Memphis World
Memphis World Publishing Co.
1955-04-12
Raymond F. Tisby

MEMPHIS WORLD
AMERICA'S STANDARD RACE JOURNAL
The South's Oldest and Leading Colored Semi-Weekly Newspaper
Published by MEMPHIS WORLD PUBLISHING CO.
Every TUESDAY and FRIDAY at 164 BEALE — Phone 8-4030
Entered in the Post Office at Memphis, Tenn., as second-class mail
under the Act of Congress, March 1, 1870
Member of SCOTT NEWSPAPER SYNDICATE
W. A. Scott, II, Founder; C. A. Scott, General Manager
Raymond F. Tisby Managing Editor
Mrs. Rosa Brown Bracey Public Relations and Advertising
William C. Weathers Circulation Promotion
The MEMPHIS WORLD is an independent newspaper — non-sectarian
and non-partisan, printing news unbiasedly and supporting those things
it believes to be of interest to its readers and opposing those things against
the interest of its readers.
SUBSCRIPTION RATES:
Year $5.00 — 6 Months $3.00 — 3 Months $1.50 (In Advance)

Every Civic And Political Enterprise
Is Your Enterprise
There is among us an awakening of civic and political interest
which inquires into the welfare of the whole people.
What affects our people, affects the whole fabric of our society. 
There can be harmony in a social fabric affording bread
and votes for some, with a stiff denial of both on the other hand
for others.
We are the beneficiaries of an order in which there can never
be a free man as long as there is one bound. In that it behooves
the whole order to go out after those off borders when it comes
to the enjoyment of that atmosphere which affords health, contentment 
and security.
In nearly every community, there will be found the remnants, 
if nothing else, of some kind of civic or political organization. 
We found this to be true in a large measure when we became
acquainted on a large scale, during the struggle in which we
found ourselves in the last campaign.
It must be said to the creditor the churches and clubs that
thousands were reached, who otherwise would not have been
included in the program in which we put up a record fight for
our political freedom and the privilege to bargain with those
elected to public office.
We are too weak to divide cur strength. We must not let
selfishness and ambition eclipse the main objective of our goal.
We have a common interest in this struggle and what is good for
one, is good for all. Those interested in preening themselves into
a false state of superiority while neglecting that strata upon
which a healthful social and political foundation must rest, have
no place in this all-out struggle for human freedom affording
first class citizenship in fact.
Every civic and political enterprise among us, should find a
common ground of understanding and knit into one long and
strong chain never to be broken nor impaired by the self importance, 
the little namby pamby specimen of humanity who sees
first the satiation of vain glory and Self esteem.

MY WEEKLY
SERMON

TEXT: "I have been crucified
with Christ; and it is no longer I
that live, but Christ liveth in me."
—Galations 2:20.
On Friday, Apr. 7, A. D. 30, Jesus
hanging on a Roman cross, took a
deep breath and spoke out softy,
"Father, unto you. Lord, I commend 
my spirit." Bowing His head,
He gave us the ghost.
Two great citizens, Joseph and
Nicodemus, begged of Pilate Jesus'
body, and had the body of Jesus
placed in the tomb that Jospeh had
built for himself. A great stone
was securely fastened against the
tomb. Guards were set lest friends
steal away His body.
On Sunday, Apr. 9. A. D. 30, using
the words of Rev. William Holmes
Borders as recorded in Thunderbolts," 
Jesus said, 'Death, you had
me Friday and Friday night, all
day Saturday and Saturday night:
Forever hereafter, you take orders
from me!' While He yet stood in
the grave He pulled out the sting
of death, reached down in the corner 
of the tomb, picked up the seal
of victory and put it under His
arm. He stepped out of the grave
with immortal hands, and immortal 
heart, and immortal life and
immortal program.
Of that morning before the fingers 
of dawn could touch the house
tops of Jerusalem, two women stole
out like ghostly shadows from the
encircling walls of the city. One
Gospel says, "When it was yet dark,
Mary cometh to the sepulcher."
The city was noiseless and still.
The leaves and blades of grass were
yet laden with dew. In the early
morning hour the two women came
to the grave of Jesus. But the stone
was rolled away. The tomb was
empty!
With us, who today visit the
grave's where our loved ones' mortal 
remains rest, our great interest
is that the 'house,' the body in
which our loved ones once lived,
is beneath the mounds of clay.
With the grave of Jesus, the

Christ, the great interest is that
the one so deeply loved by Mary
and others in the year. A. D. 30,
and loved by us in A. D. 1955, is
not there—the tomb was empty!
The empty tomb of Christ becomes 
the consolation of uncounted
hearts. And the regnant truth is:
Helives. He lives!
He lives in our lives—"wherever
man calls man His brother, and '
lovps himself as another — Jesus
lives. The child of God can say
"I know—Jesus— lives because He
lives in me."
Indeed Jesus is alive in God's
children. He walks with them in
their lonely hours. He talks with
them in their deep silences. He sits
by the hearthstone of their hearts
and holds communion of things
unutterable. Jesus is in their midst.
He in nearer than breathing—closer 
than hands and feet.
The Apostle Paul, declared. "Because 
I have been crucified with
Christ, it is no longer I that live
but Christ liveth in me."
Jesus, the Christ, declared, "Because 
I live ye shall live also."
The Christian cries out. "Christ
is alive forevermore—and lives in
me—because He lives in me, I live
and I am saved from sin and safe
for heaven!"
A great question is "who lives in
you?" A great affirmation is "behold. 
I stand at the door and
knock," said Jesus, "if any man
hear my voice, and open the door,
I will come in to him."

