolve stiffened. He would not wait
much longer--only until the savings hidden out under the grocery
counter had grown a bit. He made ready for bed, taking, after he had
undressed, some dumb-bell exercises that would make his shoulders a
trifle ire like Harold Parmalee's. This rite concluded, he knelt by
his narrow cot and prayed briefly.

"Oh, God, make me a good movie actor! Make me one of the best! For
Jesus'sake, amen!"




CHAPTER III

WESTERN STUFF


Saturday proved all that his black forebodings had pictured it--a
day of sordid, harassing toil; toil, moreover, for which Gashwiler,
the beneficiary, showed but the scantest appreciation. Indeed, the
day opened with a disagreement between the forward-looking clerk and
his hide-bound reactionary. Gashwiler had reached the store at his
accustomed hour of 8:30 to find Merton embellishing the bulletin
board in front with legends setting forth especial bargains of the
day to be had within.

Chalk in hand, he had neatly written, "See our new importation of
taffetas, $2.59 the yard." Below this he was in the act of putting
down, "Try our choice Honey-dew spinach, 20 cts. the can." "Try our
Preferred Chipped Beef, 58 cts. the pound."

He was especially liking that use of "the." It sounded modern. Yet
along came Gashwiler, as if seeking an early excuse to nag, and
criticized this.

"Why don't you say 'a yard,' 'a can,' 'a pound'?" he demanded
harshly. "What's the sense of that there 'the' stuff? Looks to me
like just putting on a few airs. You keep to plain language and our
patrons'll like it a lot better." Viciously Merton Gill rubbed out
the modern "the" and substituted the desired "a."

"Very well," he assented, "if you'd rather stick to the old-
fashioned way; but I can tell you that's the way city stores do it.
I thought you might want to be up to date, but I see I made a great
mistake."

"Humph!" said Gashwiler, unbitten by this irony. "I guess the old
way's good enough, long's our prices are always right. Don't forget
to put on that canned salmon. I had that in stock for nearly a year
now--and say it's twenty cents 'a' can, not 'the' can. Also say it's
a grand reduction from thirty-five cents."

That was always the way. You never could please the old grouch. And
so began the labour that lasted until nine that night. Merton must
count out eggs and weigh butter that was brought in. He must do up
sugar and grind coffee and measure dress goods and match silks; he
must with the suavest gentility ask if there would not be something
else to-day; and he must see that babies hazardously left on
counters did not roll off.

He lived in a vortex of mental confusion, performing his tasks
mechanically. When drawing a gallon of kerosene or refolding the
shown dress goods, or at any task not requiring him to be genially
talkative, he would be saying to Miss Augusta Blivens in far-off
Hollywood, "Yes, my wife is more than a wife. She is my best pal,
and, I may also add, my severest critic."

There was but one break in the dreary monotony, and that was when
Lowell Hardy, Simsbury's highly artistic photographer, came in to
leave an order for groceries. Lowell wore a soft hat with rakish
brim, and affected low collars and flowing cravats, the artistic
effect of these being heightened in his studio work by a purple
velvet jacket. Even in Gashwiler's he stood out as an artist. Merton
received his order, and noting that Gashwiler was beyond earshot
bespoke his services for the following afternoon.

"Say, Lowell, be on the lot at two sharp to-morrow, will you? I want
to shoot some Western stuff--some stills."

Merton thrilled as he used these highly technical phrases. He had
not read his magazines for nothing.

Lowell Hardy considered, then consented. He believed that he, too,
might some day be called to Hollywood after they had seen the sort
of work he could turn out. He always finished his art studies of
Merton with great care, and took pains to have the artist's
signature entirely legible. "All right, Mert, I'll be there. I got
some new patent paper I'll try out on these."

"On the lot at two sharp to shoot Western stuff," repeated Merton
with relish.

"Right--o!" assented Lowell, and returned to more prosaic studio
art.

The day wore itself to a glad end. The last exigent customer had
gone, the curtains were up, the lights were out, and at five minutes
past nine the released slave, meeting Tessie Kearns at her front
door, escorted her with a high heart to the second show at the Bijou
Palace. They debated staying out until after the wretched comedy had
been run, but later agreed that they should see this, as Tessie
keenly wished to know why people laughed at such things. The antics
of the painfully cross-eyed man distressed them both, though the
mental inferiors by whom they were surrounded laughed noisily.
Merton wondered how any producer could bring himself to debase so
great an art, and Tessie wondered if she hadn't, in a way, been
aiming over the public's head with her scenarios. After all, you had
to give the public what it wanted. She began to devise comedy
elements for her next drama.

