iWhen I called to see Mrs. Grace iWishaar 'Adams I went to the back door of Te Liberty. Ordinarily I avoid back doors; they hint so boldly of family skeletons, but on this occasion it was a 'deliberate choice, for I .wanted to see the scenic artist The doorkeeper elevated his eyebrows questioning-!y as I stepped over the sill, and directed my gaze to a table-full of black silk "stove-pipe" hats near-by. "Is Miss Wishaar in?" I inquired. "I believe she's upstairs," was the nonchalant reply. "Don't you know?" This I questioned in self-defense, mindful of three long flights of stairs leading to the gallery above the stage, where Miss Grace Wishaar, or more properly speaking, Mrs. Adams, holds sway. "I think she is." To think and to know are two differ ent things; so I appealed to another stage attache for more definite information. He thought so too, but was l-hQ sure; by way of verifica tion, though, he called, 'Miss Wishaar, Miss Wishaar!" .vvnat is ill" came a voice from above. "Some one to see you. You needn't come down." Then began the ascent, and, finally, I came in view of the artist, standing on a dizzy scaffolding, midway between floor and ceijing. '"I came to talk to you," was my announcement, "or rather, to get you to talk." "About myself?" was the laughing inquiry. "Yes." Mrs. Adams gave a few directions to her assistant, and proceeded to descend the ladder, a feat which was accomplished very gracefully, despite her long skirt. "Is this your working cos tume V I asked, regarding attentively the paint be-spat-tered garments. "Yes." "I should think you'd wear a short skirt." The reply evidenced Mrs. Adams' femininity, despite the fact that she is the only woman scenic artist in the United States, and probably tri the world. . "I don't like short skirts; I don't feel good i in them. Underneatn tnis l wear bloomers, and that makes it easy to get about. Come, let us sit down." HereJIrs. Ad-ams extracted a box from be-neath a pile of theatrical belongings, and perched herself on top of a table nearby. From the adjacent window we could see the Piedmont hills as we chatted, but it was the immediate surroundings which for the time being proved feo fascinating. "How did you ever hap pen to select this calling?" asked I. "Well, IH tell you. After I'd completed my course at the art school, I just sat down and thought about what I was going to do. All around me were friends with studios, struggling for foothold, and hardly able, to make ends meet. I thought that wouldn't do for me, so I decided on this line." "How did you manage to get started? Was it hard?" MI went to one theatrical man after another, explain- ing my plan. But they all pooh-hooed the idea laughed at me. The only one who gave me any encouragement was D. Frank Dodge." "Who's he?" "Why, he's a great New York artist; a California boy, by the way. He has the Herald Square and the Manhattan studios. He gave me a chance, and" here came a little laugh as Mrs. Adams brushed away the hair from her forehead "I guess I made good, for I'm at it yet" "Do they call them studios the places where the seen ery is painted for theaters?" "Yes." "And this-" I looked about at the bewildering dis play of drop curtains and painted stage settings. "Is Ye Liberty scenic stu dio." A vast expanse: it is, too, ' I; . sav . 1 v-SIfes! TV TOn the side is the fly gallery, presided over by the man who manages the drops. About is a railing, from which one can overlook the stage below, seventy-five feet across, opposite tne nv gal lery on the other side, was Mr. Blair the property man, immersed in the evolution of a studio scene for the " Eternal City," to be presented next week. And in the rear is Mrs. Adams' workshop, like unto none other I had ever seen, for this roof- gallery, counting across the stage, is eighty-five by one hundred feet, and if any one part is more interesting than another, it is the scenic department, where hangs canvas after canvas. "The place where I work," explained Mrs. Adams, "is called the bridge." As she spoke she pointedHx) the flooring where we stood. "And this " her slender or Vfi u i i 1 v r T finger indicated above, "is the working bridge. It raises and lowers. ' ' I looked at the working bridge, and inwardly admired the cool-headed-ness which would deliberately select such working quarters, for it was long and narrow, and minus a protecting rail. A windlass below explained the manner of raising it to proper height. "And the ladder?" I questioned. "Oh, that's for my. convenience when I want to get up or down without bother ing to disturb the bridge." "Where did you 'pursue your art studies, Mrs. Ad ams?" "At the Chase Art School, in New York, under Mr. William M. Chase." "And how long have yon been here?" . iEver since the theater opened." ; "Had you worked at other theaters?' "Yes, indeed. rAt Proc tor's both in his Montreal and New York houses ; at Al banv, Harmanns Blecker Hall that s a theater at Portland, Maine, and, oh. ever so many places. You don't care to know about' them, do you? It seems as though I'd been all over the country." "It's interesting. Were you usually in chargel" It's different in the big New York studios, where they work as much as three months beforehand; getting ready for a single big production. They do most of the work in the summer, and they 're rushed , night and day. In these studios they specialize: one man excels at landscape, maybe, and he does that exclusively; another is best at figure painting, and he is given that' branch to do ; still another has some thing else. In this way they get the best work possible. Those ' big productions run for months. It's different here, in stock, where we --V - V - - change the play every week. It keeps one busy." "Yon have it all to attend tot" "Yes, with one or two assistants, as the play may demand." "How do you get your ideas?" "I draw on my imagina tion, principally; but if it's anything historical, of course, that's va different matter." As she spoke, the artist walked over to an im-mense painted background evidently just completed. "This," pointing to the familiar scene "is the Col- esium of course that's au thentic It's a copy from a photographand the Forum 00. In other plays I read up matters pertaining to the period." ' Looking at the photo graphs put me in mind that I warned one or two on my ehalf. really don't know whether I have any," replied Mrs. Adams, in reply to my request. "I've given' so many away ; but come down stairs and IH ge. She led the way down one flight to a dressing-room at the right, axil went straight to her deslf , overwhich was pinned the following in black and red lettering: in water-tignt compartmentsif it runs over a bit 'twill do no harm." "Not bad," remarked I. "I rather like it myself. It wouldn't hurt to practice a little." "Scarcely!" All this time Mrs. Adams had been rummaging about her desk, and I took opportunity to look about. Her den, as she calls it, is filled to overflowing with the odds and ends of her calling. A sketch box, a couple of chairs, innumerable studies pinned against the wall; a street gown to be donned when the paint bespattered working garb is discarded, and colors galore in bowls and bottles, completed the furnishings. By the time 1 naa made mental inventory of the belongings, which are said to index character, Mrs. Adams had discovered a photograph or two, neither of which did her justice, for she is a handsome woman a brunette tall, graceful, with dark brown eyes and a wealth of hair. I tucked them carefully away with my notes and the little motto which I promised to return, for the artist intends to frame it for protection. "Sn vmi Tiavpn't nnv hard luck story to tell me?" I ttstprl at nTinfr. TT-! of . 11700 -incf What. T wanted to avoid at the start hard luck I haven't had' any."- BETTY MARTIN.