Sheer Wools in Summer Wardrobe
By CHERIE NICHOLAS
THERE'S no doubt about it, the
well-dressed woman of today
knows the value of clothes that will
go places and do. things with the
same ease and aplomb as their
streamlined wearer. The up-and
about wardrobe must contain frocks
and costumes that will adapt them
selves with taste and comfort to
any number of changing scenes and
temperatures.
No matter what the season, there
is something about sheer wool that
does the trick. Tailored or dress
maker in style, a sheer wool cos
tume carries with it a classic at
mosphere which keeps it never too
dressy for town or country, travel
ing or local activities. There is
ever that something about the
smart new light woolen ensembles,
dresses and coats that bespeak that ]
casual look of good taste that is
aristocratically at home at tea or
card party or any more or less so
cial event of the day.
Wool knits, light as a feather and
luxuriously soft to the touch, make
charming and supremely correct
sports frocks. Whether you are an
agile golfer or simply a deck
lounger your wool knit costume will
give you a joyful feeling of freedom
to take your fun as you find it.
Both pastel and darker shades are
too smart for sports and clever de
signs vary from one-piece classic
styles to two-piece and jacket cos
tumes that may be ensembled
with a variety of blouses and acces
sories. Zephyr knits, soft wool jer
seys and fine featherweight angoras
are cool and comfortable, and lacy
weaves in lightweight wool are
unusually interesting.
Fancy shadow weaves, fascinat
ing bright prints and embroidery
motifs are cleverly emphasized by
simple styling. Sheer monotones
and self-plaided weaves vie with
hard-twisted worsteds for first place
in the tailored scene.
The adaptability of sheer wool
knits is well illustrated in the slim
short-sleeved frock shown to the left
in the picture. The material for
this dress is a featherweight a nr
gora knit in pearl gray with distinc
tive two-toned bands in brown and
maize inserted in bolero effect in
the blouse and edging the sleeves
and skirt hem. The smart shirt
waist closing below a rounded col
larless neck is finished with a row
of composition buttons in maize. A
deep inverted pleat in the skirt
front gives plenty of action freedom.
As pictured to the right, close knit
wool jersey in chic navy blue makes
a stunning and versatile frock for
sports or spectator wear. Cut on
flattering princess lines with a full
length front buttoned closing, it is
cool and practical. Sleeves are
full and short' and neckline is high.
Men’s tie silk in gay red, navy and
white tri-color patterning is inter
esting trimming. Note how attrac
tively it is employed to outline two
large plastron pockets and the
round yoke treatment below a trim
tailored neck.
A stunning color combination dis
tinguishes the beautifully tailored
dress and redingote ensemble of
sheer wool centered in the group.
Tucked treatment in bold chevron
patterning accents the high-throated
neckline. The dusty rose dress is
topped by a full length redingote in
a light olive green. Double flap hip
pockets and scissor-sharp lapels are
nice details.
© Western Newspaper Union.
SHIRTMAKER FROCKS
IN COTTON, LINENS
Summertime means shirtmaker
frocks, and this year’s crop of shirt
makers is smarter and more distin
guished than ever.
Cotton, linen and silk are used
to fashion useful frocks that are
good for most occasions in the sum
mer scene, especially out-of-town.
New and diversified necklines bring
novelty to some of the models.
Smart is a shirtmaker frock with
a collarless neckline marked by
tucking. The tucks continue all the
way down the button-up-the-front
closing.
The classic frock in striped silk
is always good, as is the model in
pure silk that tubs beautifully. A
grand model is in dotted silk and
has a fly front with enclosed zipper.
Decorative Zippers Now
Used in Variety of Ways
New jeweled zippers are now be
ing shown in use on women’s wear,
(or fastening ' sweaters, bathing
suits, gloves, hand bags and many
other purposes. The new zippers
are bound o|) colored tape and
spaced at frequent intervals with
various colored catalin ornaments
resembling novelty buttons. When
the zipper is closed the catalin orna
ments take the place of buttons.
When opened the ornaments assem
ble at the base of the zipper with
the effect of being in a continuous
piece.
Multi-Colored Accent
White shantung makes a sum
mer costume with a front yoke of
multicolored striped applications.
The same bright stripes — reds,
used on the pockets of the short
white shantung jacket.
Chintz for Evening
Quilted chintz is used for sum
mer evening gowns.
