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'UMlM LU» Unit* SUN CHAPTER X—Continued The girls behind him, he present ly inferred, were members of the company not playing this evening. They talked of a trip to the coast which the company was to make during the autumn and early win ter. Jim listened, filling in the time ; before the performance com menced. —“Has Jeremy condescended to sign up for the trip?’* It was the tall girl who asked the question. “Jeremy! On the road!” The an swering voice had a lyric quality, light, lilting, clear. “You insult him, darling. Our Jeremy has his eyes . on bigger and better things. His girl’s papa is going to back a play for him—at least that is what he modestly intimates.” “So!” A low throaty .laugh. “Something romantic, I suppose. Costumes, perhaps. He will need to look very beautiful not to waste papa’s money.” ' “It won’t matter whether he can act or not. I think he can. At least he’s terribly effective.” “Shh!” A gong rang. The deep blue cur tain slithered open disclosing the stage. The performance began. Jeremy was effective. Jim re alized that as he saw him make his first entrance, dressed in evening clothes, a silk hat held negligently in the crook of his arm. He felt the reaction of the audience — largely feminine—and knew that the girl behind him was right It probably made no difference whether Jeremy could At could not act The play was a Broadway success «f a few seasons past Jeremy played the role of a young Italian cpera singer who meets, in a speak «dsy in New York, a little southern girl doing the town with her fiance, a surly young prig from Hast Or ange. The girl was small and dain ty. By contrast Jeremy appeared tall and debonaire and romantically Handsome. His voice was caress ing, his accent authentic, his profile undeniably handsome. But was it acting? Jim did not know. Cecily thought he had genius. But Cecily was in love with him. Jim’s curiosity was being satisfied but, beyond that, the evening was being wasted. He made no startling <Uscoverles. Clyde was effective in * role that might have been written especially for him. The theater was stuffy. Jim’s legs felt cramped. He left his seat as the lights came on for the inter mission at the end of the first act Cecily, too, had risen, was walking up the aisle. She saw him and waved. They met in the small crowded lobby. . • “Hello!” she said. “Hello! How about a breath of air?” “That’s what I’m looking for.” *T thought perhaps you were look ing for me.” “No.” She smiled. “You are a nice surprise.” They stood on the steps of the -theater. Jim lit her cigarette, lit bis own, flicked the match away. “Are you interested in the drama, Bliss Vaughn?” She laughed. “We are being po lite, aren’t we? That’s so stupid. Jim, do you want to see the rest of the play?” “I can take It or leave it.” “Let’s leave It, then. I’ve seen it four times this summer. It’s one «f the best things Jerry does.” Her ■voice brightened. “Let’s run over to Dutch’s.” “How about Jeremy?” “We’ll be back here by the time the performance is over.” Jim took her arm. “All right,” Iml said. “Let’s go.” They walked to the fawn-colored roadster. “Will you drive?” she asked. “Want me to?” “Please. I’m awfully tired.” She settled into the seat with a little sigh«af relief. “I’ve been driving all afternoon. We went up to New Hope and along the canaL I adore Jerry but I won’t ride in a car he drives.’’ There “were only a few scattered (roups in Dutch’s garden, two or three couples moving about the door. A waiter led them to a seclud ed stall at some distance from the orchestra. “Want to dance?” Jim asked when the waiter had taken their or der. ■ She shook her head. ‘Ta weary. I just want to sit ' Ybu’re so restful, Jim.” "Thank you,” he said. “I mean it I like to be with you.” She pulled off her hat, rested her head against the trellis behind her. She looked weary, Jim thought, dispirited. There were faint shad under £ar eyes, is It Cecily?” Jim asked. / "What ia troubling you? Do you want to tell me?” “Of course. That’s why I kid naped you. Will you listen, Jim?” “My one accomplishment.” The waiter brought tall glasses. Cecily took a few sips and set her glass aside. “M's Jerry,” she said, after a moment. “You astonish me,” he said. *T thought it was the new issue of government bonds.” She smiled faintly. “Do you mind if I talk about Jerry?” she asked. “I mean—after the night we danced —Will it hurt you, Jim?” “That isn’t important” “I think it is." She glanced up at him fleetingly, looked down at her fingers snapping the purple and scarlet pod. Jim bent toward her across the table. “Cecily," he asked gravely, “will you try not to think of what hap pened that night? You can’t entire ly, I suppose. Neither, of course, can L But don’t let