Radio mirror (Jan-June 1946)

not mine. I kept quiet as a mouse — even though I could feel, without turning my head, that the red-headed man next to me was eyeing me. Johnny Olsen tried out several women, making them sing the one line, "Daisy, Daisy, tell me your answer, do," while a pianist accompanied them on the stage— and chose a fat, middleaged housewife from Brooklyn, and a thin, nervous-looking girl who was chewing gum. Then he said, "I still need a third singer. Who've I got?" I sat tight . . . but beside me, the redhead's arm went up. "Right next to me is your singer," he announced. Then, to my horror, Olsen was running happily up the aisle toward me. A second later he was holding his mike in front of my mouth, and the pianist had struck a couple of opening chords. There was nothing to do but pry my lips apart and sing into the mike. I heard my own voice ring out — a little uncertainly — with "Daisy, Daisy, tell me your answer, do!" To my surprise, this brought a faint pattering of applause from the audience. Johnny Olsen said, "They agree with me, Miss. Up on the stage with you for the singing contest." Apparently I was the last person needed for Olsen's pre-show entertainment. He now stepped to the mike and announced that there were still ten minutes left before the show went on the air, and in that time they would have the singing contest to eliminate two of the three singers. The one left would be on the radio program itself. It all happened before I could even get terrified. Mr. Olson had the 'fat housewife step up to the mike, asked her a few questions about herself, and had her sing "Smiles," from a sheet of paper he handed her. Applause followed; then the gum-chewing girl stepped up and sang "Smiles," to more applause. Then it was my turn. I managed to get out my name, in answer to Johnny Olsen's questions; and that I came from Toledo, Ohio; and that I wanted to be a singer in New York. Then he said, "Okay, piano for Miss Allen," and handed me the sheet of paper with the words to "Smiles." A ND suddenly I thought I couldn't -t* do it ... I couldn't. For "Smiles" had been Russell's and my theme song all these years. "Smiles" meant Russell— and now Russell meant anything but smiles to me. I began feeling tears flooding over me again, while the pianist struck the opening chords, and I was about to say that I couldn't sing and run from the stage — when the redi head's face seemed to come right out of the lighted audience to me. And to my surprise, it wore an expression not of sarcasm, but of confident eagerness. It seemed to tell me, "Go on, Jane Allen — I know you can do it." And abruptly I knew I could do it! I turned to the pianist and said calmly, "Please give me the opening chords again." He nodded, and began playing once more. And then I stood, looking directly into the red-headed man's face, and sang "Smiles" as I didn't know I could sing it — I sang for Russell and the happiness we'd had; for facing the finish of something like an adult; I sang for the red-head's belief in me — and I sang for the sheer joy of letting music pour out of my throat, after these months of silence. When I finished, there was a moment of silence . . . and then a burst of honest applause. Johnny Olsen said with kind sincerity, "That is just about dandy, Miss Allen. You're the singer on today's program." THE WESTMORES OF HOLLYWOOD BRING YOU A group of seven exciting, lipstick colors created in Hollywood for the Hollywood stars. Try DANGER SIGNAL— the newest shade of these 7 Hollywood Reds! Bud Wesimore, who, with Ins brothers IVally mid Perc, comprise iht world-famous trio of Hollywood make-up artists, creators of the popular Westmore lipstick, rente, face powder, creams and Westmore's Overglo Make-up Foundation. I M 67