■
IT’S HAND KNIT
By CIIEKIE NICHOLAS
—
Just imagine the joy, not to for
get the comfort in wearing, any
little girl will find in owning such
a cute peasant hand knit dress as
this. When all other frocks in little
missy’s wardrobe fail, being too
this or that for a practical day,
there just isn’t anything to equal
a dress knit of knit-cro-sheen, as
is the model pictured. Looks not
too dressy but is dressy enough,
washes perfectly and is pretty in
dark colors or in the charming
pastels as you may choose. Doesn’t
take long at all to knit the cunning
model pictured and the yarn costs
very little. Note that it has no belt,
the dress falling in a graceful
princess line from the shoulders,
which makes it very stylish.
'Ikumhd about
Semi-Nude Fashions.
SANTA MONICA, CALIF.
—Clothes may not make
the man, but leaving them
off certainly makes him fool
ish. And that goes double for
the women.
Whence arises the present-day de
lusion that going about dressed at
nan-masi encnances
the attractiveness of
the average adult?
Our forbears of the
Victorian era wore
too much for health
or happiness o r
cleanliness. But isn’t
it worse to offend
the eye all through
the lingering sum
mer by not wearing
enough to cover up
blemishes, thebulges
Irvin S. Cobb
and the bloats that come with ma
turity? Sun baths should be taken
en a doctor's prescription, not at
the corner of First and Main.
Women old enough to know bet
ter are the worst offenders, seems
like. If only they’d stop to con
sider that the snail, which is naked,
would lose in any beauty contest
against the butterfly, which wears
all the regalia the traffic will stand!
But even though it’s for their own
good, you can’t tell ’em. If some
body started the fad of going at
the game while practically nude,
inside of two weeks mumblepeg
would be the national pastime—un
til somebody else thought up a game
to be played by folks without a
stitch on. Or anyhow, just a stitch
here and there.
• • •
Doctoring Movie Scripts.
USUALLY they lay these yarns
on Mr. Sam Goldwyn, who
thrives upon them and goes right
on turning out successes, his motto
being, “What’s grammar as be
tween friends so long as the box
office shows results?” But, for a *
change, this one is ascribed to an
other producer, who proudly de
scribes himself as a self-made man,
whiqio, according to his critics, is
relieving the Creator of a consider
able responsibility and putting the
blame where the blame belongs.
They also say no self-made man
should stop with the job only partly
finished. But then Hollywood is full
of parties trying to push Humpty
Dumpty off the wall.
As the tale runs, this gentleman
entered the conference chamber at
his studio and as, with a kingly
gesture, he laid down a fat sheal
of typewritten pages, said to the
assembled intellects of his staff:
"Jumpmen, in all my experience
in the picture business this is what
you might call unique. Here is ab
solutely, posstiflly the only poifect
script I have ever read in my ontire
life. I tell you that before we start
altering it.”
m * m
Strikes Versus Wars.
DID you ever notice how like a
war is a strike?
The operator and his operatives
are the shock troops that suffer the
heaviest casualties. The owner risks
his profits and perhaps his market
and sometimes his plant. The work
er gives up his wages, frequently
his job, occasionally his life.
Stockholders see dividends van
ishing and investments shrinking.
Citizens see their communities dis
rupted. Women and children go on
short rations, many a time go ac
tually hungry. For, as in a war,
the innocent non-combatants bear
most grievous burdens.
Those who really garner in the
spoils—professional agitators; finan
cial buzzards eager to seize on
bankrupted industries; lawyers with
their writs and their injunctions;
imported thugs masquerading, for
one side or the other as honest
mechanics—these might be likened
to stay-at-home diplomats and profit
eers and hired mercenaries who
induce friendly nations to turn en
emies so they may gain their own
selfish ends.
After it’s over, we realize that
almost any strike might have been
averted had common sense and
common justice ruled, rather than
greed and entrenched stubbornness
and fomented hate. And the same is
true of almost any war. For every
real benefit to humanity came out
cf peace and arbitration, not out of
battle and destruction.
And here’s the final parallel: Ul
timately, the supposed victor finds
himself the actual loser. Tell me
which army won any great strike—
or any great war—and I’ll tell you
who won the San Francisco fire and
the Galveston flood.
IRVIN S. COBB.
ffi-WNU Service.
Crocodiles, Alligators
Crocodiles and alligators are so
closely allied zoologically that many
laymen cannot distinguish between
them. Hence alligators are fre
quently accused of attacking and
killing men when, in reality, the
killers are crocodiles. Naturalists
who have spent their lives in the
study of these reptiles, says Col
lier’s Weekly, state that they have
never heard of an authentic case of
j a human death caused by an al
I ligator.
