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PPT 1.1

HTML5 and CSS 3 – Illustrated 2nd
Ed. Instructor’s Manual: Unit B Page 2 of 13
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Students will have mastered the material in Unit C when they can:
• Evaluate web accessibility standards
• Incorporate attributes
• Implement the div element
• Add HTML5 semantic elements
• Use special characters
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LECTURE NOTES
• Specify the viewport
• Debug your HTML code
• Validate your HTML code
• Create an XHTML document
• Explain to students that a user agent is a program or device that interprets Web documents, such as
a browser or vocal page reader.
• Stress that although most users view Web pages using default settings and popular Web browsers,
some users, such as users with disabilities, may use custom browser settings or specialized software
or hardware to access Web pages.
• Note that although laws generally do not require mandatory accessibility standards for Web sites
that are not government owned, it is still recommended that Web pages have a high level of
accessibility in order to widen the potential audience.
• Point out that a commonly used reference for accessibility is the Web Content Accessibility
Guidelines (WCAG), and show examples of one or two guidelines included in it.
• Discuss accessibility goals and the audiences they may benefit.
• Explain the idea of a Web page being perceivable by all audiences and give examples of adaptations
designed to make the Web page perceivable to specific groups, such as visually impaired users.
TEACHER TIP
Students may be concerned about the difficulty of making a Web site accessible to all users, since
different users may need very different modifications in order to make a Web site accessible to
them. For example, using icons makes a Web page more accessible to people who do not speak the
language in which the page is written, but less accessible to people who are visually impaired.
Explain that it is important to identify the target audience of the Web site and make the Web site
accessible to that audience.
• Explain the idea of a Web page being operable by users. Give examples of modifications that can be
made to a Web page to make it more readily operable by users, such as limited requirement for use
of the mouse and the ability to make changes to automatic scrolling and refreshing rates.
• Note the importance of avoiding certain designs which may trigger unintended physical reactions,
such as elements known to cause seizures.
• Point out the importance of clearly indicating the navigation between pages within the Web site
and external Web pages.
• Explain that a Web page should be understandable; that is, the language in which the page is
written should be clearly indicated, and explanations should be included for specialized vocabulary.
Point out that if a user inputs information and makes an error, an explanation should be provided
on how the user can fix the error.

• In order for Web pages to be robust, or accessed by the widest variety of programs and devices, they
should be coded according to Web standards.
FIGURE: B-1
BOXES
1. Clues to Use: Understanding your role in web accessibility
In addition to Web developers’ work creating a site, other factors significantly influence Web
accessibility. The developers of user agents make decisions that affect how their software and devices
interact with Web content, which impacts whether users can access content in specific ways. In
addition, some Web content is produced using software that automates the Web development
process, and the accessibility choices of the makers of these packages affects the accessibility of the
content produced using them. Thus, while Web developers have a crucial role to play in building
and maintaining a Web that’s available to everyone, it can be useful to see your role as part of a
larger team and to recognize when you run against a limitation that can’t easily be fixed.
CLASSROOM ACTIVITIES
1. Critical Thinking: Have students assume that they are designing a Web site for a World War II
veterans’ organization. What special features will they include in the design of the Web site in order to
make it accessible to the veterans?
2. Group Activity: Divide the class into small groups. Provide a project plan for a specific Web site, and
ask each group to design a Web site that is accessible to individuals with different characteristics: hard
of hearing, children, elderly, and visually impaired. What aspects of the design are similar to all the
groups, and what aspects are different?
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LECTURE NOTES
• Tell students that an attribute is additional code within an opening element tag that specifies
information about the element.
• Explain that many but not all HTML elements allow you to set attributes.
• Point out that to use an attribute you must provide two pieces of information: an attribute name
and the value you are assigning to the attribute.
• Use FIGURE B-3 to point out that an attribute is placed within an element’s opening tag and to
point out the syntax for an attribute: <element tag [space] attribute name [equal sign] “attribute
value”>
• Mention that the lang attribute specifies the language in which the document was written, and that
the value “en” specifies English as the language.
• Point out that the charset attribute specifies the character encoding, which is the system user agents
should employ to translate the electronic information representing the page into human-
recognizable symbols.

• Explain that, in general, meta elements and attributes added to the html element do not change
how a document is rendered.
TEACHER TIP
Use the figures to point out how the indenting helps make the code more readable. Explain that the
indenting is for cosmetic reasons only, that is, to help the developer quickly see the structure of the
document, but that the indenting has no impact on how the code appears when the page is rendered
in a browser.
FIGURES: B-2, B-3, B-4
TABLE B-1: Basic lang attribute values
BOXES
1. Quick Tip: For most editors, you press [Ctrl][Shift][S] (Win) or [command][shift][S] (Mac), type
the new filename, then press [Enter].
2. Trouble: Be sure to click in the <html> tag and not at the end of the DOCTYPE statement.
3. Trouble: Because some code editors indent automatically, you may not need to press [Spacebar]
to indent. Use the figures to check for and match indenting.
4. Quick Tip: The <meta> tag is a one-sided tag, so it does not require a closing tag.
1. Critical Thinking: Ask students to explain why it is so important to include the attributes added to
FIGURE B-3 and FIGURE B-4. Have students explain what they think would happen if those attributes
were omitted.
2. Quick Quiz:
a. The charset attribute specifies the . (character encoding)
b. T/F An attribute is additional code added between the opening and closing element tags.
(F)
c. T/F An attribute includes two parts: a name and a value. (T)
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LECTURE NOTES
• Give an example of a situation in a web page when you might want to change the presentation of a
section of a Web page that is not itself a single HTML element, e.g., when putting a box around
your name, picture and e-mail address in your personal Web page.
• Show how you can use the div element to group multiple elements of different types (such as those
shown in your previous example) and how you can use this to assign CSS styles to a section of a
Web page.
• Use the figures to show how the div element is used to group an h2 head with its associated
paragraph.

TEACHER TIP
Use the figures to point out how the indenting helps make the code more readable. Explain that the
indenting is for cosmetic reasons only, that is, to help the developer quickly see the structure of the
document, but that the indenting has no impact on how the code appears when the page is rendered
in a browser.
FIGURES: B-5, B-6
BOXES
1. Quick Tip: If your code editor indents new elements automatically, you may not need to press
[Spacebar] at all. Remember to compare your code to the figures to confirm indents.
2. Quick Tip: The h2 element marks a heading that’s at the second-highest heading level in the
document.
3. Clues to Use: Writing for the Web
Many users want a process of finding and consuming web content that is dynamic and fast-paced.
When you write content for the web, you should keep this in mind. Web content should generally
be brief and scannable. A user should be able to get the gist of what your page contains with a quick
glance. This allows users to quickly decide to stay on the page if the page contains the information
they’re looking for, or to navigate elsewhere and keep looking. You can make content scannable by
including a short, descriptive heading at the top, and by breaking the content itself into sections
with headings. After writing the actual content, it can be useful to revise it with the goal of
removing half the words. This helps focus your writing and reduces the content of your web page to
the essentials, which makes it easier for web users to scan and read.
After you publish content online, it’s crucial to keep it up to date—out of date information
makes your website’s content seem unreliable. You can minimize the amount of regular updating
you need to do by reducing or eliminating relative references to dates (such as “5 years ago” or “in
18 months”) or labeling specific dates as being in the future (such as “The building will be
completed in 2013.”)
1. Critical Thinking: What are the implications of including multiple div elements in a single Web page?
Is there any point in nesting div elements one inside the other in order to give different CSS styles to
different groups of elements? Consider these questions with respect to how to structure your web page.
2. Quick Quiz:
a. T/F The div element does not imply any semantic meaning to its contents. (T)
b. T/F A div element changes the appearance of the content it encloses when the code is
rendered in a browser. (F)
c. T/F The content you want marked by the div element should be included in the opening div
tag. (F)
d. T/F The div element is the parent of the elements it encloses. (T)

