 The Irene Dunn, Fred McMurray Show. Starring Irene Dunn as Susan and Fred McMurray as George. Together in a gay new exciting comedy adventure, Bright Star. The Irene Dunn, Fred McMurray Show. With our stars Irene Dunn playing the role of Susan Armstrong, owner and editor of the Hillsdale Morning Star, and Fred McMurray as George Harvey, her ace reporter. There's an old saying, it's always darkest just before the dawn. Another one, the calm before the storm. We'll pick the second one because it's very calm in George Harvey's office this morning. Almost too calm. Hi, Sammy Millan. Sammy, I'm sure that someday you'll grow up to be president. President of what I don't know, but then it really doesn't matter much, does it? This came in the morning mail. I took it into Miss Armstrong, but she's not in yet. And so you brought it direct to me, knowing that next to Miss Armstrong, I'm the greatest little problem solver this paper ever had. Ah, you better look at this again and tell me what to do with it. By all means, Sammy, hand it over. Hmm, address to Miss Daphne Milburn, care of the editorial department, this paper. After five days returned to cozy corner, the greatest little poetry magazine in the world. We don't have any Daphne Milburn here, do we? I doubt if anyone has. The name is Daphne. I'll have a look inside, maybe they got the name wrong or something. Let's see, a printed rejection form. Thank you for letting us see this material, but we regret that it does not fill our needs. We would be pleased to read more of your, and so forth and so forth. From three poems. Ode to a Grey Dawn. The Little Rustic Bridge. City traffic. And all of them typed on perfume paper. You mean they smell, huh? I say in more ways than one, Sammy. May I read the opening couplet of the one she calls City Traffic? Huh? I'm glad to. I hate to do it. There it is. Snarl, you traffic. Snarl and weave. And let the homeward driver grieve. Like Gabriel, let him blow his horn and get a ticket in the morn. That's poetry? The cozy corner magazine didn't seem to think so, and I must say I'm inclined to agree with them. Who wrote that stuff? They're signed Daphne Milburn. Well, since there's no Daphne here, I better send the stuff back where it came from. No, no, no, wait a minute, Sammy. I think I'll just keep these for a little while, and I think I know what to do with them. Susan, is it really you how utterly delightful? Why, Rudolph, where did you come from? Oh, just sauntering about the store. And who knows? I may have been following you. After all, am I not your Columbus having discovered your great talent? Tell me, have you finished your masterpieces? I've already submitted them, but I haven't heard anything. Excellent. Splendid. You will be published immediately. Do you really think so? It would make me so happy. I suppose everyone at one time or another would like to create. Oh. And I think that you were the one who lighted the spark. So long ago. The first night we met at the Gilliams three endless weeks ago. And what have I had a chance to do for you since you promised you would call? Well, I really meant to, but I've been so busy. Why don't we have lunch right now? Well, it isn't lunchtime. And besides, I must be getting back to the office. Oh, that newspaper. But then you own it and you have responsibilities. Yes, that's it. But you will call. You will give me a chance to do more for you much, much more, my sweet Susan. Yes, Rudolph, of course. I'll get in touch with you very soon. I'll not sleep a wink until you do. My night shall be a torment, Susan. Remember, we can make beautiful words together. Until then, my little honey bear. Yes, Rudolph. Until then. George, sorry I was a little late this morning that I had some shopping to do. I think nothing of it, boss. Nothing at all. The morning star is shining as brightly as ever. Everything is under control. Is this all the mail I got this morning? Yeah. Were you expecting something special? No. No, nothing special at all. Just that I usually get more mail than this. You want to know something, Susan? What? You have all the earmarks of a young lady waiting for something very special. That's ridiculous. Who would I be waiting for? Maybe you're waiting to hear from Daphne Milburn. What do you know about Daphne Milburn? Do you know her? I ask you, what do you know about Daphne Milburn? Nothing much. Only that she writes the worst poetry I ever read in my life. Oh, is that so? I almost got hysterical when I read the one about city traffic. Really? Well, it might interest you to know that Daphne Milburn is my non-deplume. This came in the morning mail. Sammy brought it to me. Naturally, I opened it to see what it was. Let me see that. You'll find the usual rejection slip. Oh, no. Oh, yes. I suppose I found my poems as funny as you did. I wouldn't know about that, but if you're shooting for a highbrow deal like the cozy corner, you're on the wrong track. Are you trying to tell me that you know the right track? That's the general idea. When you're aiming for a supposedly intellectual magazine like that, you just throw a lot of big words together and be sure they don't make sense. I suppose