The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

("Read book," demands Leonora, reaching for the colorful volume her mother has just laid aside on the nightstand. "No moeh t'night," declares Sally as she lifts her daughter into her bed. "Plenny'atime f't'at t'marra. "New'papeh," fusses Leonora. "Y'don' need t'read no papeh," insists Sally. "You go to sleep now -- remembeh, Santy Claus is watchin'. Leonora responds with a vigorous raspberry, but, with her wilted toy panda under her arm, snuggles under the heavy woolen blanket. Sally snaps off the light and, closing the bedroom door behind her, steps into the living room, where a holiday medley by Fred Waring's Pennsylvanians, issuing from the little table radio, gives way to a barking voice declaring the merits of Chesterfields. As the voice hacks out its festive message of "the right combination of fine tobaccos," Sally steps to the chipped bureau, and rearranges the packages laid out beneath a drugstore calendar featuring a blurry painting of a Christmas tree. A single string of colored lights surrounds the calendar, surrounded in turn by a construction-paper chain festooned with just enough tinsel to distract Stella the Cat, who sits comfortably on a chair pondering the possibilities of the situation. As the commercial ends and the music resumes, there's a brisk knock at the kitchen door. "Comin'," calls Sally. She opens the door to reveal Mr. Ginsburg, with an oddly-shaped, paper-wrapped bundle standing waist-high on the floor before him. "Uh, good evening, Missis Petrauskas, good evening to you. Uh, in my shop today a customer came, with a hole in his coat for me to mend, a hole, uh, a cigarette boin for me to mend. And he left behind this bundle, you see, this bundle. And he didn't leave his name, this man, and there is no tag on the bundle, no name is written you see? Well -- um -- I got no use, you see -- and Alice Dooley was telling me -- so I thought maybe you and Yussel and your little goil, I thought maybe... "Oh," nods Sally, comprehending her downstairs neighbor's offer. "Well, t'anks, Misteh G." she nods, accepting the bundle. "T'anks very much." "Is no trouble," nods Mr. Ginsburg. "My best to you, and also from Mrs. Ginsboig, her best too. Good evening." Sally watches as he steps carefully down the stairs, and then closes the door. The slight woodsy aroma exuding from the bundle confirms her suspicions as she strips off the paper to reveal a small fir tree, just two and a half feet high, neatly sawed off at the base and tacked to a wooden stand. As Sally carries the tree into the living room, Stella takes immediate note, leaps off the chair, and rushes over to examine the new arrival. "Oh no," chuckles Sally, as she begins to clear a space on top of the bureau. "Don' even T'INK of it.")

The former police commander of the Bedford-Stuyvesant district has been reassigned for the second time in as many days. Inspector John E. Copeland, yesterday transferred out of Brooklyn to a desk job in Manhattan by Commissioner Lewis J. Valentine, has been shifted once more, to the position of head of bureau operations for the overnight shift. Inspector Copeland will now work from 8 PM to 4 AM as supervisor of a staff of twelve men, instead of the staff of more than 500 he oversaw in Brooklyn. Commissioner Valentine stressed that the new assignment carries with it no reduction in rank or salary, but those familiar with police operations have noted that the position of night-shift supervisor is usually held by a lieutenant -- and that therefore the new appointment can be considered a demotion. Inspector Copeland, who is 60 years old, joined the force as a patrolman in 1906.

Meanwhile, political observers were today speculating on a statement by Commissioner of Inspections William J. Herlands criticizing the Police Commissioner for dismissing departmental charges against a Brooklyn patrolman accused of subversive activity. The charges against Ptl. James L Drew, accused earlier this year of associating with prominent Yorkville anti-Semite Joseph McWilliams and Col. Eugene N. Sanctuary, a known distributor of anti-Semitic pamphlets, were dropped after a departmental trial in July, and Drew has been reinstated at duty, with full reimbursement for pay lost over the period of his suspension. Commissioner Herlands, who had assembled the evidence presented against the patrolman during the trial, called Commissioner Valentine's decision to reinstate Drew "a major defeat on the home front," and asked whether his statement might hint at a rift between himself and the LaGuardia Administration, Herlands declared "I have never pulled my punches, whether the persons involved were part of the administration or not. I do not intend to start now."

("That's roit," affirms Ma. With a glance at young Willie, seated on his corner stool, she adds "And let that be a lesson to ye, lad. Poolrooms is no place farrr yoong boys! Stick to caaandy stores, an' ye'll do foine." "Yeh," replies Willie, adding another floor to his house of straws.)

("I'm gonna cook a roast f'Siddy," declares Alice, "an'nit's gonna be a good one. An' y'know wheah I got it fr'm? Mildred Kelly!" "What's she givin' you a roast fawr," queries Sally. "She ain' neveh give you nut'n but lip." "Aw, she ain' so bad," dismisses Alice. "Y'know t'em lit'l white pills she's awrways takin'', t'em benzedrines'? Well, she dropp'ta bot'l onna flooeh, an' I pick't it up. An'na flooeh manageh seen me do it, an' ast me what it was, an' I said it was mine, f'indigestion, y;know? An' Mildred seen me do it, an' she says she owes me a faveh. An' we tawk it oveh, an' nex' t'ing y'know she's givin' me t'is roast. I got it home inna icebox. Great big one. I'm givin' half'v'it t' Mame G, an'na ot'eh half f'me an' Siddy." "T'em pills is awrf'l," comments Sally. "You remembeh when I fois' stawrted at t'plant, Mildred gimme one an' I wen' be'zoik? I hope you ain' takin' non'a t'em t'ings. "Oh no," affirms Alice. "I don' need no help goin' be'zoik. Remembeh when I t'rew t'at roast at Hig? I still wish I hadn'a done'at, t'at was too good of a roast t'waste onna bum like him. In fack, my New Yeehs resolution is t'neveh waste a roast again." "Shouldn' be too hawrd t'keep t'at one," muses Sally. "Yeh," nods Alice. "I t'ink so. I mean, t'ezza wawr on!")

("Sorry, I didn't catch that. My ears still hurt from listening to "Superman.")

