 The Cavalcade of America, presented by Dupont. This week is being observed throughout North America as Wildlife Restoration Week. As a tribute to that effort, the Dupont Cavalcade this evening brings you the story of John James Audubon, who was outstanding in passing on an appreciation and love for outdoor America. Those among our listeners who have made a hobby of nature study probably could answer this question. Is Comfort an animal, vegetable, or mineral product? The answer to it will be given in our story of chemistry, told at the close of this broadcast. But more than that, you'll hear a number of facts about Comfort you probably never knew before. Comfort is an important raw material for American industry. And the part that research chemists play in providing Comfort for many products you use is another good example of the Dupont Pledge. Better things for better living through chemistry. As an overture, John Voris and the Dupont Cavalcade Orchestra played the love theme, one song, from the picture Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Cavalcade moves forward. James Audubon was born in 1785 in Haiti, a French parentage. At an early age, he was interested in the study of nature and art. A short time was spent studying painting in Paris, but his father owned land in America. And in 1804, we find John James living at Milgrove near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. In the living room of her father's mansion at Fatland Field, Pennsylvania, pretty Lucy Bakewell looks up as a servant enters. Miss Bakewell, who do you think is riding up the road fast as ever, you please? The young French gentleman who's come to settle at Milgrove. Oh, he must be coming to call on father. There's rather a belated call seeing he's lived here some weeks. I'll speak to him. Will I bring him in here? No. I'll go out on the front steps to greet him. He scarcely deserves to come further. He certainly can ride. Perhaps he's just showing off. Good day, ma'am, sir. Is this Mr. Bakewell's home? It is, sir. Will you please sit at his mouth? William, will you take Mr. Audubon's horse? Yes, Mr. Bakewell. Yeah, thank you. You seem to know my name, ma'am, sir. I was about to introduce myself. I have heard much report of you in the neighbourhood, Mr. Audubon. I am Lucy Bakewell, William Bakewell's daughter. You're servant, ma'am. Is your father at home today? I'm sorry, he is not. But he'll be most pleased that you called. Perhaps he will not be pleased, ma'am. He paid a call on me when I first moved into the neighbourhood and I have waited over long to return it. Did you wait so long because you knew us to be English? Oh, how brightly you blush, monsieur. You look the colour of our sumac bushes in this October frost. It is true, ma'am, sir, that I was reared in France and my father, a naval captain, spent some time in an English naval prison. Oh, I'm sorry. I'll tell father you were here. Thank you. My horse boy, yes, sir. Wait. What is that? It sounds like a bird. It seems to come from your saddlebag, sir. Oh, I found a small knot hatch lying in the road as I was coming here. You catch a bird, sir? I but captured it to help it, ma'am, sir. One leg is hurt. I will show you. There. See for yourself. Oh, the poor darling. It's so soft and gray. Here, hold it, ma'am, sir. It's too frightened to peck here. Oh, how cute. I will take him home, cure him and make him serve as a model for a drawing before I release him for good. Let me show you how his wing looks spread. Oh, how beautiful he is. You hold him far more gently than I. Did you say you would draw his picture, but why? Because I love birds, ma'am, sir. And think the marvelous work of it. And think the marvelous work of it. And think the marvelous work of it. And think the marvelous work of it. And think the marvelous work of it. I like the birds of France, but since my father has sent me here to manage his properties, I have thought of nothing but the birds of America. You like it here? Oh, indeed I do. And you mean to settle for good? I hope to, yes. I do, too. At first we thought we should miss England, but this land has such warmth of colour, such freedom. Ah, the turning of the leaves in autumn, this red and gold brilliance in the woods, there's not to compare with it in France. Nor in England. I'm glad you like the wood too, mature. Oh, I spend all day writing about in them, observing each change breathless with pleasure as the winter draws on. And then I trap what birds I can that have not already flown south and place a small band of silk thread on one leg that they cannot dislodge. And in the spring, I shall watch to see if the same birds come back to this neighbourhood. Oh, you are truly scientific. And this small fellow, you'll band him with thread? Oh, yes, when he is well. Oh, well, perhaps the long ride home. He really should be taken care of at once, should he not? Yes, it would be better for him. He might be warmed by our fireplace and given a drop of warm tea. My tears, finder, not share in these benefits too, Mr. Sluicy? I was rude to you when you rode up. I'm so sorry. I deserved punishment for neglecting to be friends with my neighbours. Father will be home at any moment. He'll be glad to welcome you. And since, after all, we live in America, the fact that you are French and we are English, should it matter now? It should not matter in the least, myself. For now we are Americans. William, please stay with Mr. Audubon's horse and tell Martha to prepare us tea. The friendship of John James Audubon and Lucy Bakewell soon turned