 The DuPont Company, maker of better things for better living through chemistry, presents John Nesbitt on the Cavalcade of America. You know, 14 years ago this autumn both Cavalcade and the passing parade went on the air for the first time. Tonight we're happy to welcome the passing parade storyteller, John Nesbitt as our guest. And we welcome the story he selected, the true story of Tom, the immortal blacksmith. Now to our storyteller, John Nesbitt. Standing on a patch of green metal which is up on a hillside near Brandon, Vermont. You take the old road to your right off Route 7 from Rutland and you can find the place easily any day. We happen to be standing by a boulder. It has one side chipped away and chiseled into the stone are these words. Thomas Davenport, born July 9, 1812, died July 6, 1851. And under the inscription is one more word which reads, Inventor. And this is where the dust of Tom lies hidden. And not far up the hill, Emily Davenport lies too. With a carpet of lilies of the valley to keep her resting place, trim and respectable, which is just what Emily would have wanted. But now I tell you that we are standing on sacred ground. For this nearly forgotten blacksmith, Tom Davenport is a giant against the American sky. That sound of water is what you would have heard of Tom's blacksmith forge at Brandon, just 117 years ago when a man had to have water power to turn his wheel. And that rumbling noise is Oliver Davenport's old rattle-trap wagon being backed up to the loading platform. You see, Tom's brother Oliver was a tinker, and he was always lending Tom his wagon to haul supplies in from the market at Crown Point. Oliver, I understand, was a slow and a quiet fellow who never liked to get excited. Whoa, whoa, take it easy, Nellie. Come on, come on, Tom, let's get it. If we don't get it, Emily, she'll think a dozen thousand more chores at market. Oh, we can't get Oliver. She won't let me have the money till she's finished her piece. Are you set on the cider so she won't see it? And I'll go in and let her ease her heart. Well, I never. Tom, I'm not a woman to nag a husband, but when you get 10 miles from home, you'll lose your head. When I stand yourself here in the light, as I can see to get the money sewed up properly into your pocket. Gosh, Emily, take me so long to un-stitch for money out of that pocket to buy, they'll close up the store and go home. Now, the food list is printed out here, sewed in with the money, and the do list and the don't list is in your hat, baby. Oh, give me that hat. Well, there's more to the do and don't list than there's to the market list. Hey, Oliver, it says here on the don't list, I ain't to persuade you into trading off your new haul. Tom, it don't need to say that, but don't you think so? Don't spend no money on anything but the provision. Don't drink the cider till after the trading stuff. Not mind you that I could ever get brother Oliver to trade that horse, even if it was for the eighth wonder of the world. Wonder of the world. That's just it, Tom. Every time you go to Crown Point with a wagon, you find a wonder of the world or a two-headed car for a pat and nail pulling, and out the window goes our money. But Tom, whatever you do, don't let nothing happen to you. No, don't you fret, honey bee. Now, we'll be back safe tomorrow night. I ain't gonna trade no horse, and I ain't gonna buy no two-headed calf. Then shake him. It's thirty-five miles to Crown Point. Take us all day. Let go your grip of him. Let go. Come in, Oliver. Goodbye, Emily. Goodbye. Oh, Emily, Blime Cooley wants his wheel tomorrow. Tell him I'll finish Wednesday morning. And don't worry, honey bee. And no trades, Emily. No horse trades. Right now, he's a-he's a-plucking them stitches out of his pocket. To prove to Oliver he can look after his own money. Bye, honey bee! Bye, Tom. Bye, honey bee. Inside the cabin by the forge now, and that clock striking is one of Tom's own invention. It plays a tune every hour, and to Emily it's the prettiest chime in North America. But now Emily has no mind for chimes. For she has waited two days for Tom and Oliver to come back. And now it is one minute after midnight, and they have been gone forty-eight hours. And now it is the third day of absence. And Emily did her chores in a daze of fever and dread. And at ten o'clock that third night, Emily knew she was a widow sure. And she sat in the maple rocking chair in