A THOUGHT AFTER EASTER

TEXT: "I have been crucified
with Christ; and it is no longer I
that live, but Christ liveth in me."
—Galations 2:20.
On Friday, Apr. 7, A. D. 30, Jesus
hanging on a Roman cross, took a
deep breath and spoke out softy,
"Father, unto you. Lord, I commend 
my spirit." Bowing His head,
He gave us the ghost.
Two great citizens, Joseph and
Nicodemus, begged of Pilate Jesus'
body, and had the body of Jesus
placed in the tomb that Jospeh had
built for himself. A great stone
was securely fastened against the
tomb. Guards were set lest friends
steal away His body.
On Sunday, Apr. 9. A. D. 30, using
the words of Rev. William Holmes
Borders as recorded in Thunderbolts," 
Jesus said, 'Death, you had
me Friday and Friday night, all
day Saturday and Saturday night:
Forever hereafter, you take orders
from me!' While He yet stood in
the grave He pulled out the sting
of death, reached down in the corner 
of the tomb, picked up the seal
of victory and put it under His
arm. He stepped out of the grave
with immortal hands, and immortal 
heart, and immortal life and
immortal program.
Of that morning before the fingers 
of dawn could touch the house
tops of Jerusalem, two women stole
out like ghostly shadows from the
encircling walls of the city. One
Gospel says, "When it was yet dark,
Mary cometh to the sepulcher."
The city was noiseless and still.
The leaves and blades of grass were
yet laden with dew. In the early
morning hour the two women came
to the grave of Jesus. But the stone
was rolled away. The tomb was
empty!
With us, who today visit the
grave's where our loved ones' mortal 
remains rest, our great interest
is that the 'house,' the body in
which our loved ones once lived,
is beneath the mounds of clay.
With the grave of Jesus, the

Christ, the great interest is that
the one so deeply loved by Mary
and others in the year. A. D. 30,
and loved by us in A. D. 1955, is
not there—the tomb was empty!
The empty tomb of Christ becomes 
the consolation of uncounted
hearts. And the regnant truth is:
Helives. He lives!
He lives in our lives—"wherever
man calls man His brother, and '
lovps himself as another — Jesus
lives. The child of God can say
"I know—Jesus— lives because He
lives in me."
Indeed Jesus is alive in God's
children. He walks with them in
their lonely hours. He talks with
them in their deep silences. He sits
by the hearthstone of their hearts
and holds communion of things
unutterable. Jesus is in their midst.
He in nearer than breathing—closer 
than hands and feet.
The Apostle Paul, declared. "Because 
I have been crucified with
Christ, it is no longer I that live
but Christ liveth in me."
Jesus, the Christ, declared, "Because 
I live ye shall live also."
The Christian cries out. "Christ
is alive forevermore—and lives in
me—because He lives in me, I live
and I am saved from sin and safe
for heaven!"
A great question is "who lives in
you?" A great affirmation is "behold. 
I stand at the door and
knock," said Jesus, "if any man
hear my voice, and open the door,
I will come in to him."

WISHING WELL

H is a pleasant little game that will give you a message every
day. It is 8 numerical puzzle designed to spell but your fortune.
Count the letters in your first name. If the number of letters is 6 or
more, subtract 4. It the number is less than 6, add 3. The result is
your key number Start at the upper left-hand corner of the rectangle 
and check every one of your key numbers, left to right. Then
read the message the letters under the cheeked figures give you.

Antioch Baptist
Slates Men's Day
Sunday, April 17, the Antioch
Baptist Church Sunday School Department 
is having their Annual
Mission and Education program at
3:00 P. M.
The Guest speaker for this occasion 
will be Rev. S. H. Champion,
pastor of Mt Joiner Baptist church
Among others will be Mrs. LaBlanche 
Jackson, of St. Stephen

Baptist Chinch. A Teller of TriState 
Bank. Also W. M. Weems of
Mt. Zion Baptist Church. A. Burnley 
superintendent. Rev. O. V. Gardner, 
pastor, and Isreal Reed Jr.
chairman.

REVIEWING
THE NEWS

Managing Editor, Atlanta Dally World
It was always a refreshing experience, to stand near the
bend of the river and watch the clear water slowly trickle by
More interesting than the refreshing experience was to sit long
hours under the shade of the mighty oak, watch its long branches
reaching out into the sky and see its beautiful green leaves
trembling in the breeze. The oak tree is a mighty fortress some
would say.
"Here is where the roots run deeper," a friend would always
tell me. "But at the bend of the river, one could see the dirt, the
rock and the surface being chipped away from the roots of the
tree. Finally, the oak tree, no matter how strong would be forced
to give away to the slowly trickling waters of the river. The tree
would eventually find its grave, an everlasting resting place in
the bed of the river. So it is true with bigotry. But with the roots
running deep, like those of the mighty oak, it will still take time
to be chipped away.
The thought brings to mind the experience of two visiting
newspaper editors from Germany, who stopped off in Atlanta
a few days ago.
"We looked with much curiosity at the pattern of race relations 
in America," one said. "Much of this business of segregation
sounded more like a fairy tale to us coming from a different
continent." He went on:
"While walking along a down-town street, I happened to
brush into a colored lady," one of the editors said. "Naturally,"
he said, "I stepped aside and apologized to her. A moment later,
I was called aside by a white man who told me: "You don't have
to do that, she's just a Negro, you don't have to apologize to
Negroes for anything."
The editor admitted that he was shocked at the incident.
Up to this point, after only three weeks in the United States, he
had gained some favorable impressions of race relations in
America. But for a Southern white man to kick his feelings over
without being asked, made this editor sick in the stomach. The
incident was so far-reaching that he'll peddle it all the way
back to Germany and this single experience will be thrown into
the faces of visiting Americans for years to come.
The German editors were disgusted and rightfully so. First
of all, one of them, was quite a youngster, born during the Hitler
regime. Despite this however, he said his generation became
converted overnight, as soon as the majority of them were able
to see that Hitlerism and the police state methods were out of
step with the times, and lent no logical support to a modern
society. Secondly, both held a high respect for law, and especially 
the supreme law of the land. It was hard for them to see why
the South fought so hard to conform with the Supreme Court's
decision on public-schools. Of course this is always difficult to
answer, just as hard as it was for me to understand why the
roots of the oak run so deep, and why it takes so many years
for the water to chip away the foundation at its base.
In the South the roots still run deep. Moreover, they are entrenched 
with political agitation, enlightened self interest and
ignorance born out of a plantation economy. Truly, this is not
representative of the total South. If so, our case would be hopeless. 
It remains true that hatred and ignorance have strong links
hat bind them. With the two pulling together, they join at a point
where the roots run deep.

