Shadow of the Puritan By - Mildred West "Here's another forked road," John sighed. "Which one shall we take this time?" I drew a coin from my pocket and flipped it. "Tails, we go left; heads, we go right," I suggested. It was tails; so the party abided by the coin's decision. Everyone of us declared that we would not tell a soul about our getting lost just twenty or twenty-five miles from Cardston, in Canada. It would be hard to face the ridicule of the folks at home if we ever got home. Being lost in that vast sea of wheat made me realize what one on a lone raft in the Pacific must feel. "If there were only some sign of life other than the gently swaying wheat," I thought. Not even a house or a tree broke the rocking horizon. Suddenly John jerked the brakes. "Well, can you beat that!" he exclaimed, pointing ahead along the trenched road. We in the back seat stretched our necks to see. "It's a tiny village," Marcia declared. "I hope it has a soda fountain." By this time we had scrambled out of the car and were standing on the hillside gazing down upon a little town in the center of the shallow bowl whose ridge was our platform. The village was a series of concentric circles. It looked much like a target whose bulls-eye was a dry, cleared space. The next circle consisted of long, low, buildings. These were unpainted, and there were a few small, scattered windows in each. No sidewalks nor paved streets caught our eyes. The circle was destitute of porches and grass, trees and flowers. Hundreds of tiny white specks that must have been ducks or chickens flecked the ground. The circle was a series of green and yellow spokes interrupted in one place by a small glassy pond, and dotted occasionally with hay stacks. "What are we waiting for? Let's go down," someone suggested. We coasted down the hill and stopped in the center of the town. "I wonder where the people are," said Marcia as she glanced from one rustic building to the next. "Maybe it's a holiday, and they have gone to another city, John ventured. "It could be a ghost town, you know," I put in. "Nonsense, I saw a man or something moving down here before we came," Mother remarked. "And besides, the crops are too well taken care of for that." "And look at all of the ducks and chickens. They're not wild ones," Marcia put in. "Let's see if we can get into one of the buildings," John urged. He slipped out of the car and headed towards the nearest one. As we prepared to follow him, the door of one of the smallest lodges opened, and a young man stepped out. "Oh, hello there, strangers. You are tourists, I presume." He smiled. "Yes. We are lost," Marcia said. "Indeed, you must be, for no one has been to this village for nearly a decade except myself," the young man said good-naturedly. "Do you mean that you live here alone?" I asked. "Oh, no, I don't live here," he hastened. "I meant no one except myself has been here from the outside world. The Mennonites live here. I am the school teacher. The Canadian government hires me to teach classes up to the fourth grade, but the people themselves really do not want a teacher. They do not believe in education." "Where are the people?" John quizzed. The man laughed. "Those who saw you come are probably hiding under their beds. No one except a few of the older men have ever seen an automobile; so your car frightened them. The others are working." "Don't the people ever leave this place?" Marcia questioned. "Never. Maybe you would like me to show you about?" "Please do!" exclaimed Marcia. "This first building is the school. I came here today to see that everything was in order for classes to begin next month." He stepped up to the door and pushed it open. "What a tiny school house," Mother said. "It just has one room." "Get a load of this book," smiled John, who had been snooping into one of the desks. "It looks like heiroglyphics to me." "Can the people speak English?" I asked of our guide. "Yes, but it may be difficult for you to understand. They speak a degenerated language . . . Shall we see some of the other buildings?" (Continued on page 21) "He jumped back in great fright." Page Eight Adventures In Autographs By - J.M. Demos The frozen doorman at the canopied entrance to the cafe delivered his ultimatum in icicles that refused to melt beneath the brightness of the Hollywood sunshine. Absolutely no autographs were to be sought from movie greats intent upon eating at his cafe or else. The "or else", we soon discovered, was a garden hose with which he periodically revived drooping flowers in the miniature flower boxes arranged in front of the windows. Standing with the rest of the several hundred tourists who had gathered there to seek the forbidden autographs, I laughed. I had seen too many like threats fall by the side to regard this one any differently. Even the gilt braid and buttons of the doorman's uniform would prove no match for the determination of my companions. I laughed because only yesterday he had confessed to my eager ears that when the tourists stopped gaping, the