Memphis World Memphis World Publishing Co. 1954-05-11 Mrs. Rosa Brown Bracy MEMPHIS WORLD 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 Mrs. Rosa, Brown Bracy Acting Editor The MEMPHIS WORLD is an independent newspaper—non-sectarian and non-partisan, printing news unbiased and supporting those things it believe to the 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) "Gets" Committee Gets Results (From the Nashville Banner) "It is always gratifying to note the successful achievements of a campaign from which the public benefits. It especially so when that endeavor is a drive to save human lives, as is the 'Go Easy—Travel Safely' campaign for April being staged by the Governor's. Emergency Traffic Safety Committee. "Reports by the State Safety Department show that the effort is paying off with noticeable results. During the first 25 days of this month, 49 persons were killed in traffic accidents as compared with a total of 66 in the corresponding period last year. That's a reduction of 17 in the number of highway fatalities. Percentagewise, the improvement comes to more than 25 per cent. "Such success cannot be ignored and the GETS group is to be commended for its decision to adopt its April education-enforcement program as a permanent plan of operation. It will be hoped that the organization continues to receive the support of the state's mayors, sheriffs, criminal and circuit court judges and other cooperating civilian agencies in the weeks ahead as it has during the current month. It must receive that cooperation if the successful record to date is to be maintained. "But the person who must play the most important role in making Tennessee highways safe is the individual driver. His is the final responsibility, and if he observes and abides by the common-sense rules of driving, he will help to have many lives, including his own." (Editor's note: The final figure on the death roll for April, 1954, was 56 as compared with 78 for the same month in 1953, a drop of 22. This represents an improvement of 28 per cent.) United Action In Indo-China The United Stales should make one point clear to all the world before agreeing to any united action plan to oppose Communism in Indo-China. That is the French must agree to complete independence, with a dominion status if desired, for the three Associated States of Indo-China. If the French will not agree to this, and if they do not act immediately to grant such independence, then the United States has no business whatsoever in sending troops, or airmen, or any other armed forces to take part in a united action effort to save Indo-China from the Communists. It will be remembered that it has been three years now since the French first promised, under U. S. prodding, to grant independence to the Associated States of Indo-China. Each year Congress is told the same thing — that moves are now underway which will grant independence — and each year nothing happens. The French have been using this same line since 1951, and have been obtaining increasing quantities of U. S. aid on this promise. The French, however, have not made good on their