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THE SOPHOMORE PLAY.
By GRACE MARGARET GALLAHER.
You would never have selected
Tilly Ingersoll as an understudy for
fXte. She was such a foolish little
person, so reckless and irresponsible.
Even the professors, who flunked her
with a harmony of judgment pleasant
to contemplate in a faculty, never
took her at all seriously. Yet it was
she who, in the impersonal, indiffer
ent way supposed to characterize the
walk and conversation of fate, turned
from its course the most beautifully
ordered career in college.
She, with four other unfortunates
whom the weekly raid of the sweeper
had driven from their rooms into the
corridor, was seated on a forgotten
trunk-truck, one April afternoon.
The others, mindful of the nearness
of their next recitation, were vigor
ously acquiring a few “glittering gen
eralities’’ on the early English drama.
“His window-blinds are shut
tight!” announced Tilly, suddenly,
leaning out of the window with such
a swoop that her neighbor made a
startled clutch at her apparently dis
appearing form.
“That means he is either gone to
town or dead. In either case, we have
a cut in English. Do you hear?”
“Tilly, if you want to quit this
naughty world, please choose some
other means of exit than hurling
yourself on the stones down there.
It's such a messy style of dying!”
complained Marcia Grennell, the girl
who held her by the skirt.
“Away or dead!” chanted Tilly.
“We have a cut. Hi! you—” to a girl
who came swiftly round the corner.
“Oh!— er—l beg pardon, Miss Ains
ley. I thought you were some one
else.”
The girl hardly turned her head as
she hurried by.
“It's a regular shahie about her!”
said Tilly, in a half-whisper, waving
toward the disappearing figure.
“Somebody ought to stop that. We
ought; she belongs to our clrss!”
No one made any reply. Tilly went
on excitedly: “We ought to get her
to know some girls, to have some
fun! ”
The others were only half-listen
ing; the subject was so old it had lost
all interest. Keith McKnight raised
her soft, earnest eyes to Tilly.
“Should we do something?” she
asked, anxiously.
“Of course we should! You should!
Put her on your play committee!”
“But, Tilly, dear child—”
“What’s that?” Tilly's head was
out of the window again. “A cut in
English! I told you so! Come on,
fellows! Hot chocolate and frabjous
little nut-cakes in my room to cele
brate. I’ve got the cakes all right,
and we can borrow the rest.” Off
darted Tilly with all other thoughts
swept from her mind.
The others followed joyfully. Keith
sat stili on the trunk-truck. She was
the president of ’9—, and held that
“a public office is a public trust.”
She felt herself responsible for the
success and happiness of every girl
in the class.
“Ought I to look after Miss Ains
ley?” she pondered. “Her life cer
tainly is queer; it can’t be good for
her. How am I going at it?” Keith
frowned at a mild little freshman who
happened to be passing, to the terror
of that innocent child.
Whenever you met Orpha Ainsley,
you desired to put your fingers in her
dimples, ruffle up her dandelion hair,
and handle her generally as you
would a baby. She was so round and
pretty and attractive, so altogether
lovable. Strangers who saw her run
ning down the walk, golf-clubs in her
hand, her cheeks rubbed red by the
wind and her eyes aglow, smiled as
they said to one another, “The typ
ical college girl, vigorous, wide awake
and full of fun.”
And that proves that “the world is
still deceived by ornament.” The
girls would rather have kissed the
statue of Minerva that adorned the
main entrance, than crinkle one of
Orpha’s immaculate frills, and as for
being the typical college girl—
Why, Orpha was a “grind! ” A girl
who studied from the time she got
out of bed in the morning until she
got into it at night; studied straight
through class-meetings, basketball
gambs, ice-carnivals, plays receptions;
sometimes without even knowing that
all these important things were hap
pening. She was noi; even the typical
grind, for she was rosy and of calm
nerves, and went outdoors every day,
■making this one exception to her all
work program.
Orpim had come to college deter
mined to he “an educated woman.”