you're trying to soothe my ego. I certainly am not. If you're referring to those three horrible samples of dribble, your ego should be taken out in space. Why, you! What's happened to you, Susan? I always figured you for a perfectly normal young woman with both feet on the ground, and then all at once you start making with a dopey posy. Let me tell you something. Rudolph Warren pronounced them superb. And what's more, he told me that I have the greatest natural gift of poetry that he's ever discovered. Aside from pulling your leg, what else does this Rudolph Warren do? He's a regular contributor to cozy corner. Besides being recording secretary for the posy poetry and pottery club of Hillsdale. Oh, well, where did you meet him? On a buttercup? And you needn't be so smug, George Harvey. Nothing of yours has ever been published in cozy corner. I could write for that anemic little rag with my eyes closed and my brain tied behind my back. Oh, is that so? Well, I'd like to see you try it. You would, huh? Okay, I'll do it. And maybe you'd like to make a little wager. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. If they accept my stuff, you take me out for a night on the town. If not, I take you. Is it a bet? Good. You trying to write poetry will be as hilarious as a bull in a china shop. Don't be too sure, Susan. I might turn out to be another Ferdinand. The proofs on that accident story are covered, Mr. Harvey. Oh, thanks, Sammy. Just put them on the desk. Oh, wait a minute, Sammy. Sammy, I want you to sit down, make yourself comfortable, and do nothing but listen. Okay. But what's a big idea? Just listen. Are you ready? I guess so. Herds that thunder under geometric skies, radiant heating with alligator ties, nebulous, shimmering, gossamer snails, a horse on a man over sugar plum trails. I just remembered I got to get a sandwich for one of the printers. Before you go, Sammy, tell me exactly what that did to you. It made me kind of sick. What was it? It's a poem. It's entitled Simply the West. Oh. Did you understand it? Well, I'm not sure. I thought you said, a horse on a man. But that couldn't be right. That's exactly what I said. Then I don't understand it. Not a bit of it? I know what radiant heating is, but I've never had an alligator pie. Sammy, that's all I wanted to know. I'm a success. This little poem will win me a night out. Now, I hope you're right. But I know a lot of people who've got two weeks in jail for less. It's been a long time since George Harvey was around in this place. I've never heard of it. I've never heard of it. I've never heard of it. It's been a long time since George Harvey was around in this place. Oh, really, Patience? I hadn't noticed. Not that I miss him or anything. It's just that the food bill dropped these last two weeks. Oh, food getting cheaper? No. George is getting scarcer. What did he do now? What did who do now? You know what I mean. You haven't mentioned him for two weeks and he hasn't been around. Well, he had the nerve to tell me that I didn't know how to write poetry. Is that all? Is that all? Would you like someone to tell you that? They wouldn't have to. I know it myself. A poetry magazine turned my submissions down and he claims they'll accept him. So what? Well, if they do, he'll be simply intolerable from now on. My, for one, won't notice any change. We made a bet. And if he should succeed where I fail, well, I don't know what I'll do. That's the most poetry you're working on? Yes, that's what it's supposed to be. Right now, I'm really stuck. Maybe I could help. I used to work a lot across word puzzles until my eyes couldn't get along with each other. I need a word to rhyme with Cupid. Well, life and me, I can't think of one. Stupid. This is a serious love poem. When you're writing about an emotion as beautiful as love, Cupid has nothing to do with it. I could get you an argument on that, too. But, uh, now that we're on the subject, what started this poetry kick? Well, you remember Rudolph Warren? Curly locks? Not curly locks. There's just a slight wave in his hair. Did you notice his mustache and his eyelashes? No, what about him? Eight will get you five. He puts them up every night before he goes to bed. Well, whether he does or not, he's a magnificent poet, and he's giving me a great deal of encouragement. If you want my advice, and you probably don't, pick the lesser of two evils, which in this case would naturally be George. And what makes you so sure of that? No, I'm not sure. But at least if George starts chasing you, it won't be with a butterfly net. And just what makes you so revoltingly happy this morning, George? Take a look, boss. A great big long look. Just received this from Cosy Corner, no less. What is it? As the exponents of a familiar game of chance would put it, read it and weep. We are pleased to inform you of the acceptance of your poem, The West. In close, please find a check. May we look forward to more of your submissions. Not bad for a young chap who worked his way up from Mary, had a little lamb, huh? Well, aren't you going to congratulate me? Well, yes, of course. Congratulations, George. Thank you. May I inquire the amount of the check? Well, it seems that their rates completely unlike everything else these days have not gone up. 50 cents. 