Between the dusk and the daylight When the broadcasters step up their
power Comes that large and magnificent
shambles That is known as the children's hour.
The wee ones huddle together In time for the evening scare To chill their juvenile marrow And curl their innocent hair.
Then over the waves of ether To fill their sweet long dreams Come tales of terror and torture And 17 kinds of screams.
Stoddard King*
One day about a year ago, Mrs. George Frederick Hanowell, a 60-year-old Washington, D.C. matron, visited a friend who had four children, 5 to 11....
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