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LECTURE NOTES
• Explain that all HTML elements have semantic value, which means that HTML elements indicate
the meaning of their content.
• Point out that most HTML elements describe their contents semantically, e.g., h1 elements are
assumed to be headings.
• Tell students that, even though the div element has limited semantic value, HTML5 includes a
number of semantic elements that indicate the role of their content
• Be sure students understand that the reason it is important to use semantic elements is because
search engines use this information to provide search results, which makes it easier for people using
a search engine to find the web site.
• Point out that older versions of IE can’t interpret semantic elements, so students must include a
script element (which instructs older browsers how to interpret semantic elements) in the head
section. Explain that the script element references code in an external file that browsers use to help
them interpret the semantic elements.
• Mention that the script name is specified using the src attribute.
TEACHER TIP
Remind students that the div element is a generic element and does not imply any semantic
meaning. Explain that the div element is used to group content, but the div element does not
indicate any information about the content being grouped and so that is why it is considered to
have limited semantic value.
FIGURES: B-7, B-8
TABLE B-2: Selected HTML5 semantic elements
BOXES
1. Quick Tip: It’s often possible to mark up web page contents semantically in more than one way.
The choice of which elements to use can vary depending on the developer and the site.
2. Trouble: A warning about blocked content might open, depending on your browser settings. If
so, allow blocked content.
1. Critical Thinking: Look at any website, such as your school or company website. Point to different
content on the page and explain which semantic element you think is used to enclose that content.
Explain why. If you know how, view the code for the page and see if you were correct.
2. Quick Quiz:
a. T/F You use semantic elements to indicate the meaning of the content enclosed by those
semantic elements. (T)

b. T/F One of the most meaningful semantic elements you will use is the div element because
it is rich with semantic meaning. (F)
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LECTURE NOTES
• Explain to students that although most Web page text is entered into an HTML document, some
characters may be misinterpreted by user agents as being computer instructions. These characters
include '<' and '>'.
• Introduce the concept of character references, which are specially formatted codes that represent
characters in the HTML document character set. Point out the syntax of character references always
begin with an ampersand (&) and end with a semicolon (;). The rest of the code consists of either a
pound symbol (#) followed by a numeric representation of the associated character or an English
language abbreviation for the associated character name.
• Explain that every character, not just those on the keyboard, has a number code, known as a
numeric character reference. Further explain that a few commonly used characters also have an
abbreviation-based character alternative, which is known as a named character reference.
• Point out that it is only important to use character references for a few specific characters. Use
TABLE B-3 as a guide to discussing these characters.
FIGURES: B-9, B-10
TABLE B-3: Important character references
BOXES:
1. Quick Tip: If you’re using a code editor, the character reference you type may appear as italic.
This will not affect the content when the page is rendered by your browser.
2. Clues to Use: Finding codes for other characters
UTF-8 is the most commonly used character encoding on the web today. This encoding
supports character references for thousands of characters. These symbols may include characters
in different writing systems and international currency symbols, as well as icons and pictograms
for a variety of themes. You can go to unicode.org/charts or fileformat.info to browse supported
characters by subject. Note that not all symbols are displayed in every browser or operating
system. This is because browsers and operating systems use different default fonts, and a given
font may contain character descriptions for some, but not all, UTF-8 characters. For this reason,
it’s important to test a page containing a less-common special character in all browsers that you
anticipate your audience will use to view the page. This lets you confirm that the character is
recognized and displayed when the page is rendered in a browser, or make adjustments if the
character is not recognized.
1. Quick Quiz:
a. T/F All characters on the keyboard have a numeric character reference. (T)
b. T/F All characters on the keyboard have an abbreviation-based character reference. (F)

c. T/F It is important to use character references for all non-alphanumeric characters. (F)
2. Quick Quiz: The symbol is used at the beginning of a character reference, and the symbol
is used at the end of a character reference. (&, ;)
LAB ACTIVITY
1. Give students text that includes multiple occurrences of the characters '<' and '>'. For example, you
can use a demo for an if-else clause in a programming language. Ask students to create a Web page in
which they enter the text directly, and another Web page in which they use character references for '<'
and '>', as well as any other relevant characters. What are the differences between the ways the two
Web pages are displayed? Have students discuss how the user agent interpreted the '<' and '>' characters
when they are typed directly without use of character references.
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LECTURE NOTES:
• Point out to students that when a browser opens a web page on a mobile device, the browser needs
to figure out to display the page on the smaller screen.
• Explain that some web pages can scale to fit any browser, which makes the web page useable on any
device.
• Tell students that to instruct browsers to display a page at the width of the browser window
without zooming in, they change the viewport settings using a viewport meta element.
• Explain that the viewport is like looking through the web page through an imaginary window, set
to the size of the display on the device you want the page to appear.
• Be sure students understand the importance of the viewport meta element. Explain that zooming a
page can make the page content too small and so unreadable. By setting the viewport, the page is
displayed at a size that is appropriate for the device.
• Point out that as part of the viewport meta element, they use the content attribute, whose value
specifies one or more of the pairs of properties and values.
TEACHER TIP
Open a web page. Maximize the screen, then resize the screen until it is as small as it can be on the
device you are using. Ask students to notice if any of the web page features change as the page gets
smaller. Point out to students elements that might change, such as the nav bar (which might be
hidden in one icon), images (which might become stacked instead of side by side, and text (which
might be hidden from view if it is not essential to the meaning of the page).
TABLE B-4: viewport attribute properties
BOXES:
1. Trouble: Consult the documentation for your web server if necessary.

2. Quick Tip: Even though the meta element supports many content value options for viewport,
you usually only need to use the value that sets the width to device-width as you did in this
step.
1. Quick Quiz:
a. T/F A browser will automatically resize a web page to fit the display device. (F)
b. T/F The viewport meta element instructs the browser to assume that the width of the
content matches the width of the device. (T)
2. Quick Quiz: The viewport meta element uses the attribute. (content)
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LECTURE NOTES:
• Explain to students that even the most careful developer writes code from time to time that doesn’t
work.
• Point out that a bug is a problem that results from code that is written incorrectly.
• Explain that the process of finding and fixing or removing a bug is known as debugging.
• Be sure students understand the importance of debugging their code before publishing their page.
Discuss that students should always test their web pages using more than one browser because
browsers do not always render the code the same way.
TEACHER TIP
Open the same web page using several different browsers. Have students point out differences they see
when they compare the web page in the different browsers. Be sure students understand that because a
web page looks awesome in one browser, it may not look the same way in a different browser. Explain
that viewing their web pages this way will help them debug the page for cross-browser issues.
TABLE B-5: Common bugs and causes
BOXES:
1. Trouble: If your page does not display as expected, be sure your correct code matches FIGURE
B-16.
1. Quick Quiz:

a. T/F Viewing a web page in a browser can sometimes help you narrow down where bugs in
your program code might be. (T)
b. T/F A common bug is missing tags around content. (T)
2. Quick Quiz:
a. The result of incorrectly written code is called a(n) _, and the process of fixing
such problems is known as . (bug, debugging)
LAB ACTIVITY
1. Give students code for a simple web page with some common errors in the code. Have students
open the web page in a browser and note the errors. Then have students return to the code and
correct the errors. Tell students to alternate between working with the code and viewing the
web page in the browser until all errors have been corrected.
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LECTURE NOTES:
• Explain to students the importance of spotting problems with HTML code and making sure that
users can view your Web pages as expected.
• Present the idea of validation, an automated process of comparing HTML code against the HTML5
coding standards, as a way of finding errors in your code. Tell students validation is a helpful step in
web page development because it not only shows that there is an error, but may identify the specific
source of the problem.
• Illustrate to your students how to validate a Web page by opening http://validator.w3.org/ in a
browser, uploading a simple HTML file using the "validate by file upload" tab and have the validator
check the HTML file. Show students how the validation results look and where they can be found
in the validator Web page.
TEACHER TIP
Validate a web page with known errors and use the results to help students see how the information in
the validator can help them find and correct the errors. Try to include an example where the line
associated with the error is not the line where the error occurs. Show students that the line does not
match where the error occurs and show to use the information in that line of code to find where the
error actually is.
TABLE B-6: Common validation errors and warnings
BOXES:
1. Quick Tip: Errors listed by the validator always specify the line and character (“column”)
numbers where it encountered the error. This is sometimes, but not always, the location of the
code you need to fix.

