The Cavalcade of America, sponsored by the DuPont Company, makers of Better Things for Better Living through Chemistry, starring Edward Arnold. Tonight's DuPont play, Experiment in Humanity, is the true story. And here's our star, Edward Arnold. The moment I read the letter, I knew I was through. Hook, me, me, A.R. Glancy, hook but good. I never had a chance. Sit down, I'll tell you about it. Ever hear of a town in our country called Duluth, Georgia? Population 628. Well Dick and Nora Howell, my son-in-law and daughter, had a place down there, and it was on Dick's farm that it all began some years ago on a Sunday morning before Christmas. Well the milkers came to the house. Yes ma'am, could I talk to the boss? We'll be down in a minute, Henry. Have a chair. Thank you ma'am, I'll sit down. I couldn't sit. Aren't you feeling well, Henry? Me? I'm fine. You must pay her. Could I bring you a glass of water? No thank you ma'am. Don't you disturb yourself, not on my account. They sent you along. You're in trouble. Yes ma'am. I'll call my husband right away. Oh don't rush him, there's nothing he can do about it now. Sit down, Henry. I'll call my husband right away. Oh don't rush him, there's nothing he can do about it now. Sit down, Henry. Thank you ma'am. You see, it's my boy, Olan, ma'am. On Wednesday he came into McPuny. I was aiming to take him to the doctor. Didn't get around to it though, I just didn't get around to it. During the night ma'am, last night, my little boy Olan, he died. That's how it began, on a Sunday morning before Christmas. During church service my son in law, Dick Hull, caught the eye of Miss Kate Parsons. She's the stallkeeper's wife. He signaled to Miss Kate and then he slipped out of the church and walked down the quiet Sunday street. Olan shouldn't have died, Miss Kate. Only the Lord can save him. He was only six years old. What gets born gets to die and the good Lord says when. He should have been taken to a doctor. He should have been, but folks here don't have much cash for doctors. This has nothing to do with cash. It should have been a place his daddy could have brought him. What kind of a place? A hospital. Miss Kate, there are 30,000 people in Granite County and there isn't a hospital for any of them. Well, I'm afraid there's nothing either one of us can do about it. Miss Kate. Yes? Ask everybody I know to come to the schoolhouse tomorrow night. Something on your mind, Mr. Hull? On my conscience. Tell them to be there, Miss Kate. As many people as you can tell. And so the next night, 100 people met in the little Georgia schoolhouse. Dick didn't push or press or force anything. He just spoke about little Olan Burnett, why he died, how he probably wouldn't have died, had there been a hospital or a clinic in Duluth. Well, that's all I have to say, folks. We need a place where a mother can come to have a baby, a place where a father can bring his sick child. We need a lot of things. A lot of things to wait. This door to come first. Look around, Mr. Hull, no rich people in this room. Wayne, the kind of thing you're talking about takes a heap of money. All right. All right. I'll give $10 a month for six months to see if we can make a door. What do you want from us? Only a door. No more than that. Well, I guess you can afford to give $10. I can scrape it together. Each month for six months. I guess so. All right. That's a total of $20 a month. Now, who's next? $10 here. That's ready. Please, speak up. $10 a month. $1 a quarter. A dime, whatever you can afford. I'll make it a dollar. Good. I'll make it a dollar. One at a time. I'll make you a dollar. One at a time. Hold off your mouth one at a time. The total amount came to $80 in cash and promises of $450 a month. That's when my daughter Nora took it into her head to write me a letter. Now, I want to make something clear. Nobody in his right mind ever went around claiming A.R. Glancy as a soft Dutch. I began as a hard rock miner, and I made my way by myself. I worked hard, and I'm glad I didn't. And now, this letter from Nora. There was no doubt about it. She was putting the bite on her old man. Even though it was Christmas, someone had to remind her that my name was A.R. Glancy, not A.R. Santa Claus. So I wrote a letter. Darling. Santa's answering this letter from your daughter. Nora, your daughter too. And she does write a beautiful letter, doesn't she? Beautiful, my eye. Let me see what you've written. No, no, no. I'm turning her down. Mr. Glancy, you're a fraud. You pull it away. Why don't you? Dear Nora. Why don't you? Dear Nora, your mother and I were deeply touched by the story of what your little town is trying to do. Well, that doesn't mean a thing. Just words. We are sending $500 now to help get things started. And every year we'll send $250 more on the birthday of your little sister, Joan, who died of pneumonia 17 years ago because the drugs which might have saved her were not known then. We'll make this gift in memory of her. Thank you, my dear. So I mailed the letter. Well, sir, the good citizens of Duluth, Georgia, through Nora, had gotten to me. And that was only the beginning. Dear Mr. Glancy, the first baby has just been born in our little hospital. She's a darling. And her name? Her name is Glancy Joan. Isn't that sweet? Bait on a hook. There was nothing alongside the next letter which my wife read aloud. It's signed by Mr. Summerhour, the postmaster. Southern diplomacy. They put up jobs from beginning to end. Oh. And so we, citizens of Duluth, Georgia, find ourselves wondering if you'd mind if we called it the Joan Glancy Memorial Hospital. We found an inscription which everyone liked. To Joan, who in swift transition achieved a tenuous springtime that through it the lives of other children may be enriched. Isn't that fine? My dear, it's more than fine. It's wonderful. I was a little impatient to see that hospital named in memory of my daughter Joan. But a war was on. Because I had some experience in the automotive industry, the government sent me to England to work on Britain's tank building program. When I returned, I was tucked into a Brigadier General's uniform and shipped to Detroit to take charge of our own tank and combat vehicle production. It was a long time before I could get down to Georgia. The hospital wasn't much to see, although my daughter pretended that it was. Where is it, Father? There is what? The Joan Glancy Memorial Hospital. Where? Right there, don't you see it? I see a tired old frame house. Well, it's got four rooms. Congratulations. How many beds does it have? There's a lovely flower bed. The women of the town set those in. No, not flower bed. Hospital bed. How many, Nora? Oh, look at the good taste of it has. The name did that. Nora, how many beds does the hospital have? Two. Two wards? Two beds, Father. For 30,000 people? That's two hospital beds more than they ever had. I appreciate that. Your mother and I love it, darling, but it isn't good enough. Why, Father? Because it doesn't look like a New York medical center? It's got a heart. It's our hospital. For rich, for poor, for black, for white, for those who can pay with money, and those who can only pay with a basket of eggs, and those who can pay nothing. No one's ever been tamed away, Father. That's fine, Nora, but it still isn't good enough. The people here are doing the best they can. They can't do any more than that. Those words were on my mind all the way back to Detroit. And there in Detroit, I made my own personal acquaintance with hospitals and sickness. General Granthi, can you take it? What have I got, Doctor? General Granthi, you've got 10. I was lucky. It was an early diagnosis. They shot me full of radium, cut me open twice, and I got well. I got well thinking of a two-bed hospital, a hospital without radium, without x-rays, without fluoroscopes, without any of the scientific apparatus the rest of us take for granted. All it had was the kindness and the affection of neighbors for one another. That was a great deal, but not enough. So I went back to Duluth, Georgia, and called a meeting. We have you ready, General Granthi? I'm ready now, sir. Yes, sir. Friends? Neighbors? General Granthi has something to say to us. Look, I've got a proposition for you. I want you to buy yourselves attractive land, 15 to 20 acres, and then dig a deep well on it so that you've got adequate supply of good water. Put the land in shape. Now, just those three things. Buy the land, improve it, and provide water, and I'll build you a hospital. I'll build you the finest small town hospital in the country. Well, it didn't take long for the people of Duluth to collect enough money to buy 24 acres, but digging the well and filling in the big ditches, bowing, howling, that was something else. The trouble was that they weren't up to the job, and I made it a point to tell them so. I guess I was a little rough. At least my daughter thought so. You're sure women, friends, and influencing people around here? But I have to get things done. Oh, of course, and you are, too. They come in friendly and walk outside in you. Nora, Samuel Johnson once said that every man has the right to other what he thinks is true, and that every other man has the right to knock him down for it. But they're my neighbors. For the sake of your children, I think you ought to move. Doesn't it make you feel rotten to know that right at this moment people are saying General Johnson is