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Greenwich Village in History
(I am indebted for this story to Mr. Henry Collins Brown, who gave me permission io exctract it from his beautiful ''Book of Old New York," printed by him privately for collectors.)

ADMIRAL SIR PETER WARREN was in New York in 1744. He had then returned from Martinique, where he captured many French and Spanish prizes with his squadron of sixteen sailing craft. These were sold for him by Stephen De Lancey & Co., arid netted him a considerable fortune, and it is said that he bought his Greenwich farm of three hundred acres with a part of the money. At any rate, the rise of Greenwich is attributed to Sir Peter, who married the daughter of his sales agent, Susannah De Lancey. Abingdon Square, with its little park, is a memento of the Warren farm, the oldest of Sir Peter's three daughters having married the Earl of Abingdon for whom the Square is named. Abijah Hammond became the owner of the farm after the death of the vice-admiral, and in 1819 Mr. Van Nest purchased from him the mansion, with the square bounded by Fourth, Bleecker, Perry and Charles Streets. In 1865 the house was torn down, and most of the present houses were erected on its site.

No more bewildering confusion of street formation exists anywhere than in this section of the city, where was once old Greenwich. An example is Fourth Street, which crosses Tenth, Eleventh and Twelfth Streets at very nearly right angles. Other streets start all right, run for a block or two with regularity, and then take unreasonable turns, or else bring up one before a brick wall. This condition may be attributed to the fantastic ideas of the owners of land in that section in the early period of the city's growth. When a short cut from one place to another was desired they cut a lane, and perhaps another to some part of the farm land, leaving, with what improved conditions the city had made in street making there, a tangled network of the old and the new that will not assimilate.

Greenwich Road followed the line of the present Greenwich Street, along the shore front, and led to Greenwich Village. While in dry weather most of the route was good ground, in wet weather, especially in the region of the Lispenard salt meadows, which then lay north and south of the present Canal street, and of the marshy valley of Minetta Creek (about Charlton street), it was difficult of access. An inland road was therefore approved in 1768 from the Post Road (the present Bowery) to what is now Astor Place, then to Waverly Place, then to Greenwich Avenue. Two sections of this road exist today: Astor Place and Greenwich Avenue between Eighth and Fourteenth streets. The rest is obliterated.

The open space at Astor Place is a part of the road to Greenwich known as Monument Lane, or "road to the Obelisk,'' because at its northern extremity, or which is now Eighth Avenue and Fifteenth Street. General Wolfe, the hero of Quebec, had a memorial erected to him. The lane extended from the Bowery to Washington Square, turned north-west and skirted Greenwich Village. At Jefferson Market, where Greenwich Avenue joins Sixth Avenue, the reader will find the last section of the inland road.

No more healthful location, exists in New York than what was once the site of the village. The epidemics of virulent diseases that attacked the old city found no lodgement in Greenwich. This healthfulness is due to the fact that the underlying soil of the district to a depth of at least fifty feet is a pure sand, and provides excellent natural drainage.

Bank Street is reminiscent of the yellow fever epidemic in 1798, in that the Bank of New York and a branch of the Bank of the United States purchased two plots of eight city lots each in Greenwich Village, far away from the city proper, to which they could remove in case of being placed in danger of quarantine. In 1799 two houses were erected on them, and in September of the same year the banks were removed to the village, and gave the name to the present street, which was then a lane. The year 1822 saw another influx of population to Greenwich Village because of its healthfulness. "The town fairly exploded and went flying beyond its borders, as though the pestilence had been a burning mine. The city presented the appearance of a town besieged. From daybreak till night one line of carts, containing merchandise and effects, were seen moving toward Greenwich Village and the upper parts of the city. Carriages and hacks, wagons and horsemen, were scouring the streets and filling the roads. Temporary stores and offices were erecting. Even on Sunday carts were in motion, and the saw and hammer busily at work. Within a few days thereafter (September) the Custom House, the Post Office, the bank, the insurance offices and the printers of newspapers located themselves in the village, or in the upper part of Broadway, where they were free from the impending danger, and these places almost instantaneously became the seat of the immense business usually carried on in the great metropolis." This epidemic "caused the building up of many streets with numerous wooden buildings, for the uses of the merchants, banks, offices, etc." An old authority says that he "saw corn growing on the present corner of Hammond (West Eleventh) and Fourth Streets on a Saturday morning, and on the following Monday Sykes and Nible had a house erected capable of accommodating three hundred boarders. Even the Brooklyn ferryboats ran up here daily."

