 The Night with Your Pond Company brings you the woman on lime rock starring Shirley Booth on the cavalcade of America. When the storms rage and the fog hangs thick over the ocean, the lives of the men who go down to the sea in ships depend on the courage and devotion of the lighthouse keeper. The drama of this service is even greater when the keeper of the light is a woman. Well, that's our story for tonight. But first, here's Gain Whitman. Ski slopes and skating ponds are crowded these days with youngsters and grown-ups alike. Yes, the winter sports season is in full swing. And again this season, the swing is to outdoor wear treated with DuPont Zeeland durable water repellent. Jackets, ski clothes, reversibles, snowsuits, parkas, all carry the Zeeland tag. Garments treated with Zeeland continue to be water repellent even after many laundering or cleaning. Zeeland is one of the DuPont Company's better things for better living through chemistry. And now, Shirley Booth as Ida Lewis in the woman on lime rock on the DuPont cavalcade of America. It's late afternoon in the year 1911. In a hotel room in New Portrait Island, Will Carver, an elderly journalist, stands at the window looking across the harbor toward Lime Rock Lighthouse. He remains there for a long time until the door opens and Robbins, his secretary, enters. Excuse me, Mr. Carver, but are you ready to dictate your editorial? What? Oh, yes, yes, the editorial. You got your pen? All set, sir. Special to the New York Herald, state line Newport, Rhode Island. Tonight, after half a century of service in a lonely lighthouse off the coast of Rhode Island, a brave and wonderful woman is dead. Her name has been a symbol of heroism and selfless devotion in every American home. And to the countless thousands who have been cheered by the steady and reassuring rays of lime rock light, the news that Ida Lewis has passed away will come as a deep and personal blow. Robbins, I'll continue in a few minutes. Yes, sir. You, um, you knew her personally, didn't you, sir? From the time we were children, we were in the same class at school. I used to pull her pigtails and she'd throw snowballs at me. And then, when we were a little older, I courted her. Oh, well, don't be so silly. We're too young to be thinking of marrying. Too young? Why, Ida, you're almost 16. Well, nowadays, girls wait till they're much older before they're married. I don't intend to get married before I'm at least 20. 20? You mean, you mean you're going to throw away four whole years of your life just sitting in your father's lighthouse? I should say not. I'm going to have a career. Doing what? Teaching school. Holy catfish. Sure. I've always wanted to be a teacher. And Will, I haven't told a standing woman yet, but the school's offered me a job. They did? Mm-hmm. It's a nice kind of work teaching others what you know and learning more yourself all the time. Ida, Ida, will you promise to wait for me? Why? Where are you going? To, to New York. I'm going to try and get a job on a newspaper. Oh, Will, how wonderful. Well, you sound mighty pleased to get rid of me. Oh, don't be silly. It's just I'm so proud of you. You are? Mm-hmm. Oh, gosh, Ida, I'll be thinking of you all the time. If I write to you, will you answer my letters? Of course I will. Maybe I'll even correct your spelling. Ida, while I'm away, you wouldn't marry anyone else, would you? Well, how could I? I'll be teaching school. I left for New York, and Ida started in teaching here at the Newport School. Everyone was pleased with her, even her pupil. And then, one day, in the middle of her class, she got an urgent message to hurry right out to Lime Rock. Inside the lighthouse, the doctor was waiting for her. I wrote over as fast as I could, doctor. What is this? Did something happen to father? Ida, your, your father's had a stroke. Oh, doc, this is very bad. My child, I'm afraid so. But is he suffering? Oh, the pain is over. Thank goodness. But the worst of it is he'll always be crippled. Oh, he may be able to take a few steps with a cane, but I'm afraid that his hands will be useless. Well, then how can he, he won't be able to turn the light? Yes, that's what hit him the hardest, knowing he'll have to give up his job here. Well, the lighthouse service is his life. I know it, and believe me, child, if there was anything I could do, any hope I could hold out. Doctor, is he going to die? That's up to you, Ida. He can live to a ripe old age if he wants to. It's up to you to make him want to. You've got to convince him that he can be happy and useful living on the mainland. Can I go in and see him now? Of course. I'll wait for you here. Then we can talk about moving him ashore. Yes, Ida? I was just lying here, waiting for you. Can I get you something? Some water? Would you like some nice hot soup? Ida, I'll have to quit the service. Well, what's so awful about that? You've been here so long, maybe it's time you had a change of scenery. A change of scenery? Ida, is that you talking? Don't you know what this place means to me? It's in my blood. It's part of me. It's all I know, all I want. But, Father, if you'd only... Oh, if this thing had to happen to me, why didn't it kill me? If I have to leave Lime Rock, I might as well be dead. Father, please, you mustn't hope that way. What about me? I need you. I want you to live for a long, long time. I'm sorry, dear. Don't mind what I just said. We just yell in a lot of silly nonsense. I'll go ashore whenever the doctor says. I'll call him in. Doctor? Yes? Would you please stay with Father