CHAPTER XI

PHOTOGRAPHS AND OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS

VALUE OF ILLUSTRATIONS. The perfecting of photo-engraving processes for

making illustrations has been one of the most important factors in the

development of popular magazines and of magazine sections of newspapers,

for good pictures have contributed largely to their success. With the

advent of the half-tone process a generation ago, and with the more

recent application of the rotogravure process to periodical

publications, comparatively cheap and rapid methods of illustration were

provided. Newspapers and magazines have made extensive use of both these

processes.

The chief value of illustrations for special articles lies in the fact

that they present graphically what would require hundreds of words to

describe. Ideas expressed in pictures can be grasped much more readily

than ideas expressed in words. As an aid to rapid reading illustrations

are unexcelled. In fact, so effective are pictures as a means of

conveying facts that whole sections of magazines and Sunday newspapers

are given over to them exclusively.

Illustrations constitute a particularly valuable adjunct to special

articles. Good reproductions of photographs printed in connection with

the articles assist readers to visualize and to understand what a writer

is undertaking to explain. So fully do editors realize the great

attractiveness of illustrations, that they will buy articles accompanied

by satisfactory photographs more readily than they will those without

illustrations. Excellent photographs will sometimes sell mediocre

articles, and meritorious articles may even be rejected because they

lack good illustrations. In preparing his special feature stories, a

writer will do well to consider carefully the number and character of

the illustrations necessary to give his work the strongest possible

appeal.

SECURING PHOTOGRAPHS. Inexperienced writers are often at a loss to know

how to secure good photographs. Professional photographers will, as a

rule, produce the best results, but amateur writers often hesitate to

incur the expense involved, especially when they feel uncertain about

selling their articles. If prints can be obtained from negatives that

photographers have taken for other purposes, the cost is so small that a

writer can afford to risk the expenditure. Money spent for good

photographs is usually money well spent.

Every writer of special articles should become adept in the use of a

camera. With a little study and practice, any one can take photographs

that will reproduce well for illustrations. One advantage to a writer of

operating his own camera is that he can take pictures on the spur of the

moment when he happens to see just what he needs. Unconventional

pictures caught at the right instant often make the best illustrations.

The charges for developing films and for making prints and enlargements

are now so reasonable that a writer need not master these technicalities

in order to use a camera of his own. If he has time and interest,

however, he may secure the desired results more nearly by developing and

printing his own pictures.

Satisfactory pictures can be obtained with almost any camera, but one

with a high-grade lens and shutter is the best for all kinds of work. A

pocket camera so equipped is very convenient. If a writer can afford to

make a somewhat larger initial investment, he will do well to buy a

camera of the so-called "reflex" type. Despite its greater weight and

bulk, as compared with pocket cameras, it has the advantage of showing

the picture full size, right side up, on the top of the camera, until

the very moment that the button is pressed. These reflex cameras are

equipped with the fastest types of lens and shutter, and thus are

particularly well adapted to poorly lighted and rapidly moving objects.

A tripod should be used whenever possible. A hastily taken snap shot

often proves unsatisfactory, whereas, if the camera had rested on a

tripod, and if a slightly longer exposure had been given, a good

negative would doubtless have resulted.

REQUIREMENTS FOR PHOTOGRAPHS. All photographs intended for reproduction

by the half-tone or the rotogravure process should conform to certain

requirements.

First: The standard size of photographic prints to be used for

illustrations is 5 x 7 inches, but two smaller sizes, 4 x 5 and 3½ x

5½, as well as larger sizes such as 6½ x 8½ and 8 x 10, are

also acceptable. Professional photographers generally make their

negatives for illustrations in the sizes, 5 x 7, 6½ x 8½, and 8 x

10. If a writer uses a pocket camera taking pictures smaller than

post-card size (3½ x 5½), he must have his negatives enlarged to

one of the above standard sizes.

Second: Photographic prints for illustrations should have a glossy

surface; that is, they should be what is known as "gloss prints." Prints

on rough paper seldom reproduce satisfactorily; they usually result in

"muddy" illustrations. Prints may be mounted or unmounted; unmounted

ones cost less and require less postage, but are more easily broken in

handling.

Third: Objects in the photograph should be clear and well defined; this

requires a sharp negative. For newspaper illustrations it is desirable

to have prints with a stronger contrast between the dark and the light

parts of the picture than is necessary for the finer half-tones and

rotogravures used in magazines.

Fourth: Photographs must have life and action. Pictures of inanimate

objects in which neither persons nor animals appear, seem "dead" and

unattractive to the average reader. It is necessary, therefore, to have

at least one person in every photograph. Informal, unconventional

pictures in which the subjects seem to have been "caught" unawares, are

far better than those that appear to have been posed. Good snap-shots of

persons in characteristic surroundings are always preferable to cabinet

photographs. "Action pictures" are what all editors and all readers

want.

Fifth: Pictures must "tell the story"; that is, they should illustrate

the phase of the subject that they are designed to make clear. Unless a

photograph has illustrative value it fails to accomplish the purpose for

which it is intended.

CAPTIONS FOR ILLUSTRATIONS. On the back of a photograph intended for

reproduction the author should write or type a brief explanation of what

it represents. If he is skillful in phrasing this explanation, or

"caption," as it is called, the editor will probably use all or part of

it just as it stands. If his caption is unsatisfactory, the editor will

have to write one based on the writer's explanation. A clever caption

adds much to the attractiveness of an illustration.

A caption should not be a mere label, but, like a photograph, should

have life and action. It either should contain a verb of action or

should imply one. In this and other respects, it is not unlike the

newspaper headline. Instead, for example, of the label title, "A Large

Gold Dredge in Alaska," a photograph was given the caption, "Digs Out a

Fortune Daily." A picture of a young woman feeding chickens in a

backyard poultry run that accompanied an article entitled "Did You Ever

Think of a Meat Garden?" was given the caption "Fresh Eggs and Chicken

Dinners Reward Her Labor." To illustrate an article on the danger of the

pet cat as a carrier of disease germs, a photograph of a child playing

with a cat was used with the caption, "How Epidemics Start." A portrait

of a housewife who uses a number of labor-saving devices in her home

bore the legend, "She is Reducing Housekeeping to a Science." "A Smoking

Chimney is a Bad Sign" was the caption under a photograph of a chimney

pouring out smoke, which was used to illustrate an article on how to

save coal.

Longer captions describing in detail the subject illustrated by the

photograph, are not uncommon; in fact, as more and more pictures are

being used, there is a growing tendency to place a short statement, or

"overline," above the illustration and to add to the amount of

descriptive matter in the caption below it. This is doubtless due to two

causes: the increasing use of illustrations unaccompanied by any text

except the caption, and the effort to attract the casual reader by

giving him a taste, as it were, of what the article contains.

DRAWINGS FOR ILLUSTRATIONS. Diagrams, working drawings, floor plans,

maps, or pen-and-ink sketches are necessary to illustrate some articles.

Articles of practical guidance often need diagrams. Trade papers like to

have their articles illustrated with reproductions of record sheets and

blanks designed to develop greater efficiency in office or store

management. If a writer has a little skill in drawing, he may prepare in

rough form the material that he considers desirable for illustration,

leaving to the artists employed by the publication the work of making

drawings suitable for reproduction. A writer who has had training in

pen-and-ink drawing may prepare his own illustrations. Such drawings

should be made on bristol board with black drawing ink, and should be

drawn two or three times as large as they are intended to appear when

printed. If record sheets are to be used for illustration, the ruling

should be done with black drawing ink, and the figures and other data

should be written in with the same kind of ink. Typewriting on blanks

intended for reproduction should be done with a fresh record black

ribbon. Captions are necessary on the back of drawings as well as on

photographs.

MAILING PHOTOGRAPHS AND DRAWINGS. It is best to mail flat all

photographs and drawings up to 8 x 10 in size, in the envelope with the

manuscript, protecting them with pieces of stout cardboard. Only very

large photographs or long, narrow panoramic ones should be rolled and

mailed in a heavy cardboard tube, separate from the manuscript. The

writer's name and address, as well as the title of the article to be

illustrated, should be written on the back of every photograph and

drawing.

As photographs and drawings are not ordinarily returned when they are

used with an article that is accepted, writers should not promise to

return such material to the persons from whom they secure it. Copies can

almost always be made from the originals when persons furnishing writers

with photographs and drawings desire to have the originals kept in good

condition.

PART II

AN OUTLINE FOR THE ANALYSIS OF SPECIAL

FEATURE ARTICLES

I. SOURCES OF MATERIAL

1. What appears to have suggested the subject to the writer?

2. How much of the article was based on his personal experience?

3. How much of it was based on his personal observations?

4. Was any of the material obtained from newspapers or periodicals?

5. What portions of the article were evidently obtained by interviews?

6. What reports, documents, technical periodicals, and books of

reference were used as sources in preparing the article?

7. Does the article suggest to you some sources from which you might

obtain material for your own articles?

II. INTEREST AND APPEAL

1. Is there any evidence that the article was timely when it was

published?

2. Is the article of general or of local interest?

3. Does it seem to be particularly well adapted to the readers of

the publication in which it was printed? Why?

4. What, for the average reader, is the source of interest in the

article?

5. Does it have more than one appeal?

6. Is the subject so presented that the average reader is led to

see its application to himself and to his own affairs?

7. Could an article on the same subject, or on a similar one, be

written for a newspaper in your section of the country?

8. What possible subjects does the article suggest to you?

III. PURPOSE

1. Did the writer aim to entertain, to inform, or to give practical

guidance?

2. Does the writer seem to have had a definitely formulated

purpose?

3. How would you state this apparent purpose in one sentence?

4. Is the purpose a worthy one?

5. Did the writer accomplish his purpose?

6. Does the article contain any material that seems unnecessary

to the accomplishment of the purpose?

IV. TYPE OF ARTICLE

1. To which type does this article conform?

2. Is there any other type better adapted to the subject and

material?

3. How far did the character of the subject determine the

methods of treatment?

4. What other methods might have been used to advantage in

presenting this subject?

5. Is the article predominantly narrative, descriptive, or expository?

6. To what extent are narration and description used for expository

purposes?

7. Are concrete examples and specific instances employed

effectively?

8. By what means are the narrative passages made interesting?

9. Do the descriptive parts of the article portray the impressions

vividly?

V. STRUCTURE

1. What main topics are taken up in the article?

2. Could any parts of the article be omitted without serious

loss?

3. Could the parts be rearranged with gain in clearness, interest,

or progress?

4. Does the article march on steadily from beginning to end?

5. Is the material so arranged that the average reader will

reach the conclusion that the writer intended to have him reach?

6. Is there variety in the methods of presentation?

7. Is the length of the article proportionate to the subject?

8. What type of beginning is used?

9. Is the type of beginning well adapted to the subject and the

material?

10. Would the beginning attract the attention and hold the interest

of the average reader?

