urred words of gratitude, she says, "I fell asleep,
knowing that through God's mercy and my own hard work I was the first
Western actress who had ever been accepted by a New York audience,
and as I drowsed off I murmured to myself:

"'And I'll leave the door open, now that I have opened it--I'll leave
it open for all the others.'"

She did. Through that open door has passed a long procession from West
to East since the day when the young woman from Cleveland brought New
York to her feet by her unique ability and dramatic perception. A
lover of literature from childhood, a writer of books in later days,
Clara Morris moved on through the years of her brilliant dramatic
career to a rare achievement, not led by the lure of the foot-lights
or the flimsier forms of so-called dramatic art, but by the call of
the highest.

Well may the matinee girl of to-day, or the stage-struck young person
who responds to the glitter and glare, the applause and the
superficial charm of the theatrical world, listen to Miss Morris's
story of "Life on the Stage," and realize that laurels only crown
untiring effort, success only comes after patient labor, and great
emotional actresses come to their own through the white heat of
sacrifice, struggle, and supreme desire.

ANNA DICKINSON: THE GIRL ORATOR

A very well-known lawyer of Philadelphia was sitting in his private
office one morning when word was brought in to him that a young lady
wished to see him. The office-boy had never seen her before, and she
had not given her name, but she was very firm in her intention not to
be refused an interview.

"Show her in," said the lawyer, pushing back his chair with a bored
expression and a resolution to send the stranger away at short notice
if she was not a client. What was his surprise when a very young girl,
still wearing short dresses, was ushered in, and stood before him with
such an earnest expression in her bright eyes that she instantly
attracted him. Motioning her to take a seat, he asked her errand.

"I wish some copying to do," was the reply, in such a musical voice
that the lawyer became still more interested.

"Do you intend to do it yourself?" he asked.

She bowed assent. "Yes," she said. "We are in need of money and I must
help. I write a clear hand."

So pleased was he with her manner and her quiet words, "We are in need
of money and I must help," as well as touched by her self-reliance at
an age when girls are general