It was my dear old Sunday School superintendent who had selected me for one of her characters in this Biblical show. I had been marvelous—so she said—in her Sunday School, committing and reciting as many as twenty Bible verses on a Sunday morning, for which I would sometimes be given a little up-lift card. She said that my good work in her Sunday School was guarantee enough for her that I would handle the part assigned me creditably. I would not need to attend rehearsals. All that I should do was to have my good mother make for me a heterogeneous coat according to specifications. She would instruct me at the last minute so that I wouldn’t forget. I was to take the part of Joseph—Joseph, the boy. And, although a bit irregular, and I might say diabolically devised, to save the stage-carpenter the trouble of making a pit to cast me into, one of my Hebrew brothers—I think it would have been Judah, who, off stage, was a big Swede — was to have batted me on the “bean” so that I couldn’t protest when he and my other naughty brothers would sell me to the Egyptians, and thus banish me to the Land of Bondage. I wouldn’t need to rehearse? Oh, no, of course not! And as it turned out I didn’t perform, either. The show was going strong. The audience applauded and yelled itself hoarse. After a particularly exciting scene, Rolland Van Amburg, the town clown, jumped up from his seat and yelled, “It’s the best thing Wetmore ever had—I’ve had my money’s worth already! Come and get another quarter!” Van was ably assisted in this demonstration by one William Morris, leading merchant. The sponsoring lady was in high glee—happy daze. She said to her puppets, “It’s taking! Oh, dear children, we must give them this one again!” She flitted about from one to another, saying, “Oh, girls, please do hurry!” The scene which had so excited Van was a tableau draped in naught but thin mosquito bar and set off by the best soft mellowing light effect that could be had with the oil-burning lamps, depicting some Biblical event with strictly private and as time goes quite modern interpretations. Embroidered beyond the original concept, it exhibited in silhouette some of Wetmore’s fairest damsels—some who will read this and blush—in an amazing state of dishabille. I should like to—and probably will—hear from Montana and Idaho, and even faraway Hollywood, on this statement. A wag in the audience who was not man enough to show himself, like Van, yelled, “Take down the bars!” The audience roared! The sponsoring lady beamed! Things got to going so good for the director that she began pulling surprises on the performers. Wholly without warning, she ordered Clifford Ashton to take off his shirt. That young Englishman, ever obliging and obedient, had about completed the job when Dr. Thomas Milam cried out in his most dramatic voice, “Put that shirt back on, you idiot!”