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“That lesson was the beginning and the ending of my theatrical instruction. What I learned later was learned by observation, study, and direct inquiry–but never by instruction, either free or paid for.”

And now the moment of stage entry had arrived. “One act of the play represented the back of a stage during a performance. The scenes were turned around with their unpainted sides to the audience. The scene-shifters and gas-men were standing about; everything was supposed to be going up. The manager was giving orders wildly, and then a dancer was late. She was called frantically, and finally, when she appeared on the run, the manager caught her by the shoulders, rushed her across the stage, and fairly pitched her onto the imaginary stage, to the great amusement of the audience. The tallest and prettiest girl in the ballet had been picked out to do this bit of work, and she had been rehearsed day after day with the greatest care for the small part.

“All were gathered together ready for their first entrance and dance, which followed a few moments after the scene already described. The tall girl had a queer look on her face as she stood in her place; her cue came, but she never moved.

“I heard the rushing footsteps of the stage-manager; ‘That’s you,’ he shouted; ‘Go on! Go on! Run! Run!’ Run? She seemed to have grown fast to the floor….

“‘Are you going on?’ cried the frantic prompter.

“She dropped her arms limply at her sides and whispered; ‘I–I–c-a-n’t.’

“He turned, and as he ran his imploring eye over the line of faces, each girl shrank back from it. He reached me. I had no fear, and he saw it.

“‘Can you go on there?’ he cried. I nodded.

“‘Then for God’s sake go–go!’

“I gave a bound and a rush that carried me half across the stage before the manager caught me, and so, I made my first entrance on the stage, and danced and marched and sang with the rest, and all unconsciously took my first step on the path that I was to follow through shadow and through sunshine–to follow by steep and stony places, over threatening bogs, through green and pleasant meadows–to follow steadily and faithfully for many and many a year to come.”

To the surprise of every one, when salary day came around the new ballet girl did not go to claim her week’s pay. Even on the second she was the last one to appear at the box-office window. Mr. Ellsler himself was there, and he opened the door and asked her to come in. As she signed her name, she paused so noticeably that he laughed, and said, “Don’t you know your own name?”

The fact was, on the first day of rehearsal, when the stage-manager had taken down all names, he called out to the latest comer, who was staring at the scenery and did not hear him:

“Little girl, what is your name?”

Some one standing near him volunteered: “Her name is Clara Morris, or Morrissey or Morrison, or something like that.” At once he had written down Morris –dropping the last syllable from her rightful name. So when Mr. Ellsler asked, “Don’t you know your name?” it was the moment to have set the matter straight, but the young person was far too shy. She made no reply, but signed up and received two weeks’ salary as Clara Morris, by which name she was known ever afterward.

In her story of life on the stage, she says, “After having gratefully accepted my two weeks’ earnings, Mr. Ellsler asked me why I had not come the week before. I told him I preferred to wait because it would seem so much more if I got both weeks’ salary all at one time. He nodded gravely, and said, ‘It was rather a large sum to have in hand at one time,’ and though I was very sensitive to ridicule, I did not suspect him of making fun of me. Then he said: