Ruth Waterhouse was born in Syracuse, and when she got into her teens she stayed out late nights. In relating her life story, in her high, faint voice that is nearly a breath, that threatens to die away altogether if she is not believed, she attributes this to the interesting and undeniable fact that the railroad line from Buffalo to New York runs slick through the main street of Syracuse, and that the expresses shook the frame house, where she lived with her old Jewish grandfather, from floor to ceiling. According to her, when she frequented whatever the Great White Way of that town may be, she was but pacing the floor. She longed for her pillow. But alas, because of the heavy trains, that could not be. Her old grandfather was, however, not such a light sleeper, and showed an entire lack of sympathy with her insomnia. In fact he said he would ‘learn her’ and did. This is the only part of the story I can wholeheartedly believe. But what Ruth learnt was not what he had expected. Instead she learnt – what seems to be a most difficult piece of knowledge to acquire – how to insert herself into the chorus of a touring musical show.