Where The Roots Run Deeper

Managing Editor, Atlanta Dally World
It was always a refreshing experience, to stand near the
bend of the river and watch the clear water slowly trickle by
More interesting than the refreshing experience was to sit long
hours under the shade of the mighty oak, watch its long branches
reaching out into the sky and see its beautiful green leaves
trembling in the breeze. The oak tree is a mighty fortress some
would say.
"Here is where the roots run deeper," a friend would always
tell me. "But at the bend of the river, one could see the dirt, the
rock and the surface being chipped away from the roots of the
tree. Finally, the oak tree, no matter how strong would be forced
to give away to the slowly trickling waters of the river. The tree
would eventually find its grave, an everlasting resting place in
the bed of the river. So it is true with bigotry. But with the roots
running deep, like those of the mighty oak, it will still take time
to be chipped away.
The thought brings to mind the experience of two visiting
newspaper editors from Germany, who stopped off in Atlanta
a few days ago.
"We looked with much curiosity at the pattern of race relations 
in America," one said. "Much of this business of segregation
sounded more like a fairy tale to us coming from a different
continent." He went on:
"While walking along a down-town street, I happened to
brush into a colored lady," one of the editors said. "Naturally,"
he said, "I stepped aside and apologized to her. A moment later,
I was called aside by a white man who told me: "You don't have
to do that, she's just a Negro, you don't have to apologize to
Negroes for anything."
The editor admitted that he was shocked at the incident.
Up to this point, after only three weeks in the United States, he
had gained some favorable impressions of race relations in
America. But for a Southern white man to kick his feelings over
without being asked, made this editor sick in the stomach. The
incident was so far-reaching that he'll peddle it all the way
back to Germany and this single experience will be thrown into
the faces of visiting Americans for years to come.
The German editors were disgusted and rightfully so. First
of all, one of them, was quite a youngster, born during the Hitler
regime. Despite this however, he said his generation became
converted overnight, as soon as the majority of them were able
to see that Hitlerism and the police state methods were out of
step with the times, and lent no logical support to a modern
society. Secondly, both held a high respect for law, and especially 
the supreme law of the land. It was hard for them to see why
the South fought so hard to conform with the Supreme Court's
decision on public-schools. Of course this is always difficult to
answer, just as hard as it was for me to understand why the
roots of the oak run so deep, and why it takes so many years
for the water to chip away the foundation at its base.
In the South the roots still run deep. Moreover, they are entrenched 
with political agitation, enlightened self interest and
ignorance born out of a plantation economy. Truly, this is not
representative of the total South. If so, our case would be hopeless. 
It remains true that hatred and ignorance have strong links
hat bind them. With the two pulling together, they join at a point
where the roots run deep.

BETWEEN THE LINES
What the hobble-skirt of yesteryear 
was to the woman in a hurry,
the politician is today to an America 
that must keep pace with progress 
of the times or fall behind
in the van of international competition 
We are competing with
nations that can "order" an all-out
and there is an all-out, while we
must endure the luckless politician
who tries at once to sit straddle of
the fance and hold his ears to the
ground.
Our Congress in many ways fills
thoughtful men with a depressing
dismay It is enough to make sick
at heart patriots, who are in dead
camel in trying to stem the tide
of communism rising in the world.
Just how we have tune to play so
much politics here at home and
match the Russians in the world,
is not so apparent from this vantage 
point We are trying to win
a marathon in a hobble-skirt. We
are hobbled by our Inevitable and
perennial politicans who do not
know how to "politic " They create
a situation akin to that suggested
by a commuting church member
from the "other side of town."
Upon presenting himself for membership 
at another church ho complained: 
"I want to get out of that
church over yonder for there the
preacher cannot preach the choir
cannot sine, the deacons cannot
'deac' and the trustees cannot be
trusted."
Too generally our politicians can
not 
"politic " At a time when we
need unity and oneness of national
purpose, we are afflicted with the
politician who fails to see anything
in our critical situation but a
chance for reelection. Today the
nation and the world are treated
to the sorry spectacle of Seeing a
few political pygmies, trying with
all their might to discredit the lamented 
Franklin Delano Roosevelt 
was the saviour of a nation
who rests from his labors. Roosevelt 
was the savior of a nation
doomed by the Republican plutocrats 
to bankruptcy and chaos and
revolution. He was rightly hailed
the man of the hour. But now that
he is dead, lesser men are out to
besmirth his escutcheon of true
greatness.
These little political mice have
come out to play for the Great
Tom-Cat is away. While communism, 
like a mighty tide is rising in
the world these little political mice
are bent on defaming a dead man,
the man who was the saviour of
our nation They pounce upon his
inevitable mistakes with the avidity
of a lion for his steaks, broody
though they be. These political
stink-hounds are a liability to our
great nation in a time of great
crisis; and if we are being led into
ways of great tribulation, these political 
runts will be largely to
blame.
They are the ones who are currently 
hobbling the nation in its
fight for its life; they are the ones
who hobble any and all efforts to
safeguard civil rights in the coun
try; 
they are the ones who are
committed by subtle machinations
with the Southern Negrohobes to
perpetuate and eternalize the second-rate 
citizenship of America's
most patriotic citizens, who give all
for "what is left" of American opportunity. 


THE GREAT AMERICAN
LIABILITY: POLITICAL
MIDGETS.
What the hobble-skirt of yesteryear 
was to the woman in a hurry,
the politician is today to an America 
that must keep pace with progress 
of the times or fall behind
in the van of international competition 
We are competing with
nations that can "order" an all-out
and there is an all-out, while we
must endure the luckless politician
who tries at once to sit straddle of
the fance and hold his ears to the
ground.
Our Congress in many ways fills
thoughtful men with a depressing
dismay It is enough to make sick
at heart patriots, who are in dead
camel in trying to stem the tide
of communism rising in the world.
Just how we have tune to play so
much politics here at home and
match the Russians in the world,
is not so apparent from this vantage 
point We are trying to win
a marathon in a hobble-skirt. We
are hobbled by our Inevitable and
perennial politicans who do not
know how to "politic " They create
a situation akin to that suggested
by a commuting church member
from the "other side of town."
Upon presenting himself for membership 
at another church ho complained: 
"I want to get out of that
church over yonder for there the
preacher cannot preach the choir
cannot sine, the deacons cannot
'deac' and the trustees cannot be
trusted."
Too generally our politicians can
not 
"politic " At a time when we
need unity and oneness of national
purpose, we are afflicted with the
politician who fails to see anything
in our critical situation but a
chance for reelection. Today the
nation and the world are treated
to the sorry spectacle of Seeing a
few political pygmies, trying with
all their might to discredit the lamented 
Franklin Delano Roosevelt 
was the saviour of a nation
who rests from his labors. Roosevelt 
was the savior of a nation
doomed by the Republican plutocrats 
to bankruptcy and chaos and
revolution. He was rightly hailed
the man of the hour. But now that
he is dead, lesser men are out to
besmirth his escutcheon of true
greatness.
These little political mice have
come out to play for the Great
Tom-Cat is away. While communism, 
like a mighty tide is rising in
the world these little political mice
are bent on defaming a dead man,
the man who was the saviour of
our nation They pounce upon his
inevitable mistakes with the avidity
of a lion for his steaks, broody
though they be. These political
stink-hounds are a liability to our
great nation in a time of great
crisis; and if we are being led into
ways of great tribulation, these political 
runts will be largely to
blame.
They are the ones who are currently 
hobbling the nation in its
fight for its life; they are the ones
who hobble any and all efforts to
safeguard civil rights in the coun
try; 
they are the ones who are
committed by subtle machinations
with the Southern Negrohobes to
perpetuate and eternalize the second-rate 
citizenship of America's
most patriotic citizens, who give all
for "what is left" of American opportunity. 


Taystee Bread


Taystee
ENRICHED BREAD
Taystee

WHAT DOES A
tomato
WISH For?
Every well-bred tomato has an itch for which
there's just one cure! That's to be nestled in a cool
crisp salad and coated lightly with Wish-Bone
Italian Dressing, an Old World recipe that put
added zest in the best of salads.

WISH BONE
ITALIAN SALAD DRESSING
WISH-BONE
ITALIAN SALAD DRESSING
*
Guaranteed by
Good Housekeeplog

The Inheritors
 
ENID moved the table close, to
Hester's chair, spread a cloth on
it, brought knives and forks and
spoons. Did this attentiveness indicate 
she was sorry for her flare
of defiance?
The scrambled eggs were just
as she liked them, neither hard
nor soft. The toast Enid had made
and cut in little spears was buttered 
as she liked it. There were
sliced tomatoes, and canned
peaches for dessert. Hot tea in a
squat old china teapot.
"This is perfect! Thanks," said
Hester. She felt a moment's ease
of mind—she had not forgotten
Enid's "we all ate together" which
meant that the girl from the back
wing had eaten with Enid and
Jennie but she would put her in
her place when an opportunity
offered.
It came soon after she had finished 
her supper and found it
necessary to go into the back yard,
where she saw Cindy outside of
her door, feeding two cats.
She had forgotten the cats! Seeing 
them, her abhorrence of them
gripped her. She walked over to
Cindy, though not too close. "Those
animals—you can't keep them
here. I simply will not tolerate it!"
Cindy caught up the two cats.
"They're mine! I can have them—
this part of the house is mine—
part or the yard!"
Hester said: "You had better not
feel so certain that any part of
this place is yours! My brother
had no daughter! You will go the
minute it is proven that you are a
tool in some fraud..."
"Hester, stop talking like that!"
It was Jennie coming swiftly
out the back door; Jennie, Speaking 
to her in that tone! Hester
stared at her, for an instant disbelieving 
her ears.
But Jennie did not falter.
"You re cruel! Cindy's alone here.
And you don't know that she isn't
—there have been a lot or things
Tommy never has told us! Anyway, 
Mr. Middleton brought the
cats to Cindy."
"Mr. Middleton..." Hester repeated 
the name scathingly. She
said lo Cindy, who was still clutching 
her cats: "If they stay—see
that you keep them out of my
sight. If they annoy me at any
time, they go!"
With that she turned her back
on both Cindy and Jennie, went
into her kitchen door. Enid was in
the kitchen putting their dishes
away. "Will you need the Car for
a half-hour, mother? I'd like to
cruise around and find al farm
where we can buy milk and cream
and eggs."
Hester said; "Go ahead, dear.
Only return before it's quite dark."
"You won't mind being alone
here?"
"Not a bit." She wanted to write
to Anne Babbitt.
She wrote: "There is a Gary
Norbeck, a questionable character,
living very close to us. Hired out
as a sort of man-of-all work to my
uncle the last few years of my

uncle's life. I think he must have
connections in Salem—at least
with the First National Bank
there. I happened to find that out
from the postmistress in our Village 
from whom. If you listen,
you'll hear of everything. I'll be
grateful if you will make some inquiries..." 

A letter came to Wick Middleton 
from Dan Dooley. The check
he had sent to Dan Dooley was
enclosed.
"... I give that paper you sent
to a friend of Tommy's here in
Covington who can see Tommy
when it's sate to try it I don't
need no money. How is our girl?
"Respectfully yours, Dan
Dooley."
Wick put the sheet aside. A few
weeks back he had read in an Albany 
newspaper of the investigation 
in St Louis of a suspected
gambling syndicate, and had recognized 
the name of Richard Cornelius 
as the one Dan had said
Tommy Todd used in his "business." 
He knew what Dan meant
by "safe." "Things can't dangle
along like this!" He'd wait another 
week and then he'd have
citations published in a Cincinnati
newspaper.
Frequently he found himself
dwelling, and with considerable
pleasure, on the change he had
noticed in Jennie Todd since those
first few times he had talked with
her. At this season of the year he
had only a few legal matters to
occupy him, so he had leisure time
to think of her and of Cindy. Of
Cindy with concern, with all that
might be ahead for her. Time,
too, to open the drawer in his
desk, choose a book from it and
enjoy an hour of reading without
much likelihood of interruption.
But on this particular morning,
a week after he had seen Jennie
Todd, he was settled comfortably,
coatless, in his swivel chair, his
feet on his desk, when the door
opened and Hester Wilmer walked
in.
She smiled. "Good morning. How
fortunate I am—you do not appear
to be particularly busy!"
On her entrance he had sprung
to his feet, caught up his coal. He
spoke almost jauntily. "Happens
I am not Will you sit down?" He
drew up a chair. "Is there something 
I can do for you?"
Sitting very erect In her chair,
Hester took a small notebook from
her purse, opened it.
"I've made some notes, Mr. Middleton, 
of a few points concerning
which I am not satisfied." She
looked down at her notes. "One—
I have not been fully informed as
to the circumstances of my uncle's
accident I'd like to know more
about it."
"I can refer you to Dr. Meese,
who went up there at once—was
with your uncle until he died."
"But I understand there was no
one in the barn when he fell—no
one to prove that it was an accident!" 

"The coroner was satisfied that

it was You might like to talk to
him."
Hester Wilmer closed the notebook, 
though she kept a gloved
finger between two of the pages.
"This Norbeck man found him—
has he ever been questioned?"
"He told what he knew about it
without questioning. That he went
into the barn and found your uncle
unconscious on the floor."
"Has it ever occurred to you,
Mr. Middleton, that there might be
some connection between my
uncle's death and the fact that you
have not been able to locate all the
money my uncle left?"
"Have you not taken this up
with your own lawyer, Mrs. Wilmer?" 

She said: "Those are matters
which should be taken care of here
—by you, as executor. I do not intend 
to consult Mr. Drew until the
will goes to probate."
Wick said: "I regret that the
probate of the will is held up as it
is. You understand, I am sure,
that it is because I have not heard
from your brother. Has it occurred
to you, Mrs. Wilmer, that your
brother may be in some situation
where he is—temporarily, we'll say
—out of any contact from the outside?" 

He saw her lips stiffen, two
spots of red come to her cheeks.
"What are you implying, Mr.
Middleton?"
"That he may be under arrest—
or about to be."
"You are insulting—to my brother, 
to me—in suggesting such a
possibility. That you could jump
to it, is to me only more evidence
of your negligence in settling this
estate."
"Will you point out my negligence 
to me, Mrs. Wilmer?"
"In the two matters of which
I've spoken. And I consider you
should and out the identity of that
girl who is living in my brother's
part of the house."
Wick said: "Let her be my responsibility." 

Hester's eyes levelled scorn on
him. "This is strange legal advice."
She put the notebook in her
handbag and rose. Wick got to his
feet.
"There is nothing more you wish
to draw to my attention, Mrs.
Wilmer?"
"Yes, there is." She hesitated
"I don't like to speak of it but I
feel that I should. It has nothing
to do with the estate, it's about—
my Sister. I must warn you to be
very careful what you say to her,
do for her. She is—this really is
very distressing for me to tell you
—emotionally unbalanced. She is
likely to misinterpret, give a personal 
meaning to anything you say
to her. I'm afraid she thought of
your loaning books to her to read
as more than just kindness. I hope
you understand what I am trying
to tell you! And that I had to
warn you to save you from possible 
embarrassment."
"Very thoughtful of you, Mrs.
Wilmer." But Wick's voice was icy.


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
 
ENID moved the table close, to
Hester's chair, spread a cloth on
it, brought knives and forks and
spoons. Did this attentiveness indicate 
she was sorry for her flare
of defiance?
The scrambled eggs were just
as she liked them, neither hard
nor soft. The toast Enid had made
and cut in little spears was buttered 
as she liked it. There were
sliced tomatoes, and canned
peaches for dessert. Hot tea in a
squat old china teapot.
"This is perfect! Thanks," said
Hester. She felt a moment's ease
of mind—she had not forgotten
Enid's "we all ate together" which
meant that the girl from the back
wing had eaten with Enid and
Jennie but she would put her in
her place when an opportunity
offered.
It came soon after she had finished 
her supper and found it
necessary to go into the back yard,
where she saw Cindy outside of
her door, feeding two cats.
She had forgotten the cats! Seeing 
them, her abhorrence of them
gripped her. She walked over to
Cindy, though not too close. "Those
animals—you can't keep them
here. I simply will not tolerate it!"
Cindy caught up the two cats.
"They're mine! I can have them—
this part of the house is mine—
part or the yard!"
Hester said: "You had better not
feel so certain that any part of
this place is yours! My brother
had no daughter! You will go the
minute it is proven that you are a
tool in some fraud..."
"Hester, stop talking like that!"
It was Jennie coming swiftly
out the back door; Jennie, Speaking 
to her in that tone! Hester
stared at her, for an instant disbelieving 
her ears.
But Jennie did not falter.
"You re cruel! Cindy's alone here.
And you don't know that she isn't
—there have been a lot or things
Tommy never has told us! Anyway, 
Mr. Middleton brought the
cats to Cindy."
"Mr. Middleton..." Hester repeated 
the name scathingly. She
said lo Cindy, who was still clutching 
her cats: "If they stay—see
that you keep them out of my
sight. If they annoy me at any
time, they go!"
With that she turned her back
on both Cindy and Jennie, went
into her kitchen door. Enid was in
the kitchen putting their dishes
away. "Will you need the Car for
a half-hour, mother? I'd like to
cruise around and find al farm
where we can buy milk and cream
and eggs."
Hester said; "Go ahead, dear.
Only return before it's quite dark."
"You won't mind being alone
here?"
"Not a bit." She wanted to write
to Anne Babbitt.
She wrote: "There is a Gary
Norbeck, a questionable character,
living very close to us. Hired out
as a sort of man-of-all work to my
uncle the last few years of my

uncle's life. I think he must have
connections in Salem—at least
with the First National Bank
there. I happened to find that out
from the postmistress in our Village 
from whom. If you listen,
you'll hear of everything. I'll be
grateful if you will make some inquiries..." 

A letter came to Wick Middleton 
from Dan Dooley. The check
he had sent to Dan Dooley was
enclosed.
"... I give that paper you sent
to a friend of Tommy's here in
Covington who can see Tommy
when it's sate to try it I don't
need no money. How is our girl?
"Respectfully yours, Dan
Dooley."
Wick put the sheet aside. A few
weeks back he had read in an Albany 
newspaper of the investigation 
in St Louis of a suspected
gambling syndicate, and had recognized 
the name of Richard Cornelius 
as the one Dan had said
Tommy Todd used in his "business." 
He knew what Dan meant
by "safe." "Things can't dangle
along like this!" He'd wait another 
week and then he'd have
citations published in a Cincinnati
newspaper.
Frequently he found himself
dwelling, and with considerable
pleasure, on the change he had
noticed in Jennie Todd since those
first few times he had talked with
her. At this season of the year he
had only a few legal matters to
occupy him, so he had leisure time
to think of her and of Cindy. Of
Cindy with concern, with all that
might be ahead for her. Time,
too, to open the drawer in his
desk, choose a book from it and
enjoy an hour of reading without
much likelihood of interruption.
But on this particular morning,
a week after he had seen Jennie
Todd, he was settled comfortably,
coatless, in his swivel chair, his
feet on his desk, when the door
opened and Hester Wilmer walked
in.
She smiled. "Good morning. How
fortunate I am—you do not appear
to be particularly busy!"
On her entrance he had sprung
to his feet, caught up his coal. He
spoke almost jauntily. "Happens
I am not Will you sit down?" He
drew up a chair. "Is there something 
I can do for you?"
Sitting very erect In her chair,
Hester took a small notebook from
her purse, opened it.
"I've made some notes, Mr. Middleton, 
of a few points concerning
which I am not satisfied." She
looked down at her notes. "One—
I have not been fully informed as
to the circumstances of my uncle's
accident I'd like to know more
about it."
"I can refer you to Dr. Meese,
who went up there at once—was
with your uncle until he died."
"But I understand there was no
one in the barn when he fell—no
one to prove that it was an accident!" 

"The coroner was satisfied that

it was You might like to talk to
him."
Hester Wilmer closed the notebook, 
though she kept a gloved
finger between two of the pages.
"This Norbeck man found him—
has he ever been questioned?"
"He told what he knew about it
without questioning. That he went
into the barn and found your uncle
unconscious on the floor."
"Has it ever occurred to you,
Mr. Middleton, that there might be
some connection between my
uncle's death and the fact that you
have not been able to locate all the
money my uncle left?"
"Have you not taken this up
with your own lawyer, Mrs. Wilmer?" 

She said: "Those are matters
which should be taken care of here
—by you, as executor. I do not intend 
to consult Mr. Drew until the
will goes to probate."
Wick said: "I regret that the
probate of the will is held up as it
is. You understand, I am sure,
that it is because I have not heard
from your brother. Has it occurred
to you, Mrs. Wilmer, that your
brother may be in some situation
where he is—temporarily, we'll say
—out of any contact from the outside?" 

He saw her lips stiffen, two
spots of red come to her cheeks.
"What are you implying, Mr.
Middleton?"
"That he may be under arrest—
or about to be."
"You are insulting—to my brother, 
to me—in suggesting such a
possibility. That you could jump
to it, is to me only more evidence
of your negligence in settling this
estate."
"Will you point out my negligence 
to me, Mrs. Wilmer?"
"In the two matters of which
I've spoken. And I consider you
should and out the identity of that
girl who is living in my brother's
part of the house."
Wick said: "Let her be my responsibility." 

Hester's eyes levelled scorn on
him. "This is strange legal advice."
She put the notebook in her
handbag and rose. Wick got to his
feet.
"There is nothing more you wish
to draw to my attention, Mrs.
Wilmer?"
"Yes, there is." She hesitated
"I don't like to speak of it but I
feel that I should. It has nothing
to do with the estate, it's about—
my Sister. I must warn you to be
very careful what you say to her,
do for her. She is—this really is
very distressing for me to tell you
—emotionally unbalanced. She is
likely to misinterpret, give a personal 
meaning to anything you say
to her. I'm afraid she thought of
your loaning books to her to read
as more than just kindness. I hope
you understand what I am trying
to tell you! And that I had to
warn you to save you from possible 
embarrassment."
"Very thoughtful of you, Mrs.
Wilmer." But Wick's voice was icy.



The Memphis World,
Memphis, Tennessee.
Dear Friends;
I thought I would be back in the
office catching up with my correspondence 
before Easter Monday, as
it is seven months since I have been
there. A year ago my doctor told
me to work four hours, three days
a week, disobeyed and all of a sudden 
I found myself staying at home,
taking it easy because I had to.
Recently I received an invitation
from the Officers and Members of
the Inter-Alumni Council of Greater 
New York, to a dinner in honor
of the Thirty-one Presidents of the
Colleges in the United Negro College
Fund, at the Miltmore Hotel, and
then the next, evening at the Metropolitan 
Opera House to a program
m which Dawson's Tuskegee Institute 
Choir. Miss Leontyne Price, Dr.
Benjamin E. Mays and the Honorable 
John Foster Dulles took part.
I walked farther to my car than I
had walked in months, and as a
result suffered a very slight stroke
of the left side, which my doctor
and I are fighting to prevent its becoming 
morn serious.
I find that I can stay around the

