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Clara Skops for a Bab>?
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your own. But I do admit that an adopted child is better than none, and no woman ever really has lived until she has felt a baby's arms about her neck, and knows that she has it to mother.
"You may think that I am too young to be thinking these things. Go ahead. But you can't stop me from thinking, as all real girls dream over the most beautiful theme in the world.
"One of my greatest agonies with an adopted child would come when it discovered that I was an actress. Can you understand what I mean ? I would want it to know me as 'mother,' its guardian, protector, playmate. From that time on, as it grew up, I should wonder if it loved me for myself, or for what others said about me. Perhaps I am sensitive, but that thought w^ould linger.
"In my daydreams I have thought of my adopted baby as something to give pink rabbits and woolly sheep to. I have pictured how I should dress the youngster in most exquisitely rich garments, and buy everything the child's heart could desire. But I wonder — wouldn't that be a false start in life?
"I ask myself, 'Should I tell that there is no Santa Claus, and teach, instead, the story of Christ and explain why Christmas means so much to the world?'
"No, my idea of adopting a baby is out. I shan't do it, now."
We were chatting in her bedroom. On the dressing table stood a miniature of her mother at seventeen, a fair-haired, beautiful woman who, ill for years, died just as Clara began making the name of Bow known throughout the world. Because of that long illness she had not been able to take her little girl in her arms and cuddle her and sing her to sleep as the sandman came. Clara missed all those things, and she has gone through life hungry for love. Her parents were poor, and she had no pretty clothes when, as a child, she played on the sidewalks of Brooklyn. It is not surprising, especially to her friends, that she thought of adopting a waif as a plaything, something upon which she might lavish affection.
In her bedroom, is a large doll, beautifully dressed, which she holds in her arms as she goes to sleep.
When one knows the way Clara lives, it is not difficult to understand why she thought of adopting a baby. She attends few parties ; she seldom goes to a public restaurant ; she dislikes personal appearances in the
aters ; she has no girl chum in whom she confides ; she rarely is a guest at a dance in a private home ; and she dislikes crowds, noise, garish clothes, or public display of any sort.
She would rather be at home with her dogs and her parrot, with her secretary and housekeeper and a book to read, than go out to the wildest wild-youth party ever thrown.
She is one of the most intense and sincere actresses in the whole realm of films. She gets as many as thirty thousand letters a month from all over the world. She works as hard, if not harder, to put realism into her roles than any girl in pictures. She has done more to glorify the American flapper than any actress living. Yet Clara Bow herself is quiet and retiring.
"Why," her admirers say, "she's the sauciest, ritziest, most devil-maycare kid on the Pacific Coast. Didn't you see her in 'It,' 'Hula,' 'Red Hair,' 'The Fleet's In,' 'Three Week-ends,' 'Dangerous Curves' and films like that ? That must be Clara as she is."
That's correct. But it is the other side of a two-sided girl. I have heard her talk gravely about life, and a moment later swing into a hilarious dance on the studio stage, her eyes flashing, her smile radiant, the life of the party. When it was over she went home to Daisy, her secretary, to her housekeeper, her books and pets.
How much more she would have liked to go home to a baby, to romp and play !
The little Bow girl has never played much since she was a child. Somehow there hasn't been time for frivolities. She is twenty-three years old now. On July 29th last year she had the first birthday party she'd ever had in all her life. And every little card, every gift which came was put away and kept, with all the interest usually evinced by a girl of six.
"For once," her secretary said, "she relaxed. She went to bed that night tired but happy."
Presents had come from almost every one at the studio. The camera men, electricians, carpenters, painters, all of whom are devoted slaves to the little actress, had sent things. Some of her fans had remembered the date and forwarded small gifts. A college boy sent her a little water-color sketch of herself with the inscription, "Oh, Clara, please be easy on me !" She hung it, framed, in her bedroom and wrote him a letter. Another admirer sent her a box of apples. He, too, got a note of appreciation.