it spoil our— well, friendship, for want of a more adequate word. Anything that I can say will make me sound self-sacri ficing and noble. I don’t feel espe cially noble. It’s really selfishness, perhaps. I want you to talk to me." The smile vanished. Her expres sion was weary again. “I’ve had an exhausting day. I’ve been trying to make Jerry see that he should go with the Cherry Hollow company on their tour this fall. You see I’ve talked to Father. He can’t put money into a play for Jerry now. He explained it all to me. I had no idea how much he’s lost during the depression. But I’m afraid Jerry won’t understand. He’ll think it’s prejudice or something. And I’m afraid he has talked about Father backing a play for him.” Jim knew that her apprehension was correct Jeremy had talked. The conversation he had overheard in the theater made him aware of that He waited in silence for Cec ily to continue. *T don’t like the idea of not see ing Jerry all fall and half the win ter,” she went on. “I’ll miss him awfully. But I think it’s a splendid opportunity. The company has a certain amount of prestige. Wesley North is an excellent director. The experience would be valuable.” “Jerry doesn’t like road trips?" Jim asked. For an instant her eyes flashed with indignation. "What if he doesn’t?” she said sharply. “I don’t suppose you real ly liked picking beans and chang ing tires!” Jim was surprised and touched. He felt and controlled a feeling of elation. “But I haven’t artistic tempera ment,” he said lightly. “Jerry has, of course.” The in dignation was gone. Her eyes held a brooding expression. “He’s either flying among the stars or sunk in the depths of gloom. He acts, at times, like a spoiled little boy.” A note of affectionate indulgence in her voice softened the criticism. “And I do nag him,” she added. “Nag!” Jim disposed of the ugly word. “You couldn't nag anybody.” “I do/* she said thoughtfully. “I can’t seem to help nagging even when I know it irritates him. I want him to do the fine things of which he is capable. I love him and believe in him. Jerry doesn’t like spurs. He doesn’t get on very well with Wesley North because Mr. North digs the spurs in, too. Jer ry’s been so accustomed to praise and flattery. I’m just finding that out You see, I’ve never been with him so—” She broke off with a rue ful smile and a quick glance at Jim. “That was Father’s idea, of course. He thought if I knew Jer ry better—" “Your idea," Jim reminded her, feeling again, for a moment, that lifting elation. “I know.” She sighed. ‘Tm mak ing mountains out of mole-hills to night I’m making you think that Jerry is petty and selfish and un reasonable. He is, at times. Who isn’t? But he’s splendid, too. I’m tired and disappointed and a little exasperated. I was, I mean. I feel better now.” She breathed deeply, smiled across the table at Jim “Thank you," she said. “I haven’t done anything.” “You’ve let me talk. I can talk to you. Do you remember when we hated each other?” “I can Just barely remember.” Jim smiled. , “You bated me longer than I hated you.” Her eyes were soft and bright with amusing memories. “You’re a disconcerting young lady.” “You aren’t soiTy, are you?" The laughing lights died out of her eyes. “What happened the evening we danced hasn’t made you regret be ing at *Meadowbrook’t We’re all so fond of you. Father, Susan, Tommy, I—” “No, I'm not sorry,” Jim said. "This summer has been a break for me." He paused, looked down at his glass. If he could talk to her indirectly, without hurting her or antagonizing her—He felt terribly inadequate. If he were wiser and more articulate—If he were not so deeply in love with her— She looked at him with sympathy and interest "How, especially, has it been a break fog you?” she asked. “I think living—everything—is a question of values," he said slowly. "There are times when wo don’t see clearly. It’s like being in a place of shadows, a deep .forest, a lamp-lit room. Distortions, falsities seem true because we have no measure of comparison. Then, after a time, we come out into the sun light Do you understand? I’m not good at symbolism, but the thought beneath it is true. I know it is true because it has happened to me.” "Before you came here?” she asked. "Yes. There was something I thought I could do, something false and distorted. Then I came here. When one lives and works in the sun, shadows seem unsubstantial. I have, for a time at least re-estab lished my scale of values. That’s why I’m not sorry.” _ “You’ve given me something to think abouv. I don’t know. Some times—"Her eyes glanced thought fully across the garden. Jim, watching her, waiting for the conclu sion of the sentence, saw her sud denly startled expression. "There’s the Nolan girl from the theater!” she said. "What time