Modern Screen (Dec 1931 - Nov 1932 (assorted issues))

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not my way but it may be a good way.' "I can remember grandmother at our table. My mother served dairy food with meat always. To my grandmother, of course, this was wrong. But she showed disapproval by no word or sign. She had her own dinner. That was all she asked. "She cooked us Russian food sometimes. Blinis. And a spicy stew called shaschlick." However, in spite of all that grandmother said, Beatrice and Sigmund Sidney continued to hope Sylvia would change. They were almost envious of friends whose children clattered about the house on their skates and never could be found at bedtime. They thought school might help. At five-and-a-half Sylvia was sent to kindergarten. For an hour she sat quietly in her little yellow chair and made baskets out of strips of bright paper and drew pussy-willows. Then she decided she had had enough. Pushing back her chair with a great clatter she went to the cloak closet and finding her hat and coat, she started for the door. "Sylvia," the teacher said, "you can't go home. School isn't over yet." "But I'm going home just the same," Sylvia announced. And home she went. Her mother was waiting for her. The teacher had telephoned. She had seemed a little nonplussed at the calm way in which Sylvia had ignored her authority. TAKING . Sylvia on her lap Beatrice Sidney explained that she must never do anything like that again, and when she was in school she must obey the teacher. And then she took her back. However, Sylvia never was to enjoy any part of it. And always the close smell of starched dresses and lunch boxes was to make her a little ill. At any rate, kindergarten failed to change Sylvia. one iota. Always she came directly home, as fast as her little legs could carry her. Always she came alone. Perhaps boarding-school where Sylvia would be away from them and forced to seek companionship in other children, would effect the desired miracle. Beatrice and Sigmund Sidney decided it was worth the experiment. So, early one Sunday morning the following September Sylvia and her mother started off in a car for upper New York state where the school that had been decided upon was located. Sylvia wore a new hat. And shiny new shoes. If she bent forward in her seat she could see her reflection in the stubby toes. It helped pass the time. "I won't like the school, you know," she warned her mother. Beatrice Sidney took her little hand. "Wait until you see it, Sylvia. Then decide." That school, when they reached it late in the afternoon, was a sight to warm almost any child's heart. There were great trees under which to have secrets. Gently sloping lawns. And lovely fragrant gardens. Sylvia, however, refused to be charmed by any of it. With her eyes down and holding tightly to her mother's hand she walked up the gravel pathway. To her it was a place of possible exile. She still hoped her mother really wouldn't leave her. INSIDE, the chatter and laughter of the girls walking through the wide hall filled Sylvia with anything but Beatrice Sidney, Sylvia's mother, at the time of Sylvia's first real conquest of the theater— about five years ago. Although she did not at first understand Sylvia, Beatrice tried in every way to help her. That is part of Sylvia Sidney's wonderful success. delight. The refectory with six to a dozen children at each table appalled her. She ate no dinner. Even though ice cream was the tempting dessert. She hoped her mother would be impressed by the hard way she was taking all of it and decide that boarding-school wouldn't do after all. Upstairs in the recreation room after dinner the children gathered in a large and happy semi-circle around a teacher. "Go over with the rest of the girls," Mrs. Sidney said. And she gave Sylvia, seemingly glued to her side, a little push. "The teacher is going to tell a bed-time story." Stories, she knew, were something Sylvia couldn't resist. Slowly Sylvia left her side and seated herself, her slim .legs curled under her, tailor fashion, a little off from the group. Like the period under a question mark. Apart. That was Sylvia, always. "Once upon a time," the teacher began, "there was a little boy who lived in Holland. His grandfather had told him all about the heavy dykes that held back the sea . . ." Sylvia listened intently. Here was a new story. It had been a long time since her mother or her grandmother had had a new story to tell her. But the old ones, told and retold, they were good, too. "If the sea should overflow," (Continued on page 112) 29