To her that meant to have her intel
lect cultivated to the highest degree
possible. Of that broadening and
sweetening of the character, that
learning to “view life with appropri
ate emotions,” which is so far above
any training of the mind, she never
dreamed. She was unnaturally clever
already; her essays always were
marked with a neat little red-ink
“excellent;'’ her Greek prose—still
more potent cause of swelling pride—
bore no red ink at all; she received
commendatory notes after each exam
ination; and she asked such “intelli
gent questions” in class that the pro
fessors themselves could not answer
them.
But of the world of college outside
of books, that happy, jolly, whole
some world, the girls, she knew noth
ing. She had no friends. All the
gay* warm life about her she resv
lutely shut out of her days. She
would have none of the widening, pol
ishing process, due to the daily inter
course of girls from all countries and
of all kinds with one another. She
would have none of the deepening
and strengthening of sympathy which
comes from knowing the longing and
struggles of many different lives.
Saddest of all, she refused every
chance to aid those struggles. Col
lege offers uncounted ways to be help
ful and unselfish and loving. Every
day all a girl’s gifts, from the
humblest to the most ideal, may be
used—to help out a sudden hurry, to
quicken to hope a sullen discourage
ment. Few girls have ever again so
many people to whom they may be
“neighbors.”
But Orpha, blind to all the beau
tiful opportunities, resented the
smallest hindrance to her chosen pur
pose. She shut herself away in her
room behind the sign, “Engaged,”
and even regarded the necessary con
versation at meals as an intrusion on
her time and thoughts. Every day
she grew less of a loving, lovable girl,
and more of a selfish pedant.
She had gathered up her notes for
the English lecture this particular
afternoon, when some one knocked.
She stared as Keith McKnight en
tered.
“There’s a cut in English,” began
the visitor, for Orpha looked ready
to flee.
Orpha stared more than ever.
“Miss Ainsley, I—ah—will you do
me a great favor? I’m the head of
our Sophomore Dramatic Committee,
you know, and I want you to be one
of the members. Please be! We must
have this play fine, our freshman one
was such a disgrace. You are so
clever and so well-read, you’ll know
about all the old dramas and be able
to tell what sort of costumes people
wore, and —oh, help every way!”
Keith ended with a smile that never
failed to win whoever saw it.
This invitation was one of the hon
ors and glories of college, had Orpha
known it. Her only feeling, however,
was one of rage that any one could
for a moment suppose she would be
drawn into such a silly waste of time.
Yet when Keith left, after a weary
half-hour in which she was unvary
ingly sweet, but persistent, and Orpha
by turns scornful or appealing, the
latter had yielded a reluctant promise
to come to the first meeting. The
committee were all present when
Orpha entered Keith's room that
night. Her first look told her that
the girls were the brightest in the
class, those whose scholarship had
gained even her critical admiration.
“How can they waste time so?” she
thought, scornfully.
A thorough look about the room
showed Tilly Ingersoll curled up on
the couch. Orpha despised Tilly as a
mindless person who could not lead
even the simplest problem in “trig” to
a triumphant issue.
“Great use she'll be!” she thought,
with scorn.
The rest of the committee were
busily setting forth a feast, of much
size, evidently. Keith was nowhere
to be seen.
“I beg pardon—” began Orpha.
“Come in,” hailed Tilly, ““we’re
just waiting for you. Keith smashed
the olive-bottle a minute ago. She’s
in the bath-room, picking out the
glass from the olives.”
“I think these are undamaged,”
said the hostess, entering. “Good
evening, Miss Ainsley. It’s ever so
nice to have you here.”
“What promiscous kind of food are
we to have to-night, Keith?” asked
Marcia. “You remind me of the Kip
ling man who ‘clawed together a meal
he called dinner.’ ”
“Don’t quarrel with your food!”
admonished Tilly. “The rest of us
haven’t had supper in town. We’re
thankful for anything!”
