anoply their
productions. Instead of all this, people the stage with a chorus
choir in white smocks, and in front of the choir put a lean,
upstanding, shock-headed preacher; but leave the audience--a regular
Hippodrome audience on the biggest Saturday night. Imagine all of
this, I say, and what you have is not the Hippodrome, not the
greatest play in the New World, nor any playhouse at all, but the
Temple Baptist Church of Los Angeles, California, with James
Whitcomb Brougher, D.D., in the pulpit.

(3)

(_The Independent_)

THE LITTLE RED SCHOOLHOUSE A "FAKE"

What the Country Schoolhouse Really Is, and Why

BY EDNA M. HILL

The schoolhouse squats dour and silent in its acre of weeds. A
little to the rear stand two wretched outbuildings. Upon its gray
clapboarded sides, window blinds hang loose and window sashes sag
away from their frames. Groaning upon one hinge the vestibule door
turns away from lopsided steps, while a broken drain pipe sways
perilously from the east corner of the roof.

Within and beyond the vestibule is the schoolroom, a monotony of
grimy walls and smoky ceiling. Cross lights from the six windows
shine upon rows of desks of varying sizes and in varying stages of
destruction. A kitchen table faces the door. Squarely in the middle
of the rough pine floor stands a jacketed stove. A much torn
dictionary and a dented water pail stand side by side on the shelf
below the one blackboard.

And this is the "little red schoolhouse" to which I looked forward
so eagerly during the summer--nothing but a tumbledown shack set in
the heart of a prosperous farming district.

(4)

(_New York Tribune_)

THE ONE WOMAN OFFICIAL AT PLATTSBURG

BY ELENE FOSTER

The tramp, tramp of feet on a hard road; long lines of khaki figures
moving over the browning grass of the parade ground; rows of faces,
keen and alert, with that look in the eyes that one sees in LePage's
Jeanne d'Arc; the click, click of bullets from the distant rifle
range blended with a chorus of deep voices near at hand singing
"Over There"; a clear, blue sky, crisp autumn air and the sparkling
waters of Lake Champlain--that's Plattsburg.

(5)

(_Good Housekeeping_)

NEW ENGLAND MILL SLAVES

BY MARY ALDEN HOPKINS

In the pale light of an early win