her white flannel nightgown, looking like a small white ghost, listening for a rumble of wheels, or a voice calling out down the dark trail. He traded it off. They give us this old car to get back with. Tom Davenport, don't you know you're a whole day late? What you got back there? Oh, the food. Well, we just couldn't quite afford it, Emily. After we traded off all of the supplier parts and pans and made the deal with the Hosses, we just had enough to buy the contraption in here. Emily, she's a wonder of the world. I see. A contraption. Well, just drag that wonder of the world over to the scrap pile where the others is, and come on in for your supper. Come on, Tom. Come on, Oliver. Oh, gosh, Oliver. That woman's mad at me over something. If I had attached the wires right, I guess you'll sort of blow up. But we'll just give her a try and a half. Oh, it's two in the morning, Tom. If we don't get the lamps out and get the bed, the neighbors, they'll be marching up the hill to see what we're about. Now, Emily, you're about to see an anvil. A 30-pound anvil, Emily, suspended, betwixt heaven above and earth below. Well, that's what did me in, honeybee, created for her at the Penfield Lion Works. It's a magnet run by electricity. Now, in all them pots and jars, that's acid. Now, you run them wires from the pots and jars and a big spark like, well, it's like lightning. Hops off the end of the wires when you strike them together. Now, Emily, up here, we got the magnet. It's the size of the biggest horseshoe you've ever seen under the sky. Now, the anvil sets under it on the floor. Emily, I touch these wires to the wires wrapped around the big horseshoe and... Hey, Oliver, wake up! Wake up, Oliver. Might as well see what your horse got turned into. Now, Emily, you were about to see an anvil suspended between heaven above and earth below. Watch. Oliver! Oliver, wake up! Emily, it's a doing it. What? By thunker Tom, it is a doing it. Yes. A suspended, a 30-pound anvil in mid-air between heaven above and earth below. And nothing touching that anvil, but the mysterious hand of God. Now, watch. When I pull away the wires, she falls. But Tom, what's it good for? Huh? Well, I come to think of it, honey. I've come to think of it, I'll be hanged if I know. Now, let's see now. This here magnet. It weighs three pounds. That is, anvil weighs 30 pounds. Three-pound magnet can pick up a 30-pound anvil. Oh, Emily, there's strength hidden in it somewhere. Strength like Goliath, like Samson. No, I got to take her apart and figure out how she's made before I can sleep. All right, Tom. I'll get my account book and pen. We should write it all down if you take it apart. No telling what would turn into when you put it together again. Yes, you do the right, Emily. I never had school. Yes, you do the right. Maybe. Maybe someday. Someday, the whole state of Vermont may be cleared in New York, but they'll be reading about it. A new power. Giants working for a man. Giants to make every man strong as a king in his castle. Emily, you will wear silk. You will wear silk, Emily. Work away at that wonderful machine, Tom. It's the great hour of your life. And write it all down, Emily. You, with your sharp tongue, never hiding the love and admiration in your black eyes. And snore on, good brother Oliver, tilted back in the rocker while a miracle takes shape at your feet. But come to think of it, Oliver. Most of us were like you. For who among us ever woke up to see a miracle for what it was when it grew up in our own hometown? Get to sleep, Oliver. Get to rest. Now we return to the story of the immortal blacksmith, as told by John Mesbeth. While most of us, like Oliver, drowsily moved down through the years, there was our own Tom Davenport, the blacksmith, braving the terrible loneliness of a man who dares the future. That's quite clear now, of course, but while Tom was a prophet, he was also a man with a living to make, you know, and Tom began to neglect his work almost as if he had a sickness in his mind. But dang it, Emily, he ain't fixed that crack spindle brace of mine in three solid weeks of waiting. Now I'm going to a blacksmith to stay on the job like he should. True enough, neighbor, but inside the cabin the miracle is growing up under the fingers of Tom the blacksmith, and Emily's scolding tongue is bridled, for as they work together, she sees from a look in her husband's eyes that he has become a dedicated