home and get press clippings, just
stacks of them, about Louis Armstrong's 
record album of eleven of
my standard Blues record for Columbia, 
and hear Maltby's Mambo
on "ST. LOUIS BLUES" over the
air that is being heard around the
English speaking World and various
Mambos on "St. Louis Blues" including 
Perez Prado.
While I was taking it easy at
home, my son, W. C. Jr., was attending 
to the printing of a Blues
Classic Folio for the Spanish Guitar, 
of twelve of my Blues, as played 
and arranged by Roy Smeck.
(the same ones recorded by Louis
Armstrong on Columbia Record).
The Folio has for a title page, a
picture of 'yours truly' (W. C. H.)
and Roy Smeck, both of us playing
the guitar. This folio is edited by
John Martell, and sells for $1.50.
If you have not read my autobiography 
Father of the Blues, you
missed the story of my love for the
guitar for my own Christmas present. 
My preacher father made me
take it back and exchange it for a
Webster's unabridged dictionary.
Now when I tell you that chapters
from this book are being translated
into the Malayalam language by the
request of the agency of our Government, 
will you please tell me who
was wrong—my father or I?
I couldn't attend the funeral of
Walter White, although he was with
the Pace and Handy Music Co., Inc.,
when we opened business on Broadway 
in 1918, before he had gone
with the N. A. A. C. P., this because
I had promised to speak at 'Open
House' at the Stuyvesant Center for
Older People in Brooklyn. The
youngest person present was about
61 years old and many much older
than myself.
Rev. George W. McCorkle presented 
me with a tribute in the
form of A poem that he had composed, 
and our pictures were made
together. Appreciating the sentiments 
expressed, I am passing them
on to you:
Yours very truly,
W. C. Handy.

Handy Writes
The Memphis World,
Memphis, Tennessee.
Dear Friends;
I thought I would be back in the
office catching up with my correspondence 
before Easter Monday, as
it is seven months since I have been
there. A year ago my doctor told
me to work four hours, three days
a week, disobeyed and all of a sudden 
I found myself staying at home,
taking it easy because I had to.
Recently I received an invitation
from the Officers and Members of
the Inter-Alumni Council of Greater 
New York, to a dinner in honor
of the Thirty-one Presidents of the
Colleges in the United Negro College
Fund, at the Miltmore Hotel, and
then the next, evening at the Metropolitan 
Opera House to a program
m which Dawson's Tuskegee Institute 
Choir. Miss Leontyne Price, Dr.
Benjamin E. Mays and the Honorable 
John Foster Dulles took part.
I walked farther to my car than I
had walked in months, and as a
result suffered a very slight stroke
of the left side, which my doctor
and I are fighting to prevent its becoming 
morn serious.
I find that I can stay around the

home and get press clippings, just
stacks of them, about Louis Armstrong's 
record album of eleven of
my standard Blues record for Columbia, 
and hear Maltby's Mambo
on "ST. LOUIS BLUES" over the
air that is being heard around the
English speaking World and various
Mambos on "St. Louis Blues" including 
Perez Prado.
While I was taking it easy at
home, my son, W. C. Jr., was attending 
to the printing of a Blues
Classic Folio for the Spanish Guitar, 
of twelve of my Blues, as played 
and arranged by Roy Smeck.
(the same ones recorded by Louis
Armstrong on Columbia Record).
The Folio has for a title page, a
picture of 'yours truly' (W. C. H.)
and Roy Smeck, both of us playing
the guitar. This folio is edited by
John Martell, and sells for $1.50.
If you have not read my autobiography 
Father of the Blues, you
missed the story of my love for the
guitar for my own Christmas present. 
My preacher father made me
take it back and exchange it for a
Webster's unabridged dictionary.
Now when I tell you that chapters
from this book are being translated
into the Malayalam language by the
request of the agency of our Government, 
will you please tell me who
was wrong—my father or I?
I couldn't attend the funeral of
Walter White, although he was with
the Pace and Handy Music Co., Inc.,
when we opened business on Broadway 
in 1918, before he had gone
with the N. A. A. C. P., this because
I had promised to speak at 'Open
House' at the Stuyvesant Center for
Older People in Brooklyn. The
youngest person present was about
61 years old and many much older
than myself.
Rev. George W. McCorkle presented 
me with a tribute in the
form of A poem that he had composed, 
and our pictures were made
together. Appreciating the sentiments 
expressed, I am passing them
on to you:
Yours very truly,
W. C. Handy.

A TRIBUTE TO W. C. HANDY
The Memphis World,
Memphis, Tennessee.
Dear Friends;
I thought I would be back in the
office catching up with my correspondence 
before Easter Monday, as
it is seven months since I have been
there. A year ago my doctor told
me to work four hours, three days
a week, disobeyed and all of a sudden 
I found myself staying at home,
taking it easy because I had to.
Recently I received an invitation
from the Officers and Members of
the Inter-Alumni Council of Greater 
New York, to a dinner in honor
of the Thirty-one Presidents of the
Colleges in the United Negro College
Fund, at the Miltmore Hotel, and
then the next, evening at the Metropolitan 
Opera House to a program
m which Dawson's Tuskegee Institute 
Choir. Miss Leontyne Price, Dr.
Benjamin E. Mays and the Honorable 
John Foster Dulles took part.
I walked farther to my car than I
had walked in months, and as a
result suffered a very slight stroke
of the left side, which my doctor
and I are fighting to prevent its becoming 
morn serious.
I find that I can stay around the

home and get press clippings, just
stacks of them, about Louis Armstrong's 
record album of eleven of
my standard Blues record for Columbia, 
and hear Maltby's Mambo
on "ST. LOUIS BLUES" over the
air that is being heard around the
English speaking World and various
Mambos on "St. Louis Blues" including 
Perez Prado.
While I was taking it easy at
home, my son, W. C. Jr., was attending 
to the printing of a Blues
Classic Folio for the Spanish Guitar, 
of twelve of my Blues, as played 
and arranged by Roy Smeck.
(the same ones recorded by Louis
Armstrong on Columbia Record).
The Folio has for a title page, a
picture of 'yours truly' (W. C. H.)
and Roy Smeck, both of us playing
the guitar. This folio is edited by
John Martell, and sells for $1.50.
If you have not read my autobiography 
Father of the Blues, you
missed the story of my love for the
guitar for my own Christmas present. 
My preacher father made me
take it back and exchange it for a
Webster's unabridged dictionary.
Now when I tell you that chapters
from this book are being translated
into the Malayalam language by the
request of the agency of our Government, 
will you please tell me who
was wrong—my father or I?
I couldn't attend the funeral of
Walter White, although he was with
the Pace and Handy Music Co., Inc.,
when we opened business on Broadway 
in 1918, before he had gone
with the N. A. A. C. P., this because
I had promised to speak at 'Open
House' at the Stuyvesant Center for
Older People in Brooklyn. The
youngest person present was about
61 years old and many much older
than myself.
Rev. George W. McCorkle presented 
me with a tribute in the
form of A poem that he had composed, 
and our pictures were made
together. Appreciating the sentiments 
expressed, I am passing them
on to you:
Yours very truly,
W. C. Handy.