to love. His devotion to the study of bird life was shared by the lovely young girl he determined to make his wife. Hoping to earn enough money to marry her, young Audubon went to Kentucky a few years later and set up a frontier store. In the spring he returned. As he arrives at the Bakewell Farm, Lucy is waiting for him. Lucy, how are you, my dearest? I'm well, John. I'm so happy to see you. You're as brown as an Indian. I guess I recognize my elegant Frenchman and his frontier dog. Oh, dear, I am not French now, Lucy, but a true Western settler. Will not your father be the better pleased with me? He will be glad to see you again, John James. All the family will rejoice that you're back. And as for Lucy, do you rejoice, too? Of course. But you're almost a stranger. It's been so long since I've seen you. Surely a few months in Kentucky could not make a difference between us, particularly when I went there solo to gain means for marrying you. Our marrying was not really a set of matters. Then let us settle it now before we go up to your house, Lucy. Oh, nay, we must speak to Father. It was really like the seat for me to rush here to the gate to meet you, but the family shouldn't see you caressing me. Why, you are incapable of any real falseness, Lucy. You will come back with me and take your place by my side. It's not so crude and rougher country as you might think. There are goodly folk already and more arriving each month. Yes, but I somehow cannot imagine, you John, running a frontier store. Indeed. You should see me measuring off calicoes with the good wives of the neighborhood, weighing out tea and sugar. But if you keep the store, you won't be able to see your birds. Let alone draw or paint them. Lucy, did you ever hear of a man who could support his wife by drawing pictures of birds? Perhaps an end with your talent should not have the burden of a wife. Lucy, I could not go back to Kentucky without you. For a person like me, my work and my future will always be bound to those I love. But will that always be true? Always. Thank you, Lucy. I thought of nothing but the return journey to Kentucky. Imagine. Imagine a honeymoon. I would start by coach over the mountains and then go down the winding Ohio. Tall trees are lit by shops of sunlight. The soft green is alive with a whirring of wings. Morning doves call from the thorn apples, robins and tannages flash in the oaks. Such beauty, Lucy, was blessed... blessed few lovers. If I see it through your eyes, it will be beautiful. Oh, give me your word to come now and I go to greet your family. If you think I will be a help and not a hindrance. Oh, darling, let us find your father and pray heaven he be as good and kind as his daughter. John Audubon and Lucy were married and followed the great American pilgrimage to the West. But Miss Fortune seemed to hurry all Audubon's plans. His frontier store did not prosper and he and Lucy were saddened by the death of two of their children. In all this sorrow, there is only consolation in his increasing skill in painting the wilderness birds. Finally in 1819, several years after their marriage, increasing debts necessitated the selling of all their goods. Have we got all the chairs out, Charlie? Done well, Mr. Ridge. Well then, better take this table next to reckon. Sure thing. Oh, wait! Wait, please! What's the matter now, Miss Audubon? Lucy, please come outside where it would be less painful for you. No, John. Mr. Ridge, I will no longer plead you for each bit of our furniture. I'm resigned. But in the draw of this table are a few trinkets which I did not remove. All right, I'll get them for you. These what you want? Mostly paint and drawn pencils, ain't they? Yes. My husband, you know, he paints a great deal. So I here it. Racking is one reason he's losing his home. Well, I don't know whether or not I'll let you have these pencils or not. But why not? Well, let them go, Lucy. There's no consequence. But, John, you have no other pencils. Can't see what we'd do with them, Mr. Ridge. We'd better ask the creditors first because they're part of this property and it's being sold up entire. Now, what's this about in the drawer? It looks to be an old portfolio filled with... hmm... pictures of birds. You do these, Miss Audubon? I fear you'll find them very trippy. No, no. They look right pretty. Look here, Charlie. A wild turkey car. You might be right out in the woods yourself looking at a bird like that. You're welcome to the lots. Oh, no, John. No. Why? We wouldn't take them as Audubon. Pictures like that are pretty, but no daggone youth in the world. Here you are. Thank you. Thank you very much. He can take pictures. Well, come on, Charlie. I'll give you a hand with this table and anywhere through. You betcha. There wasn't much here anyway. Now, look how I got it. Careful now. Come on, be along. Drive with that door. I have it. John, do not look so tragic. We have our future to think of. We must make our plans. Lucy, let us not waste time on the whimsical notion you spoke of last night that I go to Louisville. You have friends there. It's a larger city and your friends can help you with your crayons and drawing paper. For what purpose, Lucy? To spend some time in the fields and woods drawing your robins and tannages. You'll forget this humiliation as soon as... I cannot afford to forget it. John, why cannot we muster courage to face the truth? We both knew soon after we came here that you were not suited to running a store. But instead of turning from this to your one great gift, we feared to take the chance. Gift? Rather a curse. Oh, no, John. When I've looked at your picture, I've often thought, this is not painting alone, but history. Already the West is changing. The people coming after us, my dear, will never know the splendor of the West as we have known it. But they'll value its tradition in their lives. Enough to pay for it, you think? Oh, try it, John. Put the leaves of the trees and the strange flowers and the rush of wings on paper. Paint all the birds you can find in America. It'll take years. Then the sooner you start, the better. I'll pack your napsack tonight and the dawn you set out. But what would you do? I'd have to go south and east. While I'm wandering through the woods, how will you and the children live? When you settle anywhere for a while, we'll join you. I'll teach school. No, no. You'd be struggling along lonely, pitted by your neighbors. I didn't look at your pictures at night, feeling myself back again. Back in those beautiful forests we go through on our honeymoon. I've never forgotten them, John. I know how to cherish my happiness. Bravely, though they now had children to support, Lucy and John decided that he should give all his time to a work at which he had become amazingly skilled, recording the exact appearance of North American birds. Lucy began to teach, going first to Cincinnati, while John Audubon worked in the wilderness, spending hours in the careful observation of birds and trees, and paying his expenses by making crayon portraits, his family struggling along without him. He finally gets a chance to show his work to Vandalin, the best-known artist in New Orleans. Vandalin and a friend of his, an army officer, look at the painting. What do you think, Mr. Vandalin? They're interesting, Mr. Audubon. Very interesting. Don't you think so, Colonel? Extremely so. Yes, but, um, frankly, I can't just see what value they are. They're not portraits and they're not landscapes. So they're not supposed to be. Why, Vandalin, I'd call them portraits of birds and their natural habitat. Very realistic, too. Yes, they're probably very accurate as to coloring and drawing, but I wonder just who would be interested in bird pictures. I see. Thank you, Mr. Vandalin. You've been very kind to give me so much of your time. Oh, not at all. Oh, may I help you collect your drawing? Oh, thank you, sir. Well, possibly when you have some other subjects, Mr. Audubon, you'll drop in and see me. Thank you. Good day, Mr. Vandalin. Good day. Good day, Colonel. Oh, Mr. Audubon, just a moment. I'll walk along with you. Yes, Colonel. I had to come with you, Mr. Audubon, and tell you that I think your painting is really marvelous. Oh, thank you, Colonel, but you see what Mr. Vandalin says. Oh, don't let him discourage you. I don't know anything about painting, but when I looked at those pictures, I really felt as if I was standing right there in the woods. Vandalin doesn't understand them, that's all. He spends his life in studios, not outdoors. I'm afraid many others feel the same way he does. You should go to Europe, Mr. Audubon. England and France, they appreciate your work there. And I appreciate your kindness, sir, but what chance have I of going to Europe? I can't even make my living in America. Audubon remained in Louisiana to paint birds and plants in settings of color and beauty. Meanwhile, in a small flat in Cincinnati, Lucy Audubon is reading one of her husband's letters as her small son, Victor, comes in from the bedroom. How's Victor? Why did you wake up here? The light woke me up. Oh, I'm sorry. I had to light the candles for what I was doing. Are you reading father's letters again? How did you know that? Johnny says when there are tears in your eyes, you've been reading all the letters since father's been gone. I didn't know you and Johnny were so sharp. Go back to bed now, Victor. I must get to bed, too. You get tired, teacher, in school, Mom. Oh, everyone gets tired of what they do sometimes, Victor. Yes, but you're taking care of us at night and teaching all day. Are you going to bed? You'll wake up your brother. I'll whisper. It's cold in here, but it's nice and warm where father was, isn't it? Yes. Louisiana is a heaven in place, he says. No snow like we're having here. He says he's painting birds and plants with the brightest in the tropics. And did he sell any pictures yet? Not yet. No bird pictures, I mean. He's painted a few little portraits, but... he says people know from his clothes that he's poor, so not many of them want portraits by an unsuccessful artist. Too bad. Yes, but it doesn't really matter. Because your father's collecting pictures of hundreds of American birds. He really should go to Europe and get a reputation there. And in two years I'll have stayed enough. You see, that's the reason, Victor, that even with my teaching we don't have much money. I must help your father before it's too late. I suppose he'll get to Europe if you want him to go. Yes, I wanted to have a real triumph. He thinks he's doing work that belongs to the world and the world must hear of it. Look, dear, he sent some pictures to me with his letter. Oh, what's that? The snowy heron. The best one I ever saw. Really beautiful, mother. Yes, it's magnificent. Big white heron with those feathery plumes. That plantation house in the background. It's gonna look awful putting it in the room. Can I wake up Johnny to look at it? Oh, dear, it is beautiful. Why are people so blind? When will he be happy and free to do his work? In 1826, John Audubon sailed for England on Lucy's savings, knowing that the