1. Quick Quiz:
a. T/F It is important to correct errors in HTML code because it can ensure that a Web page will
continue to work with future versions of HTML standards. (T)
b. T/F If the HTML code of a specific Web page is not validated you will not be able to open the
Web page in a Web browser. (F)
2. Critical Thinking: Is it possible to ignore some notes and warnings in a validation report and still have
a valid HTML document that will display as expected in a browser? Why or why not?
LAB ACTIVITY
1. Select a Web page of your choice, and validate it using the "validate by URI" tab of
http://validator.w3.org/. If the validation tool shows no comments as to the validity of the Web
page, copy the source code of the Web page into a new text document and save it. Make a few
changes to the tags included in the copied source code, and then validate the edited Web page.
How did your changes affect the validity of the Web page?
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LECTURE NOTES:
• Note that XHTML is a markup language intended to make HTML comply with the rules of XML.
• Point out that the way HTML and XHTML are written is very similar, however XHTML requires
additional code in a number or situations.
• Explain to students that converting an HTML document to an XHTML document requires editing
the code to meet all the requirements of an XHTML document, including replacing the HTML
doctype with the XHTML doctype.
• Stress that another common change that must be made between HTML and XHTML is closing all
empty elements by placing a space and slash (/) before the closing >.
• Tell students that XHTML does not include definitions for HTML5 semantic elements so those
semantic elements must be replaced with generic div elements when converting and HTML
document to an XHTML document.
TEACHER TIP
The definition of XHTML as complying with the rules of XML means that all Web pages written in
XHTML are valid according to the requirements of HTML, but not all pages written in HTML are
valid according to the rules of XHTML.
• Explain that HTML is a flexible language, and stress the importance of this flexibility. For example,
if a Web-page author made a minor mistake in writing code, user agents would still be able to
display the Web page correctly.

• Stress that XML does not tolerate errors, and therefore XHTML, which adheres to XML rules, does
not tolerate errors. Specify that this means that if a user agent encounters a coding error in XHTML
code, it must display an error message.
FIGURES: B-20, B-21
TABLE B-7: Difference between HTML and XHTML
BOXES:
1. Quick Tip: Because an XHTML DOCTYPE is so complex, developers generally either copy it
from an online resource and paste it into their code, or rely on a code editor to generate the
DOCTYPE for it.
2. Trouble: Refer to the steps in the previous lesson “Validate your HTML code” as needed to
complete Step 9.
1. Quick Quiz:
a. T/F Every HTML document is a valid XHTML document. (F)
b. T/F XHTML replaced HTML as the only language for writing Web pages. (F)
c. T/F XHTML is a version of HTML that conforms to the rules of XML. (T)
2. Classroom Discussion: Look at TABLE B-7, and discuss possible considerations for using XHTML over
HTML. Try to think of specific types of projects that would benefit from being written in XHTML
rather than HTML. Repeat the exercise for HTML.
LAB ACTIVITY
TABLE B-2 lists specific differences between HTML and XHTML. Ask students to look at the source
code of an HTML Web page of their choice, and to use the information in TABLE B-2 to determine
whether or not the Web page complies with XHTML rules.
E
E
En
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nd
d
d o
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of
f
f U
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Un
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•
• Concepts Review – Includes screen identification, multiple choice, and matching questions.
•
• Skills Review – Provides additional hands-on exercises that mirror the progressive style of the lesson
material.
•
• Independent Challenges 1, 2 and 3 – Case projects that require critical thinking and application of
the unit skills. The Independent Challenges increase in difficulty, with the first being the easiest
(with the most step-by-step detailed instructions). Independent Challenges 2 and 3 become
increasingly more open-ended.

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different content

difficult. By degrees, and much harried by the police, his cart with
only a partially depleted stock was pushed to the lower East Side, in
Elizabeth Street, to be exact. Here he and his family—a wife and
three or four children—occupied two dingy rooms in a typical East
Side tenement. Whether he was at peace with his swarthy,
bewrinkled old helpmate I do not know, but he appeared to be, and
with his several partially grown children. On his return, two of them,
a boy and a girl, greeted him cheerfully, and later, finding me
interested and following him, and assuming that I was an officer of
the law, quickly explained to me what their father did.
“He’s a peddler,” said the boy. “He peddles fruit.”
“And where does he get his fruit?” I asked.
“Over by the Wallabout. He goes over in the morning.”
I recalled seeing the long procession of vendors beating a
devious way over the mile or more of steel bridge that spans the
East River at Delancey Street, at one and two and three of a winter
morning. Could this old man be one of these tramping over and
tramping back before daylight?
“Do you mean to say that he goes over every day?”
“Sure.”
The old gentleman, by now sitting by a front window waiting for
his dinner and gazing down into the sun-baked street not at all
cooled by the fall of night, looked down and for some reason smiled.
I presume he had seen me earlier in the afternoon. He could not
know what we were talking about, however, but he sensed
something. Or perhaps it was merely a feeling of the need of being
pleasant.
Upon making my way to the living room and kitchen, as I did,
knowing that I could offer a legal pretext, I found the same shabby
and dark, but not dirty. An oil stove burned dolefully in the rear. Mrs.
Pushcart Man was busy about the evening meal.
The smirks. The genuflections.

“And how much does your father make a day?” I finally asked,
after some other questions.
This is a lawless question anywhere. It earned its own reward.
The son inquired of the father in Italian. The latter tactfully shrugged
his shoulders and held out his hands. His wife laughed and shrugged
her shoulders.
“‘One, two dollars,’ he says,” said the boy.
There was no going back of that. He might have made more.
Why should he tell anybody—the police or any one else?
And so I came away.
But the case of this one seemed to me to be so typical of the lot
of many in our great cities. All of us are so pushed by ambition as
well as necessity. Yet all the feelings and intuitions of the average
American-born citizen are more or less at variance with so shrewd
an acceptance of difficulties. We hurry more, fret and strain more,
and yet on the whole pretend to greater independence. But have we
it? I am sure not. When one looks at the vast army of clerks and
underlings, pushing, scheming, straining at their social leashes so
hopelessly and wearing out their hearts and brains in a fruitless
effort to be what they cannot, one knows that they are really no
better off and one wishes for them a measure of this individual’s
enduring patience.

A VANISHED SEASIDE RESORT
At Broadway and Twenty-third Street, where later, on this and some
other ground, the once famed Flatiron Building was placed, there stood
at one time a smaller building, not more than six stories high, the
northward looking blank wall of which was completely covered with a
huge electric sign which read:
SWEPT BY OCEAN BREEZES
THE GREAT HOTELS
PAIN’S FIREWORKS
SOUSA’S BAND
SEIDL’S GREAT ORCHESTRA
THE RACES
NOW—MANHATTAN BEACH—NOW
Each line was done in a different color of lights, light green for the
ocean breezes, white for Manhattan Beach and the great hotels, red for
Pain’s fireworks and the races, blue and yellow for the orchestra and
band. As one line was illuminated the others were made dark, until all
had been flashed separately, when they would again be flashed
simultaneously and held thus for a time. Walking up or down Broadway
of a hot summer night, this sign was an inspiration and an invitation. It
made one long to go to Manhattan Beach. I had heard as much or more
about Atlantic City and Coney Island, but this blazing sign lifted
Manhattan Beach into rivalry with fairyland.
“Where is Manhattan Beach?” I asked of my brother once on my
first coming to New York. “Is it very far from here?”

“Not more than fifteen miles,” he replied. “That’s the place you
ought to see. I’ll take you there on Sunday if you will stay that long.”
Since I had been in the city only a day or two, and Sunday was close
at hand, I agreed. When Sunday came we made our way, via horse-cars
first to the East Thirty-fourth Street ferry and then by ferry and train,
eventually reaching the beach about noon.
Never before, except possibly at the World’s Fair in Chicago, had I
ever seen anything to equal this seaward-moving throng. The day was
hot and bright, and all New York seemed anxious to get away. The
crowded streets and ferries and trains! Indeed, Thirty-fourth Street near
the ferry was packed with people carrying bags and parasols and all but
fighting each other to gain access to the dozen or more ticket windows.
The boat on which we crossed was packed to suffocation, and all such
ferries as led to Manhattan Beach of summer week-ends for years
afterward, or until the automobile arrived, were similarly crowded. The
clerk and his prettiest girl, the actress and her admirer, the actor and his
playmate, brokers, small and exclusive tradesmen, men of obvious
political or commercial position, their wives, daughters, relatives and
friends, all were outbound toward this much above the average resort.
It was some such place, I found, as Atlantic City and Asbury Park
are to-day, yet considerably more restricted. There was but one way to
get there, unless one could travel by yacht or sail-boat, and that was via
train service across Long Island. As for carriage roads to this wonderful
place there were none, the intervening distance being in part occupied
by marsh grass and water. The long, hot, red trains leaving Long Island
City threaded a devious way past many pretty Long Island villages, until
at last, leaving possible home sites behind, the road took to the great
meadows on trestles, and traversing miles of bending marsh grass astir
in the wind, and crossing a half hundred winding and mucky lagoons
where lay water as agate in green frames and where were white cranes,
their long legs looking like reeds, standing in the water or the grass, and
the occasional boat of a fisherman hugging some mucky bank, it arrived
finally at the white sands of the sea and this great scene. White sails of
small yachts, the property of those who used some of these lagoons as
a safe harbor, might be seen over the distant grass, their sails full

