winning manners, noble and womanly nature vied position in the best metropolitan society Cordially yours, LUCIUS E. APPLEGA First Vice-President the Republic Insu The Vitagraphoscope (Moving Pictures) The Last Sausage SCENE- An Artist's Studio. The artist, a man of prepossessing appearance, sits in a attitude, amid a litter of sketches, with h resting upon his hand. An oil stove stands of box in the centre of the studio. The arti tightens his waist belt to another hole, and li stove. He goes to a tin bread box, half-hi showing that there is no more oil. The artist, in evident despair, seizes the sausage, in a sudden access of rage, and hurls it violently from him. At the same time a door opens, and a man who enters receives the sausage forcibly against his nose. He seems to cry out; and is observed to make a dance step or two, vigorously. The newcomer is a ruddy-faced, active, keen-looking man, apparently of Irish ancestry. Next he is observed to laugh immoderately; he kicks over the stove; he claps the artist (who is vainly striving to grasp his hand) vehemently upon the back. Then he goes through a pantomime which to the sufficiently intelligent spectator reveals that he has acquired large sums of money by trading pot-metal hatchets and razors to the Indians of the Cordillera Mountains for gold dust. He draws a roll of money as large as a small loaf of bread from his pocket, and waves it above his head, while at the same time he makes pantomime of drinking from a glass. The sout, st, in ccess Same eives ns to two, tive, stry. icks ainly ack. the has etal lera oner ket, -ime The SCENE- The Beach at Nice. A woman tiful, still young, exquisitely clothed, comp poised, reclines near the water, idly scrawling in the sand with the staff of her silken parasol beauty of her face is audacious; her languid one that you feel to be impermanent - you w pectant, for her to spring or glide or crawl, panther that has unaccountably become sto She idly scrawls in the sand; and the word t always writes is "Isabel." A man sits a fev away. You can see that they are companion if no longer comrades. His face is dark and s and almost inscrutable - but not quite. T speak little together. The man also scratc the sand with his cane. And the word that he is "Anchuria." And then he looks out wh Mediterranean and the sky intermingle, with in his gaze. coloured face, is trimming we grass on a grave by a mangrove swamp. Presently he rises to his feet and walks slowly toward a grove that is shaded by the gathering, brief twilight. In the edge of the grove stand a man who is stalwart, with a kind and courteous air, and a woman of a serene lear cut loveliness. When the old Indian comes up to them the man drops money in his hand. The grave-tender, with the stolid pride of his race, takes it as his due, and goes his way. The two in the edge of the grove turn back along the dim pathway, and walk close, close for, after all, what is the world at its best but a little round field of the moving pictures with two walking together in it? CURTAIN THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. |