In the old projection room are now stacked books and plays of the Edgar S. Werner Company, and in the dear old studio, which is just the same to-day as the day we left it, except that the mercury tubes have been taken out, and a north window cut, presides a sculptor by the name of A. Stirling Calder, who has painted the old door blue and hung a huge brass knocker on it.
Now, when I made up my mind to write this record of those early days of the movies, I knew that I must go down once again to see the old workshop, where for four years David W. Griffith wielded the scepter, until swelled with success and new-gained wealth the Biograph Company pulled up stakes and fitted to its new large modern and expensive studio up in the Bronx at East 175th Street.
So down I went to beg Mr. Calder to let me look over the old place and take a picture of it.
My heart was going pit-a-pat out there in the old hallway while I awaited an answer to my knock. "Please," I pleaded, "I want so much to take a photograph of the studio just as it is. I'm writing a little book about our pioneering days here; it won't take a minute. May I, please?"
Emotion was quite overwhelming me as the memories of the years crowded on me, memories of young and happy days untouched with the sadness that years must inevitably bring even though they bring what is considered "success." Twelve years had gone their way since I had passed through those studio doors and here I was again, all a-flutter with anticipation and choky with the half-dreamy memories of events long past.
But don't be tempted to announce your arrival if you
