(See front cover)
In Manhattan one afternoon last week, a dark-skinned crickety little man jumped from a taxi into a Broadway barber shop, had himself shaved, dashed for his office, summoned a stenographer and in a plaintive singsong voice dictated a dozen lines of verse. He read them over ruefully as he paced the floor. His subject was old songs and he was worried for fear it would sound conceited to say:
I'm proud to have written a few That still are remembered by you.
Irving Berlin was celebrating his 25th year as a...
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