Three remnants of Greenwich Village are the two old frame dwellings at the southwest corner of Eleventh Street and Sixth Avenue, and the triangular graveyard near the corner, the second place of burial owned by the Jews on the island. When Eleventh Street was opened almost the whole of the Jewish burial ground was swept away. The street went directly across it, leaving only the corner on its south side and a still smaller corner on its north side.
(To be continued)

A Forgotten American Journalist

AMONG old manuscripts in a second-hand bookshop in Philadelphia, I found on a recent trip, letters and articles written by an American journalist and editor of the Fifties, by Willis Gaylord Clark. So original and so progressed were his ideas on men and things in these old yellow sheets, offered for sale at a pittance, that I tried to find out a little more about this satirist, whose name seems to be given to oblivion. His brother, Lewis Gaylord Clark, published in 1844, a little volume of the literary remains, and that was about all I could find. In the preface to this collection a letter of Washington Irving is reproduced in which Irving expresses his sympathy with the family of the deceased newspaperman, and closes with this passage:

"And he has left behind him writings which will make men love his memory and lament his loss."

Willis Gaylord Clark was born in Otisco, in the county of Onondaga, in the state of New York. He was the son of a soldier in the days of the Revolution, and writing for newspapers and periodicals since the age of fourteen. He was editor of the Colombian Star, in South Carolina, and later took over the editorship of the Philadelphia Gazette. He wrote for the New York Knickerbocker Magazine a series of amusing papers under the quaint title of Ollapodiana. The permanent value of Mr. Clark's newspaper feuilletons in the daily American Press is pointed out in an extended notice in the American Quarterly Review; in the Editor's Table of the Knickerbocker Magazine for July, 1841, an account of his life is given on three pages. He was a poet and a few of his poems can be found in the "Poets and Poetry of America."

He seems to me the only American representative of that branch of journalism which is unknown in the newspapers of the United States: the feuilleton, a happy combination of narrative, instructive, satirical, about something that happened today or yesterday, with a touch of intimacy in a milieu, familiar to every reader.

Among the many articles he wrote, a few are especially interesting because they seem so far ahead of their own times. There is, for instance, "Leaves from an Aeronaut," the humorous, but most likely imaginary ascension in a dirigible balloon and the travel through the air.

Then there is a series of short sketches which appeared in the Philadelphia Gazette, 1830 and 1831, as fictitious correspondence from New York, "Mephistopheles in New York."

His critical paper, "American Poets and their Critics," is a most remarkable rebuke to the poets of the Forties, men and women who had created social centres in New York and were at their best proclaiming the fame of English poetry and of English men of letters, denying that there was any literature of importance in America. This article, "American Poets and Their Critics," had been refused by most of the reputable American literary journals, but appeared subsequently in London. I would like to quote a passage which will illustrate how decidedly American Clark wished to see American letters and art. "The fact is as undeniable as it is generally acknowledged, that since the death of Lord Byron, the best fugitive poetry of the United States has been greatly superior to that of England. We have bards among us whose productions would shine by the side of seven-tenths even of the authors collected in those ponderous tomes entitled the 'British Classics,' of 'Selected British Poets.' Let any reader of taste look over those collections, and see how much matter there is in them, of no superior merit, floating down the stream of time, like flies in amber, only because it is bound up with productions of acknowledged and enduring excellence."
                                        G. B.

