 Family Theatre presents Richard Basshart, Audrey Totter, and Danny Thomas. The Mutual Network in Cooperation with Family Theatre Incorporated brings you Audrey Totter and Richard Basshart in a transcription of The Story of Joyce Kilmer, to introduce our drama, your host and narrator, Danny Thomas. Thank you, Gene. It was on July 30th, 1918, that near the village of Sarang and Friends was killed a young soldier who, in his regrettably short span of 32 years, had one heartfelt acclaim for his sensitive and delicate poetry. This was a soldier poet, Joyce Kilmer, whose verse mirrored and tranquil reflection the beauty of trees and stars and roses, and served as a commentary to the love and strength which came from his life. Now it is with pleasure that I present Richard Basshart and Audrey Totter in The Story of Joyce Kilmer. It is a day early in the 20th century that a nervous young man runs hurriedly up a flight of stairs, knocks, then stands expectantly before a lovely girl who regards him with lively interest. Yes, I'm listening. I mean, will you marry me? I most certainly will not. Oh, but a poet is made of stern stuff, so we shall try once more. Look at me. I'm looking. Will you consent to be my wife? Your wife? Certainly not. But how does the poet say it if at first you don't succeed? Try, try again. Aline, listen please. I'm listening. Well, look at me. I'm looking. Will you, would it be asking you too much to become Mrs. Joyce Kilmer? Well... This is the way the story began. One beautiful day in June 1908. For he said himself, Joyce Kilmer did, he said... You know, Aline, I can understand the interpretation that makes marriage the end instead of the beginning of a splendid adventure. If this should ever be the perfect novel of love, it would begin rather than end. They were happily married. And should I add, they lived happily ever after? Well, now that, that would depend upon one's interpretation of... Naturally, that would depend upon one's interpretation of happiness. For example... Aline, are you happy? I was never happy, your Joyce. A quiet home here in New Jersey, a baby. Yes, I know, but hang it. I was never meant to spend the rest of my life teaching Latin to a bunch of high school students. The very best of people are professors. And nothing but declensions, conjugations. It's positively demoralizing, I tell you. Now, if I had my way, Aline, don't look at me like that. Oh, go on. If you had your way, you'd sell poetry the rest of your life. Oh, for a dollar a pound. Perhaps two dollars a pound. Stop squeezing my hand. Slender your hands and soft and white as petalers of moon-kissed roses. Why, old ladies, I'll swoon for my stuff. The critics will come clamoring across the ocean. Joyce Kilmer, poet laureate to the medica. Aline, I shall have to develop a beastly mustache and grow long, dirty fingernails. Oh, Joyce. Aline, I'll leave it up to you. You'll leave what up to me? I'll let you decide whether your husbands to stagnate henceforth and forever in the swamps of irregular Latin verbs, or whether he's to take root in the immortal hills of poetry. The baby is crying. Your answer? The milks in the icebox. Speak, old vision, speak. Stop squeezing my hand, Joyce. Nothing so exquisite as that slight hand. Could Raphael or Leonardo trace... The baby will have hiccups. An answer, princess. Shall we or shall we not go to New York? Well, I... I knew you'd say yes. Come so soon. And how was my poet laureate to the medica? Oh, I'm tired. Come, sit down. No, no, down here. There now. Aline, are you happy? Why do you keep asking me that question, Joyce? It's the kind of a question a man has the right to ask his wife occasionally. Come, sit beside me. Look at me. I'm looking. You know, selling books in a store at eight dollars a week isn't exactly a thrilling occupation, is it? Joyce, I've told you it's going to take time getting started. You just can't come into New York and expect publishers to eat up your work. No? No, it takes time and patience. You know yourself, poets never start out by being poets. Isn't that so? Or what do they start out by being? Oh, street cleaners and assistant clerks and soap factories and even book salesmen. That's just my point, Aline. I'm not even a good book salesman. There's too much arithmetic connected with the confounded things. Well, what has arithmetic to do with selling books? And stop squeezing my hair. Arithmetic, my little princess. Arithmetic has a lot to do with selling books. As Charles Spibner's sons will soon discover. Oh, what happened now? Oh, I sold a rare book today. Sold it for a dollar and fifty cents. Well? Well, I made a slight mistake. Manager told me the book was not worth a dollar and fifty cents. No? No, it was worth a hundred and fifty dollars. Oh. And so an aspiring young poet in his family managed to live in New York on the magnificent sum of eight dollars a week. And did they live happily ever after? Well, that depends upon one's interpretation of happiness. I'm tired, Aline. I know. And there are thousands, tens of thousands, like us who are tired. I've seen them in subways, street cars, seen them outside offices waiting for interviews, nervous, tired people who stare at the wall over your head when you look at them. You're in a mood, Joyce. That's a fact, I tell you. The world is lopsided with selfishness. There are people walking the streets who don't know whether they're going to get their next crust of bread. And do you think your socialist friends can solve the problem? Socialist? A socialist might have the right idea. It's getting late, Joyce. You better get some sleep. Now, there's