Advice To Wayward
Dear Sir:
Recently the Rev. W. N. Redmond
Jr., pastor of Burns' M. E. Church
and myself were granted the privilege 
to hold service in the county
jail for one of my student's Anderson 
Coleman who started on the
road to the pen 27 years ago from
New Hope Church, five miles south
of Oxford (Miss.) where he broke
up the services by fighting and who
reached his goal on March 29, 1955.
I was given the privilege to get
in the car with the Sheriff and another 
white citizen of Oxford for
the purpose of carrying Anderson
Coleman to the state pen to spend
the remaining days of his life for
maliciously murdering a man.
So my advice to my 8,000 wayward
toys and girls is to be careful upon
the road you are starting. If it's
the wrong road it will end, except
for a change, with you in the pen
the shocking machine (electric
chair) or "in the lake that burns
with fire and brimstone where the
worm dieth not and the fire is not
squinched" (Mark 9:44).
Rev. David Walls
Oxford, Miss.
"The Devil's Foe and the Sinners'
Friend."

Friendly Workers
Club Holds Meet
The Friendly Co-Workers Social
met at the home of Mrs. Louise
White, 2305 Hunter Avenue, Tuesday 
night, April 5 for a social entertaniment. 

A prize of a basket of groceries
was given to the one holding the
lucky number of the tickets which
had been sold.
The club sold $36.30 worth of
tickets. L. B. Dunn held the lucky
number. Eight visitors were present. 
Then the hostess Mrs. White
served. Mrs. Louise White, president; 
Mrs. Ernestine Johnson, Secretary; 
Mrs. Rosie Tinnin, reporter.
The club also met at the home of
Mrs. Louise White, 2305 Hunter
Avenue, Monday night April 4 at
8 P. M. The Club was called to order 
by the president by the president. 
Song and prayer was in concert. 

Then the club was open for business. 
All of the Social Events was
carried out as was planned which
all enjoyed. Eight members were
present.
Next meeting will be at the home
of Mr. and Mrs. Governor Johnson,
2304 Hunter Avenue, April 18 at 8
P. M. All members are asked to be
present. Visitors invited.

LeMoyne Honors

Dorothy Sawyer of 1978 Warren.
Thrift Shop Scholarships of $100
each were awarded to Shirley West
brooks of 1500 Carnegie, Annie Bell
Glover of 690 Hernando and John
Ella Wells of 642 Suzette.
Universal Life Insurance Co. awarded 
scholarships valued at $200
each to James Bishop of 1622 So.
Lauderdale and Doris Jackson of
2124 York.
Wertice Smith of 988 E. Lenox
was awarded a $100 scholarship by
the Black and White Stores.
Prince Hall Masons of Tennessee 
awarded a $100 scholarship to
Loretta Wilson of 575 Lumpford,
and four $50 scholarships to Maurice 
Bullett of 623 Simmons, Anna
Lee Monger of 1579 Hanaur, William 
Little of 919-D McDowell and
Reginald Williams of 558 Boyd.

Identification

be completely lost."
In one recent instance, a three
year old toddler was separated from
his mother in a department store,
he became frightened, and fearful
until a store executive noticed the
tag, broadcast the information Over
the public address system and located 
the mother who was also panicky. 

As one official pointed out, "that
is only a simple everyday situation,
but would be far more important in
case of a real disaster when every
child in America is liable to be separated 
from his family at one time
or another and we should all prepare 
for such an emergency."
Early interest in the "Identification 
Tag" indicates that it will be
popular throughout the country. The
Pet Milk Company, which is making
this offer on an "at cost" basis, expects 
to help the Federal Civil Defense 
Administration distribute
many millions of these tags.
Cost of the tags is only 25c—half
of the normal price. Full information 
and order blanks on how you
may obtain an Official Civil Defense
identification tag is available at
your grocery store. You simply fill
in the required information and
mail with 25c to the Pet Milk Company. 
It is not necessary to buy
anything.
This identification tag program,
of course, is fully endorsed by the
Federal Civil Defense Administration. 
In fact, Mr. Val Peterson, director 
of the Federal Civil Defense
Administration, has gone on record
as welcoming the cooperation, and
support of the Pet Milk Company.

Piney Woods

age you to work with it and you will
make more than a million."
Dr. McCracken advised the students 
to set up alternative occupational 
goals so they could have increased 
employment opportunities
and provide against unforseen developments. 
"The broader your
training, the more versatile you will
be," he noted. Emphasizing the importance 
of harmonious personal relationships, 
he revealed that inability 
to get along with fellow workers,
rather than personal inefficiency,
was the biggest single cause of failure 
to hold a job. Advanced education 
and technical training is a boon
to the man who plans a career in
the Armed Forces, he noted.
Approximately 50 leaders in Mississippi 
business, industry, agriculture, 
professions, and trades as well
as representatives from Civil Service
arid the Armed Forces, consulted
with students in two morning conference 
periods. Among the consultants 
were Mrs. Julia McCoy,
executive secretary, State Medical
Office; Mrs. Nettye Perkins, State
Department of Public Health; Mr.
Clyde Maxwell, Jr., construction
engineer; Mr. James Rundles, Jackson 
Daily News; Mr. E. P. Rawson,
State Department of Education; Mr.
S. A. Gooden, supervisor of the
Jackson Public schools: Miss Annabelle 
Koonce, State Supervisor of
Library Service; Mr. W. A. Anderson, 
program manager, Station
WOKJ. and Sgt. D. R. Vanlandingham, 
U. S. Army.

Ark. A. M. and N.

building, industry, contracting, and
financing homes.
The 82nd Founders Week celebration 
will end Sunday afternoon
April 24th when the College holds
its Open House. The public will
be invited to join in the inspection
of an buildings and facilities, including 
the two new dormitories
which opened this quarter for women 
and men students on the West
Campus.