11. Is the beginning an integral part of the article?

12. Is the length of the beginning proportionate to the length of

the whole article?

13. Is the beginning skillfully connected with the body of the article?

VI. STYLE

1. Is the article easy to read? Why?

2. Is the diction literary or colloquial, specific or general, original

or trite, connotative or denotative?

3. Are figures of speech used effectively?

4. Do the sentences yield their meaning easily when read rapidly?

5. Is there variety in sentence length and structure?

6. Are important ideas placed at the beginning of sentences?

7. Are the paragraphs long or short?

8. Are they well-organized units?

9. Do the paragraphs begin with important ideas?

10. Is there variety in paragraph beginnings?

11. Is the tone well suited to the subject?

12. Do the words, figures of speech, sentences, and paragraphs

in this article suggest to you possible means of improving

your own style?

VII. TITLES AND HEADLINES

1. Is the title attractive, accurate, concise, and concrete?

2. To what type does it conform?

3. What is the character of the sub-title, and what relation

does it bear to the title?

(_Boston Herald_)

TEACH CHILDREN LOVE OF ART THROUGH STORY-TELLING

"----And so," ended the story, "St. George slew the dragon."

A great sigh, long drawn and sibilant, which for the last five minutes

had been swelling 57 little thoraxes, burst out and filled the space of

the lecture hall at the Museum of Fine Arts.

"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!" said 27 little girls.

"Aw-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w, gosh!" said 30 little boys. "Say, Mis' Cronan,

there wasn't no real dragon, was they?" A shock-headed youngster pushed

his way to the platform where Mrs. Mary C. Cronan, professional story

teller, stood smiling and wistfully looked up at her. "They wasn't no

really dragon, was they?"

"'Course they was a dragon! Whadd'ye think the man wanted to paint the

picture for if there wasn't a dragon? Certn'y there was a dragon. I

leave it to Mis' Cronan if there wasn't."

Steering a narrow course between fiction and truth, Mrs. Cronan told her

class that she thought there certainly must have been a dragon or the

picture wouldn't have been painted.

It was at one of the regular morning story hours at the Museum of Fine

Arts, a department opened three years ago at the museum by Mrs. Cronan

and Mrs. Laura Scales, a department which has become so popular that now

hundreds of children a week are entertained, children from the public

playgrounds and from the settlement houses.

On this particular day it was children from the Bickford street

playground under the guidance of two teachers from the Lucretia Crocker

School, Miss Roche and Miss Hayes, who had, in some mysterious manner,

convoyed these 57 atoms to the museum by car without mishap and who

apparently did not dread the necessity of getting them back again,

although to the uninitiated it appeared a task beside which grasping a

comet by the tail was a pleasant afternoon's amusement.

For the most part the story of St. George and the Dragon was a new thing

to these children. They might stand for St. George, although his

costume was a little out of the regular form at Jamaica Plain, but the

Dragon was another thing.

"I don't believe it," insisted an 8-year-old. "I seen every animal in

the Zoo in the park and I don't see any of them things." But the wistful

little boy kept insisting that there must be such an animal or Mrs.

Cronan wouldn't say so.

"That is the way they nearly always take it at first," said Mrs. Cronan.

"Nearly all of these children are here for the first time. Later they

will bring their fathers and mothers on Sunday and you might hear them

explaining the pictures upstairs as if they were the docents of the

museum.

"The object of the story hour is to familiarize the children with as

many as possible of the pictures of the Museum and to get them into the

way of coming here of themselves. When they go away they are given cards

bearing a reproduction of the picture about which the story of the day

has been told, and on these cards is always an invitation to them to

bring their families to the Museum on Saturday and Sunday, when there is

no entrance fee."

The idea of the story hour was broached several years ago and at first

it was taken up as an experiment. Stereopticon slides were made of

several of the more famous pictures in the Museum, and Mrs. Cronan, who

was at the time achieving a well earned success at the Public Library,

was asked to take charge of the story telling. The plan became a success

at once.

Later Mrs. Scales was called in to take afternoon classes, and now more

than 1000 children go to the Museum each week during July and August and

hear stories told entertainingly that fix in their minds the best

pictures of the world. Following the stories they are taken through the

halls of the Museum and are given short talks on some art subject. One

day it may be some interesting thing on Thibetan amulets, or on

tapestries or on some picture, Stuart's Washington or Turner's Slave

Ship, or a colorful canvas of Claude Monet.

It is hoped that the movement may result in greater familiarity with and

love for the Museum, for it is intended by the officials that these

children shall come to love the Museum and to care for the collection

and not to think of it, as many do, as a cold, unresponsive building

containing dark mysteries, or haughty officials, or an atmosphere of

"highbrow" iciness.

"I believe," says Mrs. Cronan, "that our little talks are doing just

this thing. And although some of them, of course, can't get the idea

quite all at once, most of these children will have a soft spot

hereafter for Donatello's St. George."

At least some of them were not forgetting it, for as they filed out the

wistful little boy was still talking about it.

"Ya," he said to the scoffer, "you mightn't a seen him at the Zoo.

That's all right, but you never went over to the 'quarium. Probably they

got one over there. Gee! I wish I could see a dragon. What color are

they?"

But the smallest boy of all, who had hold of Miss Hayes's hand and who

had been an interested listener to all this, branched out mentally into

other and further fields.

"Aw," said he, "I know a feller what's got a ginny pig wit' yeller spots

on 'im and he--" And they all trailed out the door.

* * * * *

(_Christian Science Monitor_)

One illustration, a half-tone reproduction of a photograph showing the

interior of the greenhouse with girls at work.

WHERE GIRLS LEARN TO WIELD SPADE AND HOE

To go to school in a potato patch; to say one's lessons to a farmer; to

study in an orchard and do laboratory work in a greenhouse--this is the

pleasant lot of the modern girl who goes to a school of horticulture

instead of going to college, or perhaps after going to college.

If ever there was a vocation that seemed specially adapted to many

women, gardening would at first glance be the one. From the time of

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary,

How does your garden grow?"

down to the busy city woman who to-day takes her recreation by digging

in her flowerbeds, gardens have seemed a natural habitat for womankind,

and garden activities have belonged to her by right.

In various parts of the country there have now been established schools

where young women may learn the ways of trees and shrubs, vegetables and

flowers, and may do experimental work among the growing things

themselves. Some of these schools are merely adjuncts of the state

agricultural colleges, with more or less limited courses of

instruction; but, just out of Philadelphia, there is a school, to which

women only are admitted, that is located on a real farm, and covers a

wide range of outdoor study.

One begins to feel the homely charm of the place the moment instructions

are given as to how to reach it.

"Out the old Lime-kiln road," you are told. And out the old Lime-kiln

road you go, until you come to a farm which spells the perfection of

care in every clump of trees and every row of vegetables. Some girls in

broad-brimmed hats are working in the Strawberry bed--if you go in

strawberry time--and farther on a group of women have gathered, with an

overalled instructor, under an apple tree the needs of which are being

studied.

Under some sedate shade trees, you are led to an old Pennsylvania stone

farmhouse--the administration building, if you please. Beyond are the

barns, poultry houses, nurseries and greenhouses, and a cottage which is

used as a dormitory for the girls--as unlike the usual dormitory as the

school is unlike the usual school. A bee colony has its own little white

village near by.

Then the director, a trained woman landscape gardener, tells you all

that this school of horticulture has accomplished since its founding

five years ago.

"Women are naturally fitted for gardening, and for some years past there

have been many calls for women to be teachers in school gardens,

planners of private gardens, or landscape gardeners in institutions for

women. Very few women, however, have had the practical training to

enable them to fill such positions, and five years ago there was little

opportunity for them to obtain such training. At that time a number of

women in and about Philadelphia, who realized the need for thorough

teaching in all the branches of horticulture, not merely in theory but

in practice, organized this school. The course is planned to equip women

with the practical knowledge that will enable them to manage private and

commercial gardens, greenhouses or orchards. Some women wish to learn

how to care for their own well-loved gardens; some young girls study

with the idea of establishing their own greenhouses and raising flowers

as a means of livelihood; still others want to go in for fruit farming,

and even for poultry raising or bee culture.

"In other countries, schools of gardening for women are holding a

recognized place in the educational world. In England, Belgium,

Germany, Italy, Denmark and Russia, such institutions have long passed

the experimental stage; graduates from their schools are managing large

estates or holding responsible positions as directors of public or

private gardens, as managers of commercial greenhouses, or as consulting

horticulturists and lecturers. In this country there is a growing demand

for supervisors of home and school gardens, for work on plantations and

model farms, and for landscape gardeners. Such positions command large

salaries, and the comparatively few women available for them are almost

certain to attain success."

Already one of the graduates has issued a modest brown circular stating

that she is equipped to supply ideas for gardens and personally to plant

them; to expend limited sums of money to the best advantage for beauty

and service; to take entire charge of gardens and orchards for the

season and personally to supervise gardens during the owners' absence;

to spray ornamental trees and shrubs, and prune them; and to care for

indoor plants and window boxes.

"She is making a success of it, too. She has all she can do," comments

one of the women directors, who is standing by.

A smiling strawberry student, who is passing, readily tells all that

going to a garden school means.

"Each one of us has her own small plot of ground for which she is

responsible. We have to plant it, care for it, and be marked on it. We

all have special care of certain parts of the greenhouse, too, and each

has a part of the nursery, the orchard and the vineyard. Even the work

that is too heavy for us we have to study about, so that we can direct

helpers when the time comes. We have to understand every detail of it

all. We have to keep a daily record of our work. This is the way to

learn how long it takes for different seeds to germinate, and thus we

watch the development of the fruits and flowers and vegetables. You see,

the attendance at the school is limited to a small number; so each one

of us receives a great deal of individual attention and help.

"We learn simple carpentry, as part of the course, so that we shall be

able to make window boxes, flats, cold frames and other articles that we

need. We could even make a greenhouse, if we had to. We are taught the

care and raising of poultry, we learn bee culture, and we have a course

in landscape gardening. There is a course in canning and preserving,

too, so that our fruits and berries can be disposed of in that way, if

we should not be able to sell them outright, when we have the gardens

of our own that we are all looking forward to."

In the cozy cottage that serves as a dormitory, there is a large

classroom, where the lectures in botany, entomology, soils and

horticultural chemistry are given. There is a staff of instructors, all

from well-known universities, and a master farmer to impart the

practical everyday process of managing fields and orchards. Special

lectures are given frequently by experts in various subjects. In the

cottage is a big, homelike living-room, where the girls read and sing

and dance in the evening. Each girl takes care of her own bedroom.

The costumes worn by these garden students are durable, appropriate and

most becoming. The school colors are the woodsy ones of brown and green,

and the working garb is carried out in these colors. Brown khaki or

corduroy skirts, eight inches from the ground, with two large pockets,

are worn under soft green smocks smocked in brown. The sweaters are

brown or green, and there is a soft hat for winter and a large shade hat

for summer. Heavy working gloves and boots are provided, and a large

apron with pockets goes with the outfit.

