merely sits for a long time unnoticed. Presently, however, after the fire has lost its novelty for us, she arises, grasps a frying pan, and, using it as a mirror, begins to primp. Then at last we look at her.
A more striking case of misplaced emphasis may be found in the photoplay "Sherlock Holmes," directed by Albert Parker. The part of the great detective was played by no less a person than John Barrymore, yet in the very scene where he makes his first appearance he is totally eclipsed by a calico cow. In this scene, represented by the "still" opposite this page, we see a beautifully patterned cow swinging into the idyllic setting of a side street in Cambridge, following a rhythmic path from the background with its dim towers of the university, past the honeysuckle-clad walls of "Ye Cheshire Cheese," and out into the shadows of a picturesque tree. This cow holds our attention by her photographic contrasts of black and white, and because she and her attendant are the only moving things within the whole scope of the camera. This inscrutable cow gets the spotlight while the great Sherlock is neglected where he reclines drowsily in the shade. Here was really the most pictorial scene of the whole photoplay, and the annoying thing was that the cow never again showed hoof or horn. Why was she ever let in? No suspicion of murder, theft, or other deviltry was ever cast upon her. She neither shielded nor shamed any one. She did not help to solve any problem. There was no further allusion to cattle, dairies, or cheese. There was not even a glass of milk in the rest of the play.
Perhaps the innocent cow was an accident. Perhaps the director did not know, or had forgotten,
