morning I was at the drug store demanding an explanation. The druggist confessed that the film-roll he had sold me was intended for another camera, but “It ought to have worked on yours,” he said. Subsequent investigation proved that on my camera the film was to be inserted on the left, while on the other kind it went in on the right. This difference seemed insignificant until I discovered that in turning the roll to insert it on the opposite side from what was intended, I had brought the strip of black paper to the front of the film, thus preventing any exposure at all! Thus I learned the first principle of amateur photography:—Know exactly what you are doing and take no chances with your apparatus. A young lady, to whom I once attempted to explain the use of the various “stops” on her camera, impatiently interrupted me with the remark, “Well, that’s the way it was set when I got it and I’m not going to bother to change it. If the pictures are no good, I’ll send it back.” It is such people who continually complain of “bad luck” with their films.

It was two or three years after the complete failure of my first expedition before the camera again exerted its spell, except that meanwhile it was faithfully recording various performances of the family, especially in the vacation season. It was in the autumn of 1898. The victorious American fleet had returned from Santiago and all the famous battleships and cruisers were triumphantly floating their ensigns in the breezes of New York Harbor. “Here is a rare opportunity. Come!” said the camera. Taking passage on a steamer, I found a quiet spot by the lifeboats, outside the rail, where the view would be unobstructed. We passed in succession all the vessels, from the doughty Texas, commanded by the lamented Captain Philip, to the proud Oregon, with the laurels of her long cruise around Cape Horn to join in the fight. One by one I photographed them all. Here, at last, I thought, are some pictures worth while. I had been in the habit of doing my own developing—with indifferent success, it must be confessed. These exposures, made under ideal conditions, were too precious to be risked, so I took the roll to a prominent firm of dealers in photographic goods, for developing and printing. Every one was spoiled! Not a good print could be found in the lot. Impure chemicals and careless handling had left yellow spots and finger-marks on every negative! Subsequent investigation revealed the fact that a negro janitor had been entrusted with the work. Here, then, was maxim number two for the amateur—Do your own developing, and be sure to master the details of the operation. The old adage, “If you want a thing well done, do it yourself,” applies with peculiar force to photography.

Another experience, which happened soon after, came near ending forever all further attempts in photography. This time I lost, not only the negatives, but the camera itself. Having accomplished very little, I resolved to try no more. But a year or two later a friend offered to sell me his 4 × 5 plate camera, with tripod, focusing-cloth and all, at a ridiculously low price, and enough of the old fever remained to make me an easy—victim, shall I say? No! How can I ever thank him enough? I put my head under the focusing-cloth and for the first time looked at the inverted image of a beautiful landscape, reflected in all its colors upon the ground glass. At that moment began my real experience in photography. The hand camera is only a toy. A child can use it as well as an expert. It has its limitations like the stone walls of a prison yard, and beyond them one cannot go. All is guesswork. Luck is the biggest factor of success. Artistic work is practically impossible. It is not until you begin to compose your pictures on the ground glass that art in photography becomes a real thing. Then it is amazing to see how many variations of the same scene may be obtained, how many different effects of light and shade, and how much depends upon the point of view. Then, too, one becomes more independent of the weather, for by a proper use of the “stop” and careful application of the principles of correct exposure, it is possible to overcome many adverse conditions.

An acquaintance once expressed surprise that I was willing to spend day after day of my vacation walking about with a heavy camera case, full of plate-holders in one hand, and a bulky tripod slung over my shoulder. I replied that it was no heavier than a bagful of golf-sticks, that the walk took me through an endless variety of beautiful scenery, and that the game itself was fascinating. Of course, my friend could not appreciate my point of view, for he had never paused on the shore of some sparkling lake to study the ripple of the waters, the varying shades of green in the trees of the nearest bank, the pebbly beach with smooth flat stones whitening in the sun, but looking cooler and darker where seen through the transparent cover of the shallow water, the deep purple of the undulating hills in the distance, and above it all the canopy of filmy, foamy cumulus clouds, with flat bases and rounded outlines, and here and there a glimpse of the loveliest cerulean blue. He had never looked upon such scenes as these with the exhilarating thought that something of the marvelous beauty which nature daily spreads before us can be captured and taken home as a permanent reminder of what we have seen.

To catch the charm of such a scene is no child’s play. It requires the use of the best of lenses and other appliances, skill derivable only from long study and experience, and a natural appreciation of the artistic point of view. It requires even more, for the plate must be developed and the prints made, both operations calling for skill and a sense of the artistic.

The underlying pleasure in nearly all sports and in many forms of recreation is the overcoming of obstacles. The football team must defeat a heavy opposing force to gain any sense of satisfaction. If the opponents are “easy,” there is no fun in the game. The hunter who incurs no hardship complains that the sport is tame. A fisherman would rather land one big black bass after a long struggle than catch a hundred perch which almost jump into your boat without an invitation.

A PATH IN BRETTON WOODS

Photography as a sport possesses this element in perfection. Those who love danger may find plenty of it in taking snap-shots of charging rhinoceroses, or flash-light pictures of lions and tigers in the jungle. Those who like hunting may find more genuine enjoyment in stalking deer for the purpose of taking the animal’s picture than they would get if they took his life. Those who care only to hunt landscapes—and in this class I include myself—can find all the sport they want in the less strenuous pursuit. There is not only the exhilaration of searching out the attractive scenes,—the rugged mountain-peak; the woodland brook; the shady lane, with perhaps a border of white birches; the ruined castle; the seaside cliffs; the well-concealed cascade; or the scene of some noteworthy historical event,—but the art of photography itself presents its own problems at every turn. To solve all these; to select the right point of view; to secure an artistic “balance” in all parts of the picture; to avoid the ugly things that sometimes persist in getting in the way; to make due allowance for the effect of wind or motion; to catch the full beauty of the drifting clouds; to obtain the desired