a... Careful. ...is an intolerant... Correct. I'm intolerant of people who haven't enough initiative to find a mule in a drag pen to level off a piece of lawn. And you can tell them from me that I'm going back to Detroit. You wouldn't dare. Wouldn't I, though? You just watch me. You are listening to the Cavalcade of America starring Edward Arnold, sponsored by the DuPont Company, makers of better things for better living through chemistry. We continue our DuPont play starring Edward Arnold as A.R. Grant. My mind was made up and fixed, immovable. Only... Well, I just couldn't go back to Detroit. They were fine, generous, decent people, and I talked to them like a tough sergeant in a grade B movie. The more I thought about it, the more miserable I got. But Georgia people are not the only ones who can be proud. If they could sulk, I could sulk, too. So I waited, and no one came to see me. Not even one lady committee member. I kind of missed them. What are you fidgeting about? Who's fidgeting? You are. I know, but I guess it's all that honeysuckle and magnolia fouling up the air. Somebody shut those crickets up. They make me nervous. A.R. Glancy, the only thing that makes you nervous is A.R. Glancy. I was in town today. Well, I'm not interested. Did you talk to anybody? Yes, but you're not interested. Well, you could say that again. You didn't happen to run into Frank Madison or a minor Corley or Guy Findley. Did you? I did. What are you fidgeting about? Oh, dear, my fidget. I'll fidget if I want to. Did Guy Findley say anything? Why, he mentioned that... Did he hear anything? No, nothing. What did he say? Nothing. I was sure I heard singing. He did say something. You just said so. What was it? Of course that is singing. And it's coming this way. It was Mamie Howell. And some of the people from the Negro church, they knew that relations were strained and this was their way of trying to end the Cold War. They didn't say a word. They just sang. For half a dozen times I started to say something and I just couldn't. Finally, Mamie Howell spoke. General, could I have a seat? I'm right here, Mamie. Come on up, come on up. Thank you, sir. General, sometimes when you feel something strongly, words get in the way. Maybe that's why we should be careful. General, sometimes when you feel something strongly, words get in the way. Maybe that's why we sang instead of talking. But now I've just got to talk. Go on, Mamie. Tell them for us. When a sick person comes to the Joan Glancy Hospital, they don't ask what color your skin is. They ask what race you are. Yes, Mamie. They do. And in the Joan Glancy, I speak for the people of Duluth, Georgia, for white and color. You've done more for this community than anyone else. You didn't have to. It is because you wanted to. And so I'll say this. Maybe they put stars on your shoulders when you wore that fine general's uniform, but that's nothing. Because later on, there are going to be stars in your crown. Miss Glancy? Yes? Would you ask your husband to say something to us? I think you'll have to wait a moment. The general is crying. The Lord's Rejoice, come in water, valley, and big home. No one had to say a word. But the ditches were filled and the grounds were planted with grass and dogwood trees. And I built the people of Duluth, Georgia, a hospital, an air-conditioned hospital of brick and glass and steel. It had an operating room and a dental office and a doctor's house and a nurse's home. It had every gadget in the world to make the birth of a child a little easier and a lot safer. There wasn't just one nurse now, no. There were 11 nurses on the payroll. Half the doctors in the county put their patients in. It was wonderful. Yes, it was wonderful. But the operating deficit was $4,000 a month. And I just had to tell the boys I was running out of money. You mean, sir, that the hospital can't go on? Oh, nothing of the sort. You haven't got any money? No, I got a plan. What kind of a plan? Goodness knows what. If you don't know, who should? The Goodness Knows What Corporation is the name of the plan. And what sport might work with it? Listen, I've been playing with an idea. Suppose we organize the factory to support the hospital. What kind of a factory? Goodness knows what. For instance, automobiles need seat colors. Good, we'll organize an automobile seat cover factory. It's a lot easier to save than to do. Yeah, what do we do for skilled labor? Goodness knows what corporation will train them. How? Through a training school. Wait a minute, Mr. Glancy, what training school? Oh, the training school we'll organize. We'll find teachers. As soon as our people learn the ropes, they're on their own. How does that sound? Sounds good. I'm for