intellectual projects,helping to bring "culture"to the exuberant Hollywood community of the1920's. My mother read the little poem and began to cry."Buddy,you didn't really write this beautiful,beautiful poem!" Shyly,proud-bursting,I stammered that I had.She poured out her praise.Why,this poem was nothing short of genius! I glowed."What time will Father be home?"I asked.I could hardly wait to show him. I spent the best part of that afternoon preparing for his arrival.First,I wrote the poem out in my finest flourish.Then I crayoned an elaborate border around it that would do justice to its brilliant content.As seven o'clock drew near,I confidently placed it on my father's plate on the dining room table. But my father did not return at seven.Seven-fifteen came.Seven-thirty.The suspense was exquisite.I admired my father.I like to go to the studio and watch the cuts of his new pictures in his big projection room.He had begun his motion-picture career as a writer.He would be able to appreciate this wonderful poem of mine even more than my mother. But this evening when my father burst in,his mood seem even more thunderous than usual.An hour late for dinner,he could not sit down but circled the long dining room with a Scotch highball in his hand,calling down terrible oaths on his employees.I can see him now,a big Havana cigar in one hand,highball in the other,crying out against the Fates that had sentenced him to the cruel job of running a Hollywood studio. "Imagine,we would have finished the picture tonight,"my father was shouting. "Instead that moron (stupid person)suddenly gets it into her beautiful,empty little head that she can't play the last scene.So the whole company has to stand there at 1000 a minute while this silly little blank,who's lucky she isn't behind the counter of a five-and- ten,walks off the set！And now I have to beg her to come back on Monday！” He wheeled in his pacing,paused and glared at his plate.There was a suspenseful silence."What is this?"He was reaching for my poem. "Ben,a wonderful thing has happened,my mother began."Buddy has written his first 455intellectual projects, helping to bring "culture" to the exuberant Hollywood community of the 1920's. My mother read the little poem and began to cry. "Buddy , you didn' t really write this beautiful , beautiful poem!" Shyly , proud-bursting , I stammered that I had. She poured out her praise. Why , this poem was nothing short of genius! I glowed. "What time will Father be hor,ne?" I asked. I could hardly wait to show him. I spent the best part of that afternoon preparing for his arrival. First , I wrote the poem out in my finest flourish. Then I crayoned an elaborate border around it that would do justice to its brilliant content. As seven 0' clock drew near, I confidently placed it on my father plate on the dining room table. But my father did not return at seven. Seven-fifteen came. Seven-thirty. The suspense was exquisite. I admired my father. I like to go to the studio and watch the cuts of his new pictures in his big projection room. He had begun his motion-picture career as a writer. He would be able to appreciate this wonderful poem of mine even more than my mother. But this evening when my father burst in , his mood seem even more thunderous than usual. An hour late for dinner, he could not sit down but circled the long dining room with a Scotch highball in his hand , calling down terrible oaths on his employees. I can see him now , a big Havana cigar in one hand , highball in the other, crying out against the Fates that had sentenced him to the cruel job of running a Hollywood studio. "Imagine , we would have finished the picture tonight ," my father was shouting. "Instead that moron (stupid person) suddenly gets it into her beautiful , empty little head that she can' t play the last scene. So the whole company has to stand there at $ 1000 a minute while this silly little blank , who' s lucky she isn' t behind the counter of a five-and￾ten , walks off the set! And now I have to beg her to come back on Monday!" He wheeled in his pacing , paused and glared at his plate. There was a suspenseful silence."What is this?"He was reaching for my poem- "Ben , a wonderful thing has happened ," my mother began. "Buddy has written his first 455