Attaboy! Will we applaud? Say, bring 'em out I Bring 'em out! Ah, here she is. A pale, trembling little morsel with frightened eyes and a worn blue serge skirt. The floor is slippery. "Miss Waghwoughblngsz," says the voice, "will sing for your entertainment." A terrified little squeak. A Mae Marsh grimace of courage. Good! Say, she's great! Look at her try to swing her body. And her arms have lost their joints. And she's forgotten the words. Poor little tyke. Throw her something. Pennies. While she's singing. See who can hit her. So we throw her pennies and nickels and dimes. They land on her head and one takes her on the nose. And her voice dies away like a baby bird falling out of a nest. And she stands still--jerking her mouth and the pennies falling all around her. And a cynical-looking youth bounces out and picks them up. Bravo! She tried to bow and slipped. Another round of applause for that. All right, take her away. What did she sing? What was the song that mumbled itself through the laughter and the rain of pennies? * * * * * Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Sghsgbrszsg will endeavor to entertain you with a ballad for your amusement. That's fine. After three a.m. outside. Cold and dark. But nothing cold or dark about us. We're just getting started. Bring 'em out. Bring out the ballad singer. Ah, there's a lad for you. His shoes all shined and a clean collar on and his face carefully shaved at home. But his hands wouldn't wash clean. The shop grime lingers on his hands and in his broken nails. But his eyes are blue and he's going to sing. The boys at the shop know his songs. The noon hour knows them. But his voice sounds different here under the beating tungstens. It quavers. Something about Ireland. A little bit of heaven. He can't sing. If he was in his shirt sleeves and the collar was off and his face didn't hurt from the dull safety razor blade--it would sound better. But--pennies for him. Hit the singing boy in the eye and win the hand-painted cazaza. "A little bit of heaven called Ireland," is what he's singing. And the noises start. The pennies and nickels rain. Finis! Not so good. He sang it all the way through and his voice grew better and better. Take him away. We didn't like the way his eyes blazed back at us when the pennies fell. Not so good. Not so good. Here she is. Little Bertha, the Sewing Machine Girl. In the flesh. And walking across the slippery dance floor with her French heeled patent leathers wiggling under her. Bertha's the doodles. This is the way she stood at the piano at Sadie's party. This is the way she smiled at the errand boys and counter jumpers at Sadie's party. This is the way she bowed and this is the song she sang to them that they applauded so much.