Evening Star Newspaper, July 24, 1932, Page 64

,r ' ge——————————— = “FIVE PASTURES AWAY” One of The Star Magazine’s First- Run Stories — An- other Will Appear in the Magazine Next Sunday. Watch for It. HE stood on the platform of the slowing train. A smart figure in soft brown and jade green that gave gracefully to her slight curves, New York seemed a dream. Chicago was looming a daylight fact. She took the first taxi she saw. So many pecple flying about. EIawola told herself that half of Chicago must be out on a holiday. Her promise to write Johnathan she kept in the letter if not in the spirit. She sent him a gayly colored post card of Lincoln Park. “It's a lovely park,” she wrote. Less than a third of the way across the park she dropped on the grass. She wiggled hot, aching feet out of expensive brown shoes. “Oh,” she sighed, as the cool lake air seeped through sheer stockings, “this park’'s bigger than all Hilltop.” “Why don’t you buy larger shoes?” laughed a voice above her. “You mind——" Batola looked up. The command hung in the 2air. The tanned face ‘and merry eyes six feet above her kinkled in amused laughter. “Eyes like mgjher's,” was her first thought. It was many weeks before Philip Michael Cunnjngham knew that was why Batola allowed him to drop on the grass beside her like an old friend. In a few minutes they were chatting gayly. Batola was trying to ¢x- plain where she was goihg. “To California,” she waved her arms. “It's a bit largish; haven't you picked a town?” “Glamorous Hollywood,” she grinned. “Hollywcod! I live there.” “An inducement?” “Ought to be” He matched her playful tone. “Besides, if you stay in one spot long enough a goodly number of celebrities will lm‘.‘I can’'t sit still so very long,” she admitted, “besides I'm not much interested in celebrisies, I'm just looking for . . .” “A ‘Far Away Hickory Tree',” defiantly. HE tossed her cloudy hair, long ago escaped from the tight little piece of brown felt with its jade bar—called a hat. “Have you come ‘five pasturgs away and three mcuntains beyond?'” he asked. “Oh!” It was a joyous cry. “Do you know the hickory tree fable?” Her eager eyes beamed at him. That he should understand and not laugh. Gorgeous! “For a long time,” he confided, “I've been looking for my hickory tree. Now, if you'll let me, when I get back to California, maybe we can look together. Just as a suggestion,” he added, slowly, “you’'d like the Roosevelt Hotel ” “We can look together,” she repeated to her- self. Batola's heart rose, flipped over, came to position. It wasn't the same, however. It sang a different tune. Where the inside wob- ble had been there was a nice cozy feeling. She looked idly at her watch. “Took,” she gasped, thrusting her hand under his nose, ‘‘look!” “I see,” he nodded; “it's very pretty . . .” *My train,” pulling at her shoes frantically, “Tl miss it.” All that wild taxi ride across Chicago Ba- tola went right on ensnaring the man without even knowing any of the rules of the game. If she thought at all, she merely thought she was being happy. “My bags,” she thrust two checks at him, *I checked them.” “I'll get them,” he promised. Long, swift legs that he had, dignity thrown aside as it was, he was still too slow. The train was quite gone when he attempted to brush past the gateman. He slumped down on the nearest bench. “And,” he shrugged, “my bag's on that same train. What a mess.” He glanced at the bags at his feet. Name tags, of course. He opened one of them. “Batola Winton. Notify Johnathan Hawk Winton, Hilltop, Mass., only in case of my death.” Mike gave a long, low whistle. “Humph!” he grunted. “John Winton's sis- ter, of course. Though she's not a Winton in anything but name; judging by John. Tl De . . What he’d be he never recorded, because he suddenly decided to send two telegrams. One to hold his bags at the Denver station. The other to Batola, to wait there. On the next train, Mike swore a couple of swears. “All that girl needs,” he told the flying farms, “is to love some one so fiercely she hasn’t any emotion left to throw around.” Three miles and two cigarettes later—"“I'll swear I'm right and—I'm going to be that ATOLA, on the Overland, just couldn’t be bothered about the loss of her suitcases. Her little hand grip would see her through. Mother had taught