The trial at Kharkov of three Nazi mass murderers and a Russian traitor is believed to foreshadow the fate awaiting Adolf Hitler and his fellow Axis criminals. Most observers of the trial agreed that the Soviets intend to conduct similar trials against war criminals no matter how highly placed the defendants. It is expected that if and when Hitler, Himmler, and Goering are brought to justice they will be sent to the gibbet in the same manner as their lesser henchmen just executed at Kharkov. The defendants in that trial did not deny their actions, but argued that they were only guilty of following the orders of the Nazi regime, which was, itself, the real criminal. One trial observer noted of the groveling Nazis that they "did not even have the courage to fight like cornered rats."

("Jeez," marvels Joe. "Bobo's 1A. He's what, t'oity-five, t'oity six? An'neh gonna draft 'im? What'sawoil' comin'ta?" "I don' caeh too much about basebawl," shrugs Miss Kaplan. "I wenta Ebbets Feel a coupl'a times wit' me boyfrien', befoeh t'wawr. Didn' see too much pernt to it. I rememeh t'is one game I wenta, we set up inna bleachehs t'eh, an' t'whole t'ing was ruint by t'is one gal a few rows up kep' screamin' PEEEEEEEEETEY PEEEEEEETEY a' sump'n. C'n ya 'magine anybody bein'nat stupid?" "Oh, I dunno," huffs Joe. "I bet she's pretty smawrt, once ya get t'know 'eh. Lotta smawrt people gota bawlgames. I bet -- oh --I mean, Clifton Fadiman goes t'bawlgames. I bet -- um -- Gypsy Rose Lee goes t'bawlgames. Yeh. Lotta smawrt people like t'at gota bawlgames." "PEEEEEETEEE!" mocks Miss Kaplan. "PEEEEEEETEEEEEE! Honestagawd, it takes awl kinds." "Yeh," grumbles Joe. "Some kin's wec'n do wit'out." "What?" "Nut'n.")

Catcher Gus Mancuso of the Giants, who was one of several rotating backstops for the Dodgers before the arrival of Mickey Owen, has been classified 4-F following his physical examination by his draft board. The basis of that rejection? The many finger injuries sustained by the 39-year-old during his many years behind the plate renders his hands unsuitable for firing a gun. That makes the 4-F status of the Polo Grounds catching department unanimous, with Ernie Lombardi, Ray Berres, and Joe Stephenson previously rejected for inability to meet physical requirments. The surfeit of catchers means the Ottmen will have plenty of trade bait for the winter.

(But wouldn't it have de-aged into crude petroleum? Mr. Tuthill once again gives us shaky science.)

("You go home and get your panties, I'll go home and get my scanties, and awaaaay we'll go...")

("YEAH THAT"S ENOUGH OF THAT.")

(He looks like Chester Conklin, but he talks like El Brendel.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG IS A HARD-SHELL CALVINIST.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Hey Doris -- Marry Christmas!

Well, if they sell out of turkeys there's always a fallback.

"Couldn't you just throw on a slipcover?"

I dunno, by the usual standards here he's not too bad.

For Those Who Came In Late.

"Course, I could do better if 'Daddy' would send me a check once in a while, but I got no right to expect that..."

CALLED IT

Panel three says it all.

Kid, clearly you haven't sensed the trend.

They don't call 'em "coffin nails" for nothing.

 

[Fading Fast]

You have to like Mr. Ginsburg. He's just a solid guy.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Hey Sal," says Alice, bending over to pick up a small parcel that has fallen out of Sally's coat pocket. "Y'drop't sump'n. Heh, looks like a Chris'mas present. Wouldn' wanna lose'at!" "Matter'a fack," replies Sally. "Its f'you." "Oh boy," enthuses Alice. "C'n I op'n it now? I love a oily Chris'mas present!" "I don't think ya otta..." advises Sally, but it is to no avail, as Alice strips the wrapper away to reveal -- a small book. "Whassis now?" queries Alice. "'Married Love, by Docteh Marie Stopes.' Heh! Whassis now, on'a t'em spicy books? Heh! Didn't t'ink ya haddit in ya, kid! Hey," she continues, riffling thru the volume. "Whe'zza good pawrts?" Facepalming to hide her blush, Sally whispers, "it ain'NAT kinda book. An' notso loud, y'wan' evr'ybody onna train t'heeh ya? Look at t'coveh t'eh, read t'rest'v it." "Oh," ohs Alice, lowering her voice. "Sawry. Sez heeh 'Neiteh im-uh-moral nawr ob-ske-ne -- whassat 'ob ske ne?' "Obscene," whispers Sally, her face flushed dark red. "Means 'doity.' What it's sayin'eh is it ain' a doity book. I mean, I got it at Abraham 'n Straus!" "Oh," shrugs Alice. "I guess." "Read t'rest of it t'eh," urges Sally, her voice tight with embarrassment. "'It pleads wit' ser-ious-ness," continues Alice, "an' not wit'out some ee-low-quence fawr a betteh undehstandin' by husban's of t' phys-ic-al an' ee-motion-al side of t'eh -- um -- sex lives -- of t'eh wives.' Oh. OHHHH!" "Yeh," nods Sally. "Y'get it?" "Whassawlat mean?" puzzles Alice. "It means---" stammers Sally, "t'at t'ez t'ings, when y'married, t'at ya husban' needs t'know -- um -- about -- uh -- you know." "Oh. Siddy knows awlabout T"AT stuff!" dismisses Alice. "He was inna Navy y'know, inna las' wawr. In FRANCE." "No no no," attempts Sally. "It means -- maybe he don' know about what's -- um --t'right way t'way t'make YOU -- um --- happy. T'ez, um, a lotta t'ings men don't know about -- um -- howta do t'at. An'nis book -- uh -- tawks about how -- uh -- awlat -- woiks." "Ohhhhhh," exhales Alice, her eyes widenining. "How awlAT woiks. OHHHHHHHHHH." "Keep YA VERCE DOWN," hisses Sally, covering the side of her face with her handbag. "Look, ya otta read it, an' ya otta, you know, have Krause read it." "Ohhhh," nods Alice, her face taking on a serious expression. "Did you -- um --" "Yeh," nods Sally. "I seena ad in a magazine when me'n Joe was goin' t'get'eh. An' I read it, an' I -- ummm -- had him read it. An' it was -- les' jus' say we was -- um -- BOT' happy." "Ohhhhhhhhhhh," nods Alice. "Ohhhhhhh." "Yeh," replies Sally, looking Alice straight in the eye. Alice ponders the volume, and again riffles the pages. "No pitchehs t'ough?" "Trus' me," whispers Sally. "You won' need pitchehs." Alice glances at her friend, who nods furtively, and slips the volume into her own coat pocket.)

