singing. The play takes on the aspect of an ancient religious
ceremonial. Old men and women are in tears, moved by the sad history of
their race, forgetful of the horror of human sacrifice in the intensity
of their religious fervor.

Such is the artistry of the piece; such the perfection of its
production.

Yet this is no professional performance, but the work of amateurs. It is
the opening night of the new community theatre of New York's densely
populated East Side.

At No. 466 Grand Street it stands, far away from Broadway's theatrical
district--a low-lying, little Georgian building. It is but three stories
high, built of light red brick, and finished with white marble. All
around garish millinery shops display their showy goods. Peddlers with
pushcarts lit by flickering flames, vie with each other in their array
of gaudy neckties and bargain shirtwaists. Blazing electric signs herald
the thrills of movie shows. And, salient by the force of extreme
contrast, a plain little white posterboard makes its influence felt. It
is lit by two iron lanterns, and reads simply, "The Neighborhood
Playhouse."

The Misses Irene and Alice Lewisohn of No. 43 Fifth Avenue have built
this theatre. It is their gift to the neighborhood, and symbolizes the
culmination of a work which they have shared with the neighborhood's
people.

Eight years ago the Henry Street Settlement started its scheme of
festivals and pantomimes, portraying through the medium of color, song,