stars' patronage would likewise cease. Yet, as a matter of "front" policy, he assured each star that there would be no bothersome crowd at the Vendome not while he was there to watch out for their interests. The rest of my kind did not laugh, however. Wallace Beery, flushed and hurried, strode belligerently through the lines of tourists who drew back instinctively from his fierce scowl and slouched stride as they whispered his name fearfully. Someone asked, "Isn't that Edward G. Robinson? There there in the doorway." It was. He took a black cigar out of his mouth and waved it at us laughingly. He disappeared and a few moments later drove by in his automobile that had been cached at the rear of the restaurant. The disappointment of the crowd was pathetic in its sincerity. "Oh, well," said one girl consolingly, "maybe he couldn't write, anyway." An immense limousine of deep maroon purred to a stop at our side. The livery of the oriental chauffeur matched the car's color so closely that one wondered if they hadn't been dipped in the same pot of paint. The white sidewalls of the tires, even, found a counterpart in the white trim of the uniform, buttons, and cap. It was with breathless excitement that Dolores Del Rio emerged from the luxurious cavern of the car. Gasps of appreciation were heard as it was discovered that she, too, was dressed in maroon and white from hat to two toned shoes. Royalty itself could not have made a more sensational entrance. But I was puzzled and no end annoyed to find that not one autograph was signed. No move had been made toward any of the greats by the autograph brigade who stared enviously with autograph books hanging uselessly at their sides. Mothers with their prospective Shirley Temples chewed their nails nervously as directors and producers of course anyone who ate here must be a director or producer unless he wore the orange make-up of moviedom, then he automatically was labeled "star" passed them by without a glance. A gleam of triumph showed in the doorman's eye as he contemptuously herded us back for each entrance or exit. I did not mind. As yet I had seen no star for whom I wished to risk the disfavor of the doorman. Doormen's friendship can be both profitable and educational, I had learned through long weeks of experience. A car paused at the corner down the street, and I saw a vaguely familiar figure alight and move toward us. If I knew my movie stars as well as I thought I did, it was Clau-dette Colbert, winner of the previous year's Academy Award. I looked furtively about at my companions, and tossed my fears away resolutely. Apparently no else had noticed her. With affected nonchalance, I walked hurriedly to meet her with my book and pen outstretched. She smiled her "typical movie-queen smile No. 2311/4" and graciously scrawled in my book. I profusely stammered my thanks. I had achieved the scoop of the day by anyone's standards and turned to tell the world about it. I turned ando found the rest of the mob descending upon us and blustering close behind them our enemy the doorman. "Well," I thought, "just in time," and stepped back into the shade to watch the fun. It wasn't long in happening, either, but I had to reconstruct my theories regarding doormen's threats considerably. Our doorman was left behind for only a moment. With a determined lunge he siezed the hose and turned it full upon the group which, stunned momentarily, fell away from the star. Surprised at the immediate effect of his barrage, the doorman did not turn his weapon once more to its domestic pursuits, but left it playing in dripping rivulets upon the new hat, gleaming hairdress, alluring make-up, and creamy dress of the star, running together the varied hues of each and spilling all down upon her trim shoes. I don't remember whether the doorman regained his composure enough to turn his hose from its battlefield first or whether the shocked indignation of Miss Colbert burst forth about him enough to break upon his consciousness. At any rate, between my laughter that threatened to become uncontrollable roars of glee, I saw that the doorman was vaguely attempting to placate the righteous anger of the star with his handkerchief as she very explicitly told him what she thought of him, his cafe, Hollywood, and even barbaric America reverting quite regularly to descriptive French to do so. With a frosty glare still upon her face, Claudette defiantly proceeded to sign all of the autograph books extended to her, hailed a nearby taxi, and departed in regal, if somewhat bedraggled, glory. Thoroughly frightened by the clouds of anger breaking upon the doorman's flushed face, I, in company with the rest of the crowd, left hurriedly for new fields of conquest. The next day I revisited the cafe on my usual autograph round. With a package of gum in my hand as appeasement, I warily approached the rigid back of the doorman. I touched his elbow and said "hello" weakly. He turned with a broad smile of welcome. It was a new doorman. "I walked hurriedly to meet her." Page Nine