The Waterbury Democrat., 1939-04-19

were cOlQ.
 My hands always are cold, replied the girl whose eyes were moist and deeply blue. Her eyes were fascinating enough to imbue her partner with courage. He of- fered to take her home and she readily accepted.
 In the taxi, he learned her name, and that her address was far in the Bronx. The cab was al- most at its destination when Mary asked the driver to halt at a gloomy and dimly illuminated spot. She asked to be excused and stepped out minute.
 Ten minutes elapsed and she did not return. He grew nervous and stepped out to investigate. Crossing the threshold of what he took to be a park, he chilled all over to learn it was a cemetery. Besides, he had placed his over coat over the young lady's shoul- ders when she complained that she was cold.
 So he hurried back to the taxi and urged to be driven to her home. It was a half-mile off. A sleepy, middle-aged lady answer ed his ring. Apologetically, he explained that he had been talk ing Mary home and grimly told of her eerie disappearance.
 T know, young man." the old, white-haired lady said, Mary does that often. You see, she died three years ago and she grows lonely in that cemetery over there. And so she goes where life is each night and then returns to her place in the earth!"
 The next day he went back to the cemetery. There he saw the tombstone engraved with Mary's name. Resting over corner was his overcoat.
 Fair Pitching
 Manhattan's pitchmen are pitch- ing in for the World Fair trade.
 All sidewalk vendors of nos- trums, brass polish, neckties Give for two bits, gentsD, car shines, etc., are banding for their com- mon interests. And they have called July convention under the banner of Clyde Hager, an ex-pitchman who now gives the spiel before cabaret audiences, with enthusiastic response.
 Hager has made the pitchman a popular figure to the cafe crowd and has removed the odium that has attached to that catch-as- catch-can profession over the course of years. His repeated ad- monition to his lettering stooge, Get away from me, boy, you're bothering mel" has become al- most as common on New Workers lips as the ancient exclamation, "23 skidoow
 Windy William
 A human tornado struck town when William Saroyan, the ex- cited Armenian, blew in from Mex ico City to see the opening of his play, My Hearts in the High lands"
 An incessant smoker, he was sore that he couldn't leave for a few puffs, because his play has no intermissions. He was about to create one, so he could enjoy a cigarette. He laughed at his own jokes more heartily and immod- erately than the audience. He thought they were the funniest things he'd ever heard.
 An unabashed egotist, Saroyan is convinced that he is Heavens only gift to Arts & Letters. In a tetc-a-tete, he unwaveringly takes charge, never giving his opponent 8 chance to get word in edge wise. He insists that his stories are the only ones that have any relation to life. He claims all other literary effort is hokum.
 At his San Francisco home, an extremely modest one, he works in room with all windows open, papers flying around, magazines littering the floor and furniture and clothes distributed around the chairs and sofa without system. He is opposed to personal order; says it takes up to much time.
 Though he has seen only three plays all his life, he took charge of the director, scenic designer and the actors when he walked in on rehearsals of his own play. He's that way.