In The New Yorker three years ago Poet E. B. White set down an appraisal of Radioracle Harold Thomas Henry (Boake) Carter. Wrote he: I like to hear him summon us With all things ominous: Munitions makers, plotting gain, Asylums bulging with insane, Cancers that give no hint of pain, Insurgency in northern Spain, And rivers swollen with the rain. For Boake, Has spoke, And it's no joke.
No joke indeed were the broadcasts of Boake Carter. In his peremptory, clipped British baritone, he gloomed about C. I. O., Communism, the state of military aviation, the Roosevelt Administration, the British Empire. For...
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