All in all, you feel sure, as you go back down the "old Lime-Kiln road,"

that the motto of the school will be fulfilled in the life of each of

its students: "So enter that daily thou mayst become more thoughtful and

more learned. So depart that daily thou mayst become more useful to

thyself and to all mankind."

* * * * *

(_Boston Transcript_)

BOYS IN SEARCH OF JOBS

BY RAYMOND G. FULLER

One morning lately, if you had stood on Kneeland street in sight of the

entrance of the State Free Employment Office, you would have seen a long

line of boys--a hundred of them--waiting for the doors to open. They

were of all sorts of racial extraction and of ages ranging through most

of the teens. Some you would have called ragamuffins, street urchins,

but some were too well washed, combed and laundered for such a

designation. Some were eagerly waiting, some anxiously, some

indifferently. Some wore sober faces; some were standing soldierly

stiff; but others were bubbling over with the spirits of their age,

gossiping, shouting, indulging in colt-play. When they came out, some

hustled away to prospective employers and others loitered in the street.

Disappointment was written all over some of them, from face to feet; on

others the inscription was, "I don't care."

Two hundred boys applied for "jobs" at the employment office that day.

Half the number were looking for summer positions. Others were of the

vast army of boys who quit school for keeps at the eighth or ninth grade

or thereabouts. Several weeks before school closed the office had more

than enough boy "jobs" to go around. With the coming of vacation time

the ratio was reversed. The boy applicants were a hundred or two hundred

daily. For the two hundred on the day mentioned there were fifty places.

Says Mr. Deady, who has charge of the department for male minors:

"Ranging from fourteen to nineteen years of age, of all nationalities

and beliefs, fresh from the influence of questionable home environment,

boisterous and brimful of animation, without ideas and thoughtless to a

marked degree--this is the picture of the ordinary boy who is in search

of employment. He is without a care and his only thought, if he has one,

is to obtain as high a wage as possible. It is safe to say that of the

thousands of boys who apply annually at the employment office,

two-thirds are between sixteen and eighteen years of age. Before going

further, we can safely say that twenty per cent of the youngest lads

have left school only a few weeks before applying for work.

Approximately sixty per cent have not completed a course in the

elementary grammar schools."

The boy of foreign parentage seems to be more in earnest, more

ambitious, than the American boy (not to quibble over the definition of

the adjective "American"). Walter L. Sears, superintendent of the office

in Kneeland street, tells this story:

An American youngster came in.

"Gotta job?" he asked.

"Yes, here is one"--referring to the card records--"in a printing

office; four dollars a week."

"'Taint enough money. Got anything else?"

"Here's a place in a grocery store--six dollars a week."

"What time d'ye have to get to work in the morning?"

"Seven o'clock."

"Got anything else?"

"Here's something--errand boy--six a week, mornings at eight."

"Saturday afternoons off?"

"Nothing is said about it."

"W-ell-l, maybe I'll drop around and look at it."

American independence!

An Italian boy came in, looking for work. He was told of the printing

office job.

"All right. I'll take it."

For what it is worth, it may be set down that a large proportion of the

boy applicants carefully scrutinize the dollar sign when they talk

wages. Moreover, they are not unacquainted with that phrase concocted by

those higher up, "the high cost of living." The compulsion of the thing,

or the appeal of the phrase--which?

The youthful unemployed, those who seek employment, would cast a

good-sized vote in favor of "shoffer." A youngster comes to Mr. Sears.

He wants to be a "shoffer."

"Why do you want to be a chauffeur?"

"I don't know."

"Haven't you any reasons at all?"

"No, sir."

"Isn't it because you have many times seen the man at the wheel rounding

a corner in an automobile at a 2.40 clip and sailing down the boulevard

at sixty miles an hour?"

The boy's eyes light up with the picture.

"Isn't that it?"

And the boy's eyes light up with discovery.

"Yes, I guess so."

"Well, have you ever seen the chauffeur at night, after being out all

day with the car? Overalls on, sleeves rolled up, face streaming with

perspiration? Repairing the mechanism, polishing the brass? Tired to

death?"

"No, sir."

The boy applicants seldom have any clear idea of the ultimate prospects

in any line of work they may have in mind--as to the salary limit for

the most expert, or the opportunities for promotion and the securing of

an independent position. Many of them have no preconceived idea even of

what they want to do, to say nothing of what they ought to do.

Here is an instance.

"I want a position," says a boy.

"What kind of a position?"

"I don't know."

"Haven't you ever thought about it?"

"No."

"Haven't you ever talked it over at home or at school?"

"No."

"Would you like to be a machinist?"

"I don't know."

"Would you like to be a plumber?"

"I don't know."

Similar questions, with similar answers, continue. Finally:

"Would you like to be a doctor?"

"I don't know--is that a good position?"

Sometimes a boy is accompanied to the office by his father.

"My son is a natural-born electrician," the father boasts.

"What has he done to show that?"

"Why, he's wired the whole house from top to bottom."

It is found by further questions that the lad has installed a push-bell

button at the front door and another at the back door. He had bought dry

batteries, wire and buttons at a hardware store in a box containing full

directions. It is nevertheless hard to convince the father that the boy

may not be a natural-born electrician, after all.

In frequent cases the father has not considered the limitations and

opportunities in the occupation which he chooses for his son.

Mr. Deady has this to say on the subject of the father's relation to the

boy's "job": "The average boy while seeking employment in ninety-nine

cases out of a hundred is unaccompanied by either parent. Such a

condition is deplorable. It not only shows a lack of interest in the

boy's welfare on the part of the parents, but also places the youthful

applicant in an unfair position. Oftentimes, owing to inexperience, a

boy accepts a position without inquiring into the details and nature of

the same. His main thought is the amount of the wage to be received.

Consequently there is but one obvious result. The hours are excessive,

the work is beyond the boy's strength or is hazardous, and finally the

lad withdraws without notice. It is this general apathy on the part of

the parents of a boy, combined with over-zealousness on the part of an

ordinary employer to secure boy labor for a mere trifle, that accounts

for the instability of juvenile labor."

The coming of vacation invariably brings a great influx of boys to the

State employment office, some looking for summer work, others for

permanent employment. Most of them show lack of intelligent

constructive thought on the matter in hand. Few of them have had any

counsel, or any valuable counsel from their parents or others. To Mr.

Sears and his assistants--and they have become very proficient at it--is

left the task of vocational guidance, within such limitations as those

of time and equipment. What can be done to get the boy and his sponsors

to thinking intelligently about the question of an occupation for the

boy, with proper regard to their mutual fitness?

Superintendent Sears has some suggestions to offer. In his opinion the

subject of occupational choice should be debated thoroughly in the

public schools. He favors the introduction of some plan embodying this

idea in the upper grades of the grammar school, under conditions that

would give each boy an opportunity to talk, and that would encourage him

to consult his parents and teachers. The debates might be held monthly,

and preparation should be required. Experts or successful men in various

occupations might be called in to address the pupils and furnish

authoritative information. The questions debated should involve the

advisability of learning a trade and the choice of a trade, and the same

considerations with respect to the professions, the mercantile pursuits,

and so on. The pupils should be allowed to vote on the merits of each

question debated. By such a method, thinks Mr. Sears, the boys would

gain the valuable training which debating gives, would devote

considerable thought to the question of their future employment, would

acquire much information, and would get their parents more interested in

the matter than many of them are.

* * * * *

(_New York Evening Post_)

GIRLS AND A CAMP

NOW IT IS THAT MANY COVEYS OF STUDENTS ARE HEADED TOWARD LAKE AND

MOUNTAIN--JUST HOW IT PAYS

With the sudden plunge into a muggy heat, more suggestive of July than

of the rare June weather of poets, there has begun the exodus of summer

camp folk, those men and women who add to the slender salary of the

teaching profession the additional income made by running camps for boys

and girls during the long vacation. They stretch, these camps, in

rapidly extending area from Canada through Maine and northern New

England, into the Adirondacks and the Alleghenies, and then across

toward the Northwest and the Rockies. It is quite safe to assert that

there is not a private school of importance that does not take under its

protection and support at least one such institution, while large

numbers of teachers either own camps or assist in their management as

instructors.

One group, unmistakably the advance guard of a girls' camp, assembled at

the Grand Central Station on Wednesday. There were two alert, dignified

women, evidently the co-principals; a younger woman, who, at least so

the tired suburban shopper decided, was probably the athletic

instructor; two neat colored women, and a small girl of twelve, on

tiptoe with excitement, talking volubly about the fun she would have

when they got to the lake and when all the other girls arrived. Her

excited chatter also revealed the fact that father and mother had just

sailed for Europe, and, while she thought of them with regret, there was

only pleasure in prospect as she started northward. There was much

baggage to be attended to, and consultation over express and freight

bills, with interesting references to tents, canoes, and tennis nets.

Success is an excellent testimonial, and there is no longer any need to

point out the advantages of such camps for boys and girls. They fill a

real place for the delicate, the lazy, or the backward, who must needs

do extra work to keep up with their school grade, for those who

otherwise would be condemned to hotel life, or for the children whose

parents, because of circumstances, are compelled to spend the summer in

cities. Even the most jealously anxious of mothers are among the

converts to the movement. As one said the other day of her only son,

"Yes, David will go to Mr. D.'s camp again this summer. It will be his

third year. I thought the first time that I simply could not part with

him. I pictured him drowned or ill from poor food or severe colds.

Indeed, there wasn't a single terror I didn't imagine. But he enjoyed it

so, and came home so well and happy, that I've never worried since."

From the child's point of view, summer camps are a blessing, and, as

such, they have come to stay. But there are those who doubt their

benefits, even the financial ones, for the teachers, who mortgage their

vacations to conduct them. Unfortunately, as every one knows, almost

every teacher has to mortgage her spare time in one way or another in

order to make a more than bare living. Call the roll of those whom you

may know, and you will be surprised--no, scarcely surprised; merely

interested--to find that nine-tenths of them do some additional work. It

may be extra tutoring, hack writing, translating, the editing of school

texts or the writing of text-books, taking agencies for this, that, or

the other commodity, conducting travel parties, lecturing at educational

institutes, running women's clubs, or organizing nature classes. Some

outside vocation is necessary if the teacher is to enjoy the advantages

her training makes almost imperative, or the comforts her tired, nervous

organism demands. So, as one philosopher was heard to remark, it is

perhaps best to run a summer camp, since in the doing of it there is at

least the advantage of being in the open and of leading a wholesomely

sane existence.

Two good friends and fellow-teachers who have conducted a camp in

northern Maine for the last five years have been extremely frank in

setting forth their experiences for the benefit of those who are

standing on the brink of a similar venture. And their story is worth

while, because from every point of view they have been successful. Any

pessimistic touches in their narrative cannot be laid at the door of

failure. Indeed, in their first year they cleared expenses, and that is

rare; and their clientèle has steadily increased until now they have a

camp of forty or more girls, at the very topmost of camp prices. Again,

as there were two of them and they are both versatile, they have needed

little assistance; the mother of one has been house mother and general

camp counsellor. With all this as optimistic preamble, let us hear their

story.