            Old English Chap
                        From an old English Chap Book

Two Tales by N. Shebooev
Translated from The Russian by M. W.

The Creative Power

I, MADLY loved a musical-comedy actress. It seemed that she loved me too.
She was constantly repeating:

"Why don't you write a play in which I should have the main part."

I sat down and wrote a drama.

Now I am in love with a dramatic actress.

I think, she loves me, too.

She constantly repeats:

"Why don't yon write a drama in which I should play the main part."

I sat down, and I am writing — a farce.


    In a week's time we met in a restaurant.
    Of course, we talked about women.
    He said: "In my life women cut no figure!"
    You are very unfortunate! declared I with regret.

    In a week's time we met in a restaurant.
    Our conversation, of course, was about women.
    "In my life women cut no figure!"
    Such a lucky fellow! exclaimed I, with envy.

    In a week's time we talked about women again.
    "In my life women cut no figure!" said I, throwing myself back of the chair.
    "You are very unfortunate!" exclaimed he, with sorrow.

    Again we met in a week's time.
    I said: "In my life women cut no figure!"
    "Some lucky fellow!" filtered he, with envious irritation.

    Today we talked about women.
    "What is the use of raising this question!" said he indolently, "it is a perpetuum mobile!"
    "A perpetuum immobile," — I corrected him.

By Richard Aldington

IT is night; and silent. The mist is still beside the frozen dykes; it lies on the stiff grass, about the poplar trunks. The last star goes out.

The gulls are coming up from the sea, crying and drifting across like pieces of mist, like fragments of white cloth. They turn their heads and peer as they pass. The sky low down glows deep purple.

The plovers swirl and dart over the ploughed held beyond; their screams are sorrowful and sharp. The purple drifts up the pale sky and grows redder. The mist stirs.

The brass on the harness of the plough-horses jingles as they come into the field. The birds rise in scattered knots. The mist trembles, grows thinner, rises. The red and gold sky shines dully on the ice.

The men shout across the thawing clods; the ploughs creak; the horses steam in the cold; the plovers and gulls have gone; the sparrows twitter.

The sky is gold and blue, very faint and damp.

It is day.
From Images —Old and New. The Four Seas Co., Boston, 1916.

Tom Sleeper's Spring Song
An Ode to Spring

The bloomin' buds are bustin' on all the bally trees
    And down the robins coma a wheezin' amd a snortin' down the breeze
The donkeys are a brayin' and the jays begin to sing
'Cause they know without our tellin' 'em
        It's Spring — Sweet Spring

The fishes in the ocean are a jukpin' and a splashin'
And the water bugs are actin' in a most peculiar fashion
The cats are yowlin' choruses a sittin' in a ring
'Cause they know about tellin' 'em
        It's Spring — Sweet Spring

The mushrooms in the cellar'll be blooming pretty soon
And the neighbor's puppies whinin' and a yapping at the moon
The April skies are leakin' and a wettin' everything
So come on and join the chorus — Here's to
        Spring — Sweet Spring.
                                        Tom Sleeper

In Memoriam: Dick Davis

Richard Harding Davis had his foible of vanity, but he was a man of quality, too. His courage was never questioned and his integrity as a reporter of events as he saw them was flawless. Moreover, he could write real romance. And only O. Henry has things to his credit that surpass in short-story craftsmanship "Gallegher" and "The Bar Sinister," while the "Van Bibber" sketches are as true to life as they are happy in spirit. "Dickie" Davis was a pretty high type of American and not the less high because he did good work although possessed from the beginning of means that would have prevented many another young man from doing anything. They are a little breed who attempt to belittle the achievements of Richard Harding Davis.
                                        William Marion Reedy

Dead Peacocks
        Dead Peacocks


        HIS LIFE AND


The next issue of Bruno's Weekly will contain a review and a few of the most remarkable passages from the latest work of Frank Harris.