trip to Europe was the last desperate effort to have his paintings brought before the public. But Lucy's faith and his destiny was rewarded. Some months later, in New York City, shortly after John has returned, John and Lucy talk together. You say the crowds couldn't even get into the rooms of the Royal Society, John? Yes, so many came, Lucy, that many were turned away. And already in Liverpool, I had cleared a hundred pounds from exhibiting. Oh, it's marvelous. And the water's got them for you. Yes, he was most kind. He had seen my drawings and wanted to meet me. Who else met you, John? But did you not read my letters, Lucy? Actually, I read them silly, but I must care about it as you tell it. Who else welcomed you? Well, Lord Elgin. Here's the man who brought the marble statuary from the Parthenon to England. He drank a toast to me, Lucy. And then there was an appraiser at the Royal Society who said my painting of the wild turkey cock was worth a hundred guineas. Why are you laughing, Lucy? That's the one the man at Henderson who took our furniture said wasn't worth a thing. Oh, so it was. I had forgotten. The Birds of America. It seems strange, European, to be interested in a book like that. Oh, but they're very much interested in America, Lucy. I could find but one flaw. What was that? That you were not there for our triumph. For it was your triumph, too. It was your book. And I had no way to make them understand. Oh, John, I'll be content with an American triumph. It's not likely I'll have one. The Americans know their own birds and porous. We'll not find the vision overwhelming. Maybe you're wrong, John. I have a message for you, but I'm not delivered. Yes? What is it? A gentleman brought it. It's a welcome from the President. The President of the United States? Does that mean more to you than foreign royalty? Much, much more. Yes. You ought to go to Washington, so he wants to shake your hand. That will be my triumph, John. You've won the gratitude of your own country. It was just 100 years ago this June that John James Audubon completed his polio in England entitled Birds of America. Evidence of renewal of interest in the work of Audubon is to be found in the national exhibition of his original painting, including the famous turkey cock, which the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia will hold from April 26th to June 1st this year. Also, a new museum is to be opened shortly in Audubon Memorial Park, Henderson, Kentucky. Their 600 acres of forest land where Audubon did much of his work have been preserved to honor his memory. This evening, Dupont salutes John James Audubon, American painter and naturalist in the cavalcade of America. Speaking of Mother Nature's handiwork, a good question for one of those radio question bees would be this. What is camphor, an animal, vegetable, or mineral product? Before anyone has to go to the foot of the class for not knowing, here's the answer. Camphor is vegetable in origin, and for centuries the only source was the camphor tree of the Orient, principally the camphor forest of the Japanese island of Formosa. Most people know that camphor is used in medicinal products, and they think of clothes put away in the attic with camphor balls to keep away moths. But millions of pounds a year are needed in the manufacture of such things as photographic film, toiletware, safety glass, automobile steering wheels, ornaments, fountain pen barrels, and 1,001 articles made from plastics. In 1920, due to a foreign monopoly of the camphor supply, the price ran up to $2 a pound. Although many previous attempts in this country had failed, DuPont chemists set out once more to develop a practical method of making camphor chemically. They of course sought to use raw materials available right here in America. Because of early experiments in the last century, chemists knew that something very like camphor might be obtained from turpentine. They kept on experimenting, and finally found that they could rearrange the complicated chemical structure of turpentine to produce camphor, which is the twin sister of the product from the camphor tree of nature. Better still, they found they could get their raw materials from southern plan trees, and that's where much of our present-day camphor comes from. After extraction, the basic material, pineem, is shipped to Deepwater Point on the Delaware River, where DuPont has built the only synthetic camphor plant now operating successfully in this country. In 1937, the price of industrial camphor instead of being $2 a pound averaged only 35 cents. Camphor users such as the plastics industry are now assured of stable prices free from foreign control. Thus, America gained a new industry, which now provides a new source of income for our citizens. For hundreds of years, a highly refined type of natural camphor has been used for medicinal purposes. Now, man-made camphor of uniform and pure quality is produced by DuPont from American pine trees, and is widely used in medicinal purposes. The story of man-made camphor shows how resourceful chemists are in finding ways to create and produce at low cost product that the country needs. And is one more example of how the DuPont company carries out its pledge. Better things for better living through chemistry. Charlotte Cushman, pioneer American actress who began her career in opera and ended it as one of the outstanding personalities in the history of the American theater, will be the subject of our broadcast when, next week at the same time, DuPont again presents the Cavalcade of America.