for a minute? I'll be right back. But, Captain, this isn't the end. Well, you have a long good life ahead. No, Doc, it's no good. And something is no more usefulness left. It just dies. Well, there's no usefulness left in me. I'm sure. But, Captain, you can't stay here. They'll have to appoint another keeper. What was that? No, just a gun that fought Adams. It sons it. Time for the life to go on. Doc, help me! Oh, good Lord! You can't get up at the light. It's got to go on. It's late already. No, it isn't, Father. I just let it. I did. You let it, I did? Father showed me a few things about light-tending whenever I was out here. Oh, I see. Well, it saved the situation tonight, child, but I don't think we ought to run the risk if it's happening again. Another keeper ought to be out here as soon as possible. You're right, Doc. I did, honey. Sit down and let a letter to the lighthouse service, telling them I'm resigning. Believe me, it's all for the best. Resigning? No. No, you're not resigning. My dear child, you don't realize what... Yes, I do, Doctor. Father can't live any place but here, and he's not going to. But I do... He's always been in lighthouse service. He knows everything there is to know about tending the life. But, Ida, honey, I can't move from this bed. You won't have to. Would you to give the orders and me to carry them out? We'll keep the light going as smooth as before. Just a minute, Ida. You can't teach school all day and tend the lighthouse all night. I'm not going to teach anymore. I'm making this my job. Oh, no, no. I won't let you. I know what you're teaching means to you. You think I'd let you make a sacrifice like that for me? I'd never forgive myself. It's not such a sacrifice, Father. I love it here at the lighthouse. But it's hard work, and it's risky. And it's lonesome. There's no life in the world more lonesome than the lighthouse keepers. There's no money in the lighthouse service that's a few hundred dollars a year. No future. Then why do men like you stay in it? Well, I don't know. I've often wondered, Father, maybe now I'll find out. And you'll see, between the two of us, you'll still be the best lighthouse keeper in the service. So Ida Lewis learned the business of light-hending and went about it quietly and efficiently. It must have kept her pretty busy because in the next ten years, many of my letters went unanswered. And then, one bitter March day in 1869, two soldiers, trying to row back to Fort Adams in the midst of a howling blizzard, were flung into the icy waters of Newport Harbor and dragged to ever farther out the sea. It looks like he's gone for it. It's your job to keep him alive. Lewis got those two soldiers safely back to the lighthouse. And thanks to her resourceful care, they both recovered. Ida had rescued others before, but her stories never found their way into the newspapers. And this one did, however. And overnight, Ida Lewis was a national heroine. Suddenly, the eyes of the whole country were turned on that little lighthouse, and people made special pilgrimages to heap honors and awards upon her. Her most important visitor was Ulysses S. Grant, president of the United States. Her least important visitor was me. Oh, well, it's so good to see you. Sit down. Tell me all about yourself. What are you doing? I'm bringing you for the New York Herald. You know, the real reason I came up here was to find out why in the name of Goshen you didn't answer my letters. Actually, one word would have been enough. Just the word yes. Well, Carver, don't tell me that after all these years, you're still a bachelor. Yep. I'm still waiting for you to make up your mind. Or change it, as the case may be. Ida, shall we all the medal they gave you? Yes, Father. And tell him about the gold-watching chain and the resolution drawn up by the Rhode Island Assembly. Oh, I know all about that, Captain Lewis. Do you know about the hundreds of letters I had received asking for her hand in marriage? No about them. I wrote them. Oh, well, these were from other young men. Oh. Of course, you realize they're after you only because you're famous. Oh, what's your reason? Oh, I don't know. I guess I like the way you polish a lamp. Oh, well... Look, why don't you come ashore and have dinner with me? There's so much I want to tell you. I'd love to, but I can't. Oh. You mean... You mean you never get off this place? Oh, yes. Yes. Once a week, I roll ashore for supplies. And I can hardly wait to get back. Do you mean that? Of course. Well, don't you ever get lonely. Oh, there weren't two good friends who come out to spend a few hours with me now and then? May I be one of them? You already are. But please, Will, don't ever try to come out here when it's stormy. For my sake, as well as yours. Oh, I promise I'll always consult the weatherman before I leave. What's the matter with? If I could pull those other fellows out of the harbor, I guess he can save you, too. Oh, I'm sure he can, Captain. But when I see who it is, Father, I think he's afraid I'll throw him back in. You are listening to the woman on Lime Rock, starring Shirley Booth as Ida Lewis. On the cavalcade of America, sponsored by the DuPont Company, maker of better things for better living, through chemistry. Will Carver, a journalist, has traveled to Newport, Rhode Island to report on the death of his lifelong friend, Ida Lewis, keeper of Lime Rock Lighthouse. If we continue with our play, we take you back to Will Carver and his story. I went out to the lighthouse very often after that, and the years slipped by almost