Perhaps their first doubt arises with regard to the wear and tear of

camp life upon those most directly responsible for its conduct. "For

years we even refused to consider it," said the senior partner,

"although urged by friends and would-be patrons, because we realized the

unwisdom of working the year around and living continuously with school

girls--but the inevitable happened. Our income did not keep pace with

our expenses, and it was start a camp or do something less agreeable.

Just at the psychological moment one of our insistent friends found the

right spot, we concluded negotiations, and, behold, we are camp

proprietors, not altogether sure, in our most uncompromisingly frank

moments, that we have done the best thing."

That a girls' camp is a far more difficult proposition than one for boys

is evident on the face of it. Mother may shed tears over parting with

Johnny, but, after all, he's a boy, and sooner or later must depend

upon himself. But Sister Sue is another matter. Can she trust any one

else to watch over her in the matter of flannels and dry stockings? Do

these well-meaning but spinster teachers know the symptoms of

tonsilitis, the first signs of a bilious attack, or the peculiarities of

a spoiled girl's diet? And will not Sue lose, possibly, some of the

gentle manners and dainty ways inculcated at home, by close contact with

divers other ways and manners? She is inclined to be skeptical, is

mother. "And so," acknowledged the senior partner, "the first summer we

were deluged by visits long and short from anxious ladies who could not

believe on hearsay evidence that we knew how to care for their delicate

daughters. They not only came, but they stayed, and as the nearest hotel

was distant many devious miles of mountain road, we were forced to put

them up; finally the maids had to sleep in the old barn, and we were

camping on cots in the hall of the farmhouse which is our headquarters.

Naturally we had to be polite, for we were under the necessity of making

a good impression that first year, but it was most distracting, for

while they stayed they were unconsciously but selfishly demanding a

little more than a fair share of time and attention for their

daughters."

And, indeed, all this maternal anxiety is not entirely misplaced. Sue is

a good deal harder to take care of than Johnny. She needs a few more

comforts, although camp life aims at eliminating all but the essentials

of simple living. Her clothes, even at a minimum, are more elaborate,

which increases the difficulty of laundering, always a problem in

camping. She is infinitely more dependent upon her elders for direction

in the veriest A B C's of daily existence. "Even the matter of tying a

hair-ribbon or cleaning a pair of white canvas shoes is a mountain to a

good many of my girls," said the successful camp counsellor.

Homesickness is "a malady most incident to maids." Boys may suffer from

it, but they suffer alone. If tears are shed they are shed in secret,

lest the other fellows find it out. Except in the case of the very

little chaps, the masters are not disturbed. But girls have no such

reserves; and the teachers in charge of twenty-five strange girls, many

in the throes of this really distressing ailment, are not to be envied.

"Frankly speaking," went on the confession, "there isn't a moment of the

day when we can dismiss them from our thoughts. Are they swimming in

charge of the director of athletics, a most capable girl, one of us must

be there, too, because, should anything happen, we, and not she, are

directly responsible. When the lesson hour is on, we not only teach,

but must see that each girl's work is adapted to her needs, as they come

from a dozen different schools. There are disputes to settle, plans for

outings and entertainments to be made, games to direct, letters to the

home folks to be superintended, or half the girls would never write at

all, to say nothing of the marketing and housekeeping, and our own

business correspondence, that has to be tucked into the siesta hour

after luncheon. Indeed, in the nine weeks of camp last summer I never

once had an hour that I could call my very own."

"And that is only the day's anxiety," sighed her colleague reflectively.

"My specialty is prowling about at night to see that everybody is

properly covered. Not a girl among them would have sense enough to get

up and close windows in case of rain, so I sleep with one ear pricked

for the first patter on the roof. Occasionally there are two or three

who walk in their sleep, and I'm on pins and needles lest harm come to

them, so I make my rounds to see that they're safe. Oh, it is a

peacefully placid existence, I assure you, having charge of forty

darling daughters. Some of them have done nothing for themselves in

their entire lives, and what a splendid place camp is for such girls.

But while they're learning we must be looking out for their sins of

omission, such, for instance, as throwing a soaking wet bathing suit

upon a bed instead of hanging it upon the line."

These are some of the few worries that attach to the care of sensitive

and delicately brought up girls that the boys' camp never knows. But if

the financial return is adequate there will naturally be some

compensation for all these pinpricks. Here again the Senior Partner is

inclined to hem and haw. "Given a popular head of camp," says she, "who

has been fortunate enough to secure a desirable site and a paying

clientèle, and she will certainly not lose money. Her summer will be

paid for. However, that is not enough to reward her for the additional

work and worry. Camp work does not confine itself to the nine weeks of

residence. There are the hours and days spent in planning and purchasing

equipment, the getting out of circulars, the correspondence entailed and

the subsequent keeping in touch with patrons."

Her own venture has so far paid its own way, and after the first year

has left a neat margin of profit. But this profit, because of expansion,

has immediately been invested in new equipment. This year, for example,

there has been erected a bungalow for general living purposes. A dozen

new tents and four canoes were bought, and two dirt tennis courts made.

Then each year there must be a general replenishing of dishes, table and

bed linen, athletic goods, and furniture. The garden has been so

enlarged that the semi-occasional man-of-all-work has been replaced by a

permanent gardener.

Naturally, such extension does mean ultimate profit, and, given a few

more years of continued prosperity, the summer will yield a goodly

additional income. But the teacher who undertakes a camp with the idea

that such money is easily made, is mistaken. One successful woman has

cleared large sums, so large, indeed, that she has about decided to

sever her direct connection with the private school where she has taught

for years, and trust to her camp for a living. She has been so

fortunate, it is but fair to explain, because her camp is upon a

government reserve tract in Canada, and she has had to make no large

investment in land; nor does she pay taxes. Desirable locations are

harder to find nowadays and much more expensive to purchase. A fortunate

pioneer in the movement bought seven acres, with five hundred feet of

lake frontage, for three hundred dollars six years ago. That same land

is worth ten times as much to-day.

And the kind of woman who should attempt the summer camp for girls as a

means of additional income? First of all, the one who really loves

outdoor life, who can find in woods and water compensation for the wear

and tear of summering with schoolgirls. Again, she who can minimize the

petty worries of existence to the vanishing point. And, last of all, she

who has business acumen. For what does it profit a tired teacher if she

fill her camp list and have no margin of profit for her weeks of hard

labor?

* * * * *

_(Saturday Evening Post)_

Two half-tone reproductions of wash-drawings by a staff artist.

YOUR PORTER

BY EDWARD HUNGERFORD

He stands there at the door of his car, dusky, grinning,

immaculate--awaiting your pleasure. He steps forward as you near him

and, with a quick, intuitive movement born of long experience and

careful training, inquires:

"What space you got, guv'nor?"

"Lower five," you reply. "Are you full-up, George?"

"Jus' toler'bul, guv'nor."

He has your grips, is already slipping down the aisle toward section

five. And, after he has stowed the big one under the facing bench and

placed the smaller one by your side, he asks again:

"Shake out a pillow for you, guv'nor?"

That "guv'nor," though not a part of his official training, is a part of

his unofficial--his subtlety, if you please. Another passenger might be

the "kunnel"; still another, the "jedge." But there can be no other

guv'nor save you on this car and trip. And George, of the Pullmans, is

going to watch over you this night as a mother hen might watch over her

solitary chick. The car is well filled and he is going to have a hard

night of it; but he is going to take good care of you. He tells you so;

and, before you are off the car, you are going to have good reason to

believe it.

Before we consider the sable-skinned George of to-day, give a passing

thought to the Pullman itself. The first George of the Pullmans--George

M. Pullman--was a shrewd-headed carpenter who migrated from a western

New York village out into Illinois more than half a century ago and gave

birth to the idea of railroad luxury at half a cent a mile. There had

been sleeping cars before Pullman built the Pioneer, as he called his

maiden effort. There was a night car, equipped with rough bunks for the

comfort of passengers, on the Cumberland Valley Railroad along about

1840.

Other early railroads had made similar experiments, but they were all

makeshifts and crude. Pullman set out to build a sleeping car that would

combine a degree of comfort with a degree of luxury. The Pioneer, viewed

in the eyes of 1864, was really a luxurious car. It was as wide as the

sleeping car of to-day and nearly as high; in fact, so high and so wide

was it that there were no railroads on which it might run, and when

Pullman pleaded with the old-time railroad officers to widen the

clearances, so as to permit the Pioneer to run over their lines, they

laughed at him.

"It is ridiculous, Mr. Pullman," they told him smilingly in refusal.

"People are never going to pay their good money to ride in any such

fancy contraption as that car of yours."

Then suddenly they ceased smiling. All America ceased smiling. Morse's

telegraph was sobering an exultant land by telling how its great

magistrate lay dead within the White House, at Washington. And men were

demanding a funeral car, dignified and handsome enough to carry the body

of Abraham Lincoln from Washington to Springfield. Suddenly somebody

thought of the Pioneer, which rested, a virtual prisoner, in a railroad

yard not far from Chicago.

The Pioneer was quickly released. There was no hesitation now about

making clearances for her. Almost in the passing of a night, station

platforms and other obstructions were being cut away, and the first of

all the Pullman cars made a triumphant though melancholy journey to New

York, to Washington, and back again to Illinois. Abraham Lincoln, in the

hour of death--fifty years ago this blossoming spring of 1915--had given

birth to the Pullman idea. The other day, while one of the brisk Federal

commissions down at Washington was extending consideration to the

Pullman porter and his wage, it called to the witness stand the

executive head of the Pullman Company. And the man who answered the call

was Robert T. Lincoln, the son of Abraham Lincoln.

When Pullman built the Pioneer he designated it A, little dreaming that

eventually he might build enough cars to exhaust the letters of the

alphabet. To-day the Pullman Company has more than six thousand cars in

constant use. It operates the entire sleeping-car service and by far the

larger part of the parlor-car service on all but half a dozen of the

railroads of the United States and Canada, with a goodly sprinkling of

routes south into Mexico. On an average night sixty thousand persons--a

community equal in size to Johnstown, Pennsylvania, or South Bend,

Indiana--sleep within its cars.

And one of the chief excuses for its existence is the flexibility of its

service. A railroad in the South, with a large passenger traffic in the

winter, or a railroad in the North, with conditions reversed and travel

running at high tide throughout the hot summer months, could hardly

afford to place the investment in sleeping and parlor cars to meet its

high-tide needs, and have those cars grow rusty throughout the long,

dull months. The Pullman Company, by moving its extra cars backward and

forward over the face of the land in regiments and in battalions, keeps

them all earning money. It meets unusual traffic demands with all the

resources of its great fleet of traveling hotels.