Prominent civic leaders in Brooklyn are lining up behind the Eagle's editorial call for a separate ration district covering all of Long Island, to be headquartered in Brooklyn, to take care of the rationing needs of Kings, Queens, Suffolk, and Nassau Counties. Bankers, business leaders, and officials of civic organizations are strongly endorsing the Eagle campaign, noting that the huge population of Brooklyn alone should demonstrate the needs of a ration district prepared to deal with the unique needs of the territory. "Aside from any borough pride in the matter," declared Cornelius H. Tiebout, Sr., director of the Brooklyn Chamber of Commerce, "I cannot see how the Federal officials can close their eyes to the scope of the business here. I think they make a great mistake by not granting control of our own ration and price problems. I cannot too strongly urge the adoption of the Brooklyn Eagle's plan."

The war has so stepped up demand for citizenship from aliens long resident in this country that, starting with the new year, Brooklyn Federal Court will host five naturalization sessions per week. At present, more than 50,000 aliens, all of whom have applied for their final papers since Pearl Harbor, are awaiting the final hearing at which they will be formally sworn in as citizens of the United States. By December 30th, it is expected that Brooklyn Court will have sworn in a total of 37,700 new citizens since 1943.

Administration officials today were said to be seriously worried about a growing attitude among the American people that "the worst of the war" has passed. Officials noted increasing talk among industrialists about the coming reconversion to peacetime operations, growing pressure from labor for higher wages, and rumblings in Congress about moves to lower taxes as indicating unrealistic expectations for the coming year. One official yesterday bluntly called "foolish" any notion that the Allies are now in the "coasting stage" of the war, and dramatized that view by predicting that American casualties over the first three months of 1944 are likely to triple present totals of about 131,000. This forecast, obviously built around expectations of an Allied invasion of western Europe this spring and continued offensives in the Pacific, would anticipate the number of Americans killed and injuried in the war to rise to over 525,000 by the end of March. Officials are also dismissing all talk that the fall of Germany will come about as a result of "internal collapse," calling such speculation "dangerous."

("T'ez some pretty good pitchehs out," comments Joe. "Me'n Sal lookin' fawrw'd to goin' t'see t'at new Olsen 'n Johnson 'neh. Maybe we'll go't't' Awlbee Chris'mas night. Y'eveh see Olsen 'n Johnson?" "Meh," mehs Miss Kaplan. "Me boyfrien' took me t'see 'Hellzapoppin," y'know, when'ney was awn Brawdway wit'it. Stupides' t'ing I eveh seen. You know what t'ey had? Some guy sit'n'onna stage read'na papeh awl t'ru t'whole show. Stupid, stupid, stupid." "You don' like mucha anyt'ing," snorts Joe. "Do ya?" "Ohhhhh, I dunno," smirks Miss Kaplan. "I wouldn' say -- t'at." "Hmph," hmphs Joe.)

("And make sure they smell good!")

Actor Percy Hemus collapsed and died yesterday just before he was to go on the air in his regular role on the NBC daytime serial "Brave Tomorrow." Hemus, who was 65, suffered a heart attack in the NBC studios, and was taken to an RCA Building first aid room, where he was pronounced dead. The actor, who was born in New Zealand, had toured in his youth as a concert singer, and later appeared in many Broadway shows.

("Never mind can he pitch," sniffs Leo. "Can he play gin rummy?")

("Hey! Howcum HE gets to do a ration board story???" -- Harold Gray.)

("And never mind that I'm old enough to be your -- ah -- sophisticated older sister.")

(NEVER MESS WITH JANE ARDEN, GIRL REPORTER!)

("Py Yiminy! This rope looks like it's under tension! Eh'll CUT it furrrst, ey?")

(BIG SOULFUL EYES ROUTINE! THAT GETS 'EM EVERY TIME!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Yeah, sorry, being a brewery-heir playboy is not an essential occupation.

Yeah, nothing better on a cold winter day than a gabardine shoe with a plastic sole.

Aim high, Tess.

And Santa, for Christmas please bring Andy Gump a stocking full of self-awareness.

You sure that's a plane? Wasn't it -- a sleigh?

Ah, good ol' Sam the Presser.

Looking from the mountaintop into the Promised Land...

"Hey, who's that bum she's with???"

Sabotage? You can get fifty years for that!

Someone's looking out for you, kid.

 

[Fading Fast]

You could feel Sally's embarrassment so strongly that I think I was blushing with her. God love Alice, but she is not the most-aware person on earth. That is a wonderfully written scene.