spread, as one sped outward on these trains. It was romance, poetry,
fairyland.
And the beach, with its great hotels, held and contained all summer
long all that was best and most leisurely and pleasure-loving in New
York’s great middle class of that day. There were, as I knew all the time,
other and more exclusive or worse beaches, such as those at Newport
and Coney Island, but this was one which served a world which was
plainly between the two, a world of politicians and merchants, and
dramatic and commercial life generally. I never saw so many
prosperous-looking people in one place, more with better and smarter
clothes, even though they were a little showy. The straw hat with its
blue or striped ribbon, the flannel suit with its accompanying white
shoes, light cane, the pearl-gray derby, the check suit, the diamond and
pearl pin in necktie, the silk shirt. What a cool, summery, airy-fairy
realm!
And the women! I was young and not very experienced at the time,
hence the effect, in part. But as I stepped out of the train at the beach
that day and walked along the boardwalks which paralleled the sea,
looking now at the blue waters and their distant white sails, now at the
great sward of green before the hotels with its formal beds of flowers
and its fountains, and now at the enormous hotels themselves, the
Manhattan and the Oriental, each with its wide veranda packed with a
great company seated at tables or in rockers, eating, drinking, smoking
and looking outward over gardens to the blue sea beyond, I could
scarcely believe my eyes—the airy, colorful, summery costumes of the
women who made it, the gay, ribbony, flowery hats, the brilliant
parasols, the beach swings and chairs and shades and the floating
diving platforms. And the costumes of the women bathing. I had never
seen a seaside bathing scene before. It seemed to me that the fabled
days of the Greeks had returned. These were nymphs, nereids, sirens in
truth. Old Triton might well have raised his head above the blue waves
and sounded his spiral horn.
And now my brother explained to me that here in these two
enormous hotels were crowded thousands who came here and lived the
summer through. The wealth, as I saw it then, which permitted this!
Some few Western senators and millionaires brought their yachts and

private cars. Senator Platt, the State boss, along with one or more of the
important politicians of the State, made the Oriental, the larger and
more exclusive of the two hotels, his home for the summer. Along the
verandas of these two hotels might be seen of a Saturday afternoon or
of a Sunday almost the entire company of Brooklyn and New York
politicians and bosses, basking in the shade and enjoying the beautiful
view and the breezes. It was no trouble for any one acquainted with the
city to point out nearly all of those most famous on Broadway and in the
commercial and political worlds. They swarmed here. They lolled and
greeted and chatted. The bows and the recognitions were innumerable.
By dusk it seemed as though nearly all had nodded or spoken to each
other.
And the interesting and to me different character of the
amusements offered here! Out over the sea, at one end of the huge
Manhattan Hotel, had been built a circular pavilion of great size, in
which by turns were housed Seidl’s great symphony orchestra and
Sousa’s band. Even now I can hear the music carried by the wind of the
sea. As we strolled along the beach wall or sat upon one or the other of
the great verandas we could hear the strains of either the orchestra or
the band. Beyond the hotels, in a great field surrounded by a board
fence, began at dusk, at which time the distant lighthouses over the bay
were beginning to blink, a brilliant display of fireworks, almost as visible
to the public as to those who paid a dollar to enter the grounds. Earlier
in the afternoon I saw many whose only desire appeared to be to reach
the race track in time for the afternoon races. There were hundreds and
even thousands of others to whom the enclosed beach appeared to be
all. The hundreds of dining-tables along the veranda of the Manhattan
facing the sea seemed to call to still other hundreds. And yet again the
walks among the parked flowers, the wide walk along the sea, and the
more exclusive verandas of the Oriental, which provided no restaurant
but plenty of rocking-chairs, seemed to draw still other hundreds,
possibly thousands.
But the beauty of it all, the wonder, the airy, insubstantial, almost
transparent quality of it all! Never before had I seen the sea, and here it
was before me, a great, blue, rocking floor, its distant horizon dotted
with white sails and the smoke of but faintly visible steamers dissolving
in the clear air above them. Wide-winged gulls were flying by. Hardy

rowers in red and yellow and green canoes paddled an uncertain course
beyond the breaker line. Flowers most artfully arranged decorated the
parapet of the porch, and about us rose a babel of laughing and joking
voices, while from somewhere came the strains of a great orchestra, this
time within one of the hotels, mingling betimes with the smash of the
waves beyond the seawall. And as dusk came on, the lights of the
lighthouses, and later the glimmer of the stars above the water, added
an impressive and to me melancholy quality to it all. It was so
insubstantial and yet so beautiful. I was so wrought up by it that I could
scarcely eat. Beauty, beauty, beauty—that was the message and the
import of it all, beauty that changes and fades and will not stay. And the
eternal search for beauty. By the hard processes of trade, profit and
loss, and the driving forces of ambition and necessity and the love of
and search for pleasure, this very wonderful thing had been
accomplished. Unimportant to me then, how hard some of these people
looked, how selfish or vain or indifferent! By that which they sought and
bought and paid for had this thing been achieved, and it was beautiful.
How sweet the sea here, how beautiful the flowers and the music and
these parading men and women. I saw women and girls for the favor of
any one of whom, in the first flush of youthful ebullience and ignorance,
I imagined I would have done anything. And at the very same time I
was being seized with a tremendous depression and dissatisfaction with
myself. Who was I? What did I amount to? What must one do to be
worthy of all this? How little of all this had I known or would ever know!
How little of true beauty or fortune or love! It mattered not that life for
me was only then beginning, that I was seeing much and might yet see
much more; my heart was miserable. I could have invested and
beleaguered the world with my unimportant desires and my capacity.
How dare life, with its brutal non-perception of values, withhold so much
from one so worthy as myself and give so much to others? Why had not
the dice of fortune been loaded in my favor instead of theirs? Why, why,
why? I made a very doleful companion for my very good brother, I am
sure.
And yet, at that very time I was asking myself who was I that I
should complain so, and why was I not content to wait? Those about
me, as I told myself, were better swimmers, that was all. There was
nothing to be done about it. Life cared no whit for anything save

strength and beauty. Let one complain as one would, only beauty or
strength or both would save one. And all about, in sky and sea and sun,
was that relentless force, illimitable oceans of it, which seemed not to
know man, yet one tiny measure of which would make him of the elect
of the earth. In the dark, over the whispering and muttering waters, and
under the bright stars and in eyeshot of the lamps of the sea, I hung
brooding, listening, thinking; only, after a time, to return to the hot city
and the small room that was mine to meditate on what life could do for
one if it would. The flowers it could strew in one’s path! The beauty it
could offer one—without price, as I then imagined—the pleasures with
which it could beset one’s path.
With what fever and fury it is that the heart seeks in youth. How
intensely the little flame of life burns! And yet where is its true haven?
What is it that will truly satisfy it? Has any one ever found it? In
subsequent years I came by some of the things which my soul at that
time so eagerly craved, the possession of which I then imagined would
satisfy me, but was mine or any other heart ever really satisfied? No.
And again no.
Each day the sun rises, and with it how few with whom a sense of
contentment dwells! For each how many old dreams unfulfilled, old and
new needs unsatisfied. Onward, onward is the lure; what life may still
do, not what it has done, is the all-important. And to ask of any one that
he count his blessings is but an ungrateful bit of meddling at best. He
will none of it. At twenty, at thirty, at sixty, at eighty, the lure is still
there, however feeble. More and ever more. Only the wearing of the
body, the snapping of the string, the weakening of the inherent urge,
ends the search. And with it comes the sad by-thought that what is not
realized here may never again be anywhere. For if not here, where is
that which could satisfy it as it is here? Of all pathetic dreams that which
pictures a spiritual salvation elsewhere for one who has failed in his
dreams here is the thinnest and palest, a beggar’s dole indeed. But that
youthful day by the sea!
* * * * *
Twenty-five years later I chanced to visit a home on the very site of
one of these hotels, a home which was a part of a new real-estate

division. But of that old, sweet, fair, summery life not a trace. Gone were
the great hotels, the wall, the flowers, the parklike nature of the scene.
In twenty-five years the beautiful circular pavilion had fallen into the sea
and a part of the grounds of the great Manhattan Hotel had been eaten
away by winter storms. The Jersey Coast, Connecticut, Atlantic City,
aided by the automobile, had superseded and effaced all this. Even the
great Oriental, hanging on for a few years and struggling to
accommodate itself to new conditions, had at last been torn down. Only
the beach remained, and even that was changed to meet new
conditions. The land about and beyond the hotels had been filled in,
planted to trees, divided by streets and sold to those who craved the
freshness of this seaside isle.
But of this older place not one of those with whom I visited knew
aught. They had never seen it, had but dimly heard of it. So clouds
gather in the sky, are perchance illuminated by the sun, dissolve, and
are gone. And youth, viewing old realms of grandeur or terror, views the
world as new, untainted, virgin, a realm to be newly and freshly
exploited—as, in truth, it ever is.
But we who were——!