Last summer, when the Knights Templars held their convention in Denver,

it sent four hundred and fifty extra cars out to the capital of

Colorado. And this year it is bending its resources toward finding

sufficient cars to meet the demands for the long overland trek to the

expositions on the Pacific Coast.

The transition from the Pioneer to the steel sleeping car of today

was not accomplished in a single step. A man does not have to be so

very old or so very much traveled to recall the day when the Pullman

was called a palace ear and did its enterprising best to justify that

title. It was almost an apotheosis of architectural bad taste. Disfigured

by all manner of moldings, cornices, grilles and dinky plush

curtains--head-bumping, dust-catching, useless--it was a decorative

orgy, as well as one of the very foundations of the newspaper school of

humor.

Suddenly the Pullman Company awoke to the absurdity of it all. More than

ten years ago it came to the decision that architecture was all right in

its way, but that it was not a fundamental part of car building. It

separated the two. It began to throw out the grilles and the other

knickknacks, even before it had committed itself definitely to the use

of the steel car.

Recently it has done much more. It has banished all but the very

simplest of the moldings, and all the hangings save those that are

absolutely necessary to the operation of the car. It has studied and it

has experimented until it has produced in the sleeping car of to-day

what is probably the most efficient railroad vehicle in the world. Our

foreign cousins scoff at it and call it immodest; but we may reserve our

own opinion as to the relative modesty of some of their institutions.

* * * * *

This, however, is not the story of the Pullman car. It is the story of

that ebony autocrat who presides so genially and yet so firmly over it.

It is the story of George the porter--the six thousand Georges standing

to-night to greet you and the other traveling folk at the doors of the

waiting cars. And George is worthy of a passing thought. He was born in

the day when the negro servant was the pride of America--when the black

man stood at your elbow in the dining rooms of the greatest of our

hotels; when a colored butler was the joy of the finest of the homes

along Fifth Avenue or round Rittenhouse Square. Transplanted, he quickly

became an American institution. And there is many a man who avers that

never elsewhere has there been such a servant as a good negro servant.

Fashions change, and in the transplanting of other social ideas the

black man has been shoved aside. It is only in the Pullman service that

he retains his old-time pride and prestige. That company to-day might

almost be fairly called his salvation, despite the vexing questions of

the wages and tips of the sleeping-car porters that have recently come

to the fore. Yet it is almost equally true that the black man has been

the salvation of the sleeping-car service. Experiments have been made in

using others. One or two of the Canadian roads, which operate their own

sleeping cars, have placed white men as porters; down in the Southwest

the inevitable Mexicano has been placed in the familiar blue uniform.

None of them has been satisfactory; and, indeed, it is not every negro

who is capable of taking charge of a sleeping car.

The Pullman Company passes by the West Indians--the type so familiar to

every man who has ridden many times in the elevators of the apartment

houses of upper New York. It prefers to recruit its porters from certain

of the states of the Old South--Georgia and the Carolinas. It almost

limits its choice to certain counties within those states. It shows a

decided preference for the sons of its employees; in fact, it might

almost be said that to-day there are black boys growing up down there in

the cotton country who have come into the world with the hope and

expectation of being made Pullman car porters. The company that operates

those cars prefers to discriminate--and it does discriminate.

That is its first step toward service--the careful selection of the

human factor. The next step lies in the proper training of that factor;

and as soon as a young man enters the service of the Pullmans he goes to

school--in some one of the large railroad centers that act as hubs for

that system. Sometimes the school is held in one of the division

offices, but more often it goes forward in the familiar aisle of a

sleeping car, sidetracked for the purpose.

Its curriculum is unusual but it is valuable. One moment it considers

the best methods to "swat the fly"--to drive him from the vehicle in

which he is an unwelcome passenger; the next moment the class is being

shown the proper handling of the linen closet, the proper methods of

folding and putting away clean linen and blankets, the correct way of

stacking in the laundry bags the dirty and discarded bedding. The porter

is taught that a sheet once unfolded cannot be used again. Though it may

be really spotless, yet technically it is dirty; and it must make a

round trip to the laundry before it can reenter the service.

All these things are taught the sophomore porters by a wrinkled veteran

of the service; and they are minutely prescribed in the voluminous rule

book issued by the Pullman Company, which believes that the first

foundation of service is discipline. So the school and the rule book do

not hesitate at details. They teach the immature porter not merely the

routine of making up and taking down beds, and the proper maintenance of

the car, but they go into such finer things as the calling of a

passenger, for instance. Noise is tabooed, and so even a soft knocking

on the top of the berth is forbidden. The porter must gently shake the

curtains or the bedding from without.

When the would-be porter is through in this schoolroom his education

goes forward out on the line. Under the direction of one of the grizzled

autocrats he first comes in contact with actual patrons--comes to know

their personalities and their peculiarities. Also, he comes to know the

full meaning of that overused and abused word--service. After all, here

is the full measure of the job. He is a servant. He must realize that.

And as a servant he must perfect himself. He must rise to the countless

opportunities that will come to him each night he is on the run. He must

do better--he must anticipate them.

Take such a man as Eugene Roundtree, who has been running a smoking car

on one of the limited trains between New York and Boston for two

decades--save for that brief transcendent hour when Charles S. Mellen

saw himself destined to become transportation overlord of New England

and appropriated Roundtree for a personal servant and porter of his

private car. Roundtree is a negro of the very finest type. He is a man

who commands respect and dignity--and receives it. And Roundtree, as

porter of the Pullman smoker on the Merchants' Limited, has learned to

anticipate.

He knows at least five hundred of the big bankers and business men of

both New York and Boston--though he knows the Boston crowd best. He

knows the men who belong to the Somerset and the Algonquin Clubs--the

men who are Boston enough to pronounce Peabody "Pebbuddy." And they know

him. Some of them have a habit of dropping in at the New Haven ticket

offices and demanding: "Is Eugene running up on the Merchants'

to-night?"

"It isn't just knowing them and being able to call them by their names,"

he will tell you if you can catch him in one of his rarely idle moments.

"I've got to remember what they smoke and what they drink. When Mr.

Blank tells me he wants a cigar it's my job to remember what he smokes

and to put it before him. I don't ask him what he wants. I anticipate."

And by anticipating Roundtree approaches a sort of _n_th degree of

service and receives one of the "fattest" of all the Pullman runs.

George Sylvester is another man of the Roundtree type--only his run

trends to the west from New York instead of to the east, which means

that he has a somewhat different type of patron with which to deal.

Sylvester is a porter on the Twentieth Century Limited; and, like

Roundtree, he is a colored man of far more than ordinary force and

character. He had opportunity to show both on a winter night, when his

train was stopped and a drunken man--a man who was making life hideous

for other passengers on Sylvester's car--was taken from the train. The

fact that the man was a powerful politician, a man who raved the direst

threats when arrested, made the porter's job the more difficult.

The Pullman Company, in this instance alone, had good cause to remember

Sylvester's force and courage--and consummate tact--just as it has good

cause in many such episodes to be thankful for the cool-headedness of

its black man in a blue uniform who stands in immediate control of its

property.

Sylvester prefers to forget that episode. He likes to think of the nice

part of the Century's runs--the passengers who are quiet, and kind, and

thoughtful, and remembering. They are a sort whom it is a pleasure for a

porter to serve. They are the people who make an excess-fare train a

"fat run." There are other fat runs, of course: the Overland, the

Olympian, the Congressional--and of General Henry Forrest, of the

Congressional, more in a moment--fat trains that follow the route of the

Century.

It was on one of these, coming east from Cleveland on a snowy night in

February last, that a resourceful porter had full use for his store of

tact; for there is, in the community that has begun to stamp Sixth City

on its shirts and its shoe tabs, a bank president who--to put the matter

lightly--is a particular traveler. More than one black man, rising high

in porter service, has had his vanity come to grief when this crotchety

personage has come on his car.

And the man himself was one of those who are marked up and down the

Pullman trails. An unwritten code was being transmitted between the

black brethren of the sleeping cars as to his whims and peculiarities.

It was well that every brother in service in the Cleveland district

should know the code. When Mr. X entered his drawing-room--he never

rides elsewhere in the car--shades were to be drawn, a pillow beaten and

ready by the window, and matches on the window sill. X would never ask

for these things; but God help the poor porter who forgot them!

So you yourself can imagine the emotions of Whittlesey Warren, porter of

the car Thanatopsis, bound east on Number Six on the snowy February

night when X came through the portals of that scarabic antique, the

Union Depot at Cleveland, a redcap with his grips in the wake. Warren

recognized his man. The code took good care as to that. He followed the

banker down the aisle, tucked away the bags, pulled down the shades,

fixed the pillow and placed the matches on the window sill.

The banker merely grunted approval, lighted a big black cigar and went

into the smoker, while Warren gave some passing attention to the other

patrons of his car. It was passing attention at the best; for after a

time the little bell annunciator began to sing merrily and persistently

at him--and invariably its commanding needle pointed to D.R. And on the

drawing-room Whittlesey Warren danced a constant attention.

"Here, you nigger!" X shouted at the first response. "How many times

have I got to tell all of you to put the head of my bed toward the

engine?"

Whittlesey Warren looked at the bed. He knew the make-up of the train.

The code had been met. The banker's pillows were toward the locomotive.

But his job was not to argue and dispute. He merely said:

"Yas-suh. Scuse me!" And he remade the bed while X lit a stogy and went

back to the smoker.

That was at Erie--Erie, and the snow was falling more briskly than at

Cleveland. Slowing into Dunkirk, the banker returned and glanced through

the car window. He could see by the snow against the street lamps that

the train was apparently running in the opposite direction. His chubby

finger went against the push button. Whittlesey Warren appeared at the

door. The language that followed cannot be reproduced in THE SATURDAY

EVENING POST. Suffice it to say that the porter remembered who he was

and what he was, and merely remade the bed.

The banker bit off the end of another cigar and retired once again to

the club car. When he returned, the train was backing into the Buffalo

station. At that unfortunate moment he raised his car shade--and Porter

Whittlesey Warren again reversed the bed, to the accompaniment of the

most violent abuse that had ever been heaped on his defenseless head.

Yet not once did he complain--he remembered that a servant a servant

always is. And in the morning X must have remembered; for a folded bill

went into Warren's palm--a bill of a denomination large enough to buy

that fancy vest which hung in a haberdasher's shop over on San Juan

Hill.

If you have been asking yourself all this while just what a fat run is,

here is your answer: Tips; a fine train filled with fine ladies and fine

gentlemen, not all of them so cranky as X, of Cleveland--thank heaven

for that!--though a good many of them have their peculiarities and are

willing to pay generously for the privilege of indulging those

peculiarities.

Despite the rigid discipline of the Pullman Company the porter's leeway

is a very considerable one. His instructions are never to say "Against

the rules!" but rather "I do not know what can be done about it"--and

then to make a quick reference to the Pullman conductor, who is his

arbiter and his court of last resort. His own initiative, however, is

not small.

Two newspaper men in New York know that. They had gone over to Boston

for a week-end, had separated momentarily at its end, to meet at the

last of the afternoon trains for Gotham. A had the joint finances and

tickets for the trip; but B, hurrying through the traffic tangle of

South Station, just ninety seconds before the moment of departure, knew

that he would find him already in the big Pullman observation car. He

was not asked to show his ticket at the train gate. Boston, with the

fine spirit of the Tea Party still flowing in its blue veins, has always

resented that as a sort of railroad impertinence.

B did not find A. He did not really search for him until Back Bay was

passed and the train was on the first leg of its journey, with the next

stop at Providence. Then it was that A was not to be found. Then B

realized that his side partner had missed the train. He dropped into a

corner and searched his own pockets. A battered quarter and three

pennies came to view--and the fare from Boston to Providence is ninety

cents!

Then it was that the initiative of a well-trained Pullman porter came

into play. He had stood over the distressed B while he was making an

inventory of his resources.

"Done los' something, boss?" said the autocrat of the car.

B told the black man his story in a quick, straightforward manner; and

the black man looked into his eyes. B returned the glance. Perhaps he

saw in that honest ebony face something of the expression of the

faithful servants of wartime who refused to leave their masters even

after utter ruin had come upon them. The porter drew forth a fat roll of

bills.

"Ah guess dat, ef you-all'll give meh yo' business cyard, Ah'll be able

to fee-nance yo' trip dis time."

To initiative the black man was adding intuition. He had studied his

man. He was forever using his countless opportunities to study men. It

was not so much of a gamble as one might suppose.

A pretty well-known editor was saved from a mighty embarrassing time;

and some other people have been saved from similarly embarrassing

situations through the intuition and the resources of the Pullman

porter. The conductor--both of the train and of the sleeping-car

service--is not permitted to exercise such initiative or intuition; but

the porter can do and frequently does things of this very sort. His

recompense for them, however, is hardly to be classed as a tip.

The tip is the nub of the whole situation. Almost since the very day

when the Pioneer began to blaze the trail of luxury over the railroads

of the land, and the autocrat of the Pullman car created his servile but

entirely honorable calling, it has been a mooted point. Recently a great

Federal commission has blazed the strong light of publicity on it.

Robert T. Lincoln, son of the Emancipator, and, as we have already said,

the head and front of the Pullman Company, sat in a witness chair at

Washington and answered some pretty pointed questions as to the division

of the porter's income between the company and the passenger who

employed him. Wages, it appeared, are twenty-seven dollars and a half a

month for the first fifteen years of the porter's service, increasing

thereafter to thirty dollars a month, slightly augmented by bonuses for

good records.

The porter also receives his uniforms free after ten years of service,

and in some cases of long service his pay may reach forty-two dollars a

month. The rest of his income is in the form of tips. And Mr. Lincoln

testified that during the past year the total of these tips, to the best

knowledge and belief of his company, had exceeded two million three

hundred thousand dollars.

The Pullman Company is not an eleemosynary institution. Though it has

made distinct advances in the establishment of pension funds and death

benefits, it is hardly to be classed as a philanthropy. It is a large

organization; and it generally is what it chooses to consider itself.

Sometimes it avers that it is a transportation company, at other times

it prefers to regard itself as a hotel organization; but at all times it

is a business proposition. It is not in business for its health. Its

dividend record is proof of that. All of which is a preface to the

statement that the Pullman Company, like any other large user of labor,

regulates its wage scale by supply and demand. If it can find enough of

the colored brethren competent and willing and anxious to man its cars

at twenty-seven dollars and a half a month--with the fair gamble of two

or three or four times that amount to come in the form of tips--it is

hardly apt to pay more.

No wonder, then, the tip forms the nub of the situation. To-day all

America tips. You tip the chauffeur in the taxi, the redcap in the

station, the barber, the bootblack, the manicure, the boy or girl who

holds your coat for you in the barber's shop or hotel. In the modern

hotel tipping becomes a vast and complex thing--waiters, doormen, hat

boys, chambermaids, bell boys, porters--the list seems almost unending.

The system may be abominable, but it has certainly fastened itself on

us--sternly and securely. And it may be said for the Pullman car that

there, at least, the tip comes to a single servitor--the black autocrat

who smiles genially no matter how suspiciously he may, at heart, view

the quarter you have placed within his palm.

A quarter seems to be the standard Pullman tip--for one person, each

night he may be on the car. Some men give more; some men--alas for poor

George!--less. A quarter is not only average but fairly standard. It is

given a certain official status by the auditing officers of many large

railroads and industrial corporations, who recognize it as a chargeable

item in the expense accounts of their men on the road.

A man with a fat run--lower berths all occupied, with at least a

smattering of riders in the uppers, night after night--ought to be able

easily to put aside a hundred and fifty dollars a month as his income

from this item. There are hundreds of porters who are doing this very

thing; and there are at least dozens of porters who own real estate,

automobiles, and other such material evidences of prosperity.

A tip is not necessarily a humiliation, either to the giver or to the

taker. On the contrary, it is a token of meritorious service. And the

smart porter is going to take good care that he gives such service. But

how about the porter who is not so smart--the man who has the lean run?

As every butcher and every transportation man knows, there is lean with

the fat. And it does the lean man little good to know that his fat

brother is preparing to buy a secondhand automobile. On the contrary, it

creates an anarchist--or at least a socialist--down under that black

skin.

Here is Lemuel--cursed with a lean run and yet trying to maintain at

least an appearance of geniality. Lemuel runs on a "differential"

between New York, Chicago and St. Louis. Every passenger-traffic man

knows that most of the differentials--as the roads that take longer

hours, and so are permitted to charge a slightly lower through fare

between those cities, are called--have had a hard time of it in recent

years. It is the excess-fare trains, the highest-priced carriers--which

charge you a premium of a dollar for every hour they save in placing you

in the terminal--that are the crowded trains. And the differentials have

had increasing difficulty getting through passengers.

It seems that in this day and land a man who goes from New York to

Chicago or St. Louis is generally so well paid as to make it worth

dollars to him to save hours in the journey. It is modern efficiency

showing itself in railroad-passenger travel. But the differentials,

having local territory to serve, as well as on account of some other

reasons, must maintain a sleeping-car service--even at a loss. There is

little or no loss to the Pullman Company--you may be sure of that! The

railroad pays it a mileage fee for hauling a half or three-quarter empty

car over its own line--in addition to permitting the Pullman system to

take all the revenue from the car; but Lemuel sees his end of the

business as a dead loss.

He leaves New York at two-thirty o'clock on Monday afternoon, having

reported at his car nearly three hours before so as to make sure that it

is properly stocked and cleaned for its long trip. He is due at St.

Louis at ten-fifteen on Tuesday evening--though it will be nearly two

hours later before he has checked the contents of the car and slipped

off to the bunking quarters maintained there by his company.

On Wednesday evening at seven o'clock he starts east and is due in New

York about dawn on Friday morning. He cleans up his car and himself, and

gets to his little home on the West Side of Manhattan Island sometime

before noon; but by noon on Saturday he must be back at his car, making

sure that it is fit and ready by two-thirty o'clock--the moment the

conductor's arm falls--and they are headed west again.

This time the destination is Chicago, which is not reached until about

six o'clock Sunday night. He bunks that night in the Windy City and then

spends thirty-two hours going back again to New York. He sees his home

one more night; then he is off to St. Louis again--started on a fresh

round of his eternal schedule.

Talk of tips to Lemuel! His face lengthens. You may not believe it,

white man, but Lemuel made fifty-three cents in tips on the last trip

from New York to Chicago. You can understand the man who gave him the

Columbian antique; but Lemuel believes there can be no future too warm

for that skinny man who gave him the three pennies! He thinks the

gentleman might at least have come across with a Subway ticket. It is

all legal tender to him.

All that saves this porter's bacon is the fact that he is in charge of

the car--for some three hundred miles of its eastbound run he is acting

as sleeping-car conductor, for which consolidated job he draws down a

proportionate share of forty-two dollars a month. This is a small sop,

however, to Lemuel. He turns and tells you how, on the last trip, he

came all the way from St. Louis to New York--two nights on the

road--without ever a "make-down," as he calls preparing a berth. No

wonder then that he has difficulty in making fifty dollars a month, with

his miserable tips on the lean run.

Nor is that all. Though Lemuel is permitted three hours' sleep--on the

bunk in the washroom on the long runs--from midnight to three o'clock in

the morning, there may come other times when his head begins to nod. And

those are sure to be the times when some lynx-eyed inspector comes

slipping aboard. Biff! Bang! Pullman discipline is strict. Something has

happened to Lemuel's pay envelope, and his coffee-colored wife in West

Twenty-ninth Street will not be able to get those gray spats until they

are clean gone out of style.

What can be done for Lemuel? He must bide his time and constantly make

himself a better servant--a better porter, if you please. It will not go

unnoticed. The Pullman system has a method for noticing those very

things--inconsequential in themselves but all going to raise the

standard of its service.

Then some fine day something will happen. A big sleeping-car autocrat,

in the smugness and false security of a fat run, is going to err. He is

going to step on the feet of some important citizen--perhaps a railroad

director--and the important citizen is going to make a fuss. After which

Lemuel, hard-schooled in adversity, in faithfulness and in courtesy,

will be asked in the passing of a night to change places with the old

autocrat.

And the old autocrat, riding in the poverty of a lean run, will have

plenty of opportunity to count the telegraph poles and reflect on the

mutability of men and things. The Pullman Company denies that this is

part of its system; but it does happen--time and time and time again.

George, or Lemuel, or Alexander--whatever the name may be--has no easy

job. If you do not believe that, go upstairs some hot summer night to

the rear bedroom--that little room under the blazing tin roof which you

reserve for your relatives--and make up the bed fifteen or twenty times,

carefully unmaking it between times and placing the clothes away in a

regular position. Let your family nag at you and criticize you during

each moment of the job--while somebody plays an obbligato on the

electric bell and places shoes and leather grips underneath your feet.

Imagine the house is bumping and rocking--and keep a smiling face and a

courteous tongue throughout all of it!

Or do this on a bitter night in midwinter; and between every two or

three makings of the bed in the overheated room slip out of a linen coat

and into a fairly thin serge one and go and stand outside the door from

three to ten minutes in the snow and cold. In some ways this is one of

the hardest parts of George's job. Racially the negro is peculiarly

sensitive to pneumonia and other pulmonary diseases; yet the rules of a

porter's job require that at stopping stations he must be outside of the

car--no matter what the hour or condition of the climate--smiling and

ready to say:

"What space you got, guv'nor?"

However, the porter's job, like nearly every other job, has its glories

as well as its hardships--triumphs that can be told and retold for many

a day to fascinated colored audiences; because there are special

trains--filled with pursy and prosperous bankers from Hartford and

Rochester and Terre Haute--making the trip from coast to coast and back

again, and never forgetting the porter at the last hour of the last day.