man. Down it, as Tom's contraption, maybe you've got to the point now where it's time to give her a real name. Well, honey, seems you're right. Now let's see. Her name should be, well, call her an, uh, electrol magnetic engine. Elect... How do you spell that? How'd I know? Well, I guess the main thing is to make her do something to earn her board and keep, and not worry what to call her. Oh, she'll earn her keep someday. It's like this, honeybee, when I see the power of this little magnet lift that big anvil, I know the Lord was showing us a way to ease our tired muscles and help our work along. Now, this here wheel of ours is like a water wheel. Only the water is the electricity in the magnet. Similarly, it's like the Lord give a waterfall to every man's backyard. Arthur, if he ain't here, then where is he? Once he was a good smith, and now he ain't worth the powder and shot to blow himself to prediction with. What's he think he's doing? Oliver, huh? Oh, he don't say. It's his wife, him, puts the words to it. Uh, I believe you might just say that he's discovered perpetual motion. Prepetual motion? What's that good for? For something to turn out money? He's not got a customer left between here and Crown Point. Yes, but at last the voice of the future is whispering through the pine trees. Clear down in New York and Boston, scientists and professors have begun to hear about your wonderful contraption town. And one by one, they begin to leave their comfortable libraries and they ride north to see what it was that sent these wonder tales whispering down from Brown. Let's see. You may be astounding, Professor. Absolutely wonderful. Well, that's it, Professor. What we call the electromagnetic enjoyment. Yes, I live and breathe. What do you say, Professor? Say? Why, Davenport, you've discovered a totally new use of power. Well, it's... I have a new professor to call this way. Now, Tom, ask him. Oh, well, Emily and me have spent all our time on it. Go on. Do you expect somebody could maybe... maybe advance me a little living money on it? Money? I must confess, Mr. Davenport, I'm a little surprised. Money? Now, my attitude is that all of us, including you, Mr. Davenport, serve science as a labor of love. Isn't that the case, Doctor? Of course not. We all sacrifice. Do we not? Yes, indeed. Yes, but now we shall require a much better model, less patched up, Mr. Davenport, something in which to take pride. Oh, yeah, I guess so, yes. Well, it's only that me and Emily were... Well, thank you, sir. Thanks very much. Indeed. The biggest thing, isn't it, that people all over America now are speaking your name, Tom, with honor, and yet you and Emily must live on salt, rice and bread. We've got to stop, Emily. We can't do it. If this new model is to work by herself without me touching the wires on and off to keep her spinning, then we've got to wrap the bar with silk so the electricity won't jump out. Silk costs money. Oh, I know that. I know that last week when you figured the silk in between the wires would hold that dravid electricity where it belonged. Yes, all of us buried money for us. Aunt Nancy, she's buried money for us. That professor, he lent us money. And here we can't get five yards of silk string. Here. Huh? Hey, what you got? This is made of silk, Tom. Canton silk. What? Well, you got married, didn't you? Yes. My folks were strict. I said the one time it wasn't sin to wear silk was white for your wedding and white for your funeral. Wish I was bigger. It was more to it. You know, Emily, when God made your soul, He made it so big and strong. You didn't have enough material left through your body. Somewhere, even on this Tuesday night in the year 1949, in the archives of historical societies are to be found dozens of scrolls of honor, which the public prepared in tribute to this same Tom Davenport. There are documents, there are patent papers and letters of praise. They're now yellow and powdered with the dust of time, of course. But these scrolls and documents happen to be the only reward that was ever received by the blacksmith of Brandon. We honored him, yes, but we held on to our cash, thinking his invention was merely a wonderful toy. And now we must pay one of our final visits to Tom and Emily and also the good faithful Oliver. He was the one you'll remember who lost that fine young horse to help make Tom great. We will have to imagine the final words of Tom Davenport