it. You got my vote. No, no, wait, wait, wait a moment. Not so fast. That factory isn't going to pay 47-hour wages. No, sir, no, sir. It's going to pay as close to a dollar an hour as it can. Mr. Glancy, that's pretty high. Well, the American standard of living is high. Now, look, I don't want anyone going around saying that a so-and-so from the Detroit came down here and ruined us. Well, no one's going to go around saying anything like that. We'll go along. And much more, much more. I don't want to have to import foremen and supervisors from Atlanta. But that's the rub. We need local talent, and there isn't any. I don't know a soul and count who can run an industrial plant. General, if you don't mind me saying so, you're talking through your hat. Oh, am I? Every time a young fellow has any ability, off he chases to the city. $210,000 hospital. It wasn't a roaring success from the start, not by a long shot. But before our first factory began to break even, another $100,000 went down the drain. But now the factories of the goodness-knows-what corporation are making money. Money that maintains and enlarges the services of the Joan Glancy Memorial Hospital. These days, MacFiddleton and I get propositions from all kinds of manufacturers. General, I like what you're doing. It appeals to me. Does it, sir? It does. Now, I've got a factory in New York. It could stand a branch factory right here in Duluth. Look, we don't want any favors. No favor, General. This is business. I've been through your factories. I like the way they run. Let me think it over. He thought it over, and he came to Duluth, Georgia. So did other businesses, some large, some small. It was good for the town. If you saw Duluth today, you'd hardly recognize it. The time was when a farmer counted himself lucky to have $100 in cash at the end of the year. Now his daughter works in the factory and makes $150 a month. Once Duluth stores sold only side meat and snuff and fertilizer. Now they sell home freezers and television sets. The churches have been painted. We have our first dry cleaning plant, first beauty parlor, and our first movie house. Yes, Duluth has changed. These days, I leave the management of the factories to Mac Pitter, the tech sergeant who turned out to be a first-rate executive. I manage to spend my time at the hospital. Excuse me, General. Would you mind getting out of my way? What's his name? Her name. Oh, excuse me. Her name. What's her name? Her name is Henrietta. Henrietta. Henrietta. I'm sorry, General. Excuse me. What's the rush, nurse? We're expecting two more babies before midnight. Well, I just don't get it. Nurse, it's a mighty poorly run business. What's a poorly run business, Mr. Glancy? Baby production, Mrs. Glancy. One day six babies come falling off the assembly line. Another day there's only one. It's a case of rank mismanagement all the way down the line. Considering that the Joan Blancy Memorial Hospital is about to bring its 2,000th baby into the world, I call it pretty good mismanagement. Now, why don't you go home, dear, and let the doctors and nurses run the hospital? Balls. Every year now on Joan's birthday, we have a party for all the babies born in Joan's hospital. Infants and toddlers sit on my lap, white and colored, fat ones, thin ones, laughing babies, crying babies, healthy babies. You know, I've never had so much fun in my life. I'll tell you something. You know, there are a lot of old crocs like me sitting around wondering what they can do that would be of service to their fellow man. They wouldn't mind putting a good-sized chunk of money into something like this hospital, but they know that with taxes what they are, they couldn't stand the yearly upkeep. Well, building a little hospital where one is needed and building a little factory to keep it running is the best answer I know. It's a lot of people, but it helps you too. It's an experiment in humanity that makes you feel you can keep on living for a hundred years. Our thanks to you, Ed Redonald, and our Cavalcade players for tonight's true story, Experiment in Humanity. Next week, Cavalcade presents the lovely young Hollywood star, Peggy Ann Garner. Be sure to listen. Tonight's DuPont play was written by Morton Wishingrad and was based on an article which appeared in the Saturday Evening Post written by Harold Martin. Music for the DuPont Cavalcade was composed by Arden Cornwell and conducted by Donald Voorhees. The program was directed by John Zoller. The DuPont Cavalcade of America comes to you from the stage of the Belasco Theater in New York and is sponsored by the DuPont Company of Wilmington, Delaware, makers of better things for better living. Don't forget Starlight Concert tonight on NBC.
