The Cavalcade of America, presented by DuPont. As the Cavalcade of America opens this evening, we want to remind our listeners that tomorrow, Thanksgiving Day, the 1936 annual Red Cross Roll Call ends. There is no need to remind you of the worthwhile work this organization has done and is doing the world over. If you have not already joined, we know you will want to send your membership subscription to your local Red Cross chapter before tomorrow night. Tons of sentiment have long reflected true American characteristics. Love of home and family, of old familiar things, of memories and dreams. This evening, the Cavalcade of America, presented by DuPont, tells in drama and music the stories behind some of the good old tunes that have marched down through the years. Let us turn the pages back to the year 1830. It's a hot and sweltering day in old New York, and a printer named Samuel Woodworth makes his way along the waterfront street and enters the dark, cool taproom of Mallory's Tavern. Ah, good afternoon, Sam. Afternoon to you, Mallory. A scorching day. The worst we've had the whole summer. There's no day for setting up time in the print shop. Aye. How is the printing business? Oh, middling, just middling. It'll get better come cooler weather. And how's the writing? Any new poems or songs or such like? No, no better in the printing. Look here, man, you're a fine innkeeper to be plying a customer with questions on such a hot day without first quenching his thirst. For sure. And what'll it be this time? Same as always. There's no drink in all New York that comes up to your brandy with that wee dash of pure water to make it last. Eh, fine, I'll grind you, Sam. Here you are. I wouldn't go so far as to say it's the finest for such a day as this. What is? You wouldn't say so yourself. You could hearken back to the days when you and I was out on the farm. There was a drink there that in the estimation of both of us far surpassed anything here. Do you remember? I do. You mean the well water on the farm. Yeah, it tasted good. After a long hard afternoon in the sultry field, there was nothing to touch a drink of the fresh water from that old oak and bucket hanging in the well. Unbound, covered with moss, cool and inviting. By Jove, Mallory, you've given me an idea. Huh? There's a rhythm in those words. The old oak and bucket. Oh, an idea for one of them Polans you're always turning out. Oh, for more than just a poem, for a song, for the kind of song folks like to sing. Song about well water? You're crazy, Sam. No, no, not just about well water. About that old bucket hanging in the well. Kind of a symbol of boyhood memories. I've got a piece of paper there. Here's a plaque. I'm going to write it down before I lose the mood. How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood. There's a good start. And the tune, it's got to be a tune that's easy to sing, one that everybody can sing. How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood when fun freckles. The arts of the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood, and every lost part with my infant scene you. The widespreading pond and the mill extradite, the bridge and the rock where the cabaret fell. The cough of my father, the dairy of size, and these unruly buckets have hung in the well. The old old bucket, the ironbound bucket, the mud covered bucket, the pond in the well. Sam Woodworth was right. His sentimental song, echoing his own fond memories of old familiar things, caught the fancy of his time. And even today, there's scarcely a man or a woman who does not know that old refrain. The mud covered bucket, the pond in the well. And other years and other generations have brought forth their contributions to the album of songs that have endured. In the early seventies of the last century, there lived in Philadelphia a young man named Hart P. Danks, who made a meager living singing in quartets and composing sacred songs. He seldom wrote the words to his own songs, but bought poems appearing in magazines and newspapers. One day, he returns home to find his wife eagerly awaiting his arrival. Darling. Oh, yes, dear. Has the letter from Reverend Rexford arrived? It came in the midday post. Oh, fine. I hope he sent me that poem. I have the tune all worked out for it, but I was afraid he would think three dollars wasn't enough money for his words. Well, three dollars is a lot of money for just a few lines of poetry, especially to the editor of a country newspaper way out west. Over here. Let me take your coat, darling. I know you're anxious to get to work on that new song. I'll