is it Jim?” Jim consulted his watch. "Ten minutes past eleven.” "Good heavens! Jerry is waiting for met” She caught up her hat and her purse. "Come on, Jim, let’s fly!" Jim sent the fawn-colored road ster speeding along the return route to Cherry Hollow. He had felt for a moment very close to Cecily. Now he had lost her again. Be neath her comments and exclama I ,1 I “Come On, Jim, Let’* Byl" tions, he felt her anxiety. When he brought the car to a skidding stop in the theater drive, she was out before he could make a motion to assist her. The headlights revealed a small group of people standing on the steps. Jeremy detached himself from the group, as Cecily walked quickly toward the steps, and came to meet her. “Jerry, darling! Fm so sorry!*' Cecily slipped her arm through his in a conciliating gesture. "Are you?” The arm she held was unresponsive. “Jim and I went over to Dutch’s." Her voice was quick and light. “You haven’t been waiting long, have you? It was stufiy in the theater. You were marvelous in the first act. How did the other two go?” “You aren’t particularly interest ed, are you?” “Darling!” Cecily’s voice was coaxing, a little exasperated, more than a little alarmed. “I’ve seen that play four times fills summer. Do you want to stop at Dutch's? Let’s go home and have scrambled eggs.” Jim took a step in the direction of the car. “Good-night,” he said. Cecily turned to him. “Good night,” she said with a gay little gesture of farewell. “Thank you. Good-night, Jim.” “Good-night, Fielding,” Jeremy said on a curt note of dismissal. Driving back to “Meadowbrook,” Jim made plans for the future. He would put a cot in the office at the riding academy and get a kerosene stove in the village. He wasn’t go ing to hang around while Clyde was there. He would keep out of it None of his business, anyway. The fellow disliked him. Disliked him! There was something more virulent than dislike in his voice when he said good-night What right did he have to take that superior tone with Cec ily? Of what was she guilty? Un intentionally hurting his pride, per haps. That was all. The third week in September Mr. Vaughn went with a party of friends on a fishing trip to Maine. He sent for Jim the morning of his depart ure. Jim, arriving at “Meadowbrook” in answer to the summons found his employer in an eleventh hour hub bub of packing and final instruc tions. Miss Parker and Rose were •currying about the second floor lo cating garment* which had been packed away since the last trip. “They think I’m going to Little America," Mr. Vaughn fumed good naturedly, indicating the array of garments piled on the bed and the sofa in his room. Mr. Vaughn was In high good hu mor, excited, grumblingly genial. Jim went with him to the game room where the fishing equipment, ready to be packed, covered the ping-pong table. “I had to work like the devil to get the doctors’ permission to go," he said, tenderly unjointing rods, laying them, flannel wrapped, in a1 leather traveling case. “The time isn’t very convenient. I’d rather not leave home while Cecily’s guest Is here. Miss Parker will be busy getting the youngsters ready for schooL Still, I suppose there’s nothing to worry about.” “Nothing at all," Jim assured him. “These flies are beauties." “Pretty fine collection,” Mr. Vaughn said with a certain degree of complacence. “Pack them care fully, Jim. Well I'll be—! Who’s been monkeying with this?” Mr. Vaughn was examining a bamboo rod which had been broken and mended. Jim laughed. “I’m afraid I’m guilty of the mending,” he said. “The day I came here Susan was fishing in the brook. I startled her. She fell off the bridge and broke the rod. I had to make an attempt to repair the damage since it was partly my fault” “Not a bad job.” Mr. Vaughn was in too high a state of anticipation to be annoyed by a brpken rod. “So that’s how you wormed your way into Susan’s esteem. Is that a pun?” He twinkled at Jim. “I suppose it is. Funny,” he added, laying aside the bamboo rod, “she's the only one of the children who seems to have inherited my passion for fishing. I’ll have to take her with me some time. She’s as game as a brook trout And that reminds me—I ordered some casting-rods from New York. They didn't come this morning. I’ll leave you the address of the camp in Maine. Will you come up here some time tomorrow and readdress them for me?” “Yes, sir,” Jim replied. “Are you comfortable at the rid ing academy?” Mr. Vaughn asked. “Oh, yes.” Jim smiled. “I’m be coming an excellent cook. Now that I have electricity and a telephone I feel as though I’m living in a suite at the Ritz.” “Well, keep an eye on things. What time is it? Past eleven!” Mr. Vaughn thrust his watch into his pocket. “Strap up these things for me, will you? and take them out to the