her never to worry about the past, but to look to the future, confidently expecting better things. She sighed a wee sigh that the nice man had been too late. She would have liked to say good-by and ask Lis name. Ho—hum! She took Mike's anxious telegram from the porter, signed for it, grinned impishly, and threw it out the window. “You can't catch me that way, Johnathan,” she spaerkled, brushing her hands, as though flicking Hilltop associations from her. From the Denver station she sent Johnathan a post card of Pike's Peake: *“Air, Johnathan, you haven't really breathed until you've tasted Denver’s air.” Johnathan, Batola knew, would shake his head, firmly believing that she was already beyond redemption. Gadding over Europe with the family, doing the Panama when very ycung, tripping to Florida coasts or Cuba—these were not preparation to handle personzl affairs while traveling, according to Johnathan. He reckoned without Batola’s memory and independence. Nor could he know that Ben Hugh had sug- gested going by bus from Denver. When his telegrams to the train were all re- turned, “Party not aboard,” he was torn between a frantic desire to send the Federal reserves after Batola and bring her back in chains, or to wash his hands of her entirely, hoping she would not bring disgrace on the name of Winton, The tearing of his conventional soul was still in progress when he received his first night letter from Philip Michael Cunningham. Batola traveled gayly west in easy stages; free from Hilltop’s repressed dignity; hugging to her soul the glorious dream cf finding her “Far Away Hickory Tree” in California immediately on arrival, Uncle Josiah Winton had started something when he died and his will was read. Batola now had to finish that something and she wasn't exactly sure how it should be done. She could hear that angular lawyer drcone: = . and to my nicce, Batola Stuart Winton, solely on condition that she marry a home-6wn man and settle down, $30,000; otherwise . .. .” Batola ceased to listen. Hilltop, the seat of that frigid aristocracy in which Batola lived, was to her a slowly burning fuse. She knew that much of this aristocracy was of as recent birth as the coming of her father. Most of it of somewhat humble origin. Some inherent part of her father's austere bearing gave her, in addition to the Irish train- ing of her sun-loving mother, a very scnsible outlook on the business of living. All of which included in no manner the marrying of any nome-town man. Those words, reaching from the dead, wrought a great anger in Batola. In its heat she fled. No one paid any attention to her undignified flight. They had been possessed of that re- pressed bredness for always. Only Johnathan, feeling responsible, promised himself to severely reprimand her when she reached home. God made Johnathan Batola’s brother. Johnathan thought he could improve on God's work, 0 he constituted himself her entire retinue . ... family, guardian, confessor and all. Batola’s life had been a ccntinuation of her mother's—one long, frustrated effort to emerge from the chrysalis of the Wintons. Batola could not exactly see daylight; but, as she journeyed Westward, in her far, far East it was breaking dawn. Into her seething mind came the tones of her lcved mother's voice: “There is always one thing you can do, darling. I should have done it. But you came and after that I did not care, much.” OTHER came, from the West, to schoal in the city on which Hilltop looked superiorly down, intolerant. A Westerner, of Irish parents, never quite belonged in Hilltop. Batola's relatives were wont to consider her father’s marriage the mistake of a weak moment. “Don’t ever t;y to fight the Wintons,” wee mother had said. “Just run. There’s money in the bank. The money you signed for the last time we were down. There's enough to carry you far and long if the need arises. If they crowd you, run. Ben Hugh will take care of everything for you.” At 10 years Batola, a whirlwind of flashing eyes, happy activity, pounced in where Uncle Josiah was calling: “Ba-toll-ah! Ba-toll-ah!” “You sound just like a church bell, Uncle Josiah. Why den't you call me Bat?” At 16, a firebrand of opinions and decisions that got her nowhere with the family. Batola announced at dinner, apropcs Uncle Josiah's