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Harpo Marx 
Daytona Beach Morning Journal
July 25, 1941 pg. 1 NAMES THAT MAKE NEWS Harpo Is Getting His Voice Back New Hope, Pennsylvania, July 24 - (AP) - Funnyman Harpo Marx, the bewigged comedian who has leered and capered through movie after movie for years without opening his mouth, has got his professional voice back. But he's still struggling with himself. It's about this business of talking out loud on the stage. He interrupted today's rehearsal for his debut in legit to moan. The wildest of the Marx brothers - all of whom now are running wild separately on their own - will appear next week at the Bucks county playhouse in the role of banjo in "The Man Who Came to Dinner." George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart, who wrote the play and who have summer homes in fashionable Bucks county, will play along with him. The 43-year-old Harpo thereby will break a 25-year professional silence. "Vocally," he quips, "I'm a quarter-century plant." The last time he spoke on stage was in 1916, in Denison, Texas, and that practically was an accident. "We were playing one night stands," Harpo recalls. "When it was over the manager said we could stay another night if we would change the act. We only had one other act. There had to be four people speaking. That's the last time I opened my mouth on the stage." After playing here for a week, Harpo will go to Marblehead, Massachusetts, to appear at another summer theater. "But can you imagine?" he says. "It's the role of a mute. I don't say a word. Maybe I'm starting on my second quarter century of silence." Denison,
Texas. This was a time and a place I shall never forget. The year
was 1913, or maybe 1915. Come to think of it, the place might
have been Bonham or Sherman instead of Denison. But it was
Texas. That is a fact. A far more important fact is that,
in this town, the Marx Brothers were reborn, professionally. We
became a comedy act.
The audience loved the Six Mascots in Denison. So much so that the local manager asked us to play a second night, but on one condition; that we didn't repeat the same show. If we did something new, he could get the same audience to come back again. Minnie, without a second thought, agreed. We hadn't had a chance to make this kind of loot since our first weeks in the virgin territory of Chicago. Then Minnie had a second thought. We didn't have anything new to do. We had one show, period. After the bass solo, Groucho's solo and butcher-boy routine, my "Holy City," the mandolin trio, the sextet medley, and "Peasie Weasie," our repertoire was exhausted. The only other thing we knew how to do was take bows, and if we felt the audience wasn't paying enough attention, lead a group-sing of "Dixie." Minnie called a family conference, around the boarding house dinner table. What could we possibly put on tomorrow night? New scenery might help disguise our old act. But there was no new scenery to be had. In fact, there was no scenery at all, since we performed not in a theatre but in a school assembly room. Groucho, the veteran trouper of the family, had an inspiration. "Why not put on School Days?" he said. "I had to follow the act clear across Montana and I know it by heart." School Days we had all seen, at least once. It was an old Gus Edwards routine, a tried-and-true chestnut. Minnie took mental stock of our costumes and props. We had everything we needed. As for the stage set - the school assembly room was perfect. Groucho gave us the rundown on the scene, and Minnie did the casting. Herr Teacher - Groucho Hebrew Boy - Gummo Patsy Brannigan, the Teacher's Despair - Harpo Mama's Boy (always "the Nance," in the trade) - the Bass Bright Little Girl - Aunt Hannah Not-So-Bright Little Girl - Minnie My Patsy Brannigan costume was a delight. Minnie got out the wig she'd made up for Jenny, our ex-girl singer, cut off the piece that used to cover Jenny's cockeye, and dyed the wig red for me. She sewed bright patches onto my traveling pants, which were pretty well shot anyway, and I used a piece of rope for a suspender. The rest of the costume was my beloved turtle-neck sweater and a decrepit beaver hat that Minnie scrounged out of the boarding-house attic. For a final touch before going on stage, I reddened my ears, painted on some freckles and blacked out 3 of my front teeth. (From Harpo Speaks!, Harpo Marx and Rowland Barber, New York: Bernard Geis Associates, 1961, ppg. 107-108 
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