The lights of the booth grow dim. The springs are broken that kept our eyes awake. The wire that held us erect is snapped, and helpless we fall in a heap on the stage. Oh, brother and sister dollies we played beside, where are you? Why is it so dark and silent? Why are we being put into this black box? And hark! the little doll orchestra—how far away the music sounds! what is it they are playing:— [Picture: First few bars of Gounod’s Funeral March of a Marionette]