HTML5 and CSS3 Illustrated Introductory 2nd Edition Vodnik Solutions Manual

THE BREAD-LINE
It is such an old subject in New York. It has been here so long.
For thirty-five or forty years newspapers and magazines have
discussed the bread-line, and yet there it is, as healthy and vigorous
a feature of the city as though it were something to be desired. And
it has grown from a few applicants to many, from a small line to a
large one. And now it is a sight, an institution, like a cathedral or a
monument.
A curious thing, when you come to think of it. Poverty is not
desirable. Its dramatic aspect may be worth something to those who
are not poor, for prosperous human nature takes considerable
satisfaction in proclaiming: “Lord, I am not as other men,” and
having it proved to itself. But this thing, from any point of view is a
pathetic and a disagreeable thing, something you would feel the city
as a corporation would prefer to avoid. And yet there it is.
For the benefit of those who have not seen it I will describe it
again, though the task is a wearisome one and I have quite another
purpose than that of description in doing so. The scene is the side
door of a bakery, once located at Ninth Street and Broadway, and
now moved to Tenth and Broadway, the line extending toward the
west and Fifth Avenue, where formerly it was to the east and Fourth
Avenue. It is composed of the usual shabby figures, men of all ages,
from fifteen or younger to seventy. The line is not allowed to form
before eleven o’clock, and at this hour perhaps a single figure will
shamble around the corner and halt on the edge of the sidewalk.
Then others, for though they appear to come slowly, some
dubiously, they almost all arrive one at a time. Haste is seldom
manifest in their approach. Figures appear from every direction,
limping slowly, slouching stupidly, or standing with assumed or real

indifference, until the end of the line is reached, when they take
their places and wait.
A low murmur of conversation begins after a time, but for the
most part the men stand in stupid, unbroken silence. Here and there
may be two or three talkative ones, and if you pass close enough
you will hear every topic of the times discussed or referred to,
except those which are supposed to interest the poor. Wretchedness,
poverty, hunger and distress are seldom mentioned. The possibilities
of a match between prize-ring favorites, the day’s evidence in the
latest murder trial, the chance of war somewhere, the latest
improvements in automobiles, a flying machine, the prosperity or
depression of some other portion of the world, or the mistakes of
the government at Washington—these, or others like them, are the
topics of whatever conversation is held. It is for the most part a
rambling, disconnected conversation.
“Wait until Dreyfus gets out of prison,” said one to his little black-
eyed neighbor one night, years ago, “and you’ll see them guys fallin’
on his neck.”
“Maybe they will, and maybe they won’t,” the other muttered.
“Them Frenchmen ain’t strong for Jews.”
The passing of a Broadway car awakens a vague idea of
progress, and some one remarks: “They’ll have them things runnin’
by compressed air before we know it.”
“I’ve driv’ mule-cars by here myself,” replies another.
A few moments before twelve a great box of bread is pushed
outside the door, and exactly on the hour a portly, round-faced
German takes his position by it, and calls: “Ready!” The whole line at
once, like a well-drilled company of regulars, moves quickly, in good
marching time, diagonally across the sidewalk to the inner edge and
pushes, with only the noise of tramping feet, past the box. Each man
reaches for a loaf and, breaking line, wanders off by himself. Most of
them do not even glance at their bread but put it indifferently under
their coats or in their pockets. They betake themselves heaven

knows where—to lodging houses, park benches (if it be summer),
hall-bedrooms possibly, although in most cases it is doubtful if they
possess one, or to charitable missions of the poor. It is a small thing
to get, a loaf of dry bread, but from three hundred to four hundred
men will gather nightly from one year’s end to the other to get it,
and so it has its significance.
The thing that I protest against is that it endures. It would be so
easy, as it seems to me, in a world of even moderate organization to
do something that would end a spectacle of this kind once and for
all, if it were no more than a law to destroy the inefficient. I say this
not in cruelty but more particularly with the intention of awakening
thought. There is so much to do. In America the nation’s roads have
not even begun to be made. Over vast stretches of the territory of
the world the land is not tilled. There is not a tithe made of what the
rank and file could actually use. Most of us are wanting strenuously
for something.
A rule that would cause the arrest of a man in this situation
would be merciful. A compulsory labor system that would involve
regulation of hours, medical treatment, restoration of health,
restoration of courage, would soon put an end to the man who is
“down and out.” He would of course be down and out to the extent
that he had fallen into the clutches of this machine, but he would at
least be on the wheel that might bring him back or destroy him
utterly. It is of no use to say that life cannot do anything for the
inefficient. It can. It does. And the haphazard must, and in the main
does, give way to the well-organized. And the injured man need not
be allowed to bleed to death. If a man is hurt accidentally a hospital
wagon comes quickly. If he is broken in spirit, moneyless, afraid,
nothing is done. Yet he is in far greater need of the hospital wagon
than the other. The treatment should be different, that is all.

OUR RED SLAYER
If you wish to see an exemplification of the law of life, the
survival of one by the failure and death of another, go some day to
any one of the great abattoirs which to-day on the East River, or in
Jersey City, or elsewhere near the great metropolis receive and slay
annually the thousands and hundreds of thousands of animals that
make up a part of the city’s meat supply. And there be sure and see,
also, the individual who, as your agent and mine, is vicariously
responsible for the awful slaughter. You will find him in a dark, red
pit, blood-covered, standing in a sea of blood, while hour after hour
and day after day there passes before him a line of screaming
animals, hung by one leg, head down, and rolling steadily along a
rail, which is slanted to get the benefit of gravity, while he, knife in
hand, jabs unweariedly at their throats, the task of cutting their
throats so that they may die of bleeding and exhaustion having
become a wearisome and commonplace labor, one which he scarcely
notices at all. He is a blood-red slayer, this individual, a butcher by
trade, big, brawny, muscular, but clothed from head to foot in a
tarpaulin coat and cap, which from long spattering by the blood of
animals he has slain, have become this darksome red. Day after day
and month after month here you may see him—your agent and mine
—the great world wagging its way, the task of destroying life never
becoming less arduous, the line of animals never becoming less thin.
A peculiar life to lead, is it not? One would think a man of any
sensibility would become heartsick, or at the least, revolted and
disgusted; but this man does not seem to be. Rather, he takes it as a
matter of course, a thing which has no significance, any more than
the eating of his food or the washing of his hands. Since it is a
matter of business or of living, and seeing that others live by his
labor, he does not care.

But it has significance. These creatures we see thus
automatically and hopelessly trundling down a rail of death are really
not so far removed from us in the scale of existence. You will find
them but a little way down the ladder of mind, climbing slowly and
patiently towards those heights to which we think we have
permanently attained. There is a force back of them, a law which
wills their existence, and they do not part with it readily. There is a
terror of death for them as there is for us, and you will see it here
exemplified, the horror that makes them run cold with the
knowledge of their situation.
You will hear them squeal, the hogs; you will hear them baa, the
sheep; you will hear the grinding clank of the chains and see the
victims dropping: hogs, half-alive, into the vats of boiling water; the
sheep into the range of butchers and carvers who flay them half-
alive; while our red representative—yours and mine—stands there,
stabbing, stabbing, stabbing, that we who are not sheep or hogs
and who pay him for his labor may live and be merry and not die.
Strange, isn’t it?
A gruesome labor. A gruesome picture. We have been flattering
ourselves these many centuries that our civilization had somehow
got away from this old-time law of life living on death, but here amid
all the gauds and refinements of our metropolitan life we find
ourselves confronted by it, and here stands our salaried red man
who murders our victims for us, while we look on indifferently, or
stranger yet, remain blissfully unconscious that the bloody labor is in
existence.
We live in cities such as this; crowd ourselves in ornamented
chambers as much as possible; walk paths from which all painful
indications of death have been eliminated, and think ourselves clean
and kind and free of the old struggle, and yet behold our salaried
agent ever at work; and ever the cry of the destroyed is rising to
what heaven we know not, nor to what gods. We dream dreams of
universal brotherhood and prate of the era of coming peace, but this
slaughter is a stumbling-block over which we may not readily vault.

