The rat began to gnaw the rope,
    The rope began to hang the butcher,
    The butcher began to kill the ox,
    The ox began to drink the water,
    The water began to quench the fire,
    The fire began to burn the stick,
    The stick began to beat the dog,
    The dog began to bite the pig,
    The frightened little pig jumped over the stile,
    And the old lady was able to get home that night.

Put yourself back to the state of mind in which you enjoyed this bit of verse.

Though the photoplay fairy-tale may rise to exquisite heights, it begins with pictures akin to this rhyme.  Mankind in his childhood has always wanted his furniture to do such things.  Arthur names his blade Excalibur.  It becomes a person.  The man in the Arabian tale speaks to the magic carpet.  It carries him whithersoever he desires.  This yearning for personality in furniture begins to be crudely worked upon in the so-called trick-scenes.  The typical commercialized comedy of this sort is Moving Day.  Lyman H. Howe, among many excellent reels of a different kind, has films allied to Moving Day.

But let us examine at this point, as even more typical, an old Pathe Film from France.  The representatives of the moving-firm are sent for.  They appear in the middle of the room with an astonishing jump.  They are told that this household desires to have its goods and hearthstone gods transplanted two streets east.  The agents salute.  They disappear.  Yet their wireless orders are obeyed with a military crispness.  The books and newspapers climb out of the window.  They go soberly down the street.  In their wake are the dishes from the table.  Then the more delicate porcelains climb down the shelves and follow.  Then follow the hobble-de-hoy kitchen dishes, then the chairs, then the clothing, and the carpets from over the house.  The most joyous and curious spectacle is to behold the shoes walking down the boulevard, from father’s large boots to those of the youngest child.  They form a complete satire of the family, yet have a masterful air of their own, as though they were the most important part of a human being.

The new apartment is shown.  Everything enters in procession.  In contrast to the general certainty of the rest, one or two pieces of furniture grow confused trying to find their places.  A plate, in leaping upon a high shelf, misses and falls broken.  The broom and dustpan sweep up the pieces, and consign them to the dustbin.  Then the human family comes in, delighted to find everything in order.  The moving agents appear and salute.  They are paid their fee.  They salute again and disappear with another gigantic leap.

The ability to do this kind of a thing is fundamental in the destinies of the art.  Yet this resource is neglected because its special province is not understood.  “People do not like to be tricked,” the manager says.  Certainly they become tired of mere contraptions.  But they never grow weary of imagination.  There is possible many a highly imaginative fairy-tale on this basis if we revert to the sound principles of the story of the old lady and the pig.