Donald had almost finished his first play, in which I took as deep an interest and delight as his mother would have taken in his first baby, had his activities led him in that direction. I knew this play had real promise and would soon call him to New York and that once more we would be united. And so in June Mrs. Davis and I returned. As I picked up my tools and started to work I knew that the round peg had slipped comfortably back into the round hole. The fact that WHOOPEE was still running in November saved me from a sad fate. For thirty years I have had at least one play produced in New York each season. I’m going to have one produced for as many more seasons as I can, more than one if I can, and as good plays as I can.

It may well be that this thing of producing plays isn’t as wonderful a thing as I think it is, but it’s my trade. I have served the theater joyfully for a long time and if a good fairy appeared before me to-day and offered me the famous “one wish” I am sure that I should say, “Please, good fairy, I’d like to do it again.”

This doesn’t mean that my life has been all happiness. No man’s has been. Perhaps it is best that way. We have had our griefs, my wife and I, our share of sorrow, discouragement and our happiness, but, if I may for a moment borrow the flamboyant style of my youth, as I look back over the tapestry of my life, the bright spots do not seem so bright as I had remembered them, and the dark spots do not seem so dark. The whole fabric looks rather like one of these old rag carpets of my mother’s time—woven of bits of crimson and blue, of yellow and black—blending now in a soft harmony, softened by time.

THE END