The work is the most important human document of the twentieth century. It is not merely the life of a man. It is the evolution of an epoch in English life and letters. It is a romance as it could be written only by Life itself with the half-blood of men and woman.

It is a supreme tragedy because none of its actors ever thought it could be one. It shows men at their worst while they were forgetting pity and compassion, reveling in inhumanity and cruelty for the defense of that image of a wrong Christian humanity they had made for themselves. It shows man at his nearest to God: humble, resigned, in the confessional; drinking to the dregs the bitterest cup; voluntarily — at the gate of the new, of a real life.

The gate opens. Pity above all, and love even as punishment, is the driving power of this new life.

Friendship is written in this book upon each page; unselfish love even towards the one who was the Judas Iscariot; who had ruined a life unknowingly; who had caused pains and condemnation and had driven a man to soul suicide. Love and pity for the very man who would not allow the dead to sleep peacefully.

And then the end.

And end with terror.

The man died as he had lived!

That last chapter of the book!

Eternal Justice has been dispensed and the dead are being put to rest with loving reverence. There is left only a sweet memory; a fragrance of the beautiful in a man's life and pity and love.

Frank Harris has written a true life of Oscar Wilde.

But incidentally, a wonderful book for humanity.

A big man has written about a fellow man in a big way.

Love was his guardian angel.

Love led to victory.

    Oscar Wilde

    Oscar Wilde — about 1900

Flasks and Flagons
By Francis S. Saltus


Liquid delectable, I love thy brown
Deep-glimmering color like a wood-nymph's tress;
Potent and swift to urge on Love's excess,
Thou wert most loved in the fair Aztec town.

Where Cortes, battling for Iberia's crown,
First found thee, and with rough and soldier guess,
Pronounced thy virtues of rare worthiness
And fit by Madrid's dames to gain renown.

When tasting of thy sweets, fond memories
Of bygone days in Versailles will arise;
Before the King, reclining at his ease
I see Dubarry in rich toilet stand,
A gleam of passion in her lustrous eyes,
A Sevres cup in her jeweled hand!


VOLUPTUOUS berry! where may mortals find
Nectars divine that can with thee compare,
When, having dined, we sip thy essence rare.
And feel towards wit and repartee inclined?

Thou wert of sneering, cynical Voltaire
The only friend; thy power urged Balzac's mind
To glorious effort; surely Heaven designed
Thy devotees superior joys to share.

Whene'er I breathe thy fumes, 'mid Summer stars,
The Orient's splendent pomps my vision greet.
Damascus with its myriad minarets gleams!
I see thee, smoking, in immense bazaars,
Or yet in dim seraglios, at the feet
Of blonde Sultanas, pale with amorous dreams!

Just One Scene

LIBRARY of the husband.

Shriveled up in a deep chair, her closed hands twitching nervously between her knees, the young wife.

The husband is seated at the writing table.

He smokes cigarettes, walks up and down, resumes his seat, walks up and down, again resumes his seat.

They never look one at the other.

A long suspended scene.

The husband opens the drawer of his writing table.

He takes out a small, long box, and opens it.

He holds a gun in his hands.

The young wife watches him intensely.

She shrinks back and watches him again; motionless.

THE HUSBAND: "To the telephone, Nelly!"

She rises, walks over to the telephone upon the table.

The husband hands her the receiver; he turns the mouthpiece towards her face.

"What's your lover's number?"


"What — is — your lover's — number?"


Following the peremptory look of her husband, she calls the number into the instrument; "5712."


THE HUSBAND whispering, but it sounds more like hissing, into her ear: "This is Nelly __ __ __."

A little silence; evidently somebody  speaks at the other end of the line.

THE HUSBAND: "I'm so lonesome for you, I am so wretched without you __ __ __."

She repeats these words.

THE HUSBAND: If you only were here __ __ __."

She repeats.

THE HUSBAND: "My husband went away this morning quite unexpectedly. He will stay away for three days. Won't you come, dear __ __ __?"