make you a cup of tea. Thanks, dear. It can't be much fun being the wife of an unknown singer and composer, always having to worry and wonder where the next meal is coming from. Now, don't you go feeling sorry for us, because one of these days you'll compose a song that everybody will want to sing, and then you'll be famous. Oh, you are, dear. Always cheering me up when I begin to feel discouraged. I'd get right to work on the music for Dr. Rexford's poem right now, dear. Where's the letter? It's right there on the table by the piano. Oh, yes, I see it. Why? Good heavens, darling. What? It's more than a letter. It's almost a package. Well, maybe he sent you a copy of the farm magazine he had it. Maybe that's it. I know it. Why? It's a whole batch of poems. It's odd. I only sent him three dollars for the one I saw in the magazine. There's a note there, dear. Maybe it'll explain why he sent so many. Well, listen to this. What? Your payment of three dollars for my little poem was most welcome. And with the thought that you might be able to use others, I'm forwarding a few which I have written and published from time to time in the magazine of which I am editor, respectfully yours, even Rexford. Well, now, wasn't that nice of him? There must be almost a dozen poems. What are they like? Maybe you can find an even better one than the one you bought. Maybe I can. Wait now. Listen to this one. Darling, I am growing old. Silver threads among the gold. Go on. Listen, but my darling, you will be always young and fair to me. Why, heart, what a lovely thought. Yes, it's the kind of poem I would write about us, about our life together, if only I had the gift of words. But you have something just as wonderful, dear. You have the gift of music. You can set it to music. Music just as lovely as the words. If I only could, if I only could. You can. I know you can. Here, sit down here at the piano and try it. I'll leave you alone. No, no, not alone, dear. Never alone. My dear. Always together. Darling, I've got an idea. Growing old together. Darling, I am growing old. Silver threads among the gold. Light is fading fast away. But my darling, you will be, you will be always young and fair to me. Darling, I am growing, growing old. Silver threads among the gold. Light is fading fast away. The cavalcade of America presented by DuPont moves on. Each era has produced its songs of sentiments, and they're as varied as the tenor of the times themselves. The nostalgic ballads of the 70s and 80s gave place to songs of a lighter vein, although no less sentimental in their way than those of bygone years. One night, famous George Thatcher minstrels are playing at Denver Theater, and after the show, a young writer named Cy Warman makes his way to the dressing room of Raymond Moore, a popular singer of the gay 90s. Yes, yes, who is that? Could I see you a minute, Mr. Moore? Yes, come in. My name's Warman, Cy Warman. I'm sorry to break in on you like this, Mr. Moore. That's quite all right, Mr. Warman. What can I do for you? Well, I've heard that you sometimes take lyrics and set them to music. Well, I have. Well, I have a poem here called Sweet Marie. It's a sort of madrigal. I hope, well, it's written in honor of my wife. Her name's Marie, so I... Yes, yes, well suppose you let me look at it. Oh, here it is. Thank you. I've worked hard on it and rewritten it a lot of times, and I thought it'd make a good song. I could only get someone to set it to the right kind of music. Hmm, Sweet Marie. Well, it's not a bad title for song. There's a secret in my heart, Sweet Marie, and it's one I would in part love to thee. Look here, Mr. Warman, it looks like you may have something good here. Do you really think so? Yes. Suppose you leave this with me all the night and see me tomorrow. If I still like it tomorrow, I'll get to work and set it to music myself. Oh, same as tomorrow. I was hoping you'd say that. Gee, that's great. I'll see you tomorrow night after the show. Good night, sir. Raymond Moore studied the lyrics of Cy Warman's Madrigal and saw its possibilities and set the words to music. Sometime later, he joined the cast of Africa, a new musical comedy, and managed to get Warman's song inserted in one of the scenes. Moore sang, Sweet Marie, but for some reason it didn't appeal to the audience. The management insisted that Moore drop the song, but he had faith in it and resigned. Charles Hopper, another famous singer of that day, was rushed from New York to replace Moore, and during the rehearsal, Hopper is going over his songs with the orchestra leader. Well, Mr. Hopper, that's