Two experts on the U. S. hinterland set sail for South America to interpret themselves (and the U. S. hinterland) to Latins. Grizzled Author Sherwood Anderson (Home Town) headed for Chile; eager, pink-cheeked Novelist-Playwright Thornton Wilder (Our Town) expected to fill lecture-appointments under State Department auspices in Colombia, Ecuador, Peru.

Preparing to leave on a Caribbean holiday, the young John A. Roosevelts arranged to leave their baby, Haven, at the White House. As recorded by his sister, Mrs. Anna Roosevelt Boettiger, in her Seattle newspaper column, telephone negotiations were conducted with President Roosevelt as follows:

Johnny: "I can't get Ma; she's never home. Will you take down the arrangements about the baby?"

Pa: "Delighted."

Johnny: "Please call the Dy-Dee Co. tomorrow morning."

Pa: "The what?"

Johnny: "The Dy-Dee Co."

Pa: "Who is she?"

Johnny: "Oh, you're old-fashioned--the diaper company. . . ."

Pa: "Hasn't the baby any diapers? We have a stove, and they can be boiled here."

Johnny: "Oh no, Pa, we don't do things that way now."

Pa: "Very well, I'll call. How many do you want?"

John stopped a moment to consult his wife. Then, Johnny: "One hundred and forty."

Pa (horrified): "One hundred and forty! Is there anything wrong with him?"

Gaffer Roosevelt then learned about the lend-lease plan for diapers.

Beaming like the good Baptist, Elk, and Coshocton, Ohio Democrat that he is, amiable old Bill Green strolled in at the Miami-Biltmore Pools to see this year's Miss Florida picked, plopped into a wicker chair next to one that astonishingly enough contained Fandangler Sally Rand, promptly discovered that her conversational resources were also very compelling.

In Los Angeles' glittering, stadiumlike Biltmore Hotel Bowl, 1,400 big and little cinewigs reverently listened to President Roosevelt (see p. 13), exuberantly hurrahed for Responder Bette Davis. They alcoholically splurged for a couple of hours as the lesser Academy Awards were doled out, pulled themselves together at last as John Ford (the only directorial nominee not present) got his Oscar for the year's best direction (The Grapes of Wrath). Then panting David Selznick got one for the best production (Rebecca). Thereupon Actress Lynn Fontanne, fresh from her evening's performance next door in There Shall Be No Night, rose to hand the Oscar for character to Jane Darwell (for Ma Joad, in The Grapes), the noblest Oscar of them all (for Kitty Foyle) to Ginger Rogers, who wept, screamed "greatest moment of my life" and fled back to her table amid dog-show din, to subside tearfully on the proud shoulders of Kitty Foyle Producer David Hempstead. Walter Brennan of the removable teeth got his third gold statue as the best supporting male (Judge Bean, in The Westerner). To stuttering, slue-footed James Stewart, who stood low in this year's forecasts but high in esteem for an unrewarded 1939 job in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Alfred Lunt handed the prize for 1940's best male acting (The Philadelphia Story). As the wassail ended. Banquet Chief John LeRoy Johnston was last seen frantically bellowing into the microphone for winners "and Miss Lunt and Mr. Fontanne" (sic) to go below for newsreels. Ginger gushed a tribute to "my mother." Jimmy Stewart telephoned his pa in Indiana, Pa. Pa said bring the Oscar home, and there would be another unveiling in the Stewart hardware store.

In Havana, where his prancing Dodgers, looking less than ever like the flyblown crocks who were once Brooklyn's most predictable annual ornament, were fixing to lick the Giants, the draft (see p. 51), and all baseball attendance records, brash, red-haired Flatbush Boss Larry ("Barnum") MacPhail welcomed another boss to the Dodgers' Havana training ground, shook cordial hands with brash, black-haired Cuban President Fulgencio Batista.

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