"whassat 'ob ske ne?' "Obscene," LOL

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Cold!" protests Leonora, as Sally wrestles her into a heavy sweater over her woollen sleeper. "I know, honey," Sally reassures her daughter. "Soon's I getcha t'bed, I'm gonna do sump'n 'bout t'at. Now you get inna bed t'eh an' go t'sleep -- y'know, Santy Claus don't come 'less yeh sleepin'." "Da!" sniffs Leonora. "Yeh, I know," sighs Sally. "I guess you don' even remembeh what it's like t'have ya pop heeh f'Chris'mas Eve. We on'y eveh had t' one yeeh f'oeh he stawrted woikin' t'night shif'. Maybe nex' yeeh, t'ough. Maybe nex' yeeh. But you go t'sleep now, an' we'll see 'bout maybe gett'n some heat." Sally snaps off the light, closes the door, and passes thru the living room, with its little tree illuminated, and three heavy grey work socks tacked to the bureau beneath it, and into the kitchen where a small electric space heater radiates into the room. She withdraws a pipe wrench from beneath the sink and hammers it fiercely on the radiator. "C'MON KRAUSE!" she bellows. "GIVE OUT!" She pulls her own sweater tight around herself, and slumps into a kitchen chair, pondering the situation. Fred Waring's program whispering Christmas carols over the radio annoys her, and she walks over to twist the dial, sqawking past the honking voice of Fulton Lewis Jr, a violent mystery serial, and a hillbilly band to settle on a station playing old Benny Goodman records. She sinks back in her chair, remembering other Christmas Eves. Her reverie, however, is roused from its pathos by a loud pounding at the door. "OPEN UP!" shouts an unmistakable foghorn voice. "SAL! OPEN UP! IT'S AN EMOIGENCY!" Sally rushes to the door and admits a frantic Alice Dooley, who grabs her by the shoulders, her face a mask of terror. "It's SIDDY!" she wails. "He's been ARRESTED!" "Wha....?" begins Sally, not expecting this, of all possible news. "ARRESTED!" repeats Alice, her eyes bulging and her face red. "T'ey got'im downa t' precinc'! Flannehry t'cop says he was passin' COUNTEHFEIT MONEY!" "Wha...?" stammers Sally. "We was havin' suppeh wit' t' Ginsboigs. Siddy run outa cigawrs," wails Alice. "He wen' out t'get some! He didn' come back! I figyeh, well, wiho's open onna Chrismas' eve? An'nen Flannehry shows up at t'doeh an' says 'we got yeh boyfrien' downa precinc'! He wants y'should come downeah!' An'nen I stawrt yellin, Misteh G stawrts yellin' an'nen Misteh G goes downa precint wit' Flannehry, an' I come up heeh, an' y'gotta come wit me, Sal, I DUNNO WHAT T'DO!" "Migawd," moans Sally. "I jus' put Leonoreh t'bed!" "Bring 'eh downstaiehs," urges Alice. "Mame G c'n lookafteh'ra 'f'now -- c'mon, we gotta go! SIDDY'S IN JAIL!" Sally rushes to unplug the space heater and the Christmas tree, throws on her coat, runs into the bedroom, rouses Leonora, and the three make a loud and frantic exit.)

Undaunted by wartime ratioing and shortages Brooklynites prepared today to celebrate Christmas with good spirit. Those who planned to go away for the holiday were in for inconveniences as a travel peak that threatened to set an all time record was reached today. The Pennsylvania and New York Central railroads reported that few reservations were left and that these were going fast, with trips to Florida, Washington, and Philadelphia most popular. Servicemen, of course, comprised a large part of the traveling throngs. Department stores have been crowded all day with shoppers desperate to find last-minute gifts that were in many cases not available. Long lines formed outside candy shops, and liquor stores saw their diminished stocks diminished further, with the whisky shortage causing the elimination of that popular holiday gift of a basket of choice liquors. Many shoppers were forced to settle for gin, rum, brandies, and wines, all of which were plentiful. A last minute shipment from New England to local dealers seems to have solved the Christmas tree shortage. With the nation seeming to have plenty of cash on hand, sales of luxury goods were reported brisk, all good Broadway shows are reported sold out weeks in advance, and nightclubs and motion picture theatres were reported preparing for a gala business.

An Army warrant officer was booked today on a homicide charge stemming from the shooting death of a Navy chief petty officer, following an argument over a Jackson Heights woman last night in a room at the Hotel New Yorker in Manhattan. Chief Warrant Officer Robert Olsen was arrested following the death of Chief Petty Officer William Wilson, following a skirmish in the hotel room. Police said Olsen and Wilson encountered Paul Bellingham of Bergen, New Jersey and his companion Elizabeth Clandenning of Jackson Heights in the hotel bar, and after having a few drinks, the group decided to go up to Bellingham's room, where the drinking continued. At that point, police said, Wilson accused Olsen of "paying too much attention" to Miss Clandenning, and emphasized his point by pulling a revolver. At that point, Bellingham and Clendenning left the room, and while standing in the hall, heard a shot. They returned to the room to find Wilson lying on the floor bleeding from a bullet wound above his heart. The New Yorker's house physician was summoned, and pronounced Wilson dead. Detectives today are reported by the District Attorney's office to be searching for the revolver.

(America's Biggest Small Town extends Season's Greetings to all of you.)

("Ahhh," ahhs Uncle Frank, sipping from a glass decorated with a two-color portrait of Santa Claus. "A foine batch if Oi do say..." "Not so loud," hushes Ma. "Th' boy's foinally got to sleep. Did ye bring the presents?" "That Oi did. I poot'm down in the back room tharrr, an' Oi waarned the boys naaht to..." "Quiet," again hushes Ma. "Did ye hear that? Oi think th' tellephone's ringin'." "Well, let it ring," dismisses Uncle Frank, pouring himself aother drink. "Oi better get it," Ma insists, cinching her robe and heading for the stairs. "Nobody's be caaahlin on Chris'mas eve unless. t'was impaartn't." "Ma hustled down into the store and grabs the receiver. "Lieb's," she answers. "Closed t'night, closed t'marra -- who? Alice Dooley, you say? Settle down, staahp yellin'. He's WHAT? COONTERFEIT MOONEY!?? Calm down an' taahlk slower -- yaar at th' precinct now. Ahhl roit, ahhl roit, settle down, Oi'm sure....STAAAAHP HAAALERIN'! Yes. Yes. Oi'll send Francis roit ovarr, and he'll -- aaahl roit, now staaahp croyin', we'll saaaahrt this oot...aaahl roit." Ma hangs up and exhales. "FRANCIS!" she bellows. "FRAAANCIS!")

("Don't get me wrong," declares Freddie Fitzsimmons. "I think it's a swell idea for an ad. But how come *I* hafta wear the suit???")

Employees of Sperry Gyroscope, Arma, Bendix, Bliss, and the Brooklyn Navy Yard will all enjoy a day off tomorrow to celebrate the Christmas holiday. Of the borough's major defense contractors only the Todd Shipyard plans a regular workday tomorrow. Most plants, however, will work thru the New Year's holiday.

