The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1920-11-05

done by the pupils as season wind
up and didn't have to sit all through
an amateur Hamlet production and
listen to Gladys squeal and rant
around the stage in white nightie
with her hair down and trimmed with
parsley?
"Say, she's just plain bughouse," /
remarks.
"S-s-s-sh!" says Sadie. "She's play
ing the part of Ophelia. She is sup
posed to be mad, you know. So is
Hamlet"
II don't blame him." says 1, with
her around so much"
l expect Gladys don't know how
awful she is. Anyway, she keeps at
it, winter after winter, joshed along
by her unkind friends and the dra-
matte professors. And on the side she
takes lessons in breathing, and facial
expression, and voice culture and I
don't know what. She's been at it
ever since her folks died and left her
all that money.
"She's long, timber, lanky party,
Gladys, with big, rollin' dark eyes and
a lot of black hair that's always done
up sloppy. 1 think she fancies that
she's a lady vamp in mild way.
About a half of one per cent. vamp, I
should say. She has some of the lines
and goes through some of the mo-
lions, but she's about as much of a
man fascinator as Swiftly Joe is a
lady-killer. At least, that's my dope
on her.
But she sure is persistent about try
ing to be an actress. It's her one big
dream, and she's got to the point now
where she'd do almost anything to
get on the real stage. She's even
tried to break into vaudeville and the
movies. But then, there's nothing
novel about that Greenwich Village
is full of females, old and young,
with the same ambition.
You see, the Tarletons used to be
neighbors of ours, out in Rockhurst-
on-the-Sound, and we've seen more or
less of Gladys ever since she came
home from boardin' school, For the
last few years, though, since she's
been Twin in town winters and
spendin' her summers Off at resorts,
we haven't been in such close touch
with her, I'm happy to say.
But here early this September we
did rum across her again unexpected.
1t was while we was off with Pinck-
ney on little motor trip up in Yer
mont. All one forenoon, as we was
climbin' over hills and windin'
through valleys, we kept seem these
yellow signs advisin' us to stop at
Simpkinsville and "try one of Mrs
Fosters Old-fashioned Chicken Din
lners."
Well, maybe you know how it is.
The first few signs you don't pay any
attention to. Then you begin to read
em. Next you start lookin' for 'em.
And finally you get to hankerin' for
chicken dinner AT least, if it's any
where near noon, you just feel like
you've got to have one or perish.
"Only two miles to Mrs. Fosters!"
exclaims Pinckney. 81 suppose it will
be the regulation roadhouse dinner;
where they massacre the toughest
relics of the hen yard to make tour
lists holiday. But who is ready to
take a chance?"
'I've had my face set for chicken
for the last hour" says I. II could
almost eat the kind they serve on
dinin' cars"
eff you're as desperate as all that"
says Pinckney, 1--WE will try Mrs. Fos-
ters brand; but remember, I am not
believer in signs. Behold, we ap-
proach Simpkinsville!"
And at that we almost slid through
without knowing it, there was so little
to the burg. But canvas stretched
across the road with big Mrs. Foster
sign painted on it brought us to a
quick stop in front of farmhouse
that had almost grown into summer
hotel. You know. They'd tackled on
verandas here, changed the front bed
room into an Office by putting in a
desk, added dinin' room wing on
one side, and broke few dormers
, out of the roof to make attic bed
rooms of the bowl and pitcher variety.
| And who should Sadie discover,
just as we're streamin' in for dinner,
but Gladys Tarleton, wearin' fringed
smock and with her hair braided in
Girl Scout fashion.
, "Why, Gladys!" says Sadie. what
ever are you doing here?"
aCip,rlxy ractino ,,ou cn1,I ond dYvinly-