“Anything! My beautiful oysters,
my ‘tasty’ chicken sandwiches!” cried
the giver of the feast. “The last time
I came to one of your halls I had two
crackers and an orange! ”
Orpha sat very stiff and prim. For
the first time in her self-satisfied life
she felt inadequate to the situation.
She could not sing, or tell funny
| stories, or make witty replies. She
could not even laugh in that easy, in
fectious way the others did.
When .the girls began the discus
sion of the play, she was no happier.
Her knowledge of the classic drama
did not seem especially helpful in
staging a college play. She went
home determined to come to the next
meeting and show thj girls how really
superior to them she was.
She came to the next meeting, and
to rehearsals in the hall. She did
not grow any more comfortable, how
ever. The girls were so capable, so
tactful in managing one another! To
Orpha, coming dazed from a world
of books, they seemed marvelous.
Even the despised Tilly showed an ex
traordinary resourcefulness in all dif
ficulties. There was another side to
the girls that made her oddly un
happy. This was the sympathy and
love which existed among them, some
times as between friend and friend,
sometimes —and this seemed strangest
ofaal as a bond to be expected
among members of the class.
This friendship showed itself in re
joicing over any good luck that came
to any of them, and in constant readi
ness to help one another.
“How ridiculous!” Orpha would
say to herself, as she watched the
girls prance about some friend who
had said a clever thing in class or re
ceived a bit of praise from a pro
fessor. “What she did I’ve done
twenty times before!”
Once when she saw the girls fairly
overwhelming a member of the class
with their congratulations, she asked:
“What’s she done?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard? Her fa
ther’s going to take her to Europe for
the whole summer. Isn’t that gay?”
“Wish I were going!” muttered
Orpha: then, still lower, ‘'lt wouldn’t
be any use!” which disconnected re
marks, nevertheless, told that some
very unusual feeling had seized her.
She wondered still more at the way
in which the girls gave up the most
cherished plan for work or fun, to
help some friend in her work or fun.
Bertha Johnson, to whom a high
rank meant everything, cut two lec
tures and a laboratory period to sit
with a foolish freshman cousin, who
was in the infirmary and therefore
homesick.
And Marcia Grennell resigned from
the economics debate —that great
honor —because she was helping her
roommate make up back work.
Orplia stood up straighter than
ever when she heard of any new act
of this sort. “If you wish to be a
scholar, you must subordinate every
thing to that end,” she told herself.
Then she went back to her lonely lit
tle room and very unhappy.
The afternoon of the dress re
hearsal, actors and committee were in
the hall waiting for Keith and the
heroine. Every one was excited, for
the play was always the event of the
year to the class. Each class gave
one a year, and rivalry ran high.
Keith entered and cast herself on a
pile of “properties.”
“The play is ruined!”
“What?” in a frightened chorus.
“Margaret has broken her ankle!”
A dead silence, then all talking at
once.
“No, -we can’t postpone it! Every
Saturday is taken, up to commence
ment. We can’t even give it up, for
we can get another heroine. Emma
Twemlow acted the part at home lasc
summer. She was as stiff as a poker,
and oh, you know her voice! ”
“And she’s as awkward as a duck!”
cried Tilly. “Keith, she’ll make the
whole play absurd!”
“I know it, but I can’t help it! Sfce
knows about Margaret and ste
offered. If we don’t give the play,
of course we lose all chance of the
prize cup!”
Orpha stole out. She walked a
long way before she knew what she
was doing.
“I don’t look like Rosalind”—the
play was “As You Like It” —“but I
know I can be like her.” She spoke
out loud. Orpha had an English
voice, sweet, with organ tones in it.
“The Morgan prize!” She had for
gotten that.
The Morgan prize was one offered
to the sophomore class for the best
essay on a given subject. If you won,
you had two hundred dollars, and un
limited glory. Orpha longed unspeak
ably for the glory.
She wanted her people at home to
know what great things she was do
ing. Most of she wanted the
girls to realize how very clever she
really was. She had been ruffled seri
ously, during the progress of the play,
by her unskilfulness in practical af
fairs. She would prove that her mind
was too great for such trifles. She
knew she could win.