tar.” “ - - r Mr. Vaughn finally got off a little after twelve o’clock in a flurry of affectionate farewells, the trunk rack on the sedan piled high with luggage. Jim did not linger at “Meadowbrook” after the sedan had disappeared around the curve in the drive. He returned, at once, to the riding academy, avoiding any conversation with Cecily and Clyde who had dashed in from somewhere at the last minute to see Mr. Vaughn off on his fishing trip. It had not been difficult to avoid Cecily and her guest The after noon following the last performance at the theater they had paid him a visit at the riding academy. At the moment of their arrival Jim had been converting the office into liv ing quarters with Susan’s enthusi astic but somewhat officious assist ance. The visit had been amicable, on the surface, at least, mutually friendly and pleasant. Cecily and Jeremy had inspected Jim's new quarters, jokingly admired his un esthetic arrangement of a cot and a kerosene stove, a few cooking utensils, a table and an armchair., borrowed from the MacPhersons. He had used the subterfuge of a brush fire endangering the acade my to explain his change of resi dence, and it had been accepted without question. Jim knew that the call was an apology, artfully maneuvered by Cecily, though no mention was made of the previous evening. Clyde was agreeable, apparently in terested in the project And Cecily had been radiant that afternoon. The fatigue of the eve ning before had vanished. If, for a time, her faith in Jeremy had been shaken, Jim inferred that it had been completely restored. She had had that shining look of happiness whenever, since then, Jim had had a glimpse of her. He told himself that he was glad she and Jeremy had adjusted their dif ficulties. It was possible to believe that during the busy working day when pressing duties crowded out thought and speculation. It was more difficult at night Alone in his new quarters, attempting to read or check over bills, sitting alone in the movies, riding the one horse al ready purchased for the stable along the infrequently traveled back country roads, even on the one or two occasions when, break ing his resolve, he stopped in at the drug-store to talk to Dolly, his thoughts, never far from the sub ject, returned to die evening he and Cecily had gone to Dutch’s. (TO BE CONTINUED) Cockated, Variety of Cockatoo The cockateel is a small variety of the cockatoo family. A small beauty covered with soft gray feath ers, wings and tail being edged with white and whose proudly carried head is topped with a lemon-yellow crest. The contrast of colorings is emphasised by circles of light red on the cheeks. 'WayBackWhen By JEANNE DICTATOR ONCE DEPENDENT ON CHARITY YOU may not agree with the prin ciples advanced by Adolf Hitler, or you may be an enthusiastic ad mirer of his. In either case you will be interested in looking at the man and his life to see what les son we may learn. Perhaps the greatest inspiration to be drawn from the German dictator’s life is a word of encouragement for those whose early lives may seem fail ures. Adolf Hitler was born on the Ba varian frontier of Germany in 1889, the son of a customs official who had political ambitions for him. The boy developed a desire to be an artist. His father opposed him, so Adolf refused to study in school. He was the despair of his father and mother. When he was eight een, he went to Vienna and applied ior admission to me Academy or Art His art was too poor to qualify and they directed him to the archi tectural school, but his loafing in early grades made it impossible for him to pass entrance requirements there. At nineteen, his mother died, and as his father had died five years before, he was left alone. For three years he slept in a cheap men's hotel in Vienna, get ting his meals at a monastery and occasionally begging from passers by. In the winter he shoveled snow to make a living. Whenever he earned a few kronen, he stopped work and went to some cheap cafe to deliver political speeches. He painted poor water colors which a friend peddled for him, he painted picture postcards, and when hungry enough was a house painter. Dur ing the war he was a corporal Here was a man in his thirties who had never shown any real promise in anything he did. Then, Adolf Hitler formed an ideal of government. • • * FATHER DIVINE WAS A HEDGE TRIMMER WHAT are the limits of human credulity? To what heights may not the spell-binding orator rise? For thousands of simple blacks in that section of upper New York city known as Harlem, the answer to those questions is “God! Only God is the Limit!” For George Baker, once a Baltimore hedge trimmer and dock worker, who is reported to have served 60 days on a chain gang, is the negro who claims to be