because all we really know is that just three days before his 49th birthday, his nerves wrecked by the futile attempt to get backing for that invention, Tom came home wearied unto the death. And there in the cabin sits Tom now. He's wrapped in a blanket and is dictating the last of those letters of his to Emily. And Oliver stands by as always, knowing that Tom is living out the last days of his life. Three dollars postage for the letters, Emily. Well, ain't good it. But yes, I'll just take him along next trip anyhow. I'll get somebody to carry him down to Boston and New York. I guess this must be the thousand and first letter I've written for you, Tom. Maybe this will be the lucky one. Maybe it will. No, but now I'm tired. I guess it's not been so tired if I could have maybe even got one look at the promised land. Well, Emily, here goes. All right, Tom. Yes, sir. I am the inventor of what is known as the electromagnetic engine. I greatly thank you for your piece in the paper about the invention. But I'm forced to ask you that if you can find anyone interested in helping me put the engine to work, which is what God intended him. I'd be most grateful. I need just a small amount of capital and would find use for just one hundred... No. I'll make it fifty dollars, Emily, to carry us over to spring. Even if you can do nothing for me, I greatly thank you for your kind words. Respectfully, sir, yours, Thomas Davenport. As the thousand and first letter went unanswered, Tom died. Not disease, mind you, just fatigue. In Vermont, men like to pay their debts and Tom died in the dreadful shadow of bankruptcy. Debt can kill a man. Now then, did we betray him? No. To destroy the inventor of the world's first workable electric motor was time. It took generations of scientists to develop the motor and comprehend its power. It took a regiment of engineers and an army of workers to harness the continent's rivers and waterfalls. And only when the nation had accomplished all of this was Tom's wonderful contraption ready to become the familiar electric motor we know today. And I know that the story of a deathless man is never really a tragic one. If it were, then our faith is a lie. No, long after Tom was buried on the hill, Emily and Oliver would come to tend the grave in spring, and they would talk serenely together with the voices of old friends who have known great hours. You've been the stadium. Yes, Oliver. I do love them, Lily, to the valley. They just volunteer themselves year after year. You know, Oliver, I grieve for him, but I never grieve wild. Tommy knew what he was doing, and he loved his oath, me and that contraption. It was a kind of glory to him. Teach me that towel, Oliver. Here, Emma. I declare the bulbs cloud each other like chicks under a boob in hand. You know, Oliver, you never once opened your mouth in blame for Tom talking you into trading off your new horse. Well, sure, sir. I was just ashamed to bring it up. Everybody knows that electric engine won't ever come to nothing. I never did just see myself what it was good for when the horses were so cheap. I may never amount to anything, but that isn't so Tom. Well, come on in. You'll catch an aegyo with your knees in that damper. Tom, he was a great blacksmith. No. He was a great man. John Meslin. Next Tuesday evening, one of the country's loveliest young dramatic stars, Dorothy McGuire, will join our cavalcade as the star in one of the most delightful stories of our American heritage, the lady becomes a governor. But now our time is almost up, so this is John Meslin wishing a very good evening to you all. Tonight's cavalcade play, The Immortal Blacksmith, was written and narrated by John Meslin. Our featured players were John Griggs as Tom, Gene Gillespie as Emily, and Parker Fenley as Oliver. The depart cavalcade of America is directed by John Zoller, the music's composed by Arden Cornwell, conducted by Donald Borey. Don't forget next week, Dorothy McGuire, and in the weeks to come, cavalcade will bring you more great stories of America with Cornel Wild, Roslyn Russell, and on October 25th, in his first radio appearance after his return from Europe, Tarone Power. Cavalcade of America came to you this evening from the stage of the Belasco Theater in New York, and is presented by the DuPont Company of Wilmington, Delaware, makers of better things for better living through chemistry. You're tuned for the stars on NBC.