NO, I DON'T KNOW WHY I DID THIS. I DON'T KNOW WHY I DO ANY OF THIS.
When the long march of the working day finds a moment to rest its weary feet, to shake off the dust of the years and face a moment of contentment and contemplation, where does its attention turn? The working women and men who built this country once tuned their radio dials to hear the broadcast bards beguile them with the fantastic feats of far-off warriors, and let their mind's eye paint a Rockwell of Knute Rockne, let their heart Hopalong with Howard Cassady.