Silver Screen (Nov 1937-Apr 1938)

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You'll like these superior Sitroux Tissues, too ! Take a beauty hint from TWO SIZES the stars. Ask for "Sit-true" face tissues — in the blue and gold box. 10* AND ZU? AT YOUR FAVORITE 5 and 10^ STORE Projections — Nelson Eddy [Continued from page 33] dence course taker in history. Mathematics threw him completely. He likes to do everything for himself, and a guest in the Eddy home was quite surprised not long ago to find him putting away the laundry. He adores his sheepdog, Sheba, given him by Jeanette MacDonald. He is always immaculate, meticulously so, and one of the earliest risers in Hollywood. When he was working in an advertising agency he discovered that he had quite a knack for drawing and ever since then the Eddy letters are usually illustrated with highly comical cartoons. He never mentions it, but a little thing that occurred at the Metro studio several years ago must have been very soul-satisfying. After he was signed by Metro he did not work in a picture for a long time, as you know. During this long wait he gave a concert down in Los Angeles and generously passed around tickets to the Philharmonic Auditorium right and left all over the studio. Nobody from the studio went, neither the biggies nor the little people. So the next year when Nelson appeared in concert in Los Angeles he did not give out free passes. But in the meantime "Naughty Marietta" had clicked and everybody in the studio wanted to attend Nelson's concert. But there wasn't a ticket to be had, free or otherwise. Metro's greatest singing star was born in Providence, Rhode Island, on a certain June 29th, and he had the good luck to be born into a musical family. His mother was a soloist in the Church of Transfiguration in Providence and his father sang bass in the Universalist Church choir in the same city. At the age of ten Nelson himself became the soprano soloist in St. Stephen's Episcopal Church, and later in Grace Church. Not long ago he received a letter from "Ma" Kelly, the choir mother of the church, in which she joked about all the troubles she had had with him. "I never could keep your hair brushed," she wrote, "because you had a cow-lick." At All Saints Church in the same city, when he was about fourteen, his beautiful soprano voice went cracking one evening into a half-way alto-baritone— and Nelson Eddy was no longer a boy soprano. Grandfather Eddy was bass drummer with Reeves American band and he beat the same huge drum with the same big stick for fifty-five years. He played at Brown University's commencement exercises for half a century. Nelson's father, William Darius Eddy, a mechanical engineer, picked up bass drum playing and later became drum major with the First Regimental Band of the Rhode Island National Guard. "He used to take me along when the band went to encampments at Fort Grable," says Nelson. "I as the band mascot, which was a grand thing for a small boy, excepting that there was a catch to it. The mascot had to wash the mess dishes of the band. That was my taste of army life, but at least I learned musical rhythm and turned out to be a pretty good drum player." He later played a drum in the school orchestra, and still later in a dance orchestra, when he needed the dough. Nelson was nicknamed "Brick-top" by his school chums, and his boyhood was more or less uneventful up until 1915, the year he graduated from grammar school. For at this time of his life his mother and father decided to divorce and Nelson, instinctively and naturally, went with his mother. "Two swell people," Nelson says of them, "who just couldn't get along, temperamentally." Pat O'Brien and Kay Francis in "Women Are Like That." They elope — but that's in the picture. School days were over for Nelson, who, at the age of fourteen, now had to make his own living in the world, and after the divorce he and his mother departed for Philadelphia where she went to work at the University of Pennsylvania and Nelson got a job as telephone operator at the Mott Iron Works. Even when Nelson was promoted to shipping clerk at twelve dollars a week he and his mother could hardly make ends meet. He got "fed up" with his job there after a year and decided that he wanted to be a newspaper man. After two weeks of haunting the newspaper offices he was hired as night clerk on the Philadelphia Press at eight dollars a week. "Although the work was at night, I could study by day and I kept on with my reading and my correspondence course," says Nelson. "A reporter friend of mine showed me how to write obituary notices and I started my journalistic career by writing death notices in my spare time. I was paid half space rates on them, which swelled my salary a little. "Then I began hounding the city editor for a job as a reporter. The work fascinated me. But the Press knew I was only sixteen and said I was too young to send on assignments. The only thing to do was to find a job on another paper." From the Press he went to the Evening Public Ledger, and from there to the Evening Bulletin. On the Bulletin he went right into the fire, a full fledged reporter. He reported everything from murders and sudden death to major league baseball. He left the Bulletin to become a makeup man and copy writer for the N. W. Ayer and Son advertising agency. Ever since his voice had cracked in the choir of Grace Church, Nelson had given up singing and thought very little about it, so engrossed was he in the business of making a living for his mother and himself. But now with more money and more leisure he began to be conscious of his voice once more. He couldn't afford a teacher so he would buy up phonograph records and learn the songs from them, and to amuse his friends would sing duets with the records. Then one day a friend told him that he had arranged a meeting with David Bispham, the great American baritone of his time. Mr. Bispham took an interest in "the 70 Silver Screen