There are many men in the Pullman service like Roger Pryor, who has

ridden with every recent President of the land and enjoyed his

confidence and respect. And then there is General Henry Forrest, of the

Congressional Limited, for twenty-four years in charge of one of its

broiler cars, who stops not at Presidents but enjoys the acquaintance

of senators and ambassadors almost without number.

The General comes to know these dignitaries by their feet. When he is

standing at the door of his train under the Pennsylvania Terminal, in

New York, he recognizes the feet as they come poking down the long

stairs from the concourse. And he can make his smile senatorial or

ambassadorial--a long time in advance.

Once Forrest journeyed in a private car to San Francisco, caring for a

Certain Big Man. He took good care of the Certain Big Man--that was part

of his job. He took extra good care of the Certain Big Man--that was his

opportunity. And when the Certain Big Man reached the Golden Gate he

told Henry Forrest that he had understood and appreciated the countless

attentions. The black face of the porter wrinkled into smiles. He dared

to venture an observation.

"Ah thank you, Jedge!" said he. "An' ef it wouldn't be trespassin' Ah'd

lak to say dat when yo' comes home you's gwine to be President of dese

United States."

The Certain Big Man shook his head negatively; but he was flattered

nevertheless. He leaned over and spoke to Henry Forrest.

"If ever I am President," said he, "I will make you a general."

And so it came to pass that on the blizzardy Dakota-made day when

William Howard Taft was inaugurated President of these United States

there was a parade--a parade in which many men rode in panoply and

pride; but none was prouder there than he who, mounted on a magnificent

bay horse, headed the Philippine Band.

A promise was being kept. The bay horse started three times to bolt from

the line of march, and this was probably because its rider was better

used to the Pompeian-red broiler car than to a Pompeian-red bay mare.

But these were mere trifles. Despite them--partly because of them

perhaps--the younger brethren at the terminals were no longer to address

the veteran from the Congressional merely as Mr. Forrest. He was General

Forrest now--a title he bears proudly and which he will carry with him

all the long years of his life.

What becomes of the older porters?

Sometimes, when the rush of the fast trains, the broken nights, the

exposure and the hard, hard work begin to be too much for even sturdy

Afric frames, they go to the "super" and beg for the "sick man's run"--a

leisurely sixty or a hundred miles a day on a parlor car, perhaps on a

side line where travel is light and the parlor car is a sort of

sentimental frippery; probably one of the old wooden cars: the Alicia,

or the Lucille, or the Celeste, still vain in bay windows and grilles,

and abundant in carvings. For a sentimental frippery may be given a

feminine name and may bear her years gracefully--even though she does

creak in all her hundred joints when the track is the least bit uneven.

As to the sick man's tips, the gratuity is no less a matter of keen

interest and doubt at sixty than it is at twenty-six. And though there

is a smile under that clean mat of kinky white hair, it is not all

habit--some of it is still anticipation. But quarters and half dollars

do not come so easily to the old man in the parlor car as to his younger

brother on the sleepers, or those elect who have the smokers on the fat

runs. To the old men come dimes instead--some of them miserable affairs

bearing on their worn faces the faint presentments of the ruler on the

north side of Lake Erie and hardly redeemable in Baltimore or

Cincinnati. Yet even these are hardly to be scorned--when one is sixty.

After the sick man's job? Perhaps a sandy farm on a Carolina

hillside, where an old man may sit and nod in the warm sun, and dream

of the days when steel cars were new--perhaps of the days when the

platform-vestibule first went bounding over the rails--may dream and

nod; and then, in his waking moments, stir the pickaninnies to the

glories of a career on a fast train and a fat run. For if it is true

that any white boy has the potential opportunity of becoming President

of the United States, it is equally true that any black boy may become

the Autocrat of the Pullman Car.

* * * * *

_(The Independent)_

THE GENTLE ART OF BLOWING BOTTLES

And the Story of How Sand is Melted into Glass

BY F. GREGORY HARTSWICK

Remedies for our manifold ills; the refreshment that our infant lips

craved; coolness in time of heat; yes--even tho July 1st has come and

gone--drafts to assuage our thirst; the divers stays and supports of our

declining years--all these things come in bottles. From the time of its

purchase to the moment of its consignment to the barrel in the cellar or

the rapacious wagon of the rag-and-bone man the bottle plays a vital

part in our lives. And as with most inconspicuous necessities, but

little is known of its history. We assume vaguely that it is blown--ever

since we saw the Bohemian Glass Blowers at the World's Fair we have

known that glass is blown into whatever shape fancy may dictate--but

that is as far as our knowledge of its manufacture extends.

As a matter of fact the production of bottles in bulk is one of the most

important features of the glass industry of this country today. The

manufacture of window glass fades into insignficance before the hugeness

of the bottle-making business; and even the advent of prohibition, while

it lessens materially the demand for glass containers of liquids, does

not do so in such degree as to warrant very active uneasiness on the

part of the proprietors of bottle factories.

The process of manufacture of the humble bottle is a surprizingly

involved one. It includes the transportation and preparation of raw

material, the reduction of the material to a proper state of

workability, and the shaping of the material according to design, before

the bottle is ready to go forth on its mission.

The basic material of which all glass is made is, of course, sand. Not

the brown sand of the river-bed, the well remembered "sandy bottom" of

the swimmin' hole of our childhood, but the finest of white sand from

the prehistoric ocean-beds of our country. This sand is brought to the

factory and there mixed by experts with coloring matter and a flux to

aid the melting. On the tint of the finished product depends the sort of

coloring agent used. For clear white glass, called flint glass, no color

is added. The mixing of a copper salt with the sand gives a greenish

tinge to the glass; amber glass is obtained by the addition of an iron

compound; and a little cobalt in the mixture gives the finished bottle

the clear blue tone that used to greet the waking eye as it searched the

room for something to allay that morning's morning feeling. The flux

used is old glass--bits of shattered bottles, scraps from the floor of

the factory. This broken glass is called "cullet," and is carefully

swept into piles and kept in bins for use in the furnaces.

The sand, coloring matter, and cullet, when mixed in the proper

proportions, form what is called in bottle-makers' talk the "batch" or

"dope." This batch is put into a specially constructed furnace--a brick

box about thirty feet long by fifteen wide, and seven feet high at the

crown of the arched roof. This furnace is made of the best refractory

blocks to withstand the fierce heat necessary to bring the batch to a

molten state. The heat is supplied by various fuels--producer-gas is the

most common, tho oil is sometimes used. The gas is forced into the

furnace and mixed with air at its inception; when the mixture is ignited

the flame rolls down across the batch, and the burnt gases pass out of

the furnace on the other side. The gases at their exit pass thru a brick

grating or "checkerboard," which takes up much of the heat; about every

half hour, by an arrangement of valves, the inlet of the gas becomes the

outlet, and vice versa, so that the heat taken up by the checkerboard is

used instead of being dissipated, and as little of the heat of

combustion is lost as is possible. The batch is put into the furnace

from the rear; as it liquefies it flows to the front, where it is drawn

off thru small openings and blown into shape.

The temperature in the furnace averages about 2100 degrees Fahrenheit;

it is lowest at the rear, where the batch is fed in, and graduates to

its highest point just behind the openings thru which the glass is drawn

off. This temperature is measured by special instruments called thermal

couples--two metals joined and placed in the heat of the flame. The heat

sets up an electric current in the joined metals, and this current is

read on a galvanometer graduated to read degrees Fahrenheit instead of

volts, so that the temperature may be read direct.

All furnaces for the melting of sand for glass are essentially the same

in construction and principle. The radical differences in bottle

manufacturing appear in the methods used in drawing off the glass and

blowing it into shape.

Glass is blown by three methods: hand-blowing, semi-automatic blowing,

and automatic blowing. The first used was the hand method, and tho the

introduction of machines is rapidly making the old way a back number,

there are still factories where the old-time glass blower reigns

supreme.

One of the great centers of the bottle industry in the United States is

down in the southern end of New Jersey. Good sand is dug there--New

Jersey was part of the bed of the Atlantic before it literally rose to

its present state status--and naturally the factories cluster about the

source of supply of material. Within a radius of thirty miles the

investigator may see bottles turned out by all three methods.

The hand-blowing, while it is the slowest and most expensive means of

making bottles, is by far the most picturesque. Imagine a long, low,

dark building--dark as far as daylight is concerned, but weirdly lit by

orange and scarlet flashes from the great furnaces that crouch in its

shelter. At the front of each of these squatting monsters, men,

silhouetted against the fierce glow from the doors, move about like

puppets on wires--any noise they may make is drowned in the mastering

roar of the fire. A worker thrusts a long blowpipe (in glassworkers'

terminology a wand) into the molten mass in the furnace and twirls it

rapidly. The end of the wand, armed with a ball of refractory clay,

collects a ball of semi-liquid glass; the worker must estimate the

amount of glass to be withdrawn for the particular size of the bottle

that is to be made. This ball of glowing material is withdrawn from the

furnace; the worker rolls it on a sloping moldboard, shaping it to a

cylinder, and passes the wand to the blower who is standing ready to

receive it. The blower drops the cylinder of glass into a mold, which is

held open for its reception by yet another man; the mold snaps shut; the

blower applies his mouth to the end of the blowpipe; a quick puff,

accompanied by the drawing away of the wand, blows the glass to shape in

the mold and leaves a thin bubble of glass protruding above. The mold is

opened; the shaped bottle, still faintly glowing, is withdrawn with a

pair of asbestos-lined pincers, and passed to a man who chips off the

bubble on a rough strip of steel, after which he gives the bottle to one

who sits guarding a tiny furnace in which oil sprayed under pressure

roars and flares. The rough neck of the bottle goes into the flame; the

raw edges left when the bubble was chipped off are smoothed away by the

heat; the neck undergoes a final polishing and shaping twirl in the jaws

of a steel instrument, and the bottle is laid on a little shelf to be

carried away. It is shaped, but not finished.

The glass must not be cooled too quickly, lest it be brittle. It must be

annealed--cooled slowly--in order to withstand the rough usage to which

it is to be subjected. The annealing process takes place in a long,

brick tunnel, heated at one end, and gradually cooling to atmospheric

temperature at the other. The bottles are placed on a moving platform,

which slowly carries them from the heated end to the cool end. The

process takes about thirty hours. At the cool end of the annealing

furnace the bottle is met by the packers and is made ready for shipment.

These annealing furnaces are called "lehrs" or "leers"--either spelling

is correct--and the most searching inquiry failed to discover the reason

for the name. They have always been called that, and probably always

will be.

In the hand-blowing process six men are needed to make one bottle.

