“The costume designers and makers, fashioners of jewelry, painters and composers, musicians and seamstresses, as well as actors and directors, will contribute their share in varying degree.

“Putting aside for a moment the higher and artistic development which such work must bring, there is the craftsman side, too, which has practical value.  The young men will become familiar with all the handiwork of the theatre, the construction and handling of scenery, the electrical equipment and its varied uses.  It will be conceded, I think, that in this respect the community playhouse is really a college of instruction in the craft of the stage.”

It is a college with a very efficient and well-trained staff of professors.  Mrs. Sarah Cowell Le Moyne, already well known as a teacher of elocution and acting, will be one of its members.  Miss Grace Griswold, an experienced co-worker of the late Augustine Daly, will act as manager.

The pupils of this novel school are to have amusement as well as work.  The third floor has been planned to meet many more requirements than are usually considered in a theatre.  Across the front runs a large rehearsal room, large enough to make a fine dance hall when occasion demands.  Here, too, is a kitchenette which will be used to serve refreshments when social gatherings are in progress or when an over-long rehearsal tires out the cast.  In warm weather the flat-tiled roof will be used as a playground.  It will be the scene, too, of many open air performances.

The Neighborhood Playhouse has been open only a few weeks.  Already it is in full swing.  On the nights when the regular players do not appear the programme consists of motion pictures and music.  There is a charming informality and ease about these entertainments; there is also genuine art, and a whole-hearted appreciation on the part of the neighborhood’s people.

* * * * *

(New York Evening Post)

THE SINGULAR STORY OF THE MOSQUITO MAN

BY HELEN BULLITT LOWRY

“Now you just hold up a minute”—­the bungalow-owner waved an indignant hand at the man in the little car chug-chugging over the bumpy road.  “Now I just want to tell you,” he protested, “that a mosquito got into my room last night and bit me, and I want you to know that this has happened three times this week.  I want it to stop.”

The man in the car had jumped out, and was turning an animated, and aggressive, but not at all provoked, face on the complainer.

“Are you certain your drains are not stopped up?” he asked.

“Oh, those drains are all right.  It’s that damp hollow over in Miss K’s woods that’s making the trouble.”

“I’ll go there immediately,” said the aggressive one.  “She promised me she would fill that place this week.”

“All right, then,” answered the placated bungalow-owner, “I thought you’d fix it up if you found out about it.  I certainly wouldn’t have bought around Darien if you had not cleared this place of mosquitoes.”