But The Hazards of Hortense came mercifully to soothe their
annoyance. The slim little girl with a wistful smile underwent a
rich variety of hazards, each threatening a terrible death. Through
them all she came unscathed, leaving behind her a trail of
infuriated scoundrels whom she had thwarted. She escaped from an
underworld den in a Chicago slum just in the nick of time, cleverly
concealing herself in the branches of the great eucalyptus tree that
grew hard by, while her maddened pursuers scattered in their search
for the prize. Again she was captured, this time to be conveyed by
aeroplane, a helpless prisoner and subject to the most fiendish
insults by Black Steve, to the frozen North. But in the far Alaskan
wilds she eluded the fiends and drove swiftly over the frozen wastes
with their only dog team. Having left her pursuers far behind, she
decided to rest for the night in a deserted cabin along the way.
Here a blizzard drove snow through the chinks between the logs, and
a pack of fierce wolves besieged her. She tried to bar the door, but
the bar was gone. At that moment she heard a call. Could it be Black
Steve again? No, thank heaven! The door was pushed open and there
stood Ralph Murdock, her fiance. There was a quick embrace and words
of cheer from Ralph. They must go on.

But no, the wind cut like a knife, and the wolves still prowled. The
film here showed a running insert of cruel wolves exposing all their
fangs. Ralph had lost his rifle. He went now to put his arm through
the iron loops in place of the missing bar. The wolves sought to
push open the door, but Ralph's arm foiled them.

Then the outside of the cabin was shown, with Black Steve and his
three ugly companions furtively approaching. The wolves had gone,
but human wolves, ten thousand times more cruel, had come in their
place. Back in the cabin Ralph and Hortense discovered that the
wolves had gone. It had an ugly look. Why should the wolves go?
Ralph opened the door and they both peered out. There in the shadow
of a eucalyptus tree stood Black Steve and his dastardly crew. They
were about to storm the cabin. All was undoubtedly lost.

Not until the following week would the world learn how Hortense and
her manly fiance had escaped this trap. Again had Beulah Baxter
striven and suffered to give the public something better and finer.

"A wonder girl," declared Merton when they were again in the open.
"That's what I call her--a wonder girl. And she owes it all to hard,
unceasing struggle and work and pains and being careful. You ought
to read that new interview with her in this month's Silver
Screenings."

"Yes, yes, she's wonderful," assented Tessie as they strolled to the
door of her shop. "But I've been thinking about comedy. You know my
new one I'm writing--of course it's a big, vital theme, all about a
heartless wife with her mind wholly on society and bridge clubs and
dancing and that sort of dissipation, and her husband is Hubert
Glendenning, a studious young lawyer who doesn't like to go out
evenings but would rather play with the kiddies a bit after their
mother has gone to a party, or read over some legal documents in the
library, which is very beautifully furnished; and her old school
friend, Corona Bartlett, comes to stay at the house, a very
voluptuous type, high coloured, with black hair and lots of
turquoise jewellery, and she's a bad woman through and through, and
been divorced and everything by a man whose heart she broke, and
she's become a mere adventuress with a secret vice--she takes
perfume in her tea, like I saw that one did--and all her evil
instincts are aroused at once by Hubert, who doesn't really care
deeply for her, as she has only a surface appeal of mere sensuous
beauty; but he sees that his wife is neglecting him and having an
affair with an Italian count--I found such a good name for him,
Count Ravioli--and staying out with him until all hours; so in a
moment of weakness he gives himself to Corona Bartlett, and then
sees that he must break up his home and get a divorce and marry
Corona to make an honest woman of her; but of course his wife is
brought to her senses, so she sees that she has been in the wrong
and has a big scene with Corona in which she scorns her and Corona
slinks away, and she forgives Hubert his one false step because it
was her fault. It's full of big situations, but what I'm wondering--
I'm wondering if I couldn't risk some comedy in it by having the
faithful old butler a cross-eyed man. Nothing so outrageous as that
creature we just saw, but still noticeably cross-eyed. Do you think
it would lighten some of the grimmer scenes, perhaps, and wouldn't
it be good pathos to have the butler aware of his infirmity and
knowing the greatest surgeons in the world can't help him?"

"Well," Merton considered, "if I were you I shouldn't chance it. It
would be mere acrobatic humour. And why do you want any one to be
funny when you have a big gripping thing of love and hate like that?
I don't believe I'd have him cross-eyed. I'd have him elderly and
simple and dignified. And you don't want your audience to laugh, do
you, when he holds up both hands to show how shocked he is at the
way things are going on in that house?"

"Well, maybe I won't then. It was just a thought. I believe you have
the right instinct in those matters, Merton. I'll leave him as he
is."

"Good-night, then," said Merton. "I got to be on the lot to-morrow.
My camera man's coming at two. Shooting some Western stuff."