The competition closed the next
night, the night of the play. Her
essay was finished in conception, but
it had yet to be written out. Orpha
was a slow worker. She ha I planned
to spend all that day and the next, up
to the play, on it.
She sat down in a deserted corner
of the campus. There she fought a
fierce battle. On one side warred
ambition, her wounded pride, her real
scholarship; on the other—she knew
not what. Confused ideas of Keith’s
disappointment, Keith, whom she had
begun to love—of the shame of the
class at failing in its play—of the
girls loving her, too, and crying,
“Good girl, Orpha!”—all these
thoughts chased one another through
her brain.
Orpha stood shyly before the dreary
party just starting for Emma Twem
low.
“Keith^. —she had never called her
that before — you let me be
Rosalind? I even if
I don’t look her. I have heard the
rehearsals so often I know the part,
and I’m willing to rehearse all day
! to-morrow r .”
The hall was full. Girls sat on the
window-ledges and crowded the door
ways. There were the seniors, friend
ly to the sophomores, of course, but
rather superior; the juniors and
freshmen fiercely hostile; the class
itself hopeful, but nervous. Besides
the undergraduates, there were a
number of visitors, alumnae and out
siders.
Orpha stood in the wings. She had
seen the amused smiles of the audi
ence as it read her name on the com
mittee. Up to this time the names
of all concerned had been kept secret,
and to enhance the excitement Mar
garet’s name had not been taken from
the program. The girls knew only
that Rosalind was to be a surprise.
Orpha had never acted before. In
all that audience there was not one to
"give her a hand” for friendship's
sake.
She stepped out on the stage. In
the dead silence she heard a whisper
from the front seats. “What, that
gloomy grind!” and a giggle.
She felt sick. That was what she
was—a grind, a Miss Dryasdust. She
had no place among these alive girls.
She was a fool ever to have tried to
be like them. She stood perfectly
still in a sileifce that might have been
of hours.
Ker eyes traveled slowly to the
wings. In the wings stood the com
mittee. Their faces were rather
white and their eyes looked unusually
large, but they smiled and clapped
noiselessly, and Keith blew her a lit
tle round kiss. They did not think of
her as a grind! She had become one
of “us.” She was frightened, they
must help her out..
Orpha turned to the audience with
a smile that made her dimples peep
out. Frightened? No, but stirred as
she had never been before. She had
sacrificed a dear desire to help the
girls. Her act should not be useless.
But most of all she thought not of
her own success or failure, but of
Keith and the others who had trusted
her so. Perhaps that is why she did
not fail.
For she inspired the rest of the
cast with powers they had not shown
at any rehearsal, and she captivated
every girl in the hall. She seemed
really one of “that brave mimic
world that Shakespeare drew.” The
play was a mighty success.
As the curtain fell the audience,
unable to contain itself longer, gave
a rousing cheer. They shouted for
Keith, for the committee, and for the
cast. Then some one by the door
cried, “What’s the matter with Or
pha, the best actor ever in this hall?”
With the answering, “She’s all
right!” the girls swept upon the
stage.
They almost tore little Rosalind
to bits shaking and hugging her.
“Good for you, Orpha!” “You’re
a regular star!” they cried. She had
made their play a joy to their friends
and an envy to their foes; what else
about her mattered now?
An impulsive freshman flung her
arms about the amazed actress, fairly
shouting:
“Miss Ainsley, you’re a peach; a
fuzzy, downy peach!”
The older girls disapproved of such
slang, but it was permitted to impul
sive freshmen.
Orpha stood quite still through all
the excitement. She felt dazed. All
at once she began to laugh and talk
and hug everybody, just as the other
girls were doing. What she was say
ing, if any one had heard her, was:
“Oh, oh, you’re so nice! Why
didn’t I know it! Oh, I’m so glad I
do now!” This sounded wild, but it
really meant that Orpha had come to
her senses.