announcement that no Winton should marry other than a home-town person: “I'll never marry a Hilltop man, never.” Now, five years later, came this will thing. Reaching from the grave, Uncle Josiah still tried to mold those around him to his way of thinking. “I won't,” she cried, “I won't.” Be forced by a dead and gone Winton to marry some man in Hilltop, just for some money? Batola's short, cloudy hair shivered with her vigorous head- shake. Two hours and 17 decisions later, Johnathan Hawk Winton entered the Winton home. It was a home that smacked of many ances- tors, great dignity and faultless traditions. Johnathan, the Third, fitted to perfection. There had once been many Wintons. Their portraits hung in the Winton drawing room. The living line had died out. There were only Johnathan and Aunt Hisparia Winton. Batola did not count. The heavy black of Johnathan’s suit was a somber note in the coldly formal hall. To Johnathan’s big ears came Batola’s voice, sing- ing. Singing! His bushy brows contracted. “There's ‘always a Far Away Hickory Tree,” sang Batola in a hushed, light voice. “It is not suitable,” admonished Johnathan from the doorway, “that you should sing . . . .” “Thank yoy, Johnathan,” Batola smiled. “That’s the first time you have ever dignified my efforts by calling them singing.” “And that dress,” he pointed a disapproving finger at her pink flannel; “it isn't ....” “Before you say anything more,” she inter- rupted, “I want to tell you I'm going away.” “Going away?” He looked on her flashing loveliness as a geologist looks on some bit of bright new rock. “Going where?” “Five Pastures Away and Three Mountains Beyond,” she hummed. “I'm going,” she spoke decisively now, “West. To find My Far Away Hickory Tree.” “Could you be sensible, Batola, and tell me just what you mean?” “I'm going,” she rushed on, “to California.” “Where,” with dreadful calm, “will you get the money?” “I've several thousand dollars. Mother gave the money to me. She told me how to use it. Ben Hugh fixed it up for me. Well, I'm going to squander it on travel. “You might as well calm down, Batola. You will do as Uncle Josiah wishes. You . . .” he paused. Something of the fire of her halted him. “I'll talk to you in the morning.” He stepped aside. his whole austere bearing announcing that the interview was at an end. Batola skipped up the broad, winding stair- case. “There's always an isle, but we haven't the chart; there's alwas a door, but we haven't the key,” she sang. On the upper landing she paused. “Don‘t wait breakfast for me, Johnathan,” she called. He heard her door slam on “My Far Away Hickory Tree.” “Tomorrow morning,” he promised the stairs, scowlingly, “I'll put a restraining order on that money.” His promise was wasted. ‘The money was already out of the bank, and in the morning Batola was gone. Aunt Hisparia, a withered Winton in her proper black gown, whose only resemblance to lightning was that she lived her life along the lines of least resistance, came majestically down the broad stairs to find Johnathan frowningly reading the note Batola had left. He handed it to her silently. “You might get in touch with Philip,” she suggested. “He is in California.” “California is very big,” ponderously returned Johnathan. “I haven't seen Philip for several vears. Besides, I consider this strictly a family affair.” ALIFORNIA at last! Batola felt let down, flat, gone stale, useless and aimless. She couldn't exactly explain what she had expected. But whatever it was, it didn’t seem to manifest itself. Los Angeles was “just another city.” Even Hollywood swanked hotels like New York. She didnt’ like hotels. She found an apart- ment. The next morning, bragging to the open win- dow about her good coffee, trying not to admit she was lonesome—even for the turbulent Win- ton household—she remembered what the grand young man had said about the Roosevelt Hotel. ‘When she entered the lobby her heart did the same flip-flop, thump, roll over and upright it had done in Chicago. There was no mistaking him. It was the Grand Young Man from Chi- cago. She sat tense; fearful he would not look before he went too far. He saw her. A quick smile of welcome lit his face like a sudden brightness of lights on a flower bed in the dark. “You little—"" he grasped her hand. “I