(At least they didn't put it in his stocking.)

(Mr. Ickes will hear of this!)

("Wait, you mean you've never done this before? Never??:")

(IT'S JUST THAT EASY.)

("There's noobody on the end of this roop? THAT'S IT, EH'M GOOIN' ON THE WAAGON!:" *Stands up and takes the pledge, as the barrel shoots out the window followed by a distant splat.)

(Kitty knows that forgiveness is the true spirit of Christmas. WITHIN REASON OF COURSE.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Moi-Yo," formerly "Myrna."

"Hey," heys Miss Kaplan thru a mouthful of corned beef. "Y'know what I hoid?" "No idea," eyerolls Joe, scanning the somber furniture-company ad in the paper spread before him. "I hoid," she continues, "sump'n'about Mozelewski." "Oh yeh?" replies Joe, his tone betraying his utter lack of interest. "I hoid," Miss Kaplan declares, "t'at he flunked'is physical. Got 4-F'd right outa t'Awrmy. I ovehhoid t'ese two gals inna lockeh room tawkin' about it, f'm t' poissonell awfice." "Naaaaaaw," dismisses Joe. "Big guy like him? 4-F? Ya screwy." "I kidja nawt," continues Miss Kaplan. "I hoid he got rejected fa -- get t'is -- his feet's too big!" "Naaaaaaaaaaw!" exhales Joe. "His FEET's too big??" "Yeh," nods Miss Kaplan. "Jus' like t'at sawng. 'Can't use ya 'cause ya feet's too big!' T'ey said he's got six toes on each foot! Awrmy don' have no shoes f'tat. At leas' t'at's what I hoid." "Ya makin' it up," scoffs Joe. "You laugh," smirks Miss Kaplan. "When he comes backta woik, you ask'im yaself." "Huh," huhs Joe. "Pretty good t'ing, t'ough," observes Miss Kaplan, "f'r'is wife an' kids." "Yeh," nods Joe. "Pretty good t'ing." "Wondeh who t'ell reclassify nex'?" muses Miss Kaplan, glancing sideward at Joe. "Afteh'rawl, I;m awl trained 'n ready t'go..."

"Thanks. You can shut off the grill now."

"Ray" is Chester Gould's brother, who used to do some of the lettering on the strip.

"Wont the ice man be impressed!"

No winter coats though, no wool hats or mittens or heavy socks or shoe pacs. Don't you know there's a war on?

"And what's this? 'Mr. and Mrs. Emil Slice are mourning the loss of their son, killed in action..." "Who?"

I guess they don't have a helmet to fit poor Punj.

I'm impressed that Willie can fit on that couch.

Wait'll you see what Dude Hennick sent her.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

Merry Christmas.

 

[Fading Fast]

1. I believe in Krause. I'd gladly put up the bail, that man is innocent.

2. "Thank you for the music box, Terry. I wish I had a box to give you for Christmas."

3. I hope Penny reads that classified.

 

[FOXTROT LAMONT]

Mink hijink, Moi-Yo, Ho, Ho, Ho. Santa Claus, paws and claws. Quite a cute little kitten.

Terrence at least is flying pursuit squadron.
Grett mentioned ''all the inflation out there,''well, it's down a tad some.

Merry Christmas to all and a blessed prosperous New Year.

 

[LizzieMaine]

(The Eagle doesn't publish today but who has time to read the paper anyway. Certainly not Joe and Sally, lounging on the living room floor in their nightclothes as Leonora explores the morning's loot. "Hawnestagawd, Joe," marvels Sally. "You shoulda seen'at G-Man las' night. Cut t'at Flannehry t' cop right downta size. 'You brung me awla way down heeh on CHRIS'MAS EvE oveh some guy wit' a LEAD NICKEL! I'll have you poundin' a beat on Staten Islan', ya dumb flatfoot' An' awlike t'at. An'nen t'cloik f'm t'at drugstoeh coudln' even pick Krause out'va lineup -- they had five ot'eh skinny bawl-headed guys up t'eh, an' t'cloik says 'I dunno, maybe t'at one? Hey c'n I get home, me wife is waitin' up.' I ASK YA! An'nen Uncle Frank says he foun' out t'at cloik is married t'Flannehry's cousin. I bet t'whole t'ing was a setup awlalong, t'at Flannehry neveh liked Krause innafois' place." "So they ain' gonna press chawrges?" queries Joe, absently scratching Stella the Cat's belly. "Nah," replies Sally. "Misteh G was awl set t'go Krause's bail, but t' G-Man tol' 'im t'go on home, an' inna futcheh take a look at t'nick'l befoeh he spen's it. Alice give 'im a big kiss, an' he toint awl red. Guess G-Men don' get kist awlat much, huh?" "Heh," hehs Joe. "Hey," he continues, pointing at the framed photograph propped up on the bureau beneath the little tree. "T'at come out pretty good, din' it? I kin'a like t'at face Leonoreh's makin', he got t'pitcheh jus' befoeh she blew t'razzberry," "Yeh," chuckles Sally. "T'at's oueh baby awright. Look at 'eh wit' awlem books she got t'eh. We c'd opn'a branch liberry in heeh." "Alice givin'eh one'a t'em collitch-gate dictionaries," nods Joe. "Lookit'eh t'eh, lookin' at t'pitchehs inn'eh. You t'ink she c'n get much outta t'at?' 'Lookit'eh mout',' observes Sally. "She's tryin'a soun' out woids." "i guess Alice hadda pernt'teh," shrugs Joe. "You heeh what she said t'eh? She couldn' decide what book t'get, so she gets t'is dictionary 'cause it's got awl utteh books innit t'eh -- y'jus' gotta find'm." "How 'bout you?" asks Sally. "You like t'em socks? T'ey ain' fr'm Davega y'know. i got'm at LOESEH's! See t'eh, got t' lab'l right onna wrappeh t'eh." "An' awl brown," sighs Joe. "Yeh," shrugs Sally. "I figyeh -- I mean, brown socks you c'n still weah when ya -- you know." "Plenny'a time f'white socks," notes Joe, "afteh t'wawr." "Yeh,' nods Sally, leaning against her husband's shoulder. "After the wawr.")

