Screenland (May-Oct 1936)

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Olive Oil for dry hair ( ) Pine Tar for oily hair ( ) Both 20c Name .. Street _. ... — .. City..._ _._ : PLEASE PRINT PLAINLY © 1!>"6 Admiracion Lahoratoiit-s. Inc. my 'rithmetic when you're fixing my dress ?" "Guess I can stand it, honey," Andey reassures her. "Eight plus six plus seven," begins Miss Klamp. Still threading raffia, Shirley replies: "Twenty-one." "Seventy-eight minus thirty-five." Her work drops into her lap. Hazelbrown eyes are fixed for a moment on space. "Forty-three," she says, and picks up her cardboard. "Some boys are going on a picnic. If four boys go in a rowboat and six boys go in a sailboat, how many are going on the picnic?" "Ten boys," says Shirley, with that sidelong smile that tells you a good joke is coming, "and two boats are going on the picnic." Besides arithmetic, she learns reading and spelling, writing and sentence structure, French and drawing. The work is planned so as to enrich her experience, rather than to push her still farther ahead of her years. She reads the books prescribed by the school course, which still leaves time for other books — the beloved classics of childhood — to be read aloud to her. She prefers fantasy to realism, and loves fairy-tales above everything else. Rapt and dreaming, she drinks in the ancient lore of princess and goblin and fairy queen — the little girl who doesn't for a moment realize that she's living a modern fairy-tale of her own. Today Miss Klamp is reading "Pinocchio" to her, while Shirley's fingers stick patiently to the self-imposed job of finishing "daddy's blotter." She asks an occasional question, though she'd rather figure things out for herself when she can. They come to the "good fairy with azure hair." Shirley looks up. "Azure hair?" "Yes, Shirley. It means blue, like the sky." "That's good," approves Shirley heartily. "I'm glad they have blue hair in fairyland. It's my favorite color." The word "philosopher" crops up in the text, and Miss Klamp pauses instinctively for the question she expects. No question is forthcoming. "What's a philosopher, Shirley?" she asks. "Well," comes the answer, "I believe it's a sort of teacher." She holds out her cardboard. "How d'you think I'm doing with this red?" "You couldn't be doing better," Miss Klamp assures her, with an emphasis that serves to cover her astonishment. "How did you know what philosopher meant, Shirley?" she inquires cautiously. Shirley shrugs. "Must've heard it somewhere." She's more interested in a friend who has just appeared than in her linguistic prowess. Shirley has a passion for crayons, and she knows that her friend, who uses them in his work, is likely to have one crayon to spare for her. He offers them on his outspread palms. "Which will you have?" Her fingers hover, she looks up, and the tiny dimples at the corners of her mouth start flickering. "Guess I'll take the red." she announces, "because it's the reddest," and they burst into laughter at some conspiracy of their own. You begin to realize that Shirley's the kind of person who can always find something to laugh at — that the sunniness she radiates on the screen belongs not to "Bright Eyes" nor "Curly Top" nor "Little Miss Marker," but lies deep in the disposition of Shirley Temple. "Mommy says you spoil me," she informs her friend. "What do you think?" he inquires gravely. She ponders this for a moment. "I don't think so — I hope not," she replies with equal gravity. There's nothing coy or selfconscious about this rejoinder. You have only to hear her "I hope not" to know that she says it because that's what she means, that nothing lies behind it but her own clear candor. "It's impossible," you may hear people say, "that a child surrounded as she is by the world's adulation should They're husband and wife, both appear in "Mary of Scotland," but this is Fredric March's day off, so he visits Florence Eldridge. remain simple, untouched, without affectation." Let these same people spend a day on the set with her, and they'll leave convinced that the impossible is true. I defy the most vigilant eye to detect in her any hint of the show-off. A miracle, maybe — but a miracle that works — partly because of her mother's wise training, partly because of her natural qualities. Watching her, you grow gradually conscious of something about her that's difficult to define— a kind of serenity, spiritual poise, dignity — call it what you like, for I don't know what to call it — which is proof against anything cheap or false. It's a quality rare in a child, usually coming, if at all, with the mellowing of years. Perhaps it's that, even more than her gifts as an actress, which lies at the root of the love she inspires. "You going to draw me a picture with that crayon?" Andey. asks her. "If you want me to. Only I don't do drawing very well." "Why. Shirley ! What about my beautiful rose?" And from her kit, where it's obviously lain treasured for many a day, Andey produces the drawing of a highly colored rose, with this legend printed underneath : "Dear Andey, tomorrow we will have a coca cola together. Happy birthday. Don't forget. Shirley." "But I didn't draw it," says honest Shir