don’t know what to call you. Why didn’'t you wait for me in Denver?” “Why what?” “Didn't you get my telegram? you wait for me?” “Your telegram?” “Yes, Polly Parrott, my telegram. Don't tell me you didn't get my telegram just before you reached Denver, asking you to wait there?” Batola began to laugh in earnest now. A slow chuckle that gathered volume and rose with soft crescendo. “Oh,” she gasped, “I threw it out of the window."” “You what?” “I thought it was from Johnathan, my brother, you know. But, of course, you don't know. Johnathan is my brother and dread- fully impressed with his importance and re- sponsibility. I didn't want to answer any tele- gram of his, and I knew that if I opened it I would be a softy and do just that. So, I threw it out the window.” “I could spank you,” he said. “I've hopped about like a pogo pole with the itch trying to find you. Didn't you take a room here? I supposed you would and I checked your bags; you ;.o “You brought my bags? Aren't you the darling. Now I won't have to buy any more clothes for a little while.” Her heartbeat was down to normal, but the thought that he had assumed responsibility for her bags was rather heady. “I don't like hotels. I've an apartment. I want to make my own coffee. I can,” she bragged. “You infant,” he snorted with a grin. “Where are my bags?” she interrupted. “You will have to redeem them. Ge to lunch with me,” he smiled. “I pay the bill?” without a flicker. “Don’t be absurd.” “That’s no forfeit. If I go to lunch with you as your guest,” she explained, little girl fashion, “that’'s doing me a favor.” “Thanks,” he beamed. “I just don't know what I'm going to do with you.” “You're not going to do anything with me,” she spat at him, “Johnathan. I was glad to see you. Thrilled to know I would get my bags again. But if you are going to talk like Johnathan . . . "” “I can jump in the lake, from your tone.” “You can do just that” She relaxed, smiled. “You might tell me your name,” she suggested. “I beg your pardon—P. Michael Cunning- ham.” “I'll call you Mike,” she squinted at him. “Are you by any chance a Hilltop Cunning- ham?” “I'm a California Cunningham,” he an- swered promptly. Afterward, she remembered almost too promptly. The next thing he took her to a dance. Batola wore white. Graceful, clinging white that made her look more youthful than ever. She was rapidly becoming a one-minute girl before half of Mike's crowd had met her. Then she disappeared. Mike stormed into all sorts of dark corners, getting himself cordially dis- Why didn't THE SUNDAY A S STAR, W liked. He heard her laugh. That unaffected, spontaneous laugh he loved. He listened. Out in a parkeg car, in the driveway, he found her, with Pete McLain. “We're going home,” he informed her, with- out preamble. “He's jealous,” she giggled to herself, as he took her to his car. Then he smashed her conceit. “Didn’'t you know any better than to sit out DON'T BE JACKIE COOPER ON LIFE. “Things that are just good for you usually ain’t very interesting.” “I don’t know what I'm going to be when I grow up. Maybe by that time they’ll have invented a lot of new things to be.” “You might as well make up your mind not to make a fuss if you don’t get what you want.” BY ALICE L. TILDESLEY. IGHT years old may be just the right| age for a small boy. It's a bit young for a philosopher. But Jackie Coope: is a better philosopher than most men five times his age. Witness: We sat down on the lawn of the Iittld park at the back of lot 2, where the fron of a homey-looking house had been erected and where awnings and swings and painted table: and chairs were overrun with the small gues of a children's party, part of the action o Jackie Cooper’s latest picture. Between set-ups of cameras for varied angle] on a scene in which Jackie promises to put locket in his ear and take it out of his mouth the youngsters snatched the time to choo sides for an exciting game to be played noon. But when noontime came, it developed th lunch was not to be served on the set; a lon trek must be made back to the cafe an dressing rooms, with no minutes left fo recreation. Jackie expressed himself freely as he climbe| into his grandmother’s car. But presently h! brown eyes were dancing cver the top of thi back seat. “It’s pictures,” he commented. “Directo: ~