50 cents? Well, that's an insult. Surely you don't intend to write anything else for that amount. I had no intention of writing anything else for any amount. This was merely to prove my point and win a bet. Remember? You have a copy of the poem you've sold? By a strange coincidence. It just so happens that I do. Care to browse a little? Thank you. Heard the thunder under geometric sky. Radiant heating with alligator pie. Nebulous, shimmering, gozamer snail. A horse on a man over sugar plum trail. Like it? What does it mean? I haven't the faintest idea. Like I told you, just throw a lot of H-cylinder words together without making sense, and they love it. A horse on a man. Well, so what? They bought it, didn't they? A horse on a man. I wouldn't be able to look anyone in the face if I'd written that. Maybe not, but I'm looking you in the face, Susan, and reminding you of our bet. Oh, I remember our bet. Good. How about tonight? A horse on a man. Okay, okay, I'll change it. This very night. Yes, how are you changing? Tonight, my dear boss lady, it will be a horse on you. Now back to our stars Irene Dunn and Fred McMurray and the second act of our story. Tonight, Susan is picking up the check at the Ming Room of the General Grant Hotel. It's a big check, too. George has seen that. He's had everything from soup to nuts and halfway back. And now, there's soft music and Susan. You know something, Susan? I could go on dancing with you for a minute. You just about have. 11.30. Do I detect a note of boredom? Can you and my strong manly arms? Yes, but I'm a little tired, George. It's been a long day and a big night. It has that. I'll admit that when you pay off a bet, there's no doubt about it. It's a family trait. You're a family raised some of the nicest traits I've ever known. Thank you. I'll tell you what. As soon as this number wears itself out, I'll take you home and then you can spend the rest of the night dreaming about me. Oh, that'll be just wonderful. Yeah, that's what all my girlfriends tell me. I'm a regular dreamboat. That's not what I meant. Ah, chances if the number has borne itself off. Yeah, that's too bad. But I gave my word and we Harveys never go back in our word. Family trait. Admiral, I'm sure. Susan, Susan, my darling, don't tell me it's you. But it is in the beautiful flesh. Oh, you goddess, you. How are you, my sweet? Well, Rudolph, how delightful. What are you doing here? Oh, I come here quite often. Many's the time I've composed several quaterings while dancing. Oh, I feel that the arts are so alive, don't you? Oh, yes, of course. This is George Harvey. Rudolph Warren. Pleasure. Pleasure, indeed. And George is my best reporter. Really? Oh, one would never think of him as a reporter. One would be more apt to take him for, say, a wrestler. I used to do a bit of it in my time. Shall we? And George is such a kidder. Such an impulsive sense of humor. Yes, hasn't he? Oh, but tell me, my pet, have we heard from your poems? The cozy corner rejected all three of them, Rudolph. You don't mean it. And a printed rejection slip at that. Barbarians. I promise you, my kitten, I'll take steps. And George saw them here for a submission. George? Yes, it's coming out in the next issue. Well, I declare, this intrigues me greatly. A reporter, a wrestler, and now a poet. However you do it, George. I'm a child prodigy and I never grew up. Yes. Of course, you'll reprint his poem in the star. Oh, well, I really hadn't thought about it. Oh, but you must, Susan, it's our obligation, you know, to nurture all our young tender poets. Oh, well, I suppose so. Oh, but enough shop talk. Promise me, Pigeon, that I may have the next dance. Well, Rudolph... Pigeon is tired and I'm taking her home. Oh, what a pity. Well, it's been so nice. I'll keep in touch with you, Bon Bon. Oh, brother. So embarrassed, at least you could have done with the be civil, George. Well, you're lucky I wasn't. What do you mean? If I were ever civil to a guy like that, the first thing you know, I'd start a civil war. You needn't be slamming those phone books around. You're going to do it and that's all there is to it. You got this stupid idea from that Shelly on a half-shell last night, didn't you? Maybe, but it doesn't matter. A poem a day is an added feature will help the morning star. You will have your first offering in the composing room before the deadline tonight and you will have another every day thereafter. I can take you to court. That's not in my contract. Law says I don't have to do any work for nothing. What law? Well, I don't know, but I'll find it. It's around here somewhere. Well, just in case there is a law, you'll be paid for the poems at the prevailing rate. Yeah? How much? Well, you should know, Lord Barron. 