CATTLE KINGDOM
By ALAN LE MAY -
CHAPTER I
"Of course you knew," the girl
faid, "a man has been killed, here
on the 94 range?”
Billy Wheeler turned to look at
the girl who perched beside him on
the corral fence, and for a moment
be forgot to answer. Marian Dunn
hadn’t been in the desert country
long enough to gather a very heavy
tan. Under the shadow of her Stet
son her face reflected the glow of
the fresh morning sunlight upon the
red hills; to Billy Wheeler it seemed
a fragile face, finely drawn, sug
gesting transparency. And her eyes
were blue distance boiled down. She
wore belted overalls and half boots;
but she could never have been’ mis
taken for a Westerner.
Billy Wheeler, though, could
never be mistaken for anything
else. The dry intermountain coun
try, by its necessity of wide ranges
and the perpetual mobility of the
aaddle, has set its mark upon its
aons. Wheeler was young, but his
weather-trimmed features showed
the blast of sun and sweep of wind,
and his gray eyes were visibly
tuned to distance.
The girl turned her eyes to him,
reminding him he was supposed to
aay something.
”1 didn’t hear much,” he said.
"A gas station man told me there
was a killing, as I came through
Inspiration; but he didn’t know
much about it.”
“I guess nobody does.”
"Yes, but—who was killed? And
when?”
“That’s just it,” the girl told him.
"They don’t know who was killed.
It’s the strangest thing I ever heard
of. They can’t even find him.”
“Can’t find who? The man who
was killed?”
‘That’s it.”
Billy Wheeler grinned slowly, boy
ishly. “Well, I’ll be darned!”
“I don’t think it’s funny. I think
it’s—horrible."
“Well, yes; I guess it is.”
He looked away, estimating again
the nearness of the approaching rid
ers. John “Red Horse” Dunn, Old
Man of the 94, at whose summons
Wheeler had come 300 miles, had
not been on hand to receive him,
having set out before daylight on
an unknown mission with three of
his cow hands. But they were com
ing in now; across the dry morning
Wheeler could identify the individ
ual riders at the half mile as they
Jog-trotted in, their ponies abreast.
“When did all this happen?” he
asked.
“Uncle John found the sign, as
he calls it, yesterday morning.”
“Then he must have wired me
right after that.”
“I guess so.”
She hadn’t known, then, that her
uncle had sent for him. She hadn’t
known that he was coming-*-and he
hadn’t known she was here. That
made a difference.
■ uncie jonn nasn t wanted to taut
about this thing—to me,” the girl
now said. “Perhaps he’ll give you
a different, clearer story, Billy.”
They fell silent. Billy Wheeler
let his eyes run over casual, famil
iar things—the roadster he had
come in, the tall barns, the low
sprawled house, bunkhouse, and
grub shack. But as Billy Wheeler’s
eyes drifted out over the vast roll
ing “flats” of the plain, resting
here and there on a broken, flat
topped mesa or far up-thrust moun
tain of gaunt red rock, all that he
saw, excepting only the far peaks,
was under the dictatorship of Horse
Dunn’s brand—the 94.
Billy Wheeler looked at these fa
miliar things, but he warf not think
ing about them. He was thinking
about the girl at his side, whom he
bardly looked at at all.
Billy Wheeler had not seen Mar
ian Dunn for two years. Had he
known that she was here, he would
not have come here now.
Marian Dunn was Horse Dunn’s
niece. Once, for a couple of months
two years ago, Wheeler had seen
her every day. He had used every
persuasion he knew of, all he had,
to make this girl love him—and had
failed. Sometimes he could still
h#ar her low, cool voice: “Pm sor
ry—truly sorry.” The sincere re
gret in that was pretty hard to take.
In everything else he had suc
ceeded. He had come up from noth
ing in cows, and tripled in land,
and switched back to cows to double
again. He had liquidated every
thing at the peak of cattle prices,
and at twenty-seven had nothing to
worry about. But in this one thing
he cared most about he had met
only complete blank defeat. He
would not have come here, to raise
again the bitterness of that defeat,
if he had known that she was here.
And now there was a certain awk
wardness between them, since she
inevitably knew all that, too.
“I think he's going to ask a favor
of you,” Marian said.
“I don’t know if you know this,”
Billy Wheeler said slowly; “but his
wire made out as if he was offering
me a job.”
"Yes—I knew that.”
“I owe a lot to old Horse Dunn,”
Billy Wheeler said. “He picked me
up when I was fourteen years old,
half-way starved and all the way
maverick. He carried me along
four years. If it wasn't for him, I’d
be in the wild bunch—or in the
pen. And he showed me my start
in cattle.”