It was not that the praise satisfied
her ambition. She never once re
membered that she had proved her
superiority. It was the realization at
last of the loyal and warm comrade
ship, based on mutual need and mu
tual help—the very heart and secret
of college life which made her
happy.
She needed just such a vehement
demonstration of college spirit to
rous* her out of her selfish self. The
love 01 the girls had reached her
heart at k s t.
The tirec*. hut triumphant, com
mittee was gong home to Main Hall.
Way, Tilly, w* re y o u ever so sur
prisdffin all your c*.v S as a : Orpha?”
said Marcia Grennell, low voice.
“I knew she had stores and hoards
of knowledge, but I neve* supposed
such a grind could act.”
“It was because she is a &d nd >
Tilly’s voice was that of one wor* n g
out a problem. “Did you see ho„
nervous she was at the start? She
just pulled herself in, though, and
acted her little part as she works
over Allen and Greenough—with all
her vengeance. It’s that grinding
that’s given her such a grip on her
self. Do you suppose I could have
come out of a regular panic like that?
No, sir, I’d have scattered into igno
ble bits right before the assembled
populace! ”
“Well, sirs!” ejaculated the aston
ished Marcia.
“Oh, I know it’s queer for me, but
it’s true, all the same. This all play
and no work may be great joy, but it
won’t give you what Orpha Ainsley
has —and that’s character! I’ve
fooled away two years here now, and
nobody’s had more fun than I, but
to-night ” Tilly stopped, then
spoke very quietly, with uncommon
seriousness: “Marcia, I’m going to
work after this more than I ever did.
It will please my father, and maybe
give me some character —like Or
pha.”
Marcia was too wise to answer.
Both pretended to be interested in
the others girls’ talk.
Those ahead were still discussing
the great success of the play.
“It’s just gay to-night,” sighed
Keith, “but, oh, me! Monday when
we have to ‘rid up’ the place and re
turn the ‘borroweds!’ ”
“Don’t you care!” called some one
whose joy no gloomy visions, even of
Monday, could daunt. “It won’t take
long! ”
“It takes hours, always!” retorted
Keith. “I have four recitations, ex
tra ‘lab,’ a special topic and an essay
interview! ”
Orpha, marching in a sort of Ro
man conqueror procession, heard
Keith. Gratitude and the sense of
obligation to the class surged within
her.
“I’ll do your share of straightening
up, Keith,” she called. “I haven’t
mueii of anything Monday.” She
tried to have just the matter-of
: course tone the girls used when they
| made such offers, but she could not
i help her voice shaking a little.
There was an instant’s silence, then
| Keith answered easily:
“Oh, will you? Thanks, ever so
much.”
And Orpha knew she had received
the seal to her title as a college girl,
with all the privileges and responsi
. bilities. —Youth’s Companion.
The customs service of China es
timates the total population of that
.country at 438,214,000-
A recent exhibition in Vienna, in
stituted by a Berlin chemist, Dr.
Paul Jeserich, who devotes most of
his time to legal and criminal mat
ters, has fairly astounded the press
of that city by its demonstration of
the value of photography in the de
tection of crime. Every large city
now has its rogue’s gallery, and
spreads broadcast photographs of
suspects. The photographing of the
, scenes of crime for the enlighten
ment of juries is still another devel
opment with which the general pub
lic is familiar. But few people real
ize that in many other ways photog
raphy has become of enormous value
in the actual detection of criminals.
To illustrate this remarkable devel
opment was the prime object of Dr.
Jeserich’s display of the eighty en
larged prints which constitute his
exhibition.
The sun sees everything, however
fallible the human eye. Even when
reinforced by the microscope or the
magnifying glass, the ordinary ob
server is apt to overlook little things
in themselves of great importance.
Moreover, a detective, or an expert
employed by the police, might behold
through a magnifier something which
he would regard as evidence, but
about which a jury might fail to take
his word. By means of the enlarge
ment of a negative, proof of a crime
may often be shown to a jury which
would otherwise be practically un
available. This is Dr. Jeserich’s con
tention, and his demonstration of it
impressed observers as convincing.
