We called him “Old Man McCutcheon,” the genial, generous person who at this time directed the movies at the American Mutoscope and Biograph Company. Why “Old Man” I do not know, unless it was because he was slightly portly and the father of about eight children, the oldest being Wallace—“Wally” to his intimates. Wally was quite “some pumpkins” around the studio—father’s right-hand-man—and then, too, he was a Broadway actor.

It was then the general idea of movie directors to use their families in the pictures. As money was the only thing to be had out of the movies those days, why not get as much as possible while the getting was good? The McCutcheon kids had just finished working in a Christmas picture, receiving, besides pay checks, the tree and the toys when the picture was finished. So the first bit of gossip wafted about was that the McCutcheons had a pretty good thing of it altogether.

In February, 1908, Wallace McCutcheon was closing an engagement in Augustus Thomas’s play, “The Ranger.” Appearing in “The Ranger” with young Mr. McCutcheon, were Robert Vignola, John Adolfi, Eddie Dillon, and Florence Auer.

A school picture called “The Snow-man” was to be made which called for eight children—another job for the little McCutcheons. Grown-up Wally, and mother, were to work too, mother to see that the youngsters were properly dressed and made up.

A tall, slight young woman was needed for the schoolmistress and Eddie Dillon, whom Wally had inveigled to the studio, suggested Florence Auer.

The story takes place outside the schoolhouse and a “furious blizzard” is raging, although I would say there was nothing prophetic of the blizzard that raged in D. W. Griffith’s famous movie “Way Down East,” even though events were so shaping themselves that had Mr. McCutcheon held off a few weeks with his snow story, Mr. Griffith would have arrived in time to offer suggestions. And he would have had something to say, had he been so privileged, for “The Snow-man’s” raging “blizzard” was made up of generous quantities of sawdust!

The legs, arms, torso, and head of the Snow-man were fashioned of fluffy, white cotton, each a separate part, and were hidden under the drifts of sawdust, to be found later by the children who came to romp in the snow and make a snow-man. The places where the Snow-man’s fragments were buried were marked so that the children could easily find them. One youngster pretends to mold of sawdust an imaginary leg, but in reality is hunting the buried finished one, on locating which, she surreptitiously pulls it from beneath the sawdust. In this way, finally, all the parts of the Snow-man are dug out of the sawdust snow, and put together, revealing a beautiful Snow-man.

Then the Good Fairy of the Snows who all this time has been dreaming in the silver crescent of the moon, looking for all the world like the charming lady of the Cascarets ads, is given a tip that the children have finished their Snow-man. So it is time for her to wake up and come out of the moon. From her stellar heights, by means of a clumsy iron apparatus, she is lowered to earth. Sadly crude it all was, but it thrilled the fans of the day, nevertheless. With her magic wand the Good Fairy touches the Snow-man and he comes to life. Predatory Pete now comes along, sees Mr. Snow-man, and feeling rather jolly from the consumption of bottled goods, he puts his pipe in the Snow-man’s mouth, and when he sees the Snow-man calmly puff it, in great fright he rushes off the scene, dropping his bottle, the contents of which the Snow-man drains. In the resultant intoxication the Snow-man finds his way into the schoolhouse. Finding the schoolhouse too warm, he throws the stove out of the window. Then he throws himself out of the window and lies down in the snow to “sleep it off.”

When the children return the following morning, the Snow-man, who is still sleeping, frightens them almost into convulsions. Then the picture really got started—the “chase” began. Sufficiently primitive it was, to have been the first “chase”; but it wasn’t—for almost at the movie’s inception the chase was a part of them. This Snow-man chase takes place in front of a stationary back-drop, that pictures a snowdrift. The actors standing off-stage ready for the excitement, come on through the sawdust snow, kicking it up in clouds, eating it, choking on it, hair, eyes, and throat getting full of it. Back and forth against this one “drop,” the actors chase. On one run across, a prop tree would be set up. Then as the actors were supposed to have run some hundred yards at least, on the next time across, the prop tree would be taken away and a big papier maché rock put in its place. That scene being photographed, the rock would give way to a telegraph pole, and so on until half a dozen chases had been staged before the one “drop.”

Thus far advanced, artistically and otherwise, was the motion picture this spring of 1908 when “Lawrence” Griffith found himself astride a horse, taking the air in the wide stretches of Coytesville, New Jersey, and getting five dollars to boot. Also found himself so exhilarated, mentally and otherwise, that in the evening he turned author, not of poorly paid poems, but of the more profitable movies. Wrote a number which he sold for fifteen dollars each, a very decent price considering that this sort of authorship meant a spot-cash transaction.

The first little cinema drama of which he was the author and which was immediately put into the works was “Old Isaacs, the Pawnbroker.” Very bitter in feeling against the Amalgamated Association of Charities was this story of a kind-hearted Hebraic money-lender.