And in the Daily News...

Sometimes it's better if you don't read the paper.

"Now this," declares Ma, resting the heavy platter on the table, "is what ye caahl a real ham." "Whe'dja get t'at, Ma?" queries Sally. "I ain' seen meat like t'at since befoeh t'wawr." "Ahhhh," shrugs Uncle Frank. "A man owed me a favarr." "Some faveh," snickers Alice. "Hey Siddy, c'moveh heeh! We'eh gonna eat!" "Yeh," yehs Krause, absorbed with Willie in the construction of an elaborate Tinker Toy tower. "'Slike he's a diffn't kid," Sally observes. "Indeed," nods Ma. "Leonora, darlin', poot down th'book an' get ready t'eat." "Aar'vawrk," comments Leonora. "Whoot'sat darlin'?" puzzles Ma.. "Aar'vawrk," repeats Leonora, pointing to a small drawing on the page before her," "Ah," ahs Ma. "Some kid, huh?" beams Joe. "Collitch-gate!" "Indeed," marvels Ma.

Have a heart, Gould, the poor man has to work on Christmas.

Nobody loves a sergeant.

Keep 'em flyin'!

Meanwhile, Pat and Connie and Stoop spend their Christmas blowing up a bridge.

Little late for a Halloween story, aren't we?

Awwww. And now, back to eating.

"An' it's jus' the right size to carry a bomb!' "What?" "Nuthin'."

I thought everybody did this.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And incidentally..
.

Well, he does have a point. And incidentally, whatever happened to Normandie and Merriy? And April Kane. Remember her, Terry? HMMMM?

 

[Fading Fast]

"What, no gifts for me!?"

"If we are making a list of discarded Caniff women, what about me?"

"I can't believe it, another Christmas and still no new bag."

"Merry Christmas to all."

 

[LizzieMaine]

I have no doubt that Hu Shee secretly helped Pat and Connie and Stoop wire the bridge. She's not one to hang around and take the credit.

 

[FOXTROT LAMONT]

As to Mr Caniff, his strip is definitely mature and Terrence is set inside war torn China. Hence his readers should
be prepared for the Grim Reaper reality come what may. And here I have my own concerns with credible penmanship all round. Rouge should have been executed per Corklin's stark coldness so Mr Caniff's simple allowance spoke volumes. And while it's good Grett is still breathing it remains rescue a bit much.
Yet enough critic. Merry Christmas.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("It's nut'n t'worry'bout," assures Joe, enjoying the unaccustomed treat of two days off in a row as he surveys the assembled group around the kitchen table. "I got it awl figyehed. It's e'zackly fifteen minutes ride onna subway f'm Bush Toimenal t' 18t' Aveneh station, an' it takes me t'ree minutes t'get f'm t'station t'heeh. We get lunch break at 8 o'clock PM. If I hit t'train right awn time, I'm back heeh by 25 afteh 8. I change outa me ovehrawls inta me wedd'n cloe's -- I'll save time'n weahr'me good shoit t'woik t'at night -- we hit t'weddin' right at 8 t'oirty, t'at wraps up by 8 foehty, I get back inta me ovehrawls, run t' t'station an' catch t' train backta Bush Toimenal..." "...An' ya five minutes late," interrupts Sally. "I am?" protests Joe. "Yeh," nods Sally, showing him the figures she has jotted in the margin of the Eagle comic section. "Y'didn' account f'how lawng it takes ya punch out ya time clock an' get t't'station f'm t'plant." "Oh," ohs Joe. "Ain'neh nut'n y'can do t'shave off t'time?" queries Alice. "We can't have t'wedd'n wit'outa bes' man. What if ya weah ya whole wedd'n suit undeh ya ovehrawls? You run inna doeh, strip'm right awff an'neh ya go." Joe considers the possibility. "I dunno," he cogitates. "I get erl onnat blue soige...." "Ain'neh nobody," demands Alice, "can coveh fawryeh? Punch ya cawrd fawrya so ya don' look late?" "Well," acknowledges Joe, "t'ez t'is Miss Kaplan. I dunno'f I can trust'eh t'ough. She's kinda peculyeh." "Well, tawk to'eh," commands Alice, her nerves jangling. "Siddy! Whatta YOU t'ink?" "Eh," ehs Krause. "T'eh," inserts Alice. "It's unonymous. You tawk t' t'is Kaplan dame, get it awl set up. What time is it, Sal, I gotta get back downa t'Ginsboigs, Mame G is gonna do t'las' fittin' on me gown. An' did you decide what YEH gonna weah?" "Oh," shrugs Sally. "I guess maybe t'at blue suit I got at Namm's las' yeeh. You know t'one. I haddit awn t'at time we wen' out t'choich lookin' f' Rickey." "I dunno. Sal," considers Alice. "T'two'a yez in blue. Ain'nat some kinda omen a'sump'n? Ya got anyt'ing else?" "I got t'at brown tweed," shrugs Sally. "Butcha don' weah tweed to a wedd'n," protests Alice. "It ain' accustomed." "How 'bout t'at green dress I got, " Sally suggests. "Y'know, t'one wit't'a lit'l yelleh flowehs onnit?" "Too loud," declares Alice. "You ain' goin' t'Roselan'. Tellya what. Afteh we get done heeh, we'll go downtown, you'n me. Take a look at A&S basemen'. T'ez sales. We'll fin' sump'n." "Ah," ahs Sally. The family finances shoot thru her mind, she looks at Joe, Joe shrugs back, and she nods in assent. "Awright," she agrees. "But nut'n oveh fifteen bucks, we ain' made'a money heeh." "T'is is gonna be t'bes' wedd'n eveh!" grins Alice, leaning back in her chair and flexing her arms in delight. "Ain'it, Siddy?" "Yeh," nods Krause.)