50 cents a day. This goes in the paper. That goes in the paper. The morning star? Ah, this is worse than the other one. As a critic, Sammy, I'm afraid your judgment is a little immature. Just how do you go about weighing the merits of a poem? Now, the other one didn't mean anything and this one don't make no sense at all. There's probably a nice distinction there, even if I don't quite see it. I might as well run that down to the composing room, Sammy. The eager presses wait. That does it, George Harvey. I've a mind to call my attorney. By noontime, he'd probably have you in jail for wrecking a paper I've spent the best years of my life trying to build. If you'll put your top back on and listen for a moment, you'll realize it was your idea. Just listen to this, this trash. A little bird, hi-ho. Sandusky, oh, hi-ho. Rocks the trees, a shady dell. The little bird couldn't fly. He fell. Well, the world's lowest moron wouldn't write anything like that. Probably nobody even noticed it. Oh, they didn't. The switchboard already has 50 calls this morning wanting to know what we meant by that poem you called, where's that thing? Oh, here it is. Entitled, and you are... It's pronounced, nur. Might I be so bold as to ask what nur is? Yes, nur is the stuff that gathers in the cup on a man's trousers. And that's what you name this, if you'll pardon the expression, poem. I wasn't trying to make sense. You know that. I did it out of spite, and I'm sorry. What do you want me to do? Start bleeding? It's easy enough for you to sit there. Say you're sorry. Hello. Am I speaking to Miss Susan Armstrong? The editor's a morning star. This is Susan Armstrong. Well, I'm the poetry and pottery club of Hillsdale. Oh, yes, Miss Bakewell. I suppose you've called about the poem in this morning's paper. Yes. You, Miss Bakewell, are you trying to tell me you liked it? George Harvey. He's a reporter. Well, I think that would be splendid. I'm sure Mr. Harvey would just love to join your group. Hey, what's going on? Yes, we will. Goodbye, Miss Bakewell. Would you mind bringing me up to date on whatever it is you just decided for me? George Harvey, poet. This is just too good to be true. The Poetry, Posey, and Pottery Club of Hillsdale has just stamped you with its seal of approval, George. That was the president on the phone. Well, if this is a rib, I don't like it. In fact, I don't like it if it isn't. It's all quite simple. You've been discovered as a bard of Hillsdale. So tomorrow afternoon at 2, we drive out to the north woods where your worshiping public awaits you, ready to hang on your every inspired word. Oh, no, you don't. Oh, yes, I do. For some idiotic reason, George, Harriet Bakewell thinks you're a genius, and that misguided opinion will save the morning star from disgrace. So it's high-ho, and off to the woods we go. They are, George, waiting for you. Yeah. Now, get that sour look off your face. Smile like a poet. You know this is the same as blackmail, don't you? Oh, shush. Pull over there and stop. You're handsome, boy. Yes, isn't he? Oh, I'm Harriet Bakewell. I'm not at all surprised. Susan, Susan, my little hummingbird. How enchanted. Well, Rudolph, I didn't expect you to be here. Knowing that you were to be here, Susan, not even chains could have kept me away. Attention all! So we'll all tramps to lovers rock. I've selected that idyllic site where we can sit at Mr. Harvey's of nerves. The reason I can choke you. You see, the little bird in my palm isn't exactly a bird at all. In fact, I wasn't even thinking about a bird. But I'm thinking about a bird right now. Where's that Rudolph from Susan, Miss Bakewell? Well, go on, we beg you. Well, Sandusky, Ohio came into my mind at that moment. I missed a train there once. And I used the rocks and trees and stuff because, well, I figured every poem should have rocks and trees and stuff. Well, you can take that anywhere you want. It's just a good idea to learn to fly before you take off. And I'm taking off right now after Susan. Oh, get lost. Please, let me go. Your Diana, your Aphrodite, your Venus, just one kiss, please, from your honey-lip. Stop it, stop it, I tell you, I'll scream. And every denizen of the woods will answer your golden call. George! Just one, please. George, George, help me! You cry in vain, my delightful. That oaf is far away. That's what you're wrong, Rudolph. Meet the oaf. George, thank heaven you're here. There's just one more. Susan, he's still on his feet. There. George. The soft grass will probably do a lot for his subconscious now that I've taken care of his unconsciousness. Oh, oh, oh. Just make well, it's a pleasure. Oh, you end up on that all. Well, you couldn't be a poet. You're so right. Come on, Susan, let's go before the men and the white coats come and throw a net over us. Our two stars, Irene Dunn and Fred McBurray, will be back with us in just a moment. All ready to go for tomorrow's edition. What are you talking about? My poem. What else? I quote, poetry is a wonderful thing. This is the theme of the song that I sing. But never again will I pen me a verse because most poems are bad and my stuff is worse. Oh, you know something, George. What? I'll buy that. My price has gone up. It's more than 50 cents. 50 cents and one special kiss. Poet Harvey, you have yourself a deal. Irene Dunn and Fred McBurray will be back next week in another exciting comedy adventure in the Gay New Series, Right Star. This is Wendell Niles inviting you to join us then.