For instance, he exhibited two let
ters which had originally contained
money, and bad been received with
out their enclosures. To the eye,
they had not been tampered with in
any way, and there was nothing to
show whether they had been sent
without the money or whether they
had been opened en route. An en
larged photograph solved the mys
tery. It showed plainly that rne of
the envelopes had two lines of mucil
age, while an unevenness in the post
office stamp on the flap showed that
there had been a slight variation in
the resealing. It was obvious that
this letter had been tampered with;
the other proved not to have been,
for the paper sheets enclosed in place
of the money showed, when photo
graphed, the imprint of the post
office stamp which it had received
through the envelope.
The tell-tale blotting paper has
figured in many a novel and play.
Hitherto it has been read by means
of a looking-glass. Dr. Jeserich won
a divorce case by first photographing
the blotter and then enlarging the
print; the resulting evidence that the
defendant was guilty by itself suf
ficed to convince the court. A mur
derer was convicted by means of the
cord with which he strangled his
victim; a piece of it was found in
his pockets, but not until photog-
THE TRAMP PRINTER.
Passing of a Once Familiar Figure in
Newspaper Offices.
Vhat has become of the old time
pririW, once so familiar before the
invasio, 0 f the linotype machine?
He used t 0 show up with the first
frost. You found him in the office
early some October morning, toasting
his back befoi\ the stove. His first
request was, “B* SS( may I look over
the exchanges?” he was soon
pawing around amebg the papers on
the editorial table. 3y 9 o’clock he
had levied sufficient tribute upon the
boys to get a shave and * drink, and
after dinner he was picking up bre
viei in a way to make an expert en
vious. All winter he worked a-s stead
ily as a clock. Many were the stories
he tdd around the back room fire on
a Sunday afternoon. Though with
out nuch education, his very wander
ings jad made him an entertaining
persoiage.
In ;he spring, however, when the
tiny jees buzzed lazily against the
sunn} window pane and the lilac
bushel in the courthouse yard were
puttir? forth their fragrant lavender
plume and the night air was pungent
with tie odor of burning brush piles
and sneet with earthy exhaltions of
upturned sod and everywhere could
he heivi the laughter of children
playing in the twilight, a change
came (?er the spirit of the tramp
printer. He felt the call of the road,
with itsluxurious days of animal de
light ui|er the clear skies of spring,
with itsprivilege of work when you
wish ait idle when you will. He
wished tesee the Doys again, to visit
the fifty offices where he had friends.
So one Mnday morning in mid-April
when y r <| entered the office you
missed h form at the case, the
months’ itniliar figure with one gal
lus downlid a short oil stained cob
pipe protrding from under a slightly
luminous ose. Yet with all of his
vagrant iiiulses you felt kindly to
ward youifiomadic brother in the
art preser\|ive and were ever ready
for him toonie again.
Before iis too late some gifted
pen should tl the story of the tramp
printer. Its one teeming with ro
mance and m very best possibilities
of good litetv effort. True, to-day
almost ever Office has the remorse
less, speedy id ever ailing machine,
but no one and wax either enthusias
tic or remii gent over a mere ma
chine.—Shavie (Okia.) Herald.
The envelcl was invented in 1983
and was in diavor for a long time.
Photography
laphy was called in 'vr +\->
yond dispute that both ,"'
| had originally been one'^A° f c ° r *
victim of a murderer dut'chej
hand a mere scrap of a linl in
a search of the rooms 0 f
pected criminal revealed 10 ? s ’
piece of linen. When v - v f nntslef
photographed, it was found + ,
weaving was identical; i n * J at t! *
four dark threads were ah???
lowed by fourteen light one, H
siolen wedding ring, when A
the thief, bore the numberT ° Q
93 C. S. A magnifying 1! .
vealed nothing, but the re ’
brought out the original markT-’
2. SS. Faint traces of blood? ■
not otherwise discernible are a i
vealed by the photographic P i atp fe ‘
Not even the most careful exnw
has as yet been able to re-photo?*
tnat picture of the murderer on ?