too much time for sleeping. Writing for the socialist paper again? Oh, I know what you're thinking. I'm just a naughty little radical with a pen in my hand. You might try typing. I won't try typing. Joyce, haven't you become a little loud lately? Well, not half loud enough for an upside-at world. Oh, well. What are you doing? Saying my prayers. You're not going to say your prayers. Joyce, what in the name of heavens? Heavens. God. There is no God, do you hear? Joyce. There is no God. All the good things a man holds precious in this life. All the long cherished hopes and dreams. All the faith that man has ever placed in his God, and himself, and his family. All these are candlelight for living. But there are times when the flame of faith wavers. When the flax begins to smoke and smolder. Then it takes only the slightest, the very slightest. It happened this afternoon, doctor. This is your second child, Mrs. Kilmer? Yes, doctor. How old? Nine months. Well, I'm sorry there's not very much we can do now. The germ has already struck. Oh, doctor. Infantile paralysis is a strange affliction. We don't know where it will stop or when. The only thing we can do now is wait and hope for the best. Yes, doctor. So. Infantile paralysis. So my, my baby, my baby's going to be paralyzed. There's nothing we can do, Joyce. There's nothing we can do? Nothing? Yes. The time comes when the candle flame of faith wavers. When human flax smokes and smolders. But comes the clean, healing breath of pain. And smoking flax leaps to flame. And man lives by blessed candlelight again. Joyce. Yes? I didn't know how you were going to take it. I was afraid that- It's all right, Elin. It's simple and clear now. You can't build a home on rhyming couplets, poetry. You build it out of flesh and blood and spirit and faith in God. You build it out of pain and love. And tonight I know what love is. It's poignant and accustomed pain. Oh, good God. Help my little girl. Heal her. But even, even if my child should never walk again. I know this. I know she taught me how to walk again. And a little child had led him. I've got it. What on earth, Joyce? Behold your beloved spouse. Oh, you whiskers, Joyce. Elin, Elin, look at me. I'm looking. Good. You now have the unusual privilege of beholding a New York Times book reviewer. They've accepted my poem for the Pathfinder, Elin. Moods Magazine, Elin. They're going to publish my verse. Elin, another one. The boss figures you deserve a spot in the Times Magazine section. You mean permanent? That's right. Doing interviews. Interviews? Wonderful. Would you mind giving the American public your views on Oh Henry, Mr. Gerald? Oh Henry? Yes, some people call Oh Henry the 20th century Balzac. Some call him the American de Mopazan. Now what would you call him? I'd call him a pernicious influence. This is the life. It's quiet here in the Rampos Hills, Elin. Man couldn't want much more in this life, could he? A little house, four children, as of present. A wife who is beautiful with black ribbons at her throat. A world full of sight and sound. The world is good, except I watch her lying there on the grass, this little paralyzed angel, my daughter. 16 years, the doctor, say Joyce. Yes, 16 years before she may walk. It's a long time. Yes. Still... I was just thinking. I was just thinking how light a cross can be when the cross you're carrying is someone you love. When love is the burden, I was thinking how tightly the arms of a cross can bind a husband and wife. For more than 16 years, Joyce. For always. Nothing could ever separate us, Elin. Nothing? Nothing. Come here. Well, look at me. I'm looking. You're a very young wife. Am I? And lovely. What's troubling you? Nothing. Nothing? Oh, Joyce! My little princess is younger than a baby. Stop crying in my ear, tickles. What's the matter with you? I just want to hear you say it again. Say what? Say nothing can ever separate us. All right. Nothing can ever separate us. I know what you're going to say. Don't look at me like that, Elin. Go on. Say it. You're going to war. Oh, I suppose I'm unreasonable. Being a woman, I suppose I'll never understand this man's world of war. Yes, I know. If I could only be sure that we could have the years ahead together. Thousands are saying that tonight, Elin. But remember, I once told you, nothing can separate us. Say it again, Joyce. Neither pain nor sorrow, nor distance can separate us. Say it again, Joyce. Neither suffering nor height, nor depth can separate us. Proceeding to the sixth area. You say you left the seventh regiment. That's right. Your name is Kilmer. Right. How come you joined the fight in 69? I didn't join. I adopted the fighting in 69. I'm Irish. Irish? With a name like Kilmer? Half Irish. Half Irish. Well, my great, great, great, great grandfather was Irish. Proceeding to the sixth area. And this was no man's land. Yes, this is no man's land. Little Eddie couldn't believe it was no man's land. This afternoon he said to me, Kilmer, it gets awfully quiet around here. But then... Just like that it came. In the afternoon, a clumsy, wobbling torpedo shell, something dangerously casual, that catches a manched, highing his shoes, or opening a package of cigarettes. It caught Eddie. It caught Kennedy and Sage and Finn and Galvin and Sullivan. It caught 21 of them. Buried them alive in a dugout. Donovan called the engineers, called everybody. But the soft earth kept slipping in on them. I saw the engineers crying this afternoon. So I wrote it for Little Eddie, and the rest of them. Stokes was trembling when he reached for the bugle, and the chaplain read it under the trees. In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet. There is a new-made grave today. Built by never a spade nor picket. Yet covered with earth, 10 meters thick. There lie many fighting men, dead in their youthful prime. Never to laugh, nor love again, nor taste the summertime. For death came flying through the air, and stopped his flight of the dugout's tear. Now, over the grave, abrupt and clear, three volleys ring. And perhaps their brave young spirits hear the bugle sing, Go to sleep, go to sleep. Slumber well, where the shell screamed and fell. Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor. You will not need them anymore. Danger's past. Now at last, go to sleep. Major Donovan, Major Donovan. Well, what is it, Kilmer? I hope I'm not troubling you, Major. Not at all. I heard we're moving up tomorrow. That's right. Your battalion's going to lead the way. You pick up a lot of information, don't you? I'm in the intelligence section, Major. Well, I was wondering if you couldn't arrange for me to go along. I don't see how I possibly could. But, Major, you do need a battalion adjutant. All right, all right, you win. Thanks, Major. Hope you can make out this writing, Eileen. I have your picture before me tonight. Can almost hear you speaking again. With a voice coming across the white roads of France. And like the voices of all the women of the world, it keeps saying... Say it, Joyce. Say nothing can separate us. Eileen, you won't mind my writing this. I've never quite recovered from the wonderment of being husband to a wife. Eileen, you're always before me and with me in my heart and brain. But it's dangerous to write this. It draws so tight the cords that bind me to you. And the people and things at home. I'd like to be there again. I'd like to see Kenton and Deborah and Michael and Christopher and Sip Dry Sherry and see a roast of lamb with mint sauce, Blackwood's Magazine. I'd like to see a straw hat and a circus. But most of all, I'd like to see you. Goodbye now and lovely exceeding women. Yes, Major, you're looking pretty up there on that ridge. You got us in the clear, do you think? You've got to be careful, Major. I'm going up ahead, Kilmer. Watch yourself. Just remember the man, Kilmer. Keep flat. You've got to move, move fast. The machine doesn't mess us up there with the ridge of the hill. Picking off our boys like pigeons. Well, what say, Kilmer? Do you a dunchy? You don't have to move, you know. All you've got to do is stay right here. You've got no orders to move. Just crawl like this. Just like this, to the top of the hill. All you have to do is take a look. Get my spot that nest. That's all. I suppose I'll be waiting for me. Just as soon as I lift my head over that ridge, I'll just remember the manual. And remember, every second you lose, I mean a life. Here you are, Kilmer. It's the ridge. It's still barking. Well, that's all right. That's all right. Here you go, now. Big breath, Kilmer. You're going to see something right now. Here goes. They found him lying still. And his eyes were looking out over, away over the ridge. And they buried him where the scarlet poppy's nod by the river circle. And so Sergeant Joyce Kilmer, Patriot and poet, died with... Wait a minute, mister. Huh? What is it you wish? You didn't answer the question for the people. What question? The question you've been asking all night. Did they live happily ever after? Who are you, sir? Who am I? I'm the interruption. I'm the question lingering on the tongues of millions. I'm the voice of the kids who fight the wars. The voice of the guys who scream to cross the continents and across the world. I'm the voice of human pain. And they're trying to choke me again with speeches and promises. They're choking me with new headlines, new suspicions, new hates. Did they live happily ever after? Did they? Who will answer the question? Trees. There was a tree planted on a hill. Did one soldier die in vain on a hill with half his songs unsung? Have thousands died and will other thousands die in vain on other hills? Can we live happily ever after? Can it be possible that in our days we shall at last see love? Grant that it be so. Be thou the patience in our planning and the humility in our heart. And grand good lord that all men, the men of the north and the south and the east and the west, may rest always in the soft shadow of peace. Where trees are not crosses but living things. That look at God all day and lift their leafy arms to pray. A soldier poet would have it, sir. We of the family theater remind you as we do each week. That the family that prays together stays together. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. In Hollywood, Family Theater has brought to Audrey Totter and Richard Basshart in the story of Joyce Kilner with Danny Thomas as your host and narrator. This transcription of the later life of the beloved poet was written by Timothy Mulvey with music composed and conducted by Harry Zimmerman and was directed for Family Theater by Jaime Del Valle. Heard in our cast were Norman Field, Howard McNear, Alice Maudry, Tim Graham, and Victor Perrin. This series of Family Theater broadcasts is made possible by the thousands of you who felt the need for this type of program and by the mutual network which has responded to this need. This is Gene Baker inviting you to join us next week at this time when your Family Theater will bring you Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's Robert of Sicily. Join us, won't you? This program came from Hollywood. Don't delay. Your own future, your country's future can't wait. By United States Savings Bonds.