*End of the factory-window song*.

To Mary Pickford

Moving-picture Actress

(On hearing she was leaving the moving-pictures for the stage.)

Mary Pickford, doll divine,

Year by year, and every day

At the moving-picture play,

You have been my valentine.

Once a free-limbed page in hose,

Baby-Rosalind in flower,

Cloakless, shrinking, in that hour

How our reverent passion rose,

How our fine desire you won.

Kitchen-wench another day,

Shapeless, wooden every way.

Next, a fairy from the sun.

Once you walked a grown-up strand

Fish-wife siren, full of lure,

Snaring with devices sure

Lads who murdered on the sand.

But on most days just a child

Dimpled as no grown-folk are,

Cold of kiss as some north star,

Violet from the valleys wild.

Snared as innocence must be,

Fleeing, prisoned, chained, half-dead --

At the end of tortures dread

Roaring cowboys set you free.

Fly, O song, to her to-day,

Like a cowboy cross the land.

Snatch her from Belasco's hand

And that prison called Broadway.

All the village swains await

One dear lily-girl demure,

Saucy, dancing, cold and pure,

Elf who must return in state.

Blanche Sweet

Moving-picture Actress

(After seeing the reel called "Oil and Water".)

Beauty has a throne-room

In our humorous town,

Spoiling its hob-goblins,

Laughing shadows down.

Rank musicians torture

Ragtime ballads vile,

But we walk serenely

Down the odorous aisle.

We forgive the squalor

And the boom and squeal

For the Great Queen flashes

From the moving reel.

Just a prim blonde stranger

In her early day,

Hiding brilliant weapons,

Too averse to play,

Then she burst upon us

Dancing through the night.

Oh, her maiden radiance,

Veils and roses white.

With new powers, yet cautious,

Not too smart or skilled,

That first flash of dancing

Wrought the thing she willed: --

Mobs of us made noble

By her strong desire,

By her white, uplifting,

Royal romance-fire.

Though the tin piano

Snarls its tango rude,

Though the chairs are shaky

And the dramas crude,

Solemn are her motions,

Stately are her wiles,

Filling oafs with wisdom,

Saving souls with smiles;

'Mid the restless actors

She is rich and slow.

She will stand like marble,

She will pause and glow,

Though the film is twitching,

Keep a peaceful reign,

Ruler of her passion,

Ruler of our pain!


For a Very Little Girl, Not a Year Old. Catharine Frazee Wakefield.

The sun gives not directly

The coal, the diamond crown;

Not in a special basket

Are these from Heaven let down.

The sun gives not directly

The plough, man's iron friend;

Not by a path or stairway

Do tools from Heaven descend.

Yet sunshine fashions all things

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