"Oh, my! Really?"

Tessie gazed after him admiringly. He let himself into the dark
store, so lately the scene of his torment, and on the way to his
little room stopped to reach under the grocery counter for those
hidden savings. To-night he would add to them the fifteen dollars
lavished upon him by Gashwiler at the close of a week's toil. The
money was in a tobacco pouch. He lighted the lamp on his table,
placed the three new bills beside it and drew out the hoard. He
would count it to confirm his memory of the grand total.

The bills were frayed, lacking the fresh green of new ones; weary
looking, with an air of being glad to rest at last after much
passing from hand to hand as symbols of wealth. Their exalted
present owner tenderly smoothed cut several that had become
crumpled, secured them in a neat pile, adding the three recently
acquired five-dollar bills, and proceeded to count, moistening the
ends of a thumb and finger in defiance of the best sanitary
teaching. It was no time to think of malignant bacteria.

By his remembered count he should now be possessed of two hundred
and twelve dollars. And there was the two-dollar bill, a limp, gray
thing, abraded almost beyond identification. He placed this down
first, knowing that the remaining bills should amount to two hundred
and ten dollars. Slowly he counted, to finish with a look of blank,
hesitating wonder. He made another count, hastily, but taking
greater care. The wonder grew. Again he counted, slowly this time,
so that there could be no doubt. And now he knew! He possessed
thirty-three dollars more than he had thought. Knowing this was
right, he counted again for the luxury of it. Two hundred and forty-
five obvious dollars!

How had he lost count? He tried to recall. He could remember taking
out the money he had paid Lowell Hardy for the last batch of
Clifford Armytage stills--for Lowell, although making professional
rates to Merton, still believed the artist to be worth his hire--and
he could remember taking some more out to send to the mail-order
house in Chicago for the cowboy things; but it was plain that he had
twice, at least, crowded a week's salary into the pouch and
forgotten it.

It was a pleasurable experience; it was like finding thirty-three
dollars. And he was by that much nearer to his goal; that much
sooner would he be released from bondage; thirty-three dollars
sooner could he look Gashwiler in the eye and say what he thought of
him and his emporium. In his nightly prayer he did not neglect to
render thanks for this.

He dressed the next morning with a new elation. He must be more
careful about keeping tab on his money, but also it was wonderful to
find more than you expected. He left the storeroom that reeked of
kerosene and passed into the emporium to replace his treasure in its
hiding place. The big room was dusky behind the drawn front
curtains, but all the smells were there--the smell of ground coffee
and spices at the grocery counter, farther on, the smothering smell
of prints and woolens and new leather.

The dummies, waiting down by the door to be put outside, regarded
each other in blank solemnity. A few big flies droned lazily about
their still forms. Merton eyed the dusty floor, the gleaming
counters, the curtains that shielded the shelves, with a new
disdain. Sooner than he had thought he would bid them a last
farewell. And to-day, at least, he was free of them--free to be on
the lot at two, to shoot Western stuff. Let to-morrow, with its old
round of degrading tasks, take care of itself.

At 10:30 he was in church. He was not as attentive to the sermon as
he should have been, for it now occurred to him that he had no
stills of himself in the garb of a clergyman. This was worth
considering, because he was not going to be one of those one-part
actors. He would have a wide range of roles. He would be able to
play anything. He wondered how the Rev. Otto Carmichael would take
the request for a brief loan of one of his pulpit suits. Perhaps he
was not so old as he looked; perhaps he might remember that he, too,
had once been young and fired with high ideals. It would be worth
trying. And the things could be returned after a brief studio
session with Lowell Hardy. He saw himself cast in such a part, the
handsome young clergyman, exponent of a muscular Christianity. He
comes to the toughest cattle town in all the great Southwest,
determined to make honest men and good women of its sinning
derelicts. He wins the hearts of these rugged but misguided souls.
Though at first they treat him rough, they learn to respect him, and
they call him the fighting parson. Eventually he wins the hand in
marriage of the youngest of the dance-hall denizens, a sweet young
girl who despite her evil surroundings has remained as pure and good
as she is beautiful.

Anyway, if he had those clothes for an hour or two while the artist
made a few studies of him he would have something else to show
directors in search of fresh talent.

After church he ate a lonely meal served by Metta Judson at the
Gashwiler residence. The Gashwilers were on their accustomed Sabbath
visit to the distant farm of Mrs. Gashwiler's father. But as he ate
he became conscious that the Gashwiler influence was not wholly
withdrawn. From above the mantel he was sternly regarded by a tinted
enlargement of his employer's face entitled Photographic Study by
Lowell Hardy. Lowell never took photographs merely. He made
photographic studies, and the specimen at hand was one of his most
daring efforts. Merton glared at it in free hostility--a clod, with
ideals as false as the artist's pink on his leathery cheeks! He
hurried his meal, glad to be relieved from the inimical scrutiny.