A miniature Battle of Stalingrad raged today in the northwestern corner of Ortona, Adriatic anchor of the German line, as the Nazis threw more than 2000 fresh paratroopers against Canadian troops of the British 8th Army in the bitterest street fighting of the entire Italian campaign. The Germans, as they did at Stalingrad last winter, were fighting for every building in the once-quiet town of 10,000 persons, even running big Mark IV tanks into the basements of storehouses, each of which had been turned into a Nazi fortress. Late reports over the Cairo radio asserted that Ortona is now in Allied hands, but there was no official confirmation of that statement.

Brooklyn enjoyed a not-too-cold Christmas, minus the snow -- but snow is expected within the next few days. The bitter cold of the past few days abated yesterday, with temperatures rising to a high of 31, and still warmer temperatures are anticipated later today, to be followed tonight by snow or freezing rain. Hundreds of thousands of visitors swelled the local population yesterday, many of them servicemen on furlough home for the holiday, and railroads, still operating under the handicap of cold weather, reported that every train in and out of the city was packed to capacity, with barely a lull yesterday as the incoming rush ended to be replaced immediately by the outgoing rush.

In his sixth Christmas Day brodcast to the British people, King George VI yesterday held out "bright visions of the future," but warned that "harder fighting than ever before" will be necessary before victory is achieved. The King paid warm tribute to the United States, the Soviet Union, China, and Free France, hailing their courage as Britain's allies. and declared that "wherever their duty has called our men and women, they have gained new friends, and come to know old friends better."

Dodger president Branch Rickey has been named Public Relations Chairman of the 1944 Brooklyn Red Cross drive, and Noel D. Maxcy, general agent of the Equitable Life Assurance Society, will serve as general vice chairman. The appointments were announced today by Dodger broadcaster Red Barber, who has accepted the position of Red Cross Chairman for the new year. "This campaign is by far the most important to which Brooklynites have been asked to contribute," declared Barber. "I know the spirit of the Brooklyn people, and am sure they will help in the fight."

A fire at a Manhattan lodging house that killed 17 men on Christmas Eve will be investigated as part of a full-dress inquiry into the safety condtions that prevail at cheap lodging houses in the city. The fire at the Standard Hotel at 437 W. 42nd Street was reported by 55-year-old tenant who smelled smoke, and went to a nearby bar to report the situation, only to be turned away by a skeptical bartender who refused to believe him. Fire Commissioner Thomas Brophy noted that the hotel, which rented rooms for 20 to 30 cents a night, appeared to have inadequate fire protection equipment, and no means for tenants to escape in the event of a fire.

("Hey Sal," suggests Alice. "Look heeh! Glitteh!" "I ain' weahrin' no glitteh," declares Sally. "Y'don' weah glitteh to a weddn'. "Nless ya Gypsy Rose Lee, which I ain't." "Yeh," admits Alice. "I guess nawt. Heh, wondeh how I'd look inna glitteh dress." Sally is about to suggest "t'Williamsboig Bridge at rush houeh," but thinks better of it. "Y'd look swell," she substitutes. "But let's go downa basemen'.")

Old Timer George U. Forbel remembers the golden age of Brooklyn baseball -- the 1880s, when the fine old club teams still prevailed in the borough. The Unions, the Eckfords, the Peerless, the Brightons, the Ridgewoods, and so many others held forth on local diamonds in those long-lost days before anybody ever heard of a Dodger.

"Ah indeed," sighs Mr. Rickey, opening a stack of accumulated mail as he sits by the fireside with a cup of steaming hot cocoa by his side. "All is tranquil, all is well." "That's nice," agrees Mrs. Rickey from behind a magazine. "What's this now," Mr. Rickey continues, slicing open a red envelope. "'You came to town, and cut us down, cut us right down to size. You threw out Ducky and Camilli too, and to Fitz you said goodbyes. But we tell you now if we see you round with your big and foolish grin, we're gonna knock you down and stomp you in and blacken both your eyes! Merry Christmas. Signed, A Friend.'" "That's nice," snickers Mrs. Rickey, not lowering her magazine. Mr. Rickey flicks the card into the fireplace with a mumbled "Judas Priest.")

("HEY!" growls Gypsy. "I'M STILL HERE YOU KNOW.")

(What, the critics don't like "Crazy House?" Well who cares what they think.)

(Sing Wu has HAD JUST ABOUT ENOUGH OF YOUR EXPLOTIATION.)

(Too bad we can't read the caption on the last panel, but HEY BATHTUB GUY WHY AIN'T YOU IN THE ARMY?)

(Batman? HMPH. Who needs him?)

(I wonder how much time Anxious Annie spends running around the house in her underwear? And I bet Miss Ansorge isn't very good at gin rummy.)

("That's nothin', you should see what the milk wagon horses do in New York!")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Who knew the Grinch's real name is "Adam Laba?"

Has it really been a whole year?

From now on, all of Mr. Hill's pages can be titled DON'T YOU KNOW THERE'S A WAR ON???

"Get it? Because my head's, you know, flat on top. Sort of like the way they call *you* 'Dick.'"

That's right, folks -- the solution to juvenile delinquency is two words: UNCLE BIM. Oh, and a good toothpaste helps too.

That's right, folks, nothing says Christmas like REGICIDE. Just don't say anything about the OPA. And don't get too cozy in your car there, Walt, remember what happened to Thelma Todd.

If there's always been an overriding social message in "Moon Mullins," it's that there is really no difference between one fat bum that won't work (Willie) and another fat bum who won't work (LORD Plushbottom.) And with all of this preoccupation with smiles, it's sure a good thing that toothpaste isn't rationed.

If Adolphe Menjou here can keep all this straight, he's smarter than I am.

Can This Marriage Be Saved?

Y'know, saltpeter's a myth.