It augurs something besides peace and love in this world. It forms a
great commentary on the arrangement of the universe.
And yet this revolting picture is not without its relieving feature,
though alas! the little softness visible points no way by which the
victims may be spared. The very butcher is a human being, a father
with little children. One day, after a discouraging hour of this terrible
panorama, I walked out into the afternoon sunlight only to brood
over the tragedy and terror of it all. This man struck me as a demon,
a chill, phlegmatic, animal creature whose horrible eyes would
contain no light save that of non-understanding and indifference.
Moved by some curious impulse, I made my way to his home—to
the sty where I expected to find him groveling—and found instead a
little cottage, set about with grass and flowers, and under a large
tree a bench. Here was my murderer sitting, here taking his
evening’s rest.
The sun was going down, the shadows beginning to fall. In the
cool of the evening he was taking his ease, a rough, horny-handed
man, large and uncouth, but on his knee a child. And such a child—
young, not over two years, soft and delicate, with the bloom of
babyhood on its cheek and the light of innocence in its eye; and
here was this great murderer stroking it gently, the red man
touching it softly with his hand.
I stood and looked at this picture, the thought of the blood-red
pit coming back to me, the gouts of blood, the knife, the cries of his
victims, the death throes; and then at this green grass and this tree
and the father and his child.
Heaven forefend against the mysteries of life and its dangers.
We know in part, we believe in part, but these things surpass the
understanding of man and make our humble consciousness reel with
the inexplicable riddle of existence. To live, to die, to be generous, to
be brutal! How in the scheme of things are the conditions and
feelings inextricably jumbled, and how we grope and stumble
through our days to our graves!

WHENCE THE SONG
Along Broadway in the height of the theatrical season, but more
particularly in that laggard time from June to September, when the
great city is given over to those who may not travel, and to actors
seeking engagements, there is ever to be seen a certain
representative figure, now one individual and now another, of a
world so singular that it might well engage the pen of a Balzac or
that of a Cervantes. I have in mind an individual whose high hat and
smooth Prince Albert coat are still a delicious presence. In his coat
lapel is a ruddy boutonnière, in his hand a novel walking-stick. His
vest is of a gorgeous and affluent pattern, his shoes shiny-new and
topped with pearl-gray spats. With dignity he carries his body and
his chin. He is the cynosure of many eyes, the envy of all men, and
he knows it. He is the successful author of the latest popular song.
Along Broadway, from Union to Greeley Squares, any fair day
during the period of his artistic elevation, he is to be seen. Past the
rich shops and splendid theaters he betakes himself with leisurely
grace. In Thirtieth Street he may turn for a few moments, but it is
only to say good-morning to his publishers. In Twenty-eighth Street,
where range the host of those who rival his successful house, he
stops to talk with lounging actors and ballad singers. Well-known
variety stars nod to him familiarly. Women whose sole claim to
distinction lies in their knack of singing a song, smile in greeting as
he passes. Occasionally there comes a figure of a needy ballad-
monger, trudging from publisher to publisher with an unavailable
manuscript, who turns upon him, in passing, the glint of an envious
glance. To these he is an important figure, satisfied as much with
their envy as with their praise, for is not this also his due, the reward
of all who have triumphed?

I have in mind another figure, equally singular: a rouged and
powdered little maiden, rich in feathers and ornaments of the latest
vogue; gloved in blue and shod in yellow; pretty, self-assured,
daring, and even bold. There has gone here all the traditional
maidenly reserve you would expect to find in one so young and
pleasing, and yet she is not evil. The daughter of a Chicago butcher,
you knew her when she first came to the city—a shabby, wondering
little thing, clerk to a music publisher transferring his business east,
and all eyes for the marvels of city life.
Gradually the scenes and superlatives of elegance, those showy
men and women coming daily to secure or sell songs, have aroused
her longings and ambitions. Why may not she sing, why not she be
a theatrical celebrity? She will. The world shall not keep her down.
That elusive and almost imaginary company known as they, whose
hands are ever against the young, shall not hold her back.
Behold, for a time, then, she has gone; and now, elegant,
jingling with silver ornaments, hale and merry from good living, she
has returned. To-day she is playing at one of the foremost vaudeville
houses. To-morrow she leaves for Pittsburgh. Her one object is still a
salary of five hundred or a thousand a week and a three-sheet litho
of herself in every window and upon every billboard.
“I’m all right now,” she will tell you gleefully. “I’m way ahead of
the knockers. They can’t keep me down. You ought to have seen the
reception I got in Pittsburgh. Say, it was the biggest yet.”
Blessed be Pittsburgh, which has honored one who has
struggled so hard, and you say so.
“Are you here for long?”
“Only this week. Come up and see my turn. Hey, cabbie!”
A passing cabman turns in close to the walk with considerable
alacrity.
“Take me to Keith’s. So long. Come up and see my turn to-
night.”

This is the woman singer, the complement of the male of the
same art, the couple who make for the acceptance and spread of
the popular song as well as the fame of its author. They sing them in
every part of the country, and here in New York, returned from a
long season on the road, they form a very important portion of this
song-writing, song-singing world. They and the authors and the
successful publishers—but we may simplify by yet another picture.
In Twenty-seventh or Twenty-eighth Street, or anywhere along
Broadway from Madison to Greeley Squares, are the parlors of a
score of publishers, gentlemen who coördinate this divided world for
song publishing purposes. There is an office and a reception-room; a
music-chamber, where songs are tried, and a stock room. Perhaps,
in the case of the larger publishers, the music-rooms are two or
three, but the air of each is much the same. Rugs, divans, imitation
palms make this publishing house more bower than office. Three or
four pianos give to each chamber a parlor-like appearance. The walls
are hung with the photos of celebrities, neatly framed, celebrities of
the kind described. In the private music-rooms, rocking-chairs. A boy
or two waits to bring professional copies at a word. A salaried pianist
or two wait to run over pieces which the singer may desire to hear.
Arrangers wait to make orchestrations or take down newly schemed
out melodies which the popular composer himself cannot play. He
has evolved the melody by a process of whistling and must have its
fleeting beauty registered before it escapes him forever. Hence the
salaried arranger.
Into these parlors then, come the mixed company of this
distinctive world: authors who have or have not succeeded, variety
artists who have some word from touring fellows or know the firm,
masters of small bands throughout the city or the country, of which
the name is legion, orchestra-leaders of Bowery theaters and
uptown variety halls, and singers.
“You haven’t got a song that will do for a tenor, have you?”
The inquirer is a little, stout, ruddy-faced Irish boy from the gas-
house district. His common clothes are not out of the ordinary here,

but they mark him as possibly a non-professional seeking free
copies.
“Sure, let me see. For what do you want it?”
“Well, I’m from the Arcadia Pleasure Club. We’re going to give a
little entertainment next Wednesday and we want some songs.”
“I think I’ve got just the thing you want. Wait till I call the boy.
Harry! Bring me some professional copies of ballads.”
The youth is probably a representative of one of the many
Tammany pleasure organizations, the members of which are known
for their propensity to gather about east and west side corners at
night and sing. One or two famous songs are known to have secured
their start by the airing given them in this fashion on the street
corners of the great city.
Upon his heels treads a lady whose ruffled sedateness marks her
as one unfamiliar with this half-musical, half-theatrical atmosphere.
“I have a song I would like to have you try over, if you care to.”
The attending publisher hesitates before even extending a form
of reception.
“What sort of a song is it?”
“Well, I don’t exactly know. I guess you’d call it a sentimental
ballad. If you’d hear it I think you might——”
“We are so over-stocked with songs now, Madam, that I don’t
believe there’s much use in our hearing it. Could you come in next
Friday? We’ll have more leisure then and can give you more
attention.”
The lady looks the failure she has scored, but retreats, leaving
the ground clear for the chance arrival of the real author, the
individual whose position is attested by one hit or mayhap many. His
due is that deference which all publishers, if not the public, feel
called upon to render, even if at the time he may have no reigning
success.