“I suppose then,” Marian said,
"you won’t turn him down in this
thing now.”
“I’ve got things to see to, Mar
ian,” he stalled. “I couldn’t take
on another job now.”
He supposed she might know that
this was not so. For the present he
was out from under; he could afford
to do anything he wanted to, to fill
his time or to help a friend. But to
take a job in which he would see
this girl every day, while yet tight
cinched by the knowledge that she
was not for him, and never would
be—that was something else.
“I don’t know how much he
needs you," Marian said; “nor who
else he could get, instead. But I
know this—he has more enemies
than friends, by three to one.”
Billy Wheeler stirred restlessly,
and began to build a cigarette. He
knew it was true that the 94 had
many enemies, few friends. Here in
“I’ll—Get Out of Here If You
Want Me To.”
this dusty, mesa-broken land Horse
Dunn had set out to build a cow
kingdom—a kingdom on the grand
scale of the old days.
But you can’t build a cow king
dom, buying up the range rights of
little brand after| little brand, with
out annoying and disturbing the
brands that are left; and the
bought-out brands are forever try
ing to edge back.
Here and there in the world were
perhaps half a dozen graves com
memorating the drawn-out, inevita
ble conflict. There had never been
a general open war. But more than
one lone-riding cowboy of the 94 had
come to his end by the gunfire of
persons unknown, and one or two
others had left on the range an en
emy who would force the issue no
more. And at Ace Springs had
died two men of four—hired gun
fighters all—who had jumped Horse
Dunn from ambush. The 94 could
have started its own Boot Hill.
More effectual than those brief,
unofficial bursts of action was the
enmity of certain cooler, more
wisely watchful men, like Link
Bender, Pinto Halliday, Sam Cald
well—the defeated contestants for
the Red Hills ranges. Nowadays
the expanding 94 found itself en
circled by a veritable wolf ring of
enemies—a wolf ring biding its time
with a malevolent optimism.
"I don’t even know what the situ
ation is,” the girl went on. "But
it’s worrying him deeply; he can’t
hide that, not from me. And his
first move was to turn to you.”
"Oh, shucks now, Marian . .
"I shouldn’t like to think,” the
girl said oddly, as if with difficulty,
“that you turned him down because
I’m here.”
For an instant he sat perfectly
still, silent. He hadn’t expected her
to come out with it, direct and
straight like that.
She put both hands on the rail
between them and leaned toward
him. "I’d never forgive myself if
I thought you let Horse Dunn down
on account of me. I’ll—get out of
here, if you want me to.”
He looked straight at her—and
lied. “Nothing farther from my
mind,” he assured her. "No call
to even think of such a thing."
He paused, listening to the stam
pede of hoofs beyond a big barn
which obscured the riders as they
swung into the layout.
And now rescue came, as Horse
Dunn thundered around the corner
of the barn and slid his pony to a
stop before them in a great up
jump of dust. #
To old-timers John Dunn was
known as “Red Horse Jack”—or
more commonly, just “Horse”
Dunn—partly because he was big
as a horse, and partly because of
the coarse sorrel mane he had had
in his youth. Nobody knew how old
Horse Dunn was; they thought he
must be sixty-eight at least, and
his mustache and curly beard were
at last roaned with gray. But he
seemed to have an Indian medicine
on him which cheated time, for he
was powerful and barrel-chested
yet, and straight as a lodgepole
pine.
Half an hour after his return
Dunn was to be seen leaning
against a post of the open gallery
which ran along the front of the
cook-shack; he was chewing a blade
of burro grass. Said he, “We all
grant a man is dead. Any of you
still doubting that?” He watched
the cowboys, who lounged along the
open edge of the gallery floor, but
none of them answered.
Breakfast had been set out by a
little withered old woman known as
Tia Cara. She had fed them prompt
ly—and they ate the same way.
“Look here,” Dunn went on.
“Look here! I’m going to ask you
once niore—and this is the last
time. If any of you is a good enough
man to have blasted a cow thief,
say so now! I’ll back any boy of
mine that shot in defense of the
brand. You know that!”
He paused, and waited. Val Doug
las, Dunn’s thirty-year-old range
boss, let mild eyes dream on a dis
tant peak, and Tulare Callahan spat
over his shoulder through his teeth.
"All right,” the Old Man said.
"I ain’t doubting you, any of you.
Now I’m telling you what I want
you to do. You’ve seen the killer’s
trail at Short Crick—the trail of a
cup-hoofed pony, long in the toe;
been shod, and the shoes pulled off.
