Vaudeville is intrinsically episodic and discontinuous.
Its audiences do not demand denouements. Sufficientunto each “turn” is the evil thereof. No one cares howmany romances the singing comedienne may have had ifshe can capably sustain the limelight and a high note ortwo. The audiences reck not if the performing dogs get tothe pound the moment they have jumped through theirlast hoop. They do not desire bulletins about the possibleinjuries received by the comic cyclist who retires headfirstfrom the stage in a crash of （property） china-ware.
Neither do they consider that their seat coupons entitlethem to be instructed whether or no there is a sentimentbetween the lady solo banjoist and the Irish monologist.
Therefore let us have no lifting of the curtain upon atableau of the united lovers， backgrounded by defeatedvillainy and derogated by the comic， osculating maid andbutler， thrown in as a sop to the Cerberi of the fifty-centseats.
But our program ends with a brief “turn” or two； andthen to the exits. Whoever sits the show out may find，if he will， the slender thread that binds together， thoughever so slightly， the story that， perhaps， only the Walruswill understand.
Extracts from a letter from the first vice-president ofthe Republic Insurance Company， of New York City， toFrank Goodwin， of Coralio， Republic of Anchuria.
My Dear Mr. Goodwin： —Your communication perMessrs. Howland and Fourchet， of New Orleans， hasreached us. Also their draft on N.Y. for 100，000， theamount abstracted from the funds of this company by thelate J. Churchill Wahrfield， its former president.... Theofficers and directors unite in requesting me to express toyou their sincere esteem and thanks for your prompt andmuch appreciated return of the entire missing sum withintwo weeks from the time of its disappearance.... Can assureyou that the matter will not be allowed to receive the leastpublicity.... Regret exceedingly the distressing death ofMr. Wahrfield by his own hand， but... Congratulations onyour marriage to Miss Wahrfield... many charms， winningmanners， noble and womanly nature and envied positionin the best metropolitan society....
Cordially yours，
Lucius E. Applegate，
FIRST VICE-PRESIDENT THE REPUBLIC INSURANCE
COMPANY.
The Vitagraphoscope
（Moving Pictures）
The Last Sausage
SCENE—An Artist’s Studio. The artist， a young man ofprepossessing appearance， sits in a dejected attitude， amida litter of sketches， with his head resting upon his hand.
An oil stove stands on a pine box in the center of thestudio. The artist rises， tightens his waist belt to anotherhole， and lights the stove. He goes to a tin bread box， halfhiddenby a screen， takes out a solitary link of sausage，turns the box upside-down to show that there is no more，and chucks the sausage into a frying-pan， which he setsupon the stove. The flame of the stove goes out， showingthat there is no more oil. The artist， in evident despair，seizes the sausage， in a sudden access of rage， and hurls itviolently from him. At the same time a door opens， and aman who enters receives the sausage forcibly against hisnose. He seems to cry out； and is observed to make a dancestep or two， vigorously. The newcomer is a ruddy-faced，active， keen-looking man， apparently of Irish ancestry.
Next he is observed to laugh immoderately； he kicks overthe stove； he claps the artist （who is vainly striving tograsp his hand） vehemently upon the back. Then he goesthrough a pantomime which to the sufficiently intelligentspectator reveals that he has acquired large sums of moneyby trading pot-metal hatchets and razors to the Indiansof the Cordillera Mountains for gold dust. He draws a rollof money as large as a small loaf of bread from his pocket，and waves it above his head， while at the same time hemakes pantomime of drinking from a glass. The artisthurriedly secures his hat， and the two leave the studiotogether.
The Writing on the Sands
SCENE—The Beach at Nice. A woman， beautiful， stillyoung， exquisitely clothed， complacent， poised， reclinesnear the water， idly scrawling letters in the sand withthe staff of her silken parasol. The beauty of her face isaudacious； her languid pose is one that you feel to beimpermanent—you wait， expectant， for her to springor glide or crawl， like a panther that has unaccountablybecome stock-still. She idly scrawls in the sand； and theword that she always writes is “Isabel.” A man sits a fewyards away. You can see that they are companions， everif no longer comrades. His face is dark and smooth， andalmost inscrutable—but not quite. The two speak littletogether. The man also scratches on the sand with hiscane. And the word that he writes is “Anchuria.” Andthen he looks out where the Mediterranean and the skyintermingle with death in his gaze.
The Wilderness and Thou
SCENE—The Borders of a Gentleman’s Estate in aTropical Land. An old Indian， with a mahogany-coloredface， is trimming the grass on a grave by a mangrove swamp.
Presently he rises to his feet and walks slowly toward agrove that is shaded by the gathering， brief twilight. Inthe edge of the grove stands a man who is stalwart， with akind and courteous air， and a woman of a serene and clearcutloveliness. When the old Indian comes up to them theman drops money in his hand. The grave-tender， with thestolid pride of his race， takes it as his due， and goes hisway. The two in the edge of the grove turn back along thedim pathway， and walk close， close—for， after all， what isthe world at its best but a little round field of the movingpictures with two walking together in it？