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Show 111 Si ROUTINE I am a fool for trying to return Down all the lanes that lead to yesterday. The friendly lights within the tavern burn But you and all my clan are long away. And yet an urge I know not bids me go To force again an old, familiar door, And watch time's current In its ceaseless flow Though time has lost its meaning long before; I raise my drink and shyly stand alone And search my heart for memories mem-ories of you. Remembering the nights we made our own Remembering a dreamy rendezvous rendez-vous When people turned their heads to watch you pass . . . And wine was on your lips . . . And in my glass! DON WAHN. The Morning Mail "Dear Walter Winchell: I guess you'll be pleased to know that the Royal Air Force think that you are tops in your broadcasts, which we get by short-wave. Keep up the good work. Maybe you'll remember me in collaboration with the late Nan O'Reilly of the Journal-American, I wrote and produced 'Four O'CIock' at the Biltmore theater in 1934. I worked on the Daily Mirror in New York when it was down on the Row. Hullo to Bill Farnsworth and all the others who might recall re-call my name. Hullo, too, to Mr. and Mrs. America. All the best from the RAF boys and yours sincerely, sin-cerely, Rupert Darrell, Royal Air Force, somewhere in England." Sounds Like Him Fred Allen has several pensioners to whom he makes regular weekly payments. They are supposed to be on his "staff," but really do no work. One, an old-timer, comes every ev-ery Sabbath for his $25. Allen often wished he could get rid of the guy. A few Sundays ago the fellow didn't show up at the usual 4 peem and Fred got nervous and almost hysterical. He phoned the police to help trace him and sent friends searching all over town. When they found the truant, Allen yelled at him, "Don't ever worry me that way again!" Last Laugh Dept. Before the last war Lord Beaver-brook, Beaver-brook, the London publisher and statesman, was in the real estate business in Montreal. He had been proposed for membership in the Mount Royal club (Canada's most exclusive kleb, sir) and had been blackballed. Beaverbrook never forgot the rebuff. The following year he went to England and began his brilliant career. A few years later a Canadian friend got this cable: "Would you inform the gentlemen gen-tlemen of the Mount Royal club that the fellow they blackballed has just ( dined with the king? Beaverbrook." This Is New York The subway guard at Grand Central Cen-tral who tells rush-hour crowds: "Don't forget to come out fighting!" . . . The smallest store in town the ticket spec shop on the corner of Forty-ninth and Eighth three inches larger than a phone booth . . . The Park avenue matron who strolls on rainy days with a Pekingese wearing tiny galoshes . . . The sign over the bar at Club Caravan: "Gentlemen prefer blends" . . . The laugh-fetching sign in that barber bar-ber shop on Ninth avenue: "Haircuts "Hair-cuts 25 cents. For Musicians 50 cents" . . . Debutantes knitting to pass away the dull moments in a nitery Cafe Sew-ciety . . . The liveried chauffeur sitting in that sleek green limousine on Fifty-first street near Fifth reading a copy of "The Hobo News"! . . . The Poo-pee Poo-pee Snoopee company. Modesty The unique drug store at Fifty-ninth Fifty-ninth and Seventh no soda fountain . . . The sign in a midtown beauty parlor: "No Gossiping, Please, Above a Whisper" . . . The Forty-second Forty-second street store that draws the shades in the windows when the dummies are being peeled. Such modesty! . . . The hobo on Times square who sells booklets revealing how you can succeed in life . . . Tenth avenue with its grotesquely shabby drunks and sullen, ragged children dead-heads and dead-end-ers . . . The giant lobster with boxing box-ing gloves on his claws. Oxford The lads in front of the Brill building build-ing pouring words of love into each other's ears song-writing teams in the throes of creation . . . The organist or-ganist at Grand Central station who plays "At the End of a Perfect Day" as commuters scurry home. . . The kids outside Ebbets Field selling sell-ing peanuts with the slogan "Don't be nuts; they're a dime inside, a nickel here" . . The sign in the Seventh avenu bootery window: "How Would You Like to Be in My S'iocs?" |