God. Early records of his life have not been found and George Baker, who now calls himself Father Divine or God, will not talk. It is known that he came from the South, and that he worked at odd jobs in Balti more in 1899. Starting as a Sun day School teacher, he established a new cult, and moved to New York with a few followers who believed him to be God. New disciples joined him and were provided with food and lodging, while he found jobs for them and collected all their earn* ings. In 1919, he changed his name to Father Divine (God) and con ferred the title of Angels on all who turned their possessions over to him. Thousands of dollars be came his in return for new, more glamorous names, such as Ruth Rachel, Hozanna Love, and Frank Incense. Today Father Divine’s An gels number about 1,000 and there are 3,000 “Children” or followers who retain some of their posses sions, living in apartment houses and flats of Harlem. Heaven is his headquarters, where ideals are served and where about 75 Angels sleep. He has established Exten sion Heavens now in Bridgeport, Jersey City, Newark, and Balti more; and he owns profit-making stores and shops throughout Har lem. It has been estimated that his income is $10,000 per week, but no property is held in his own name. ®—'WN0 Service. Typical Great Smoky Mountains Cabin. Prepared by National Geographic Society, Washington, D. C.—WNU Service. THE 1,500 species of flowering plants that blossom before June 1 are spreading their color over the slopes of the Great Smoky mountains. Haze-shrouded, the Great Smoky mountains dominate the horizon of eastern Tennessee. Visitors often are amazed to find such lofty, wild, and unspoiled mountains straddling the Tennes see-North Carolina state line. In 1923, when public-spirited men and women of the two states or ganized to encompass soaring heights and plunging valleys in a national park, even the mountain eers, grandchildren of pioneers who had braved the arrows of cunning Cherokees, had not explored the whole area. Adventurous hikers who did in vade the mountains found the un dergrowth so thick in places that they had to chop their way through it with an ax. A few naturalists and surveyors visited parts of the Smokies. Hunt ers sought their quarry amid the stately trees and dense cover that sheltered bears, deer, and numer ous smaller animals. Revenue officers occasionally tried to penetrate the wilderness, and lumbermen, with dynamite, axes and saws, pushed their roads and railroads only as far as the most recent cutting. To business men of eastern Ten nessee and western North Carolina, the Great Smokies long were a trade barrier. No road leaped the rugged ridge along which the state line rambles for 71 miles. Com merce east and west in this latitude still moves around either end of the mountains, but the “barrier" now is an asset as the Great Smoky Moun tains National park. Life There Was Primitive. A few years ago it took more than a week to go to Knoxville and re turn to the cabins in the hills. In those days there was little rea son for the mountaineer to leave the mountains. A few sheep supplied wool for clothing and the mountain woman was an adept spinner and weaver. When cows and oxen became use less and were dispatched, shoes were made of their hides. Bears, deer, and birds, brought down with five-foot rifles or caught in traps, supplied the family meat platter. “Sweetnin’ ” was produced from sorghum. Nearly all the land in the Great Smokies was privately owned when the park movement was initiated. Arrangements had to be made for its purchase before the land could be turned over to the national park service for development An inten sive money-raising campaign was planned. Private subscriptions ag gregated $1,000,000. Appropriations by the adjoining states brought the fund to $5,000,000. But this was only one-half the fluids required. The campaigners for many months sought vainly for the other half. Then John D. Rocke feller, Jr., announced that the j_,aura apeiman nocseieuer iviem orial would match dollar for dollar any money raised in the campaign. In 1926 congress authorized the establishment of the Great Smoky Mountains National park on condi tion that the citizens of Tennessee and North Carolina present 427,000 acres of acceptable land in one sol id tract, the acreage to be equally divided between the two states. Of ficials who had investigated were enthusiastic. “Nature is at her choicest there," they reported. Development of the area as a national playground began, and to day the thousand resident families have shrunk to about four hundred. Highways Are Being Built. For six years now government agencies under the supervision of the national park service have been building roads and trails and re stocking forests and