She is silent.

He looks at her

She is silent __ __ __.

He points the gun at her.

She speaks the words into the telephone.

An inaudible answer at the other end of the wire.

She screams into the instrument:

"Don't come! He is here! He knows everything!"

The husband places his finger on the trigger.

She stares boldly into his face, erect, ready to die, but so sad.

He has let go the gun.

It crashes to the floor.

He walks over to the writing desk.

He is seated.

A long silence __ __ __.

Then he speaks very slowly: "So it is then; if a woman really loves a man? Nelly go! __ __ __ and go in peace!"
After the German of Peter Altenberg by Guido Bruno

Wood Cut

Thoughts on Suicide — IV
By Martin Brown

      SCATTER the rose-leaves, let the petals fall
        They'll serve as actors in my little play.
        Each one a tear, a hope, or best of all
        The sunshine sweetness of a golden day.
        The hour grows late, yet still the purple wine
        Invites a parting toast — let us agree
        To drink to those dead days when you were mine
        When I was yours, first, last and utterly.

        You frown — alas my heart is sorrow-sore,
        Your husband too has set his glass aside.
        Let's pass it then for I have many more
        How's this? A health unto the virgin bride.

        You will not drink? My glass is all prepared.
        You will not stay? How sad that word good-bye.

        If they had known it how they would have stared,
        A toast to death — 'tis done, and I can die.

The Roman Way
      A bath of clouded glass or gleaming tile,
        A perfumed powder brought from Araby,
        Clear crystal water warm enough to still
        Pulsating nerves that tremble foolishly.

        An ethered drink to make it more a dream,
        A jeweled knife that severs instantly
        The big blue veins that cross upon each wrist.
        Sharp stinging pain that slowly dies away.

        Indifferent drooping eyes that vaguely watch
        The crimson spirals merging cloudily,
        A growing faintness and a cynic's smile,
        A bath of blood — a soul gone utterly.


The Philosopher
    As neighbours you will only see in us the, one-thousandth part of our real self
    Could you see the whole of us you surely would not recognize us.

The Curious
    "Please do tell me what is grotesque?"
    It is that, part of our real nature which the necessity of life makes us give up.

The Coquette
    To be able to play with life is artistic —
    Plentiful are your hours of rest for your comic seriousness.

The Complicated
    Without masks we are only distorted to simplicity and too easy to be understood by common sense.

The Danseuse
    I am just grace and dignity.
    Never should I feel or think.
    It degrades my class, but I have to live, too —, and therefore I have to be — of course very privately — a sensible woman.

The Tragedienne
    Of course poets break the hearts of their heroines. To vulgar pains do I have to concentrate myself, hypocritically. But my tragedies occur every hour of the day and they cannot be acted. And my poets are not born yet.

The Poetess
    When I am silently in thought, I am really a poetess!
    It is at the shortcomings of human art that the divine soul begins to speak audibly.

The Painter
    In me lives the Divine Painter, my eye, reflecting the things of the world.
    But long is the way from eye to hand —

The Woman of the World
    "Look at me!" sobs eternally an abused little child —
    But the rustling of my silks sounds louder in my ears.
    Do you see in us only a daring play of colors? We cannot change it.
    If we do it with taste, we live even without an idea.
After the German of Peter Allenberg by Guido Bruno

The Song

IT is a bit of a river that flows between — between the strip of land on this and the strip of land on that side. Thousands of honeyless hives bury the strip on this; thousands the strip on that side — honeyless hives choked by honeyless two-legged lives — but what of these? It is night.

