Radio Mirror (Jan-June 1948)

But I couldn't admit it. "Oh, no," I protested, trying to sound confident, "we'll make it very nicely." It was just an overnight trip, but I endured a thousand years of torture in that one night. We had one of those old-fashioned drawing rooms, with the baby in her basket on the small bench; Mary — who was a big girl — in the lower berth, and I in the upper. I traveled up and down the ladder a hundred times. Every "Eek" from the baby brought me bounding down. My ears had an unnatural sharpness that night, which was fortunate — since I heard the whisper of a sound in the midst of one grinding stop and hurried down to find that my silver fox cape had fallen on top of the split basket. The baby could have smothered. We were afraid to wash her face. The tiny buttons on her clothes frustrated us completely. We did manage with the diapers, but after a terrible struggle. It was all worth it, for the wonderful reception. WAITING at Grand Central were George, his brother Willie Burns, and Louise, Jack and Mary Benny, Lester Hamel, and a lot more of our good friends. George took over the baby's basket at once. The porter, the cab driver — nobody was allowed to touch it. We proceeded like a royal entourage to our hotel, where five-week-old Sandra greeted thirty-three guests on her first day "at home." One year later I returned to the Cradle, this time from Hollywood and the twelve-room house parenthood had necessitated, and came home with Ronnie. He was not the baby the staff had chosen for us, but his eyes wouldn't let me go. I would leave his crib and go back dutifully to the baby I was expected to take and Ronnie's eyes would follow me, saying, "Please come back. Take me. Take me." He was a frail little fellow, and Mrs. Walrath was not sure. "But," I argued, "we can bring him around . . . we have money, we can have good doctors, nurses." They let me have him. They should see him now: star — forgive me just this once, Dorothy McGuire and Edmund Gwenn — star of Twentieth Century's "Apartment for Peggy." For a while I fooled myself that I was bringing up the children. George, of course, let them wind him around their little fingers from the first; I couldn't count on him for discipline. I was a pretty firm mother. I saw to it that they kept their rooms picked up. I reminded them to practice for their piano lessons. And to eat their vegetables. But something told me my grip was slipping when Sandra began to borrow my lipsticks. When I found my brand new waist-cincher in Sandra's closet, I knew. The new generation is taking over at the Burnses. George summed it up very neatly the other night when he came into our room holding his sides after a fatherly chat with Sandra. "She was swooning over a wonderful new song hit," he said, " 'My Bill,' " he added, and roared. "The same 'My Bill' we used to swoon over," I asked him, "when Helen Morgan sang it in 'Show Boat?' " "The same," George assured me. "And this is where I came in." I knew what he was feeling. "Me too," I said, and I sighed. See lustrous, natural lf!PI/£iU0f/7V in your hair not d so3p-3i sff^fth UQUfP CR£M^ IN bygone days, lovely women used egg with shampoo. Now, again, the lowly egg — just the right amount, in powdered form — helps make Richard Hudnut Shampoo soothing, caressing, kind to your hair! But the egg is in a luxurious liquid creme . . . that helps reveal exaa glory, extra "love-lights." Try this new kind of shampoo . . . created for patrons of Hudnut's Fifth Avenue Salon . . . and for yoti! A New Kind of Hair Beauty from a World-Famous Cosmetic House Not a dulling, drying soap. Contains no wax or paste. Richard Hudnut Shampoo is a sm-o-o-o-th liquid creme. Beautybathes hair to "love-lighted" perfection. Rinses out quickly, leaving hair easy to manage, free of loose dandruff. At drug and department stores. R M 89