Beads of perspiration on a hot summer's afternoon, A hurry call from the Ritz, Thoughts of plastering the city in half an hour, With twenty-four sheets and large heralds, And a page or two in all the dailies.... She sat in a sumptuous suite at the Ritz, Discussing with her husband, Who had just returned from the beagles in South Carolina Her new pet charity; And she had called me in at this very moment, Because she had struck a snag. This was her charity: She related with tears in her eyes, What was she to do about it? She received no response from the American public. The poor assistant stagehands of the Paris theatres They were out of work--destitute-- The theatres closed--and all the actors at the front. But what could be done for them, the poor Paris stagehands? That was her query. And tears welled up in her eyes, as she spoke While her husband chased the Angora from under the sofa-- I sat and discussed the question. And tears came to my eyes, But my tears were wept for another reason. PHOTOGRAPHS I had ordered the photographs of the prima donna. They are lovely and beautiful to behold and they are printed before me in magazine. Her madonna like face sheds radiance on the prospective box-office patron; He is dazzled by her sun-like head of hair; He loses his heart and his pocket-book when he glances on them. I felt happy that I changed photographers. I felt that my discovery of a new artisan of the sensitized plate Would bring glory and money to many. I sit by the rolltop desk and pull out again the objects of my praises. The telephone bell rings and awakens me from my reveries,-- It is the voice of the beautiful prima donna herself; But the melodious notes the critics have praised are changed. There is a raucous, strident tone in the voice; It sounds like the rasping bark of the harpies. "How dare you use those terrible photographs?" "What do you mean by insulting my beauty?" There is a slam down of the telephone receiver,-- I turn to my work of writing an advertisement about the prima donna's voice. SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN THE THEATRE SCRUBWOMAN DREAMS A DREAM When morning mingles with the gloom On empty stage and twilit aisle, She comes with rag and pan and broom To work--and dream awhile. Illusion's laughter, fancy's tears, The mimic loves of yesternight, On empty stages of the years Awake in the dim light. She cannot sweep the phantoms out-- How sweet the sobbing violin!-- She cannot put the ghosts to rout-- How pale the heroine! Oh! valiant hero, sorely tried!-- 'Tis only dust that fills her eyes-- But he shall have his lovely bride And she her paradise! And she--the broom falls from her hands, And is it dust that fills her eyes?-- Shall go with him to golden lands And find her paradise!-- The morning wrestles with the gloom On silent stage and chilly aisle, She takes her rag and pan and broom To work--and dream awhile! THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MUSICAL COMEDY STAR