 

[FOXTROT LAMONT]

Kathryn Grayson can play Grett in the film version of Lust in The Dust.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Now lemme get t'is straight," says Miss Kaplan. "T'is Sat'ehday y'want me punch ya out f'lunch, an'nen punch ya back in at 9, wet'ehranawt ya back, so y'c'n go t'wa wedd'n? Mus' be some kinda do." "Yeh," nods Joe. "Look, I wouldn' askya if it wasn' impoehtn', but t'ese people is frien'samine, an' I'm t'bes' man, an', well, y'can't have a wedd'n wit'out a bes' man, right? An' ya know what else? T'guy doin'a marryin'? Magistrate Chawrles Solomon. T'at's right. Magistrate Solomon. IN POISSON. You wouldn' wawnt me t'keep a big man like t'at waitin', now wouldja? I mean, what if you got arrested an'ney take you inta, um, night coe't, an' it's Solomon up t'eh, an'nee says, 'hey ain'tchoo t'one wouldn' coveh f'me pal Joe Petrauskas t'at t'ime? T'OITY DAYS! You wouldn' wawn'at, wouldja?" Miss Kaplan snickers, as Joe flares his eyes in desperation. "Yeh, su'eh," she chuckles. "But -- okey, I do t'is faveh f'you. What's innit f'me?" "Um," ums Joe, his mind racing. "If you do t'is f'me -- uhhh..." "Betteh make it good," Miss Kaplan smirks. "I got scruples, an'ney ain't cheap." "Uh, how 'bout t'is," proposes Joe. "You do t'is f'me, an' I'll -- uh -- give ya me shoe stamp." "Ah," ahs Miss Kaplan, pondering the offer. "Numbeh 18 stamp," repeats Joe. "T'em shoes you got on lookin' kinda raggedy t'eh, getcha bran' new paieh. Whattaya say?" "Hmmmm," considers Miss Kaplan. "Show me t'stamp." "I ain' got it awn me," protests Joe. "Sal keeps me ration books. But I promise I'll get it fawrya t'marra. Zat woik?" "Aaaaaawlright," concedes Miss Kaplan. "Deal! But I tellya right now, you try slippin' me a phony stamp, I'm goin' right to t'foehman." "I guarantee it ain' phony," insists Joe. "T'anks a lot, yeh'ra pal!" Joe considers slapping her across the back to seal the bargain, but wisely reconsiders, as Miss Kaplan thoughtfully examines her feet.)

Damage was estimated at $50,000 today from a fast-moving fire that swept along the roofs of eight one-story stores on Flatbush Avenue near Dorchester Road last night. The flames, starting in a butcher shop at 1170 Flatbush Avenue broke thru the shop's ceiling, and fanned by the wind quickly ignited the neighboring structures, damaging both buildings and stock. A second alarm was sounded as the flames spread, out of fear for other nearby stores and for a large apartment house facing on E. 22nd Street. In addition to the damaged stores, Air Raid Wardens' Post H, Section 1, 67th Precinct, was destroyed in the blaze.

In a statement sharply critical of a report by Assistant Secretary of State Breckinridge Long before the House Foreign Affairs Committee, the American Jewish Congress today called for "acceleration and intensification" of efforts to rescue the Jews of Europe. Based on allegations made in Long's report, the Congress declared that the country has been given an "exaggerated impression" of the number of Jewish refugees already admitted to the United States, and that in fact such immigration has been in numbers "far below that permitted by law." The organization challenged Long's assertion that 500,000 visas have been issued for Jewish refugees since 1933, and pointed to statistics from the Bureau of Immigration and Naturalization proving that only 165,354 Jews have been admitted over that time under national quotas, and another 43,089 on emergency visas.

("Me'n Joe got, whatchacawl, televised at t' Woil's Faieh," recalls Sally. "We stood t'eh annis guy pern'ed t'is giant cam'ra at us, an' I waved, an' Joe made a face like t'is heeh. An'nen'ey give us t'ese lit'l cawrds an' said 'congratulations, you been televised." "T'at don' soun' too entehtainin,'" shrugs Alice. "Who'd wanna look at t'at?" "Well, it ain' awl t'ey got onneh," continues Sally. "Ain' you never seen television?" "T'ey had one in a s'loon I wen' in one time, great big t'ing, an' ya look in a mirror undeh t'top of it," says Alice. "T'ey was sayin' awlis 'bout we'eh gonna see a bawlgame on'eeh, now you look inna box t'eh. An' I looked, an' all I seen was t'is roun' coicle t'ing wit' lines acrost'it. I didn' see no bawlgame, an' I yells 'g'wan ya bum, it's a fake!' An'nen a bunch'a people stawrt yellin' an'nez a coupla fights break out, an'na guy wit' t' television is runnin' awla roun', an', well, I figyehed I'd seena'nougha television so I lef. T'be hones', I didn' t'ink too much of it." "Afteh t'wawr, t'ough," predicts Sally. "Ev'rybody's gonna have television. You wait'n see." "I don't t'ink me'n Siddy will have too much time t'look at no roun' coicles wit' lines," shrugs Alice. "He'd take one look at it an' say 'neh.'")

Enactment of legislation to protect the poor from loan sharks and from fire was urged yesterday by Mayor LaGuardia in his weekly broadcast over WNYC. Referring to the fire in a cheap 42nd Street hotel that took the lives of 17 men, the Mayor declared that he has long been asking for a law that would compel the installation of sprinklers in all such buildings. On the topic of loan sharking in the city, the Mayor deplored those who "profit by the misfortune of others, " and called for a three-point program to fight such profiteering by exempting all municipal employees from garnishment of wages, reducing the legal rate of interest from 30 percent on small loans and banning deceptive practices which offer low interest rates as an incentive before converting the loan to a much higher rate, and allowing banks to establish small-loan departments that would drive loansharks out of business.

Authorities are still keeping mum on the reason for the Christmas Day air raid alert that interrupted holiday festivities along much of the Atlantic coast. The only comment so far has been a brief statement from the Eastern Defense Command that "protective actions" were taken upon receipt of a report that a sneak enemy attack might occur on Christmas Day.

(Hey Butch, what about these guys?)

(Of course, women have *always* done this type of work.)

(Woo hoo, go Rangers. How long again till Spring Training?)

("Or something.")

("I don't wanna be a chorus boy all my life. Do you think -- do you think I have it in me to be -- a juvenile lead?")

(There sure is a lot of whipping in this strip.)

(SOMEBODY'S GOTTA PAY FOR THAT WINDOW)

(You didn't eat CHOCOLATE candy did you???)