Broadway Ballad

Walter Winchell

St. Petersburg Times/March 6, 1944


So in my silence, be aware of this . . .

That I am with you down the narrowed lane,

And all my hopes are grouped that you may miss

The slightest tinge of heartbreak or of pain . . .

I want the sun to flood your chosen path . . .

The softest breeze to serenade your sleep,

And may contentment be the aftermath

Of every lovely rendezvous we keep.


And I? I’ll find my warmth within your smile,

My joy in every secret glance we share,

So when we reach our golden afterwhile

There will be legends, gossamer and rare.


Legends of how a shy girl came to me,

Bringing me faith and trust and constancy!—Don Wahn.


Faces About Town: Father James Keller, whose book, “Men of Maryknoll” (co-auth’d with Meyer Berger), is a click. Over at the N. Y. Times Mike is now nicknamed: “Father Berger” . . . J. Norman Lodge (the Associated Press ace) assuring admirers he was misquoted. That he didn’t say commentators should be taken off the air. He said “certain news analysts” . . . Senator Gerald Nye, bringing his own butter to the Troika for his pet dish, “Cutlet a la Kiev” . . .  B. Baruch, the statesman, window-shopping (at the toys) at 58th and 5th . . .  Johnny Broderick, the detective, flattening a heavyweight in Mad. Sq. Garden . . . Bill Robinson and his bride scooting along Broadway in a flashy Deusenberg . . . Constance Moore, the dreamboat, floating down Fifth Avenue . . . Zorina, huddling with the tealeaf seer at the Gypsy Tea Kettle. Temptress in a teapot . . . June Havoc stopping travoc.

Sallies in Our Alley: Two Broadway chorus kittens were meowing at a third (she thefted a wealthy dope), who previously paid attention to them . . . “Get her,” sarcasm’d the first, “she finally hit the Jerkpot!” . . .  Garry Moore ran into a notorious bore . . . “We were talking about you last night,” said Moore. “Did your back burn?”

Midtown Vignette: This is one of those shawt-shawts that caress the eyes and ears . . . He is a very young member of a fortress crew now being rehabilitated after service among the flak in Europe . . . He has most of the campaign ribbons but no medals for outstanding heroism . . . Two of his buddies have several  . . . The lads had a few hours leave last night and decided to go to one of the night spots with their buddy and his bride . . . And because he had no silver star or other medals—the other two didn’t wear theirs.

Memos of a Midnighter: Phil Baker barged into the Stork last night with a doll he identified as one who came via the Mayflower—“The Mayflower Doughnut Shop!” . . . Bruce Cabot was promoted recently, which should stifle that libel some careless people echoed about him . . .  The wife of a former Austrian diplomat in Washington is now selling dresses there . . .  The cast of “Mexican Hayride” has the jitters. Because the wife of one in the troupe totes a pistol—and is waiting to use it on a doll who thinks her groom is cute . . . Art Kassel’s crew at the Edison is big-time . . . Guy Kibbee’s son and Katherine Thompson have merged . . . Michael Harvey of “Winged Victory” and Doris Nolan of “Doughgirls” are ahem  . . . Ripley narrowly escaped death when a cab skidded into him.

The Orchid Garden: Zanuck’s newest click, “The Purple Heart.” The author is listed as Melville Crossman. That’s Zanuck . . .  Nick D’Amico’s airings from the Essex house . . .  “Nathan the Wise,” a fine play at the Studio theater downtown . . . Louis Jordan’s specialty in Universal’s “Follow the Boys,” a show-stopper . . . Mary Small’s new air delight Sundays via the Blue . . . Louise Fitch on NBC’s “Light of the World,” a story of the Bible . . .  Jimmy Durante’s fun at 10 p.m. Fridays . . . The book, “Joshua Moore, American” . . . Dr. Frank Kingdon’s book due the 15th “That Man in the White House.”

Editorial Dep’t Novelette: It happened in the city room of one of the Big Town gazettes . . . Two of the boys were back to say hello . . . One (who has never been out of the country) wore the Army oak leaf . . . The other wore the gray-green of the Marines, with a couple of hard-won stripes . . . Tippled and blustering, the major called upon the Marine to salute . . . The kid responded quickly . . . After all, he had been only a copy-boy; the major had been an editor, if you please . . . It was a tight, tense moment . . . A real editor looked up from his work with studied puzzlement . . . “Tell me,” he said in clipped, quiet, carrying syllables, “which one of you was it who killed six Japs on Guadalcanal?” . . .  The major waddled out the door . . . The kid was too modest.

Manhattan Murals: The white-haired clergyman jogging along South street, down near the bay, every six ayem . . . The gorjuss receptionist in the Sonorama museum . . . Union square, deserted and lonely. Not a soapbox in sight . . . The attractive policewoman, who pilots the teen-age bobby-sox brigade out of the Times square dance halls and bars. She’s prettier than most showgirls . . . The three sailors serenading the nurses’ quarters windows of the Fifth Ave. hospital . . . The flip guy reluctantly leaving the Little Palm club and barking: “I wanna take a poke at anybody!” . . . And Jim Stanley squelching: “You’d better start eating Wheaties, Bub.”

The Late Watch: Remember that story here about the Philly shrew, who was swindled by a Miami-bound Pullman black marketer? Anyway, she bought two compartments and discovered one was occupied by an ill lady, convalescing from pneumonia. It infuriated her, so she took it out on the ailing one, kicking on the door all the way down south and screeching: “I don’t care if she is sick, I hope she dies!”  . . . Well, she became a widow last week. Irony is always so bitter  . . . Ensign Don Gillis and his wife, the ex-Jackie Gately, dancer, will be 4 . . . The Jeff Bernies (he’s Ben’s brother) have parted . . . Variety’s page 36 is most interesting this issue . . . George Raft’s brightest day is because of show girl Stormy Knight . . .  Major Ed Byron’s divorce cost him $30,000  . . .  Dorothy Fox’s cost her $30 in Miami . . .  That male star who pans Lena Horne is being a bore . . . That 30 per cent night club tax will be tough on service men . . . You mean the fellers in uniform who are fighting this war have gotta pay for it too?

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