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.