We’ve missed out on locating that
trail where it left Short Crick. Now
I want you to start in and comb this
range. Somewhere, somehow, we
got to cut that trail. And especially
we’ve got to find the man that’s
dead.”
"Anybody checking back on the
dead man's horse?”
"Don’t you worry about the dead
man’s horse. There’ll be plenty
checking done on that horse! Tu
lare, you take the flat country to
the south.”
"Okay."
“Gil, you sweep northwest be
tween Short Crick and the Spotted
Range,” Dunn went on. "Val, you
take a wider swing than Gil, and to
the east. Scout the edge of the bare
rock below Red Sleep Ridge.”
The cowboys waited. "Is there
any guess yet,” Tulare asked after
a moment, "as to who it is we're
looking for?”
Unexpectedly the Old Man flared
up. "How the hell do 1 know!” he
roared. “And what do you care?
You'll know him when you find him
because he’s dead! Ain’t that
enough for you? What you waiting
for now? Get on with it!”
They moved off.
Horse Dunn turned to Billy
Wheeler. “Get your war bag. You
got to get into horse pants and
boots. You and 1 got some riding
of our own to 'do, no later than
now!”
Billy Wheeler jerked suitcase and
saddle from his roadster and fol
lowed Horse Dunn to a room in the
rambling weathered house—the only
room the Old Man used when he
was alone.
Here, while Wheeler changed to
cow - country work clothes, Horse
Dunn stood looking out across the
range. He turned to Billy Wheeler,
his big crinkly-bearded face unread
able.
"Look out the window. Look over
at Lost Whiskey Buttes. You see a
signal there?”
Wheeler obeyed. Four miles oft,
on a high place, he made out a thin
vertical line against the brassy sky.
“That’s Steve Hurley's smoke,”
Horse Dunn told him. "Last night
Steve was in Inspiration, checking
up. This morning—he’s been on
that butte since before daybreak.”
“What’s the smoke mean.
Horse?”
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Dog as Pet Is Aid to Nervous People;
Philosophy of Animal Simple, Logical
Nerve specialists contend that
driving an automobile, especially
through heavy traffic, tends to re
lieve the condition of nervous peo
ple. But the problem of the bad
tempered motorist who unnecessari
ly blares his horn and says many
bad things to other drivers re
mained one of the great un
solved puzzles until an official of
The American Kennel club, (gov
erning body of pure-bred dogs) com
mented on the subject. He told that
it is recorded in contemporary and
historical dog writings that a hot
tempered person who becomes in
terested in a dog improves in dis
position.
The dog has such an infinite
capacity to take punishment that he
shames his master into calmer re
actions to annoyances. The dog
may look reproachfully at the
master who has struck him, but will
attempt no retaliation. This sit
uation is true, of course, only be
tween the dog and the master he
loves — often unreasonably. The
pure-bred dog will not tolerate an
indignity from a stranger.
The philosophy of the dog is very
simple, but very logical. If he gives
his affection, it is given whole
heartedly. He dislikes trouble, and
will avoid it as long as possible. Yet
his defense mechanism is quickly
stirred by malignant forces. The
curious part of dog and human re
lationships is that the human being
invariably learns something from
his dog—the degree of knowledge
varying according to the intel
ligence of the person.
Motorists of the petulant species
are not the only ones who benefit
from the dog. The diabetic, who
also is really of an explosive, worri
some disposition has a greater ex
pectation of life if he becomes in
terested in a dog. Doctors have
recommended dogs as pets especial
ly for children suffering from dia
betes.
French Prefer St. Martin
Saint Martin is the most popular
of all French saints, if popularity
may be measured by the number of
cities, villages and churches named
after him. 3,672 churches alone
bear his name, dotting the entire
country.
Mystery and adventure on the open range ...
three strange murders that echo through the
hills! Follow this intriguing drama of the West
in Alan Le May’s newest serial story . . .
“Cattle Kingdom.” You’ll be amazed at the
throbbing action, the swift turn of events—
and the shattering climax. You’ll be delighted
by an unusual romance in which the hero is
forced to prove his worth by sheer courage.
Here is a serial you must read ... a story that
will live in your memory for years to come.
“Cattle Kingdom” is different—it’s more than
just another Western story. All the thrills of a
murder mystery, all the red-blooded action of
an outdoor yarn . . . these things have been
combined intoone superb tale thatcriticsovery
where have praised.The first installment appears
today . . . others, just as thrilling, are coming.