Radio mirror (Nov 1936-Apr 1937)

RADIO MI RROR *Oh Mother/ IVE LOST MY JOB/ i THE job she needs so badly. The job she worked so hard to get. And what makes it even worse, the job which she is so well qualified to fill! The tragic part of it is that she doesn't know why she lost it. For employers will never tell a girl the real reason when it is a personal fault of hers. Underarm perspiration odor is an annoyance men will not tolerate in a girl, either in business or in social life. And why should they, when it is so easy to avoid — with Mum! Quick and easy to use. Half a minute is all it takes to use Mum. A quick fingertipful under each arm — and you're safe for the whole busy day. Harmless to clothing. You can use Mum any time, you know — after dressing, just as well as before. For it's perfectly harmless to clothing. Soothing to skin. It's soothing to the skin, too. You can shave your underarms and use Mum at once. Doesn't prevent natural perspiration. And another important thing — Mum doesn't interfere with the natural perspiration itself. Its work is to prevent the ugly odor of perspiration. Remember, a fresh daintiness of person, free from the slightest trace of odor, is something without which no girl can hope to succeed. Make sure of it with Mum! BristolMyers Co., 630 Fifth Ave., New York. LET MUM HELP YOU IN THIS, TOO. Use Mum on sanitary napkins and enjoy relief from worry about offending. MUM TAKES THE ODOR OUT OF PERSPIRATION seen little boys in the movies not half as clever as Milton. On her next half-day off from Wanamaker's Mom took Milton on a tour of these studios. At first it seemed like a hopeless task, until she got to know a few of the people who worked there. Then she'd find out beforehand what sort of a boy was needed, and when Milton applied for the job, he'd be that sort of boy— clean or dirty, angelic or devilish, exactly what was wanted. His first job carried a salary of thirty dollars a week, almost twice what Mom made by walking around the store all day, spotting shoplifters. He was a little more than six years old. When Pa found out what was going on, he objected bitterly. His baby son working because he couldn't! In his humiliation he protested that soon he'd be able to find work again, work that he could do. Mom agreed. It was only for a little while. When he was better, Milton could stop. And slyly, she played on his pride in his son. Wasn't it wonderful that Milton was so smart? Just by acting in front of a camera he could make more money than his mother! Do you remember that old masterpiece of a serial, "The Perils of Pauline," or dear old John Bunny and Flora Finch? If you do, you must have seen Milton Berle. For almost five years he worked in the movies, off and on but mostly on; bringing home each week that all-important pay envelope. THEN the movies began to drift vvest■ ward, and soon there were no more jobs in Brooklyn and Fort Lee — but Milton couldn't stop working. As long as his father could be free of financial worries, he was in fairly good health, but Milton knew he could never hold down a job. The responsibility for keeping the family going was Milton's — it would always be his — he could never lay it down. If there were no movies, he'd have to find something as good or better. He was eleven when he began making the rounds of Broadway theatrical producers' offices. Almost at once, he found work, mostly in musical shows. At twelve he was part of the children's sextet in a revival of "Floradora," a sextet that was allowed neither to sing nor dance. New York had passed a law which said, for some reason no one has ever been able to figure out, that children on the stage must not sing or dance. The children's sextet had to speak its lines instead of singing them, and walk through its paces instead of skipping to the music. When "Floradora" closed Milton changed his name, shortening it to Berle and advanced his age a few years. It wav the only way to take advantage of what seemed to be a natural ability to sing anc? dance. There weren't enough plain speaking parts in plays to go around, and those there were didn't pay enough money; but he knew he could always find a good job in a musical. He was a cocky, self-confident youngster, rather large for his age, and in both appearance and manner he could pass for sixteen. Wearing long trousers, interviewing producers, standing for hours on the Broadway corners sacred to members of the theatrical profession, Milton thought he knew all the answers. He was sure of it when he got a good part in a musical comedy. But there was one answer he had all wrong. It cost him his job. After his show had been running a few weeks, Milton came prancing off the stage after his dance one night. A kind looking elderly gentleman was standing in the wings. "Weren't you in 'Floradora,' son?" he asked.