streams. The work is just begun. Only sev enty miles of high-standard roads, twenty-five miles of secondary roads, and fewer than 600 miles of trails have been completed. Yet for the last three years this infant of our national park system, not yet dedicated, has been attracting more visitors than any other of our 25 national parks. Less than a mile east of Gatlin burg, Tennessee, a white and green sign announces the boundary of the Great Smoky Mountains National park. There is only one modern road over the mountains between Teo nessee and North Carolina. It winds through the scenic valley of ths West Prong of Little Pigeon river, crossing and recrossing the stream to the state line at Newfound Gap. The Chimneys, rugged twin peaks, thickly forested, stand like sentinels, guarding the bridge whlda carries the highway across the West Prong. From the bridge all the way to Newfound Gap the traveler is hemmed in by steep, wooded mountain slopes, unbroken except where a waterfall, too high above and too far away to be heard gleams in the sun like a white silken ribbon as a mountain stream sweeps over a precipice toward the noisy river cascading below. At Newfound Gap along the state line the mountain top has been ex cavated and space provided tor parking several hundred automo biles. Here the arboreal wonder land that is the Great Smokier spreads before you in both states. Down Into North Carolina. From this point the highway de-! scends into North Carolina aloud the Oconaluftee river, through the Qualla Indian reservation, toward Asheville and Bryson City, North Carolina gateways to the park. Southwestward from Newfound Gap, the Skyway, one of the high est highways in the country, is tak ing shape. It has been completed nearly to Clingmans Dome, the loft iest peak in the Great Smokies. Ultimately it will wind forty miles over and around peaks along dm state line until it reaches the west ern end of the park, affording amaz ing vistas of Jumbled mountains and billowy valleys. Portions of the Sky way are already 6,300 feet above sea level. It is along the trails that the hiker meets isolated mountain families fas their cabins, and stumbles upon the remnants of abandoned mills that not long ago ground out the moun taineers’ “turn” of corameaL Nearly everything one observes in and around a mountain cabin is homemade. Trundle beds, high backed chairs, spinning wheels, and looms are usually heirlooms. One of the first known white mao. to study the wonders of the Great Smoky mountains was a botanist William Bartram of Philadelphia, who climbed among these heights about the time patriots in Indepen dence Hall signed the Declaration of Independence. After him came other botanists who have found die mountains their paradise, one of die largest and last vestiges of the na tive forest that swathed the hiBs and valleys of colonial America. Orchids and Ferns. So diversified are the wild flowers of the Great Smokies that visitors from many sections' of the country find species that grow abundantly in their fields and woodlands among others that are rare to them. Twen ty-two orchids find a natural habitat in these rugged and well-watered mountains; there are 50 kinds of lilies; 7 of trilliums; 22 of violets, and 5 of magnolias. The native wild orchids, while not so large as the more familiar cul tivated species, have all the exqui site form and dainty coloring at their ''civilized" cousins. many other plant families in the Smokies, the orchids are found throughout a long blossoming sea son. Certain species make a bold debut in the very early spring; ott ers appear reluctant to yield sway to chilly autumn. Ferns range from the most deli cate. with lacy fronds, to the moat hardy types. There are lush car pets of mosses and lichens of many varieties, and hundreds at mush rooms and other fungus species range from almost microscopic sizes to the large and showy vari eties, many of which are prized edi bles. Here the catawba rhododendron is at its best In late June —» July its white and purple blossoms coyer whole mountain spurs, fleck sweeping slopes, and envelop trails and .^Streams. Mountaineers call rhododendron and laurel thickets "slicks" and "hens." Indeed, the plants grow in such tangled masses in some areas that only wilderness animals can get through them. Huggins Hell, covering about Are hundred acres, Is one of the T~—' ^ - rhododendron and laurel It was named for Irving a mountaineer who sought to i his cattle from one mountain 1 otter. On the way he was i in the Huggins Hell area, him several days to find out Mountaineers "slicks," identified hy i
The Wallace Enterprise (Wallace, N.C.)
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June 10, 1937, edition 1
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