From “Wark,” to “work,” only the difference of a vowel, so what an appropriate middle name for David Griffith! What infinite patience he had. If we got stuck in the mud when going out to location--we were stuck, and we’d get out, so why worry? No cursing out of driver or car or weather; no, “What the ----? Why the ----couldn’t you have taken another road?” Instead would suddenly be heard baritone strains of “Samson and Delilah” or some old plantation negro song while we waited for horses or another car to pull us out. And it did happen once when on location perhaps twenty miles out in the wilds, that the leading man suddenly discovered he had brought the wrong pair of trousers. Nothing to do but send back for the right ones. Mr. Griffith was not indifferent to the time that would be lost, but getting himself all worked up would not make the picture any better. He’d sing, perhaps an Irish come-all-you, or, were he out in the desert, get out the automobile robe and start a crap game. Arthur Marvin never ceased to marvel at his chief’s agility and capacity for hard work. Mr. Marvin had a sort of leisurely way of working. Up and down a stubble field Mr. Griffith was tearing one day--getting a line on a barn, a tree and some old plows. Arthur was having a few drags on his pipe--the film boxes being full and everything in readiness to put up the tripod wherever the director should decide. David’s long legs kept striding merrily all over the cut harvest field--most miserable place to walk--Arthur musing as he looked on. “There goes Griffith, he’ll die working.” In a few moments Mr. Griffith right-about faced and with not a symptom of being out of breath said, “Set her up here, Arthur.” That winter we lost our genial Arthur Marvin, but David Griffith is still hitting the stubble field. Well, he took good care of himself. He did a daily dozen, and he sparred with our ex-lightweight, Spike Robinson. The bellboys at the Alexandria Hotel called him “the polar bear” because he bought a bucket of cracked ice every morning to make the Los Angeles morning bath more tonic-y. One could not have better equipment for the trying experiences of movie work than patience, and a sense of humor. And the “polar bear” is well equipped with both. But there were times when even a sense of humor failed to sustain one. Nothing was funny about the uncertain mornings when we’d gather at the 125th Street ferry for the 8:45 boat, having watched weather since daylight through our bedroom window, only to cross and recross the Hudson on the same boat, the cumulus clouds we delighted in for photographic softness having turned to rain clouds even as we watched from the ferry slip. Back to the studio then to begin another picture and to work late. And oh, how we’d grouch!