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Dorothy Dwan's earliest memory is that of being set upon the back of a horse to watch it eat.
WHAT is your first memory? Mine, a roly-poly towhead whose shady nook on the lawn was invaded by the sun — stubbornly insisting that the sun should move, because "I dot here fust" — sticking it out all afternoon until the sun did move — and getting tanned, two ways.
As our thoughts trail back across the shadows, ecstasies and dull monotonies of those misty, childhood days, what happenings fling themselves across memory's path? We smile, now, at hurts that seemed quite tragic — those embarrassments of childhood dignity. The time I saved my pennies to buy the little rich girl a Christmas present, and she said she had one for me, and I waited breathlessly every morning at school for weeks — but she never brought it.
The stars, too, look backward to experiences that conjure a chuckle now. Perhaps in some we see the embryonic characters of to-day.
Certainly Estelle Taylor evinced a dramatic spirit in the first event of her life that she can recall. She got mad, and was bent on suicide.
"My mother had placed a bottle of iodine on a shelf, cautioning me never to touch it," her reply to my question flashed instantly. "One day she had to punish me, and as I
Far Away
The stars look back upon their some of them poignant, some of
By Myrtle
went crying downstairs I thought of the iodine. I got a chair and clambered up to the shelf to get the bottle. Climbing down, I spilled it all on the floor. Just then mother came downstairs. I held up the empty bottle and said, 'Now you'll be sorry. I've killed myself !' "
Louise Fazenda's earliest memory is of adventure. It was an experiment in rapid locomotion. She lived on a steep hill, now in the center of the Los Angeles business district. She made a conveyance out of a soap box and, with a neighbor boy as passenger and herself as pilot, started down to see the world. The nails holding the improvised brake pulled out, the rear wheels came off, the boy bounced out, but Louise was too busy steering to notice. Miraculously missing passing vehicles, she slid across the street at the bottom of the hill and hit a wagon. She was thrown under the horse's hoofs, but he was too busy sleeping to notice. So her only marks were skinned knees and a few bruises — until she got home.
The setting was one of
the Vatican chapels where the laity is admitted for the Easter services. The altars were beautiful with lilies — white flowers everywhere— and from some hidden place music swelled from soft tones into a paean of song. Kneeling, a tiny, dark-haired threeyear-old, her reason developed by home training to the point of understanding, bowed her head in reverential awe. And when the Pope appeared in his beautiful white robe, her heart filled with an ecstasy of happiness. The little child was Dolores Asunsolo, now Dolores del Rio.
Douglas Fairbanks' earliest memory would be of a stunt, his first. And a failure, too. He was about four
Milton Sills' studious habits were fully developed at thirteen years.