retina of the victim’s eyes v;
has betrayed the criminal in n ICh
than one novel. But Dr.
was able to capture one criminal v
used part of an envelope bearing k?,
address as an extra charge in
his old-fashioned revolver. The 5
per was apparently charred bey?
hope, but the camera ended spec”,
lation as to the identitv 0 f the rV
inal by furnishing his nanm ?
street number. In the same wav
photograph of a bullet that had end
ed a life showed very faint mark*
ings. which could only come from a
slight unevenness in the barrel of the
revolver from which it was fired
The weapon of one suspect was used
again and again, and each bullet
fired showed the same faint lines
In the discovery of forgeries, hand
writing experts have long resorted
to the camera, and Dr. Jeserich ex
hibited some startling examples of
the ease with which the work of the
cleverest forgers was revealed.
All of this shows clearly that if
new inventions and the advances cf
science furnish new weapons to the
criminal, they in turn make it harder
fc-' him to escape punishment. Some
day we may yet see men like Dr.
Jeserich included in the detective
staffs of our great cities; and not
only photography, but all the other
sciences, will contribute to the de
tection of wrongdoers. Not even in
Scotland Yard have the police gone
into partnership with scientists to
the extent possible. In this city our
detectives, when not corrupt, are
often incompetent or wholly behind
the times. When they have scored
successes, it has generally been by
good luck, by breaking down the
prisoner’s nerve through methods
often* indistinguishable from torture,
or because of the stupidity oi the
criminal. Gen. Bingham has
dreamed of the time when he coal'd
appoint civilians to his detective
corps; but he has not yet asked for
that alliance between science and de
tection which modern developments
make feasible. —New York Post.
NOISE NUISANCES.
Some Early Efforts Toward Jlicif
Suppression.
“It is so quiet uptown now that
the patient listener may now and
then catch some of the softer noises
of the world,” said a semi-invalid
lawyer who spends most of the day
sitting by the open window of ti3
Harlem flat.
“I have naturally taken a great
deal of interest in the present crusade
against unnecessary noises, and have
been reading up on sporadic attempt ß
to suppress them,” he continn •
“The earliest case that I have fouu
was in the reign of George 111, vJna
a circus band was silenced by mj^ c
tion on the ground that its ncise ’
a nuisance. In another old Ef.g 1 J
law report it tells of a plaintiff
ering damages because a flod. 0
wild ducks was frightened 0}
persistent firing of a gun.
learned judge held that ihis o ,! ;U
tuted a public nuisance and vtu
prejudice to private rights. J
Georgia ‘gathering in a noisy wa
a pigeon shooting’ has been <
. -- . .... - 1
cially decided to be a
North Carolina court held that >1
stamping horses in a livery
near the plaintiff's dwelling v,a ;
ficient annoyance to entitle h inl
damages. „ r .
“Even the noise incident to an
dinary business may be a n "? 1 j
A gold-beater pelting a thin •••
gold into shape, the hamny-y
--the anvil in the blacksmith sby,
noise of a skating rink, and
have all been held to be a^‘l
nuisances. . .
“The test laid down ir tn ?,, jreS
is that any ‘noise which cons
an annoyance to a person of oi ‘
sensibility to sound so as *na
to interfere with the or bna '>
fort of life and impair die j.’y . g
able enjoyment of his habita
a nuisance to him. ss }.
“It is within the bounds 0*
bility that in great centres °‘j djj
lation anew class of e * Vi _'T ! ? n ru*
arise to draw salaries from y 1
cipality as noise specialists.
usual noises long continued 1 ' - rl j.
edly induce deafness, a.sid~'
tating nerves and
At any rate, they destnO a ? c jaliy
inating nicetj r in hearing, . a
in those who have what y c “\- 0I j{
musical ear.” —From toe - t ''
Times.
Hamburg has more firem ??
portion to her size than a*;: L
iu the world.