Unsuspecting sleepy little village, with your one small inn, your general store, and your few stray farms! How famous on the map of movie locations you were to become! How famous in many lands your soft, green mountains, your gently purling streams, your fields of corn! “The Mended Lute” would be Mr. Griffith’s catch-penny. The beauties he had crowded in the little one-reeler should suffice to bowl over any unsuspecting President. So this “Cuddebackville Special,” along with several others that had collected awaiting Mr. Kennedy’s pleasure, was projected for the authorities. And David signed up for another year at an increase in salary and a doubling of his percentage. And he could go to Cuddebackville whenever he so desired. Of course, the next time _she_ went, and she had that “great automobile ride” that he was saving for her. Joy, but didn’t they become delirious, the actors slated for a Cuddebackville week. A week in the mountains in August, with no hotel bill, and pay checks every day! Few there were so ultra modern that they would take no joy in the bleating of the lambs but would prefer their city third floor back. Much preparation for such a week. We had to see that our best blouse was back from the laundry and our dotted swiss in order for evening, our costumes right, and grease-paint complete, for any of us might be asked to double up for Indians before the week was over. It was a five-hour trip--a pretty one along the Hudson to West Point--then through the Orange Mountains. Our journey ended at a little station set in a valley sweet with tasseled corn and blossoming white buckwheat. In the distance--mountains; near by--beckoning roads lined with maples. It was the longest stop that an Ontario and Western train had ever made at Cuddebackville. Such excitement and such a jam on the little platform! No chance to slink in unnoticed as on the first unpretentious visit. “Were we sure it was the right place?” the conductor kept asking. “Oh, yes, quite so.” Damned if he could make it out. For we didn’t look like farmers come to settle in the country; nor like fishermen come to cast for trout in the Neversink--we had nothing with us that resembled expensive fishing rods and boots; nor did we look like a strange religious sect come to worship in our own way. No, nor might we have been one of a lost tribe of Cuddebacks who after years of vain searching had at last discovered the remote little spot where the first Monsieur Caudebec had pitched his tent so far from his own dear France. As the train steamed on its way, from the rear platform the conductor was still gazing, and I thought he threw us a rather dirty look. [Illustration: The most artistic fireside glow of the early days. From “The Drunkard’s Reformation,” with Linda Griffith, Arthur Johnson and Adele De Garde. (_See p. 128_) ] [Illustration: The famous “light effect.” From “Pippa Passes,” with Gertrude Robinson.