You saw the filmy, brief skirt of Miss Rosalie Ray as she made a
complete heels-over-head turn in her wistaria-entwined swing, far out
from the stage, high above the heads of the audience. You saw the
camera's inadequate representation of the graceful, strong kick, with
which she, at this exciting moment, sent flying, high and far, the
yellow silk garter that each evening spun from her agile limb and
descended upon the delighted audience below.
You saw, too, amid the black-clothed, mainly masculine patrons of
select vaudeville a hundred hands raised with the hope of staying the
flight of the brilliant aerial token.
Forty weeks of the best circuits this act had brought Miss Rosalie
Ray, for each of two years. She did other things during her twelve
minutes--a song and dance, imitations of two or three actors who are
but imitations of themselves, and a balancing feat with a step-ladder
and feather-duster; but when the blossom-decked swing was let down
from the flies, and Miss Rosalie sprang smiling into the seat, with
the golden circlet conspicuous in the place whence it was soon to
slide and become a soaring and coveted guerdon--then it was that the
audience rose in its seat as a single man--or presumably so--and
indorsed the specialty that made Miss Ray's name a favorite in the
booking-offices.
At the end of the two years Miss Ray suddenly announced to her dear
friend, Miss D'Armande, that she was going to spend the summer at an
antediluvian village on the north shore of Long Island, and that the
stage would see her no more.
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