It is night, but a song, borne by a friendly wind, steals across the river across from yonder side to this, across to me. It is not a song of night's; it is not a song of Nature's; it is not a song of the gods'. It is — but stay. It is not for you. Your name is Profanation; you are of the honeyless two-legs that choke the honeyless hives that bury the earth; you are —

It is a bit of a river that flows between. It is night. A song steals across to me. And only the river 'twixt singer and me.
                                        Alfred Kreymborg

    Little mouse:
    Are you
    some rat's little child?
    I won't love you if you are.
                                        Alfred Kreymborg

Impressions of America
By Oscar Wilde

This interesting account of Oscar Wilde's tour through America was printed privately in a little booklet for circulation among his friends, by Stuart Mason, and on account of the scarcity of this private print, was not accessible to the public. It it not contained in his collected works.

I fear I cannot picture America as altogether an Elysium — perhaps, from the ordinary standpoint I know but little about the country. I cannot give its latitude or longitude; I cannot compute the value of its dry goods, and I have no very close acquaintance with its politics. These are matters which may not interest you, and they certainly are not interesting to me.

The first thing that struck me on landing in America was that if the Americans are not the most well-dressed people in the world, they are the most comfortably dressed. Men are seen there with the dreadful chimney-pot hat, but there are very few hatless men; men wear the shocking swallow-tail coat, but few are to seen with no coat at all. There is an air of comfort in the appearance of the people which is a marked contrast to that seen in this country, where, too often, people are seen in close contact with rags.

The next thing particularly noticeable is that everybody seems in a hurry to catch a train. This is a state of things which is not favourable to poetry or romance. Had Romeo or Juliet been in a constant state of anxiety about trains, or had their minds been agitated by the question of return-tickets, Shakespeare could not have given us those lovely balcony scenes which are so full of poetry and pathos.

America is the noisiest country that ever existed. One is waked up in the morning, not by the singing of the nightingale, but by the steam whistle. It is surprising that the sound practical sense of the Americans does not reduce this intolerable noise. All Art depends upon exquisite and delicate sensibility, and such continual turmoil must ultimately be destructive of the musical faculty.

There is not so much beauty to be found in American cities as in Oxford, Cambridge, Salisbury or Winchester, where there are lovely relics of a beautiful age; but still there is a good deal of beauty to be seen in them now and then, but only where the American has not attempted to create it. Where the Americans have attempted to produce beauty they have signally failed. A remarkable characteristic of the Americans is the manner in which they have applied science to modern life.

This is apparent in the most cursory stroll through New York. In England an inventor is regarded almost as a crazy man, and in too many instances invention ends in disappointment and poverty. In America an inventor is honoured, help is forthcoming, and the exercise of ingenuity, the application of science to the work of man, is there the shortest road to wealth. There is no country in the world where machinery is so lovely as in America.

I have always wished to believe that the line of strength and the line of beauty are one. That wish was realised when I contemplated American machinery. It was not until I had seen the water-works at Chicago that I realised the wonders of machinery; the rise and fall of the street rods, the symmetrical motion of the great wheels is the most beautifully rhythmic thing I have ever seen.

(In a poem published in an American magazine on February 15th, 1882, Wilde wrote:
            "And in the throbbing engine room
            Leap the long rods of polished steel.")

One is impressed in America, but not favourably impressed, by the inordinate size of everything. The country seems to try to bully one into a belief in its power by its impressive bigness.

I was disappointed with Niagara — most people must be disappointed with Niagara. Every American bride is taken there, and the sight of the stupendous waterfall must be one of the earliest, if not the keenest, disappointments in American married life. One sees it under bad conditions, very far away, the point of view not showing the splendour of the water. To appreciate it really one has to see it from underneath the fall, and to do that it is necessary to be dressed in a yellow oil-skin, which is as ugly as a mackintosh — and I hope none of you ever wears one. It is a consolation to know, however, that such an artist as Madame Bernhardt has not only worn that yellow, ugly dress, but has been photographed in it.

Perhaps the most beautiful part of America is the West, to reach which, however, involves a journey by rail of six days, racing along tied to an ugly tin-kettie of a steam engine. I found but poor consolation for this journey in the fact that the boys who infest the cars and sell everything that one can eat — or should not eat— were selling editions of my poems vilely printed on a kind of grey blotting paper, for the low price of ten cents.

