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Updated: June 21, 2025
The drunken blind man, listening to the banal arias of the gramophone or shaking his servants with an electric current from his dynamo, the ferocious old fellow poisoning his political enemies, the Lama keeping his people in darkness and deceiving them with his prophecies and fortune telling, he is, however, not an entirely ordinary man.
His ideal of happiness has been vodka, and all the bliss that money can obtain for him lies in that.... Mias is a gold-mining village of twenty-five thousand inhabitants. It has two churches, four electric theatres, fifteen vodka shops, a score of beer-houses, and many dens where cards are played and women bought and sold to the strains of the gramophone.
So that with the pianola, the gramophone, and other means of diversion, the winter nights are not what they were to the people in the years of the nineteenth century. In railroad facilities Canada, if anything, is fifty years ahead of her time, so well are they developed.
Let's go and see what's 'appened." But that they will never know. From the dug-out shaft a volume of smoke and dust was belching out, while from inside there came a medley of noises and grunts indicative of annoyance and pain. "Sounds like one of them there gramophone records, don't it?" murmured Samuel. "A summer morning, or the departure of a troop ship. Ain't it lovely? 'Ullo, wot's that?"
"Now," said von Sperrgebiet. "Turn on the gramophone, one of you, if you can find it." There was a pause while someone fumbled in the darkness, and a click. Then a metallic tune blared forth bravely from the unseen instrument. "That's right," said von Sperrgebiet in a low voice, speaking for the last time. "'Deutschland unter Alles!" His laugh was like the bark of a sick dog.
There were some home-made chairs up there, and Kirchner prints of naked little ladies were tacked up to the beams, among the trench maps, and round the fireplace where logs were burning was a canvas screen to let down at night. A gramophone played merry music and gave a homelike touch to this parlor in war. "A good spot!" I said. "Is it well hidden?"
I have in my memory as I write, recollections of waking suddenly out of slumber to behold Taffy and a mad Australian waltzing to the strains of a gramophone, each with only one leg, and then old Piddington would persist in rousing the ward that we might sing as a roundelay: "And when I die, Don't bury me at all Just pickle my bones In alcohol. My brothers are in different regiments.
Muley Hafiz sat drinking his coffee at midnight, listening to the strains of an ornate gramophone, which stood in a corner of his square tent. A voice outside the silken fold of his tent greeted him, and he stopped the machine. "What is it?" he asked. "Lord, we have captured a man and a woman walking along by the sea." "They are Riffi people let them go," said Muley in Arabic.
The gramophone will give us the actual notes of the singer, but it depends upon ourselves as to whether we catch the real thing or not. What is actually there is the shell: there is no personality unless we ourselves build up that personality of the singer in our imagination. We must supply that which the machine lacks, or else perforce go without.
An hour later, had the boarders listened outside the flat of the head clerk, they would have heard issuing from his bathroom the cooling murmur of running water and from his gramophone the jubilant notes of "Alexander's Ragtime Band."
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