Whence the Song
“Hello, Frank, how are you? What’s new?”
The author, cane in hand, may know of nothing in particular.
“Sit down. How are things with you, anyhow?”
“Oh, so-so.”
“That new song of yours will be out Friday. We have a rush order
on it.”
“Is that so?”

“Yes, and I’ve got good news for you. Windom is going to sing it
next year with the minstrels. He was in here the other day and
thought it was great.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“That song’s going to go, all right. You haven’t got any others,
have you?”
“No, but I’ve got a tune. Would you mind having one of the boys
take it down for me?”
“Surest thing you know. Here, Harry! Call Hatcher.”
Now comes the pianist and arranger, and a hearing and jotting
down of the new melody in a private room. The favored author may
have piano and pianist for an indefinite period any time. Lunch with
the publishers awaits him if he remains until noon. His song, when
ready, is heard with attention. The details which make for its
publication are rushed. His royalties are paid with that rare smile
which accompanies the payment of anything to one who earns
money for another. He is to be petted, conciliated, handled with
gloves.
At his heels, perhaps, another author, equally successful, maybe,
but almost intolerable because of certain marked eccentricities of life
and clothing. He is a negro, small, slangy, strong in his cups, but
able to write a good song, occasionally a truly pathetic ballad.
“Say, where’s that gem o’ mine?”
“What?”
“That effusion.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That audience-killer—that there thing that’s goin’ to sweep the
country like wildfire—that there song.”
Much laughter and apology.
“It will be here Friday, Gussie.”

“Thought it was to be here last Monday?”
“So it was, but the printers didn’t get it done. You know how
those things are, Gussie.”
“I know. Gimme twenty-five dollars.”
“Sure. But what are you going to do with it?”
“Never you mind. Gimme twenty-five bones. To-morrow’s rent
day up my way.”
Twenty-five is given as if it were all a splendid joke. Gussie is a
bad negro, one day radiant in bombastic clothing, the next wretched
from dissipation and neglect. He has no royalty coming to him,
really. That is, he never accepts royalty. All his songs are sold
outright. But these have earned the house so much that if he were
to demand royalties the sum to be paid would beggar anything he
has ever troubled to ask for.
“I wouldn’t take no royalty,” he announces at one time, with a
bombastic and yet mellow negro emphasis, which is always
amusing. “Doan want it. Too much trouble. All I want is money when
I needs it and wants it.”
Seeing that nearly every song that he writes is successful, this is
a most equitable arrangement. He could have several thousand
instead of a few hundred, but being shiftless he does not care.
Ready money is the thing with him, twenty-five or fifty when he
needs it.
And then those “peerless singers of popular ballads,” as their
programs announce them, men and women whose pictures you will
see upon every song-sheet, their physiognomy underscored with
their own “Yours Sincerely” in their own handwriting. Every day they
are here, arriving and departing, carrying the latest songs to all
parts of the land. These are the individuals who in their own
estimation “make” the songs the successes they are. In all justice,
they have some claim to the distinction. One such, raising his or her
voice nightly in a melodic interpretation of a new ballad, may, if the

music be sufficiently catchy, bring it so thoroughly to the public ear
as to cause it to begin to sell. These individuals are not unaware of
their services in the matter, nor slow to voice their claims. In flocks
and droves they come, whenever good fortune brings “the company”
to New York or the end of the season causes them to return, to tell
of their success and pick new songs for the ensuing season. Also to
collect certain pre-arranged bonuses. Also to gather news and
dispense it. Then, indeed, is the day of the publisher’s volubility and
grace. These gentlemen and ladies must be attended to with that
deference which is the right of the successful. The ladies must be
praised and cajoled.
“Did you hear about the hit I made with ‘Sweet Kitty Leary’ in
Kansas City? I knocked ’em cold. Say, it was the biggest thing on the
bill.”
The publisher may not have heard of it. The song, for all the
uproarious success depicted, may not have sold an extra copy, and
yet this is not for him to say. Has the lady a good voice? Is she with
a good company? He may so ingratiate himself that she will yet sing
one of his newer and as yet unheard of compositions into popularity.
“Was it? Well, I’m glad to hear it. You have the voice for that
sort of a song, you know, Marie. I’ve got something new, though,
that will just suit you—oh, a dandy. It’s by Harry Welch.”
For all this flood of geniality the singer may only smile
indifferently. Secretly her hand is against all publishers. They are out
for themselves. Successful singers must mind their P’s and Q’s.
Payment is the word, some arrangement by which she shall receive
a stated sum per week for singing a song. The honeyed phrases are
well enough for beginners, but we who have succeeded need
something more.
“Let me show you something new. I’ve got a song here that is
fine. Come right into the music-room. Charlie, get a copy of ‘She
May Have Seen Better Days.’ I want you to play it over for Miss
Yaeger.”

The boy departs and returns. In the exclusive music-room sits
the singer, critically listening while the song is played.
“Isn’t that a pretty chorus?”
“Well, yes, I rather like that.”
“That will suit your voice exactly. Don’t ever doubt it. I think
that’s one of the best songs we have published in years.”
“Have you the orchestration?”
“Sure; I’ll get you that.”
Somehow, however, the effect has not been satisfactory. The
singer has not enthused. He must try other songs and give her the
orchestrations of many. Perhaps, out of all, she will sing one. That is
the chance of the work.
As for her point of view, she may object to the quality of
anything except for that which she is paid. It is for the publisher to
see whether she is worth subsidizing or not. If not, perhaps another
house will see her merits in a different light. Yet she takes the songs
and orchestrations along. And the publisher turning, as she goes,
announces, “Gee, there’s a cold proposition for you. Get her to sing
anything for you for nothing?—Nix. Not her. Cash or no song.” And
he thumbs his fingers after the fashion of one who pays out money.
Your male singer is often a bird of the same fine feather. If you
wish to see the ideal of dressiness as exemplified by the gentlemen
of the road, see these individuals arrive at the offices of the
publishers. The radiance of half-hose and neckties is not outdone by
the sprightliness of the suit pattern or the glint of the stone in the
shirt-front. Fresh from Chicago or Buffalo they arrive, rich in self-
opinion fostered by rural praise, perhaps possessed of a new droll
story, always loaded with the details of the hit they made.
“Well, well! You should have seen how that song went in
Baltimore. I never saw anything like it. Why, it’s the hit of the
season!”

New songs are forthcoming, a new batch delivered for his
service next year.
Is he absolutely sure of the estimation in which the house holds
his services? You will hear a sequel to this, not this day perhaps but
a week or a month later, during his idle summer in New York.
“You haven’t twenty-five handy you could let me have, have you,
Pat? I’m a little short to-day.”
Into the publisher’s eye steals the light of wisdom and decision.
Is this individual worth it? Will he do the songs of the house twenty-
five dollars’ worth of good next season? Blessed be fate if there is a
partner to consult. He will have time to reflect.
“Well, George, I haven’t it right here in the drawer, but I can get
it for you. I always like to consult my partner about these things,
you know. Can you wait until this afternoon?”
Of course the applicant can wait, and between whiles are
conferences and decisions. All things considered, it may be advisable
to do it.
“We will get twenty-five out of him, any way. He’s got a fine
tenor voice. You never can tell what he might do.”
So a pleasant smile and the money may be waiting when he
returns. Or, he may be put off, with excuses and apologies. It all
depends.
There are cases, however, where not even so much delay can be
risked, where a hearty “sure” must be given. This is to that lord of
the stage whose fame as a singer is announced by every minstrel
billboard as “the renowned baritone, Mr. Calvin Johnson,” or some
such. For him the glad hand and the ready check, and he is to be
petted, flattered, taken to lunch, dinner, a box theater party—
anything—everything, really. And then, there is that less important
one who has over-measured his importance. For him the solemn
countenance and the suave excuse, at an hour when his need is
greatest. Lastly, there is the sub-strata applicant in tawdry, make-