He was glad to be free from this and from the determined recital by
Metta Judson of small-town happenings. What cared he that Gus
Giddings had been fined ten dollars and costs by Squire Belcher for
his low escapade, or that Gus's father had sworn to lick him within
an inch of his life if he ever ketched him touching stimmilints
again?

He went to the barn, climbed to the hayloft, and undid the bundle
containing his Buck Benson outfit. This was fresh from the mail-
order house in Chicago. He took out almost reverently a pair of
high-heeled boots with purple tops, a pair of spurs, a gay shirt, a
gayer neckerchief, a broad-brimmed hat, a leather holster, and--most
impressive of all--a pair of goatskin chaps dyed a violent maroon.
All these he excitedly donned, the spurs last. Then he clambered
down the ladder from the loft, somewhat impeded by the spurs, and
went into the kitchen. Metta Judson, washing dishes, gave a little
cry of alarm. Nothing like this had ever before invaded the
Gashwiler home by front door or back.

"Why, Mert' Gill, whatever you dressed up like that for? My stars,
you look like a cowboy or something! Well, I must say!"

"Say, Metta, do me a favour. I want to see how these things look in
a glass. It's a cowboy outfit for when I play regular Buck Benson
parts, and everything's got to be just so or the audience writes to
the magazines about it and makes fun of you."

"Go ahead," said Metta. "You can git a fine look at yourself in the
tall glass in the old lady's bedroom."

Forthwith he went, profaning a sanctuary, to survey himself in a
glass that had never reflected anything but the discreet arraying of
his employer's lady. He looked long and earnestly. The effect was
quite all he had hoped. He lowered the front of the broad-brimmed
hat the least bit, tightened his belt another notch and moved the
holster to a better line. He looked again. From feet to head he was
perfect.

Then, slightly crouching, he drew his revolver from the holster and
held it forward from the hip, wrist and forearm rigidly straight.

"Throw up your hands!"

He uttered the grim words in a low tone, but one facing him would
not have been deceived by low tones. Steely-eyed, grim of face,
relentless in all his bearing, the most desperate adversary would
have quailed. Probably even Gashwiler himself would have quailed.
When Buck Benson looked and spoke thus he meant it.

He held it a long, breathless moment before relaxing. Then he
tiptoed softly from the hallowed confines of a good woman's boudoir
and clattered down the back stairs to the kitchen. He was thinking:
"I certainly got to get me another gun if I'm ever going to do Two-
Gun Benson parts, and I got to get the draw down better. I ain't
quick enough yet."

"Well, did you like your rig?" inquired Metta genially.

"Oh, it'll do for the stills we're shooting to-day," replied the
actor. "Of course I ought to have a rattlesnake-skin band on my hat,
and the things look too new yet. And say, Metta, where's the
clothesline? I want to practise roping a little before my camera man
gets here."

"My stars! You're certainly goin' to be a real one, ain't you?"

She brought him the clothesline, in use only on Mondays. He re-
coiled it carefully and made a running noose in one end.

At two Lowell Hardy found his subject casting the rope at an
inattentive Dexter. The old horse stood in the yard, head down, one
foot crossed nonchalantly before the other. A slight tremor, a
nervous flickering of his skin, was all that ensued when the rope
grazed him. When it merely fell in his general neighbourhood, as it
oftener did, Dexter did not even glance up.

"Good stuff!" applauded the artist. "Now just stand that way,
holding the noose out. I want to make a study of that."

He rapidly mounted his camera on a tripod and put in a plate. The
study was made. Followed several studies of the fighting face of
Two-Gun Benson, grim and rigid, about to shoot from the hip. But
these were minor bits. More important would be Buck Benson and his
old pal, Pinto. From the barn Merton dragged the saddle, blanket,
and bridle he had borrowed from the Giddings House livery stable. He
had never saddled a horse before, but he had not studied in vain. He
seized Dexter by a wisp of his surviving mane and simultaneously
planted a hearty kick in the beast's side, with a command, "Get
around there, you old skate!" Dexter sighed miserably and got around
as ordered. He was both pained and astonished. He knew that this was
Sunday. Never had he been forced to work on this day. But he meekly
suffered the protrusion of a bit between his yellow teeth, and
shuddered but slightly when a blanket and then a heavy saddle were
flung across his back. True, he looked up in some dismay when the
girth was tightened. Not once in all his years had he been saddled.
He was used to having things loose around his waist.