There must be a gatherer to draw the glass from the furnace; a blower; a

man to handle the mold; a man to chip off the bubble left by the blower;

a shaper to finish the neck of the bottle; and a carrier-off to take the

completed bottles to the lehr. Usually the gatherer is also the blower,

in which case two men are used, one blowing while the other gathers for

his turn; but on one platform I saw the somewhat unusual sight of one

man doing all the blowing while another gathered for him. The pair used

two wands, so that their production was the same as tho two men were

gathering and blowing. This particular blower was making quart bottles,

and he was well qualified for the job. He weighed, at a conservative

estimate, two hundred and fifty pounds, and when he blew something had

to happen. I arrived at his place of labor just as the shifts were being

changed--a glass-furnace is worked continuously, in three eight-hour

shifts--and as the little whistle blew to announce the end of his day's

toil the giant grabbed the last wand, dropped it into the waiting mold,

and blew a mighty blast. A bubble of glass sprang from the mouth of the

mold, swelled to two feet in diameter, and burst with a bang, filling

the air with shimmering flakes of glass, light enough to be wafted like

motes. When the shining shower had settled and I had opened my eyes--it

would not be pleasant to get an eyeful of those beautiful scraps--the

huge blower was diminishing in perspective toward his dinner, and the

furnace door was, for the moment, without its usual hustling

congregation of workers. I made bold to investigate the platform.

Close to me glared the mouth of the furnace, with masses of silver

threads depending from it like the beard of some fiery gulleted

ogre--the strings of glass left by the withdrawal of the wand. The heat

three feet away was enough to make sand melt and run like water, but I

was not unpleasantly warm. This was because I stood at the focus of

three tin pipes, thru which streams of cold air, fan-impelled, beat upon

me. Without this cooling agent it would be impossible for men to work so

close to the heat of the molten glass.

Later, in the cool offices of the company, where the roar of the

furnaces penetrated only as a dull undertone, and electric fans whizzed

away the heat of the summer afternoon, I learned more of the technique

of the bottle industry. Each shape demanded by the trade requires a

special mold, made of cast iron and cut according to the design

submitted. There are, of course, standard shapes for standard bottles;

these are alluded to (reversing the usual practise of metonymy) by using

thing contained for container, as "ginger ales," "olives," "mustards,"

"sodas" and (low be it spoken) "beers." But when a firm places an order

for bottles of a particular shape, or ones with lettering in relief on

the glass, special molds must be made; and after the lot is finished the

molds are useless till another order for that particular design comes

in. A few standard molds are made so that plates with lettering can be

inserted for customers who want trademarks or firm names on their

bottles; but the great majority of the lettered bottles have their own

molds, made especially for them and unable to be used for any other lot.

All bottles are blown in molds; it is in the handling of the molten

glass and the actual blowing that machinery has come to take the place

of men in the glass industry. The first type of machine to be developed

was for blowing the bottle and finishing it, thus doing away with three

of the six men formerly employed in making one bottle. In appearance the

bottle-blowing machine is merely two circular platforms, revolving in

the same horizontal plane, each carrying five molds. One of the

platforms revolves close to the furnace door, and as each mold comes

around it automatically opens and the gatherer draws from the furnace

enough glass for the bottle which is being made at the time, and places

it in the mold. The mold closes, and the platform turns on, bringing

around another mold to the gatherer. Meanwhile a nozzle has snapped down

over the first mold, shaping the neck of the bottle, and beginning the

blowing. As the mold comes to a point diametrically opposite the furnace

door it opens again, and a handler takes the blank, as the bottle is

called at this stage, and places it in a mold on the second revolving

platform. This mold closes and compressed air blows out the bottle as

the platform revolves. As the mold comes around to the handler again it

opens and the handler takes out the finished bottle, replacing it with a

new blank drawn from the mold on the first platform. This operation

necessitates only three men--a gatherer, a handler, and a carrier-off.

It is also much faster than the old method--an average of about forty

bottles per minute as against barely twenty.

A newer development of this machine does away with the gatherer. A long

rod of refractory clay is given a churning movement in the mouth of the

furnace, forcing the molten glass thru a tube. As enough glass for one

bottle appears at the mouth of the tube a knife cuts the mass and the

blob of glass falls into a trough which conveys it to the blank mold. By

an ingenious device the same trough is made to feed three or four

machines at one time. As many as fifty bottles a minute can be turned

out by this combination blowing machine and feeder.

But the apotheosis of bottle-making is to be seen in another factory in

the south Jersey district. Here it is the boast of the superintendents

that from the time the sand goes out of the freight cars in which it is

brought to the plant till the finished bottle is taken by the packer, no

human hand touches the product; and their statement is amply confirmed

by a trip thru the plant. The sand, coloring matter and cullet are in

separate bins; an electrical conveyor takes enough of each for a batch

to a mixing machine; from there the batch goes on a long belt to the

furnace. At the front of the furnace, instead of doors or mouths, is a

revolving pan, kept level full with the molten glass. Outside the

furnace revolves a huge machine with ten arms, each of which carries its

own mold and blowpipe. As each arm passes over the pan in the furnace

the proper amount of glass is sucked into the mold by vacuum; the bottle

is blown and shaped in the course of one revolution, and the mold,

opening, drops the finished bottle into a rack which carries it to the

lehr on a belt. It passes thru the lehr to the packers; and as each rack

is emptied of its bottles the packers place it again on the belt, which

carries it up to the machine, where it collects its cargo of hot bottles

and conducts it again thru the lehr. The entire plant--mixing, feeding,

actually making the bottles, delivery to the lehr, and packing--is

synchronized exactly. Men unload the cars of sand--men pack the bottles.

The intermediate period is entirely mechanical. The plant itself is as

well lighted and ventilated as a department store, and except in the

immediate vicinity of the furnace there is no heat felt above the daily

temperature. The machines average well over a bottle a second, and by an

exceedingly clever arrangement of electrical recording appliances an

accurate record of the output of each machine, as well as the

temperatures of the furnaces and lehrs, is kept in the offices of the

company. The entire equipment is of the most modern, from the boilers

and motors in the power-plant and producer-gas-plant to the packing

platforms. In addition, the plant boasts a complete machine shop where

all the molds are made and the machines repaired.

It is a far cry from human lung-power to the super-efficient machinery

of the new plants; but it is the logical progress of human events,

applying to every product of man's hands, from battleships to--bottles.

* * * * *

SPECIAL FEATURE ARTICLES

(_New York World_)

One illustration, a half-tone reproduction of a photograph of the

exterior of the theater.

THE NEIGHBORHOOD PLAYHOUSE

A GIFT TO THE EAST SIDE--HOW THE SETTLEMENT WORK OF MISSES IRENE AND

ALICE LEWISOHN HAS CULMINATED AT LAST IN A REAL THEATRE--ITS ATTRACTIONS

AND EDUCATIONAL VALUE

The piece is the Biblical "Jephthah's Daughter," adapted from the Book

of Judges. The hero, "a mighty man of valor," has conquered the enemies

of his people. There is great rejoicing over his victory, for the tribe

of Israel has been at its weakest. But now comes payment of the price of

conquest. The leader of the victorious host promised to yield to God as

a burnt sacrifice "whatsoever cometh forth from the doors of my house to

meet me when I return from battle." And his daughter came forth.

In the last act, the girl herself, young and beautiful, advances toward

the altar on which fagots have been piled high. In her hand is the

lighted torch which is to kindle her own death fire.

The chorus chants old Hebraic melodies. Even the audience joins in the

singing. The play takes on the aspect of an ancient religious

ceremonial. Old men and women are in tears, moved by the sad history of

their race, forgetful of the horror of human sacrifice in the intensity

of their religious fervor.

Such is the artistry of the piece; such the perfection of its

production.

Yet this is no professional performance, but the work of amateurs. It is

the opening night of the new community theatre of New York's densely

populated East Side.

At No. 466 Grand Street it stands, far away from Broadway's theatrical

district--a low-lying, little Georgian building. It is but three stories

high, built of light red brick, and finished with white marble. All

around garish millinery shops display their showy goods. Peddlers with

pushcarts lit by flickering flames, vie with each other in their array

of gaudy neckties and bargain shirtwaists. Blazing electric signs herald

the thrills of movie shows. And, salient by the force of extreme

contrast, a plain little white posterboard makes its influence felt. It

is lit by two iron lanterns, and reads simply, "The Neighborhood

Playhouse."

The Misses Irene and Alice Lewisohn of No. 43 Fifth Avenue have built

this theatre. It is their gift to the neighborhood, and symbolizes the

culmination of a work which they have shared with the neighborhood's

people.

Eight years ago the Henry Street Settlement started its scheme of

festivals and pantomimes, portraying through the medium of color, song,

and dance such vague ideas as "Impressions of Spring." It was the boys

and girls of the Settlement who performed in these pantomimes. It was

they who made the costumes, painted the necessary scenery, sang and

danced.

And both daughters of the late Leonard Lewisohn were always interested

and active in promoting this work.

Out of it, in due time, there developed, quite naturally, a dramatic

club. Plays were given in the Settlement gymnasium--full-grown pieces

like "The Silver Box," by John Galsworthy, and inspiring dramas like

"The Shepherd," a plea for Russian revolutionists, by an American

author, Miss Olive Tilford Dargan. Such was the emotional response of

the neighborhood to this drama that four performances had to be given at

Clinton Hall; and as a result a substantial sum of money was forwarded

to "The Friends of Russian Freedom."

Then, in 1913, came the famous Pageant, which roused the entire district

to a consciousness of itself--its history, its dignity and also its

possibilities.

That portion of the East Side which surrounds the Henry Street

Settlement has seen many an invasion since the days when the Dutch first

ousted the Indians. English, Quakers, Scotch have come and gone, leaving

traces more or less distinct. The Irish have given place to the

Italians, who have been replaced by the Russians. In the Pageant of 1913

all these settlers were represented by artistically clad groups who

paraded the streets singing and dancing. No hall could have held the

audience which thronged to see this performance; no host of matinée

worshippers could have rivalled it in fervor of appreciation.

When the Misses Lewisohn, then, built their new playhouse in Grand

Street, it was not with the intention of rousing, but rather of

satisfying, an artistic demand among the people of the neighborhood. And

in the new home are to be continued all the varied activities of which

the Henry Street Settlement festival and dramatic clubs were but the

centre. It is to be a genuine community enterprise in which each boy and

girl will have a share. Miss Alice Lewisohn herself thus expresses its

many-sided work:

"The costume designers and makers, fashioners of jewelry, painters and

composers, musicians and seamstresses, as well as actors and directors,

will contribute their share in varying degree.

"Putting aside for a moment the higher and artistic development which

such work must bring, there is the craftsman side, too, which has

practical value. The young men will become familiar with all the

handiwork of the theatre, the construction and handling of scenery, the

electrical equipment and its varied uses. It will be conceded, I think,

that in this respect the community playhouse is really a college of

instruction in the craft of the stage."

It is a college with a very efficient and well-trained staff of

professors. Mrs. Sarah Cowell Le Moyne, already well known as a teacher

of elocution and acting, will be one of its members. Miss Grace

Griswold, an experienced co-worker of the late Augustine Daly, will act

as manager.