On May 6th, with “Lawrence” Griffith the star, was released “The Music Master,” but not David Belasco’s. Then came “Ostler Joe” of Mrs. James Brown Potter fame, scenario-ized by Mr. Griffith. He also played the part of the priest in the scene where the child dies. In early July came “At The Crossroads of Life” and “The Stage Rustler.”

Biograph’s sole advertising campaign at this time consisted of illustrated bulletins—single sheets six to ten inches, carrying a two by three inch “cut” from the film and descriptive matter averaging about three hundred and fifty words. They were gotten up in florid style by a doughty Irishman by the name of Lee Dougherty who was the “man in the front office.” He was what is now known as “advertising manager,” but the publicity part of his job not taking all his time, he also gave scripts the “once over” and still had moments for a friendly chat with the waiting actor.

Although every day was not a busy day at the Biograph for David Griffith, he felt the best policy would be to keep in close touch with whatever was going on there. So he did that, but he also looked in at other studios during any lull in activities. Looked in up at Edison and was engaged for a leading part in quite a thriller, “The Eagle’s Nest.” Lovely studio, the Edison, but not so much chance to get in right, David felt—it was too well organized. Looked in at Kalem too, but Frank J. Marion, who was the presiding chief there, could not be bothered. Entirely too many of these down-on-their-luck actors taking up his time.

There were whispers about that Lubin in Philadelphia needed a director. So David wrote them a letter telling of all his varied experiences, which brought an answer with an offer of sixty dollars a week for directing and a request that he run over to Philadelphia for an interview.

Now one had to look like something when on that sort of errand bent. I had to get our little man all dressed up. Could afford only a new shirt and tie. This, with polished boots and suit freshly pressed, would have to do. But, even so, he looked quite radiant as he set forth for the Pennsylvania Station to catch his Every-hour-on-the-hour.

But nothing came of it. Lubin decided not to put on another director or make a change—whichever it was. The husband of Mrs. Mary Carr, the Mrs. Carr of William Fox’s “Over the Hill” fame, continued there, directing the movies which he himself wrote. After dinner each night he would roll back the table-cloth, reach for pad and pencil, and work out a story for his next movie.

Back to the dingy “A. B.” for us. Strange, even from the beginning we felt a sort of at-home feeling there. The casualness of the place made a strong appeal. What would happen if some one really got on the job down there some day?

And so it came about shortly after “The Snow-man” that the elder Mr. McCutcheon fell ill, and his son Wallace took over his job. He directed “When Knights Were Bold”; directed Mr. Griffith in several pictures. But Wally was not ambitious to make the movies his life job. He soon made a successful début in musical comedy. Some years later he married Pearl White, the popular movie star.

It began to look as though there soon might be a new director about the place. And there was. There were several.

No offer of theatrical jobs came to disrupt the even tenor of the first two months at Biograph. It was too late for winter productions and too early for summer stock, so there was nothing to worry about, until with the first hint of summer in the air, my husband received an offer to go to Peake’s Island, Maine, and play villains in a summer stock company there.

Forty per, the salary would be, sometimes more and sometimes less than our combined earnings at the studio. To go or not to go? Summer stock might last the summer and might not. Three months was the most to expect. The Biograph might do as much for us.

How trivial it all sounds now! Ah, but believe me, it was nothing to be taken lightly then. For a decision that affects one’s very bread and butter, when bread and butter has been so uncertain, one doesn’t make without heart searchings and long councils of war.

So we argued, in a friendly way. Said he: “If I turn this job down, and appear to be so busy, they soon won’t send for me at all. Of course, if this movie thing is going to last and amount to anything, if anybody could tell you anything about it, we could afford to take chances. In one way it is very nice. You can stay in New York, and if I can find time to write too—fine! But you know you can’t go on forever and not tell your friends and relatives how you are earning your living.”

Then said she: “How long is Peake’s Island going to last? What’s sure about summer stock? What does Peake’s Island mean to David Belasco or Charles Frohman? We’ve got this little flat here, with our very own twenty dollars’ worth of second-hand furniture, and the rent’s so low—twenty. You don’t know what’s going to happen down at the Biograph, you might get to direct some day. Let’s stick the summer out anyhow, and when fall comes and productions open up again, we’ll see, huh?”

So we put Peake’s Island behind us.

Now it is as sure as shooting, if “Lawrence” Griffith had accepted the offer to play stock that summer he never would have become the David W. Griffith of the movies. Had he stepped out then, some one else surely would have stepped in and filled his little place; and the chances are he would never have gone back to those queer movies.

Of course, now we know that even in so short a time this movie business had gotten under his skin. David Griffith had tasted blood—cinema blood. And the call to stay, that was heard and obeyed when Peake’s Island threatened to disrupt the scheme of things, was the same sort of call that made those other pioneers trek across the plains with their prairie schooners in the days of forty-nine. With Peake’s Island settled, we hoped there would be no more theatrical temptations, for we wanted to take further chances with the movies.