the routine. Wait a minute, wait a minute. What's this number here? We haven't been over it. Oh, that's the one Mr. Moore quit over. The boss threw it out after it didn't go in Cleveland, and Moore quit. So that's why Moore quit, eh? I wondered. He must have thought it was a pretty good song. Yes, so do I. But somehow or other it didn't get over in Cleveland. What was the matter? Say, if I knew what made a song a hit or a failure, I could make a million a year picking it. Well, how about running it over on the piano? I'd like to hear it. Well, I don't know, Mr. Hopper, if the boss heard it, he might have my job. He's awfully sorrowful. Now, don't worry about that. I'll take the responsibility. Well, if you say so. The lyrics sound good. How's the tune? It starts this way. Wait a minute. Put it back in. I agree with Moore. This song has something. The boss will never stand for it. You won't know about it until it's too late. Well, if you take the responsibility... I will, I will. And I have a hunch we'll prove that Moore was right. That night during the performance of Africa, the college scene is in progress while the manager and the stage manager watch from behind the scenes. Well, Hopper is doing all right. Yes. And now we'll see how the second act goes without that sweet Marie Moore we're so crazy about. Crazy enough about to quit. Let's go over there in the front entrance and see how the audience thinks of it. Yeah. Hey. What's this? I thought I gave orders that that song was out. You did. But it seems it's in and it's too late to do anything about it. Everybody's going to get fired for this. Come on. I'm make your me me I'm not like can you beat it they're crazy about it looks like more was right after all and we'd be crazy to figure out signal operating on for that and tell the chorus to take it out . Joy . Itanny Laughter I'm right right . Major Yeah Yeah . The story became a song hit of its day and a part of the spirit of the gay nighties. Another song, one of even more lasting fame, had its inspiration in a simple incident that occurred at a dance. One evening, Charles K. Harris, the songwriter, is leaving a ball in Chicago, acting as escort to a young lady, Miss Cora Lairbird, whom he had met that night for the first time. They've danced together most of the evening, and just as they reached the door... Oh, Charles, there's a couple I'd like you to meet. Oh? They're very good friends of mine, both of them. Certainly, Cora. I'd like to meet any friends of yours. Here they come, Charles. Oh, wait, Cora. Something's happening there. They're quarreling, I think. Very well, Harry. If that's the way you feel about it, I never want to see you again. The thought is neutral, anyway. Good evening. Good evening. What? Charles? He walked away and left her. And they're engaged. Well, I doubt if they are now. Oh, I must speak with her and try to cheer her up. There must be something. Charles, look. What's the trouble now? There's Harry, Eloise's fiance, going home with another girl. Oh, an engaged couple parted before the eyes of young Charlie Harris, the songwriter. He took Cora Lerberg home, and the next day, he returned to his home in Milwaukee. Charles went down to his office, as usual, but somehow he didn't feel like working. His thought ran on one subject, Cora Lerberg, the girl he had met the night before. Finally, he gave up the idea of working and lay down on the sofa in his office. There a friend, Sam Doctor by name, finds him a few minutes later. Sam bursts into the room. Hey, Charlie. Charlie Harris. Oh, oh, come on, man. Get up. I got a job for you. Oh, so it's you, Sam Doctor. Yes, it's me. And I want you to write a song, a song that'll make you famous if it's a good one. Oh, go away, Sam. I'm tired. I danced all last night at a ball in Chicago. Charlie, this is important. Now listen, the Wheelman's Convention is coming here to Milwaukee. We'll have delegates from all over the country, and we're putting on a minstrel show. Sam, please. I haven't an idea in my head. Does a song have to have an idea? Yes, Sam. You had an ounce of brains. You know that songs ought to be built around definite situations, sentimental situations, if possible. Well, well, you went to a ball last night. Didn't anything sentimental happen there? Yes, Sam. I met a marvelous girl, the girl I'm going to marry. But I couldn't write a song about that. You see, it's hard to write an appealing song about happy things. Didn't any unhappy things happen at the ball? No, but something unhappy happened after the ball. You see, after the ball, after... Sam, get out of