(Poems by Oscar Wilde. Also his lecture on the English Renaissance. The Seaside Library, Vol. lviii. No. 1183, January 19th, 1882. 4to. Pp 32. New York: George Munro, Publisher.

A copy of this edition was sold by auction in New York last year for eight dollars.)

Calling these boys on one side I told them that though poets like to be popular they desire to be paid, and selling editions of my poems without giving me a profit is dealing a blow at literature which must have a disastrous effect on poetical aspirants. The invariable reply that they made was that they themselves made a profit out the transaction and that was all they cared about.

It is a popular superstition that in America a visitor is invariably addressed as "Stranger." I was never once addressed as "Stranger." When I went to Texas 1 was called "Captain"; when I got to the centre of the country I was addressed as "Colonel," and, on arriving at the borders of Mexico, as "General." On the whole, however, "Sir," the old English method of addressing people is the most common.

It is, perhaps, worth while to note that what many people call Americanisms are really old English expressions which have lingered in our colonies while they have been lost in our own country.
(To be continued)

AUGUST 24 1912.

Of Bruno's Weekly published Weekly at New York, N. Y., for April 1, 1916.
State of New Jersey
County of Essex— as.

Before me, a Notary Public, in and for the State and county, aforesaid, personally appeared Charles Edison, who, having been duly sworn according to law, deposes and says that he is the publisher of the Bruno's Weekly and that the following is, to the best of his knowledge and belief, a true statement of the ownership, management (and if a daily paper, the circulation), etc., of the aforesaid publication for the date shown in the above caption, required by the Act of August 24, 1912, embodied in section 443, Postal Laws and Regulations, printed on the reverse of this form, to wit:

1. That the names and addresses of the publisher, editor, managing editor, and business managers are: Publisher:  Charles Edison; Llewellyn Park, W. Orange, N. J.; Editor, Guido Bruno, 58 Washington Square. New York, N. Y.; Managing Editor, Guido Bruno, 58 Washington. Square, New York, N. Y.; Business Manager, Guido Bruno, 58 Washington Square, New York, N. Y.

2. That the owners are: (Give names and addresses of individual owners, or, if a corporation, give its name and the names and addresses of stockholders owning or holding 1 per cent or more of the total amount of stock.) Charles Edison, Llewellyn Park, West Orange, N. J.; Guido Bruno, 10 Fifth Ave., New York, N. Y.

3. That the known bondholders, mortgagees, and other security holders owning or holding 1 per cent or more of total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other securities are: (If there are none, so state.) None.

4. That the two paragraphs next above, giving the names of the owners, stockholders, and security holders, if any, contain not only the list of stockholders and security holders as they appear upon the books of the company but also, in cases where the stockholder or security holder appears upon the books of the company as trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, the name of the person or corporation for whom such trustee is acting, is given; also that the said two paragraphs contain statements embracing affiant's full knowledge and belief as to the circumstances and conditions under which stockholders and security holders who do not appear upon the books, of the company as trustees, hold stock and securities in a capacity other than that of a bona fide owner; and this affiant has no reason to believe that any other person, association, or corporation has any interest direct or indirect in the said stock, bonds, or other securities than as so stated by him.

5. That the average number of copies of each issue of this publication sold or distributed, through the mails or otherwise, to paid subscribers during the six months preceding the date shown above is
(This Information is required from daily publications only.)

                                                    Signed, CHARLES EDISON,
        Sworn to and subscribed before me this 29th day of March, 1916.
                                    Signed, FREDERICK BACHMANN, Notary Public.
                                                    (My commission expires July 2, 1917.)

Bruno's Weekly, published weekly by Charles Edison, and edited and written by Guido Bruno, both at 58 Washington Square, New York City. Subscription $2 a year.

Entered as second class matter at the Post Office of New York, N. Y., October 14th, 1915, under the Act of March 3d, 1879.

Number 21

Number 21