believe clothes, whose want peeps out of every seam and pocket.
His day has never been as yet, or mayhap was, and is over. He has a
pinched face, a livid hunger, a forlorn appearance. Shall he be given
anything? Never. He is not worth it. He is a “dead one.” Is it not
enough if the publisher looks after those of whose ability he is
absolutely sure. Certainly. Therefore this one must slop the streets in
old shoes and thin clothing, waiting. And he may never obtain a
dime from any publisher.
Out of such grim situations, however, occasionally springs a
success. These “down and out” individuals do not always understand
why fate should be against them, why they should be down, and are
not willing to cease trying.
“I’ll write a song yet, you bet,” is the dogged, grim decision. “I’ll
get up, you bet.”
Once in a while the threat is made good, some mood allowing.
Strolling along the by-streets, ignored and self-commiserating, the
mood seizes them. Words bubble up and a melody, some crude
commentary on the contrasts, the losses or the hopes of life,
rhyming, swinging as they come, straight from the heart. Now it is
for pencil and paper, quick. Any old scrap will do—the edge of a
newspaper, the back of an envelope, the edge of a cuff. Written so,
the words are safe and the melody can be whistled until some one
will take it down. And so, occasionally, is born—has been often—the
great success, the land-sweeping melody, selling by the hundreds of
thousands and netting the author a thousand a month for a year or
more.
Then, for him, the glory of the one who is at last successful. Was
he commonplace, hungry, envious, wretchedly clothed before? Well,
now, see! And do not talk to him of other authors who once struck
it, had their little day and went down again, never to rise. He is not
of them—not like them. For him, now, the sunlight and the bright
places. No clothing too showy or too expensive, no jewelry too rare.
Broadway is the place for him, the fine cafés and rich hotel lobbies.
What about those other people who looked down on him once? Ha!

they scorned him, did they? They sneered, eh? Would not give him a
cent, eh? Let them come and look now! Let them stare in envy. Let
them make way. He is a great man at last and the whole world
knows it. The whole country is making acclaim over that which he
has done.
For the time being, then, this little center of song-writing and
publishing is for him the all-inclusive of life’s importance. From the
street organs at every corner is being ground the one melody, so
expressive of his personality, into the ears of all men. In the
vaudeville houses and cheaper concert halls men and women are
singing it nightly to uproarious applause. Parodies are made and
catch-phrases coined, all speaking of his work. Newsboys whistle
and older men pipe its peculiar notes. Out of open windows falls the
distinguished melody, accompanied by voices both new and strange.
All men seem to recognize that which he has done, and for the time
being compliment his presence and his personality.
Then the wane.
Of all the tragedies, this is perhaps the bitterest, because of the
long-drawn memory of the thing. Organs continue to play it, but the
sale ceases. Quarter after quarter, the royalties are less, until at last
a few dollars per month will measure them completely. Meanwhile
his publishers ask for other songs. One he writes, and then another,
and yet another, vainly endeavoring to duplicate that original note
which made for his splendid success the year before. But it will not
come. And, in the meanwhile, other song-writers displace him for
the time being in the public eye. His publishers have a new hit, but it
is not his. A new author is being bowed to and taken out to dinner.
But he is not that author. A new tile-crowned celebrity is strolling up
his favorite Broadway path. At last, after a dozen attempts and
failures, there is no hurry to publish his songs. If the period of failure
is too long extended he may even be neglected. More and more,
celebrities crowd in between him and that delightful period when he
was greatest. At last, chagrined by the contrast of things, he
changes his publishers, changes his haunts and, bitterest of all, his

style of living. Soon it is the old grind again, and then, if thoughtless
spending has been his failing, shabby clothing and want. You may
see the doubles of these in any publisher’s sanctum at any time, the
sarcastically referred-to has been.
Here, also, the disengaged ballad singer, “peerless tenor” of
some last year’s company, suffering a period of misfortune. He is
down on his luck in everything but appearances, last year’s
gorgeousness still surviving in a modified and sedate form. He is a
singer of songs, now, for the publishers, by toleration. His one
lounging-place in all New York where he is welcome and not looked
at askance is the chair they may allow him. Once a day he makes
the rounds of the theatrical agencies; once, or if fortune favors,
twice a day he visits some cheap eating-house. At night, after a lone
stroll through that fairyland of theaters and gaudy palaces to which,
as he sees it, he properly belongs—Broadway, he returns to his bed,
the carpeted floor of a room in some tolerant publisher’s office,
where he sleeps by permission, perhaps, and not even there, too
often.
Oh, the glory of success in this little world in his eye at this time
—how now, in want, it looms large and essential! Outside, as he
stretches himself, may even now be heard the murmur of that shiny,
joyous rout of which he was so recently a part. The lights, the
laughter; the songs, the mirth—all are for others. Only he, only he
must linger in shadows, alone.
To-morrow it will come out in words, if you talk with him. It is in
the publisher’s office, perhaps, where gaudy ladies are trying songs,
or on the street, where others, passing, notice him not but go their
way in elegance.
“I had it once, all right,” he will tell you. “I had my handful. You
bet I’ll get it next year.”
Is it of money he is thinking?
An automobile swings past and some fine lady, looking out,
wakes to bitterness his sense of need.

“New York’s tough without the coin, isn’t it? You never get a
glance when you’re out of the game. I spend too easy, that’s what’s
the matter with me. But I’ll get back, you bet. Next time I’ll know
enough to save. I’ll get up again, and next time I’ll stay up, see?”
Next year his hopes may be realized again, his dreams come
true. If so, be present and witness the glories of radiance after
shadow.
“Ah, me boy, back again, you see!”
“So I see. Quite a change since last season.”
“Well, I should smile. I was down on my luck then. That won’t
happen any more. They won’t catch me. I’ve learned a lesson. Say,
we had a great season.”
Rings and pins attest it. A cravat of marvelous radiance speaks
for itself in no uncertain tones. Striped clothes, yellow shoes, a new
hat and cane. Ah, the glory, the glory! He is not to be caught any
more, “you bet,” and yet here is half of his subsistence blooming
upon his merry body.
They will catch him, though, him and all in the length of time.
One by one they come, old, angular misfortune grabbing them all by
the coat-tails. The rich, the proud, the great among them sinking,
sinking, staggering backward until they are where he was and
deeper, far deeper. I wish I could quote those little notices so
common in all our metropolitan dailies, those little perfunctory
records which appear from time to time in theatrical and sporting
and “song” papers, telling volumes in a line. One day one such
singer’s voice is failing; another day he has been snatched by
disease; one day one radiant author arrives at that white
beneficence which is the hospital bed and stretches himself to a final
period of suffering; one day a black boat steaming northward along
the East River to a barren island and a field of weeds carries the last
of all that was so gay, so unthinking, so, after all, childlike of him
who was greatest in his world. Weeds and a headboard, salt winds

and the cry of seagulls, lone blowings and moanings, and all that
light and mirth is buried here.
Here and there in the world are those who are still singing
melodies created by those who have gone this unfortunate way,
singers of “Two Little Girls in Blue” and “White Wings,” “Little Annie
Rooney” and “The Picture and the Ring,” the authors of “In the
Baggage Coach Ahead” and “Trinity Chimes,” of “Sweet Marie” and
“Eileen”—all are here. There might be recited the successes of a
score of years, quaint, pleasing melodies which were sung the land
over, which even to-day find an occasional voice and a responsive
chord, but of the authors not one but could be found in some field
for the outcasts, forgotten. Somehow the world forgets, the peculiar
world in which they moved, and the larger one which knew them
only by their songs.
It seems strange, really, that so many of them should have come
to this. And yet it is true—authors, singers, publishers, even—and
yet not more strange is it than that their little feeling, worked into a
melody and a set of words, should reach far out over land and water,
touching the hearts of the nation. In mansion and hovel, by some
blazing furnace of a steel mill, or through the open window of a
farmland cottage, is trolled the simple story, written in halting
phraseology, tuned as only a popular melody is tuned. All have seen
the theater uproarious with those noisy recalls which bring back the
sunny singer, harping his one indifferent lay. All have heard the
street bands and the organs, the street boys and the street
loungers, all expressing a brief melody, snatched from the unknown
by some process of the heart. Yes, here it is, wandering the land
over like a sweet breath of summer, making for matings and
partings, for happiness and pain. That it may not endure is also
meet, going back into the soil, as it does, with those who hear it and
those who create.
Yet only those who venture here in merry Broadway shall
witness the contrast, however. Only they who meet these radiant

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