unnoticed. And then, in 1878, Captain Lewis died. No matter about your father, Miss Ida, I'm sorry to hear it, but we all got to go sometime. Very kind of you to come out here, Mr. Jacobs. I might as well tell you. I've asked the lighthouse board to appoint me keeper here in your father's place, sent my application to Washington last night. Didn't waste any time, did you? My father was only buried yesterday afternoon. Well, light can't be left untended, you know. Miss Ida, I don't want you to think I'm hurrying you, but when the appointment comes through, I'd like to be able to move right out here. So if you'll have your stuff all packed and ready to take ashore. You speak as if it were all settled, Mr. Jacobs. I've got no reason to think they'll turn me down. What reason do you think they'll have to turn me out? Why? Because you're a woman. What difference does that make? I've lived and worked out here for 20 years. I've tended the light and kept it as clean and clear as a man could. Mr. Jacobs, I don't want to leave. But your father's dead. You've got no right to stay on. No woman's ever been an official lighthouse keeper. There always has to be a first. Well, it ain't going to be you. I've got friends in Washington. They'll soon see to it that you're hustled off Lime Rock so fast you won't know what hit you. Well, I'm still in charge here. And I'll thank you to leave. Well, that afternoon I had another visitor. A very distinguished one. They sat out on the rock and talked together. Mind if I smoke, Miss Lewis? Not at all, General Sherman. Tell me, have you made any plans now that your father's gone? No, I haven't. All I know is I want to stay here. On Lime Rock? I thought you was only on your father's account. It was at first. When I first came out here 20 years ago, I didn't understand why he couldn't bear to leave it. I understand now. It's been your home, I realize. Oh, much more than that, General. It's been my life, my whole life. And I've been a very good lighthouse keeper, too. I can't even think of doing any other work or living any other way. My roots have gone so deep into this rock I can't pull them up. It would be like leaving my country. Well, then why shouldn't you stay? Because, General, although plenty of women attend and like to their husbands and fathers and brothers just as I've been doing all these years, no woman has ever been officially appointed. I see. Miss Lewis, I shall use whatever influence I have to get you officially appointed to succeed your father. General, if you only could. Thank you. Don't thank me. Heaven knows you've earned it. And more. But please, don't get your hopes up too high. You know the foolish prejudice that exists against women holding down positions of responsibility. General Sherman, surely you must know that in this country of all countries that prejudices can be broken. And women have been breaking them for years. And they'll continue to do so. Miss Lewis, I admire your spirit. I do indeed. And I suspect it's that kind of spirit that's made a merit of what it is. General, I promise you, now that I'm on my rock alone, I'll make all the more certain that nothing goes wrong. So you sure trying to get back to the mainland tonight, Sonny? You spend the night right here. Oh, I don't know how. I'll have a happy moment with that gloomy horn blowing right over my head. I wouldn't have a happy moment if that gloomy horn weren't blowing. It's my job to see that foghorn keep sounding. You mean you stay up all night? In storms or thick weather? Always. I declare I don't know how you stand it either. Why, even a strong man would break under a schedule like that and you're such a thin, slip of... Be quiet. What? Listen. Why do I hear anything? The foghorn stopped. Ida, where are you going? Up to the light tower to see what's happened to it. Wait, wait, I'm coming with you. I cleaned and oiled the machinery this morning and something must have broken. How long will it take you to fix that? I don't know. Sonny, I'm going to see what's wrong with it here. You take this fish horn, open the window and start blowing on it for all your worth. What? We've got to keep giving some kind of warning to the boats that may be near or they'll pile up on the rocks. For heaven's sake, Sonny, blow it. Sonny, blow it. Don't make a sound. Come out of it, Ida. Yes, here, give it to me. If there's any craft in these waters, I hope they hear me. They've got to hear me. With every ounce of her strength into the emergency foghorn, a passenger vessel loaded to the gunnels with immigrant women and children was inching its way through the fog that blotted out even the strong ways of limerock life. Try to make it, Miss Clarkson. Pretty soon we ought to be here in the limerock horn. That has set us on our course. Seems to me, though, I should have heard it before now. Newport harbors a mighty narrow channel, Captain. If we should run into the reef with all them women and kids below, it's too late to turn back now. At the lighthouse, Ida Lewis had been pouring her strength and her heart into the horn until it was sheer agony for her to draw another breath. Ida, you've been at it for hours. You've got to take a little rest. Just for a few minutes. Ida will dare. If you can't keep it up, you'll kill yourself. I guess you're right, honey. I've got to stop for a while. That's right. You take a little nap. No. No. No, I've got to keep it up. It's my job to warn the ships out there. If I fail, they'll say it's because I'm a woman. Because women can't take responsibility. You leave that horn, honey. Quick. Do