of. The three episodes are certainly funny enough. I find myself
caring more for the first, called "June Day," since he reminds me so
strongly in make-up of the French caricaturists in drawing, Rouveyre
and Toulouse-Lautrec. Mr. Watts's feeling for satirical make-up is a
fine shade of artistry in itself. He has excellent feeling for the
broad contrast and for fierce insinuation at the same time. If you
want real unalloyed fun, Mr. Watts will supply you. Nor will Grock
disappoint you. Quite on the contrary, no matter what you are
expecting.

I do not know why I think of vaudeville as I think of a collection of
good drawings. Unless it is because the sense of form is the same in
all of the arts. The acrobat certainly has line and mass to think of,
even if that isn't his primal concern. He knows how he decorates the
space on which he operates. To make another comparison, then, Grock is
the Forain of vaudeville. He achieves great plastic beauty with
distinguished economy of means. He dispenses with all superfluous
gesture, as does the great French illustrator. Grock is entirely right
about clownery. You are either funny or you are not. No amount of
study will produce the gift for humour. It is there, or it isn't.
Grock's gift for musicianship is a singular combination to find with
the rest of his artistry. It goes with the remarkably refined look in
his face, however, as he sits upon the back of the seatless chair, and
plays the little concertina with superb execution. There are no
"jumps" in Grock's performance. His moods flow from one into another
with a masterly smoothness, and you are aware when he is finished that
you have never seen that sort of foolery before. Not just that sort.
It is the good mind that satisfies, as in the case of James Watts, and
Miss Shields.

From elephants carrying in their trunks chatelaines of Shetland
ponies, curtseying at the close of the charming act like a pretty miss
at her first coming out, to such work as the Four Danubes give you as
the closing number, with Irene as a lead, you are, to say the least,
carried over the dreadful spots, such as the young man who sways out
like a burlesque queen and tells you whom he was with before Keith got
him. His name should be "Pusher," "Advance Man," or something of that
sort, and not artist. What he gives you, you could find just as well
if not better done on Fourteenth Street. He has a ribbon-counter,
adenoid voice production that no really fin