We have not exhausted Moving Day. The chairs kept still through the
Cinderella discourse. Now let them take their innings. Instead of having
all of them dance about, invest but one with an inner life. Let its
special attributes show themselves but gradually, reaching their climax
at the highest point of excitement in the reel, and being an integral
part of that enthusiasm. Perhaps, though we be inventing a new
fairy-tale, it will resemble the Siege Perilous in the Arthurian story,
the chair where none but the perfect knight could sit. A dim row of
flaming swords might surround it. When the soul entitled to use this
throne appears, the swords might fade away and the gray cover hanging in
slack folds roll back because of an inner energy and the chair might turn
from gray to white, and with a subtle change of line become a throne.

The photoplay imagination which is able to impart vital individuality to
furniture will not stop there. Let the buildings emanate conscious life.
The author-producer-photographer, or one or all three, will make into a
personality some place akin to the House of the Seven Gables till the
ancient building dominates the fancy as it does in Hawthorne's tale.
There are various ways to bring about this result: by having its outlines
waver in the twilight, by touches of phosphorescence, or by the passing
of inexplicable shadows or the like. It depends upon what might be called
the genius of the building. There is the Poe story of The Fall of the
House of Usher, where with the death of the last heir the castle falls
crumbling into the tarn. There are other possible tales on such terms,
never yet imagined, to be born to-morrow. Great structures may become in
sort villains, as in the old Bible narrative of the origin of the various
languages. The producer can show the impious Babel Tower, going higher
and higher into the sky, fascinating and tempting the architects till a
confusion of tongues turns those masons into quarrelling mobs that become
departing caravans, leaving her blasted and forsaken, a symbol of every
Babylon that rose after her.

There are fables where the rocks and the mountains speak. Emerson has
given us one where the Mountain and the Squirrel had a quarrel. The
Mountain called the Squirrel "Little Prig." And then continues a clash of
personalities more possible to illustrate than at first appears. Here we
come to the second stage of the fairy-tale where the creature seems so
unmanageab