you hear anything yet, Captain? Not a sound. I can't understand it. What was that? I heard it. Off a port bow. Wait a minute. That's not the limerock horn. But it's coming from where limerock ought to be. And somebody's trying to signal. We are hired to serve her. That's it. Another minute we have piled under the rocks. Yes, we hear you, Ida Lewis. We hear you. Bless you. A week later, when Ida was shopping for supplies in Newport, she stopped off at the post office. Oh, Miss Lewis, there was a telegram come from Washington a couple of days ago. But we couldn't get it out till you on the count of the storm. I hear it is. Thanks, Danny. You look kind of nervous, Miss Lewis. I am. This could be the best news I've ever had or the bitterest disappointment in my life. I think you're going to read it? You can't if you keep your eyes shut. I'm saying a little prayer, Danny. You read it to me. Sure. It says Miss Ida Lewis, Newport, Rhode Island. You were officially appointed yesterday as keeper of Lime Rock Light. Congratulations, William Tecumseh Sherman. The next Sunday, I went out to Lime Rock. Ida fixed a picnic lunch and we sat on the rocks below the light. You're very happy here, aren't you, Ida? Oh, yes, Lewis. The last few weeks were torture. Oh, I felt as if I were here on trial as if any minute I'd be ordered off Lime Rock forever. Now I know it's all right. I'm here because I belong here. Because I love it. Ida, how do you think a man feels when he realizes that his rival is a lighthouse? Oh, my dear. And it certainly isn't very flattering when the lighthouse wins. I guess I just didn't have enough charm. Listen to me well, that isn't true. You're very, very dear to me. But everyone's life takes a certain path and after a while it's too late to turn aside. I had to stay on Lime Rock just the way my father did. I love you, Ida. I'm afraid I always will. Thank you, Will. With all my heart, thank you. That's how it was with Ida Lewis and me. I brought her news of the world she had left behind so long ago and we talked and laughed together. I never noticed it happening, but somehow we'd both grown old. And yet Ida still tended the light in all weather without faltering. Until tonight, after half a century of service in a lonely lighthouse off the coast of Rhode Island, a brave and wonderful woman is dead. Near every rocky shore of the American coastline, the lights still shine bright. This is America, they tell the traveler, and you are safe. For the lighthouses are symbols of America and we would not have them were it not for women like Ida Lewis and men like her father. Human beings so devoted to duty that their duty becomes their cause. And that's American too. Extra service to our fellows in need. A neighborly spirit that keeps the light glowing in our homes and on our coastlines and in our hearts. Jane Whitman speaking for DuPont. Around this time of year in my home and maybe in yours, we look over the snapshots we took during the summer. The one of the kids in swimming. The funny one of Uncle Mert having trouble with the hot dogs. The lopsided picture Billy took from the ferris wheel at the amusement park. You know. We keep all of our snapshots, even the bad ones. Generally, we pick out three or four of those we like best and have enlargements made. Do you know how enlargements are made? Your film, the negative, is put into a machine much like your camera, except that it has a bright light in it, a projector. The light throws a shadow picture down on a table. The image is made large or small by sliding the projector up and down. When it's focused, a piece of sensitized paper is placed in a frame and exposed to the shadow image, after which it goes into bags of different chemicals. The DuPont company is now supplying photographic studios with a radically different type than large paper. A development of chemical science which simplifies this process. It is trademarked defender variegam variable contrast paper. In variegam, chemical research has created a paper which varies in contrast according to the color of the light used for exposure. Under yellow light, the resulting photograph is soft. Under blue light, the print has contrast. In practice, this means the technician in a photographic studio, the professional or you the amateur, if you make your own enlargement, can control the amount of yellow or blue light reaching the paper. All that is necessary is to attach colored filters to the lens of the enlarging machine. Of course, if you forget to wind the film or hang your hat over your camera when you snap that picture of grandma, variegam isn't going to guarantee you a good picture. But variegam does ensure that from now on, it will be possible to make better enlargements more simply from average snapshots taken by amateur photographers like me. When you try it, I think you'll agree. DuPont Defender Variegam enlarging paper is a welcome addition to the DuPont company's better things for better living through chemistry. Ladies and gentlemen, 10,000 men are needed for the United States Coast Guard for important peacetime work. If you are between the ages of 17 and 25 or if you're an ex-service man between 17 and 35 and want to enlist, go to your nearest Coast Guard recruiting office tomorrow. Next week, the DuPont Cavalcade brings you Ralph Dollamy and Louise All-Britain in The Prairie Burner. It's the exciting story of the Santa Fe. Make sure and listen next Monday at the same time to The Prairie Burner starring Ralph Dollamy and Louise All-Britain on The Cavalcade of America.