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Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, August 17, 1947, Image 94

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn83045462/1947-08-17/ed-1/seq-94/

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“Radiators Are Full Of ’Em"
This humor writer has
another round with his
small daughter. And
comes in second, as usual
IoCATKD deep in the southwest
j comer of our living room is a
section of floor space, roughly six by
six, known as Daddy's Comer.
Us lavish appointments consist of ■
a battered low-level lounging chair
with spring-fed ottoman, a laminat
ed mahogany smoker from which the
laminations have been removed by
persons too young to prosecute, and
a reading lamp that can be instantly
converted to whale oil in case of a
power failure. These creature com
forts were purchased on a low-pow
ered installment plan in 1937, have
survived fire,, flood and famine.
Technically, Daddy is supposed
to crawl into this retreat each eve
ning to brood and meditate, away
from the hurly-burly of family life.
A cheek of traffic thrmi*h the
area, however, shows that it
would be an excellent location
for a small but busy railroad ter
minal. As early as 1940, Daddy
made a move to have a chain-link
fence thrown around the entire sec
tion, but this move was thwarted by
the lady of the house.
Last evening, Daddy, his nerves
humming like banjo strings, crawled
into his retreat and pried open the
door of the smoker in search of a
friendly pipe. Immediately a small
female child, roiled into a ball, plum- "
meted to the floor, uncurled and
stood up, her eyes flashing fire.
“Now the wolf will get me and
eat me up,” she announced sternly, j
“And it’ll be your fault.’’
Steadying himself, Daddy picked ✓
up a pipe, tamped tobacco into his
vest pocket and applied a light to
his thumb. “For the five-hundredth
time,” he roared, “stay out of my
smoker! And another thing, there
are no wolves m this house.”
n« Ul M WtWMt
“That’s what you think,” she said
pityingly. “One got in the keyhole
last night and he’s living in the back
“He’ll be pretty crowded in
there,” said Daddy grimly.
“He lived in a telephone pole all
winter. Wolves can make themselves
little. They can live any place.”
"Well, he’s not going to spend the
summer in our back door,” said
Daddy, his voice a little high for a
grown man. "Go tell him to get out."
"He can’t get out. His foot’s
caught in the hinge. He squeals
every time somebody comes along
and opens the door.”
“Now the wolf will get
me," she announced sternly
“Look, Sis,” said Daddy hollowly.
“I happen to know the hinge needs
a little oil. That’s the reason it
squeals. There is no wolf in the door.
Now go look for polar bears. The
radiators are full of them.”
“Anyhow the back-door key won’t
work,” she said, pensively opening
the tobacco jar and installing several
lightning bugs die happened to have
in her pocket. "The wolf got his tail
caught in the lock.”
“That’s fine” said Daddy. “Well
just pile furniture against the door
at night. Now beat it.”
Happily at this point the child’s
mother, a fine figure of a woman in
her early thirties, swept through the
room, collected the child under one
arm. and headed upstairs.
Ten minutes later she was back,
an ominous gleam in her eyes. “It
would be a great help,” she said
acidly, “if you would refrain from
filling your daughter with weird
stories before bedtime. Polar bears
'j in the radiators! She'll probably
wake up screaming.”
“Wait a minute,” said Daddy.
Sailing around in an attempt to ait
bolt upright. “She started the whole
thing. She said — ’*
“All right, dear. Lets larger u,
shall we? But as king as you're doing
nothing. I wish you'd take a look at
the back door.”
“The back door?” said Daddy
slowly. “What's wrong with the
"Well,” she said, “one of the
hinges squeals like a trapped cat
and (or some mysterious reason the
key refuses to work. And another
thing — "
“Yes?" said Daddy, feeling a
prickling sensation in the back of
his neck. "Go on.”
“Well, don't get excited, but
there's a funny noise inside that
door.” She paused to consider. “It's
like something scratching..."
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