here. Get out, I say. What's the matter, Charlie? Have you gone mad? Get out. I've got it. I've got the idea for a song. Leave me alone. Sam, please. All right, all right. I'll leave you alone, but I'll be back. After the ball, after the ball. I say I'll be back in a little while. Many a heart is aching. I say I'll be back. Many the hopes that have vanished after the ball. Rats, I'll be back. Let's see. After the ball is over. Oh, no. After the ball is over. No, that's not right. After the ball is over. There we are. After the ball is over. After the break of morn. See, that's great. After the break of morn. After the land of gleaming. After the stars of morn. After the ball made an immense hit, May Irwin took it up and the melody swept the country during the World's Fair in Chicago in 1893. In the following years, the song gained the popularity it has never lost. Today, songs of sentiment still echo the deep-rooted feelings of people for home, for loved ones, for heartbreaks. Don Voorhees and his orchestra bring us back to the present with a modern song of sentiment, The Way You Look Tonight. Someday when I'm awfully low, when the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you and the way you look tonight. Oh, but you're lovely with your smile so warm and your cheeks so soft. There is nothing for me but to love you and the way you look tonight. With each word your tenderness grows, bearing my fear apart, And I will never lose your nose, much as my foolish heart. Lovely, never, never change, keep that breathless charm. Just the way you look tonight. Just the way you look tonight. Just the way you look tonight. Songs of sentiment, they changed but little in the passing years of the cavalcade of America. At this Thanksgiving time as we view a busier, happier America, we realize that there is much to be thankful for. Even as the pioneers struggled through one difficulty after another, finally winning successes that helped to build this nation, so has American business held faith through dark days and against odds that would have discouraged any but a far-seeing, optimistic people. This is the true spirit of the cavalcade of America. Americans are optimists by nature. Most people sincerely believe that the Depression would someday end and be followed by a time of larger opportunity for all. Those of us associated with long-established businesses had an even more solid reason for our faith. Old American businesses bear on their books the records of a series of major economic depressions. One may read in the 134 years of the DuPont Company's records, for example, ten separate chapters of ups and downs, beginning with the Depression of 1819, followed by that of 1837, then the Panic of 1857, the six bleak years of the 70s, and so on down the long pages to the Crash of 1929 and the Deaths of 1932. Having on nine different occasions felt the iron grip of Depression fasten about it, only to have that grip later relax as America burst into the sunlight of a new day, the DuPont Company never doubted that this tenth Depression would be in all essentials like the other nine. Hence, straight through the trying times of the last five years, DuPont continued to draw on its resources as a demonstration of its faith in the future. Between 1930 and 1935, $31 million were invested in chemical research. In addition, new plants were built, and the capacity of old ones increased. Most of the money spent on new construction was for the manufacture of things that either did not exist or were in their industrial infancy ten years ago. All of the money invested in research was spent to improve existing products and to create entirely new ones. During those five Depression years, for example, DuPont introduced more than 300 new chemical products. As a result of such advances, DuPont today gives employment to 10,000 more Americans than in 1929 and at higher average wages. Coupling faith, born of its experience in previous Depressions, with a momentum of continuous research, this one organization has been able to sustain 25 percent more households than in the so-called year of the boom. Truly, there is satisfaction in the knowledge that through good times and bad, research chemistry forges ahead towards the goal described in the DuPont pledge, better things for better living through chemistry. The Seeing Eye, a dramatic story of the training of German Shepherd Dogs as guides for the blind, will be the subject of our next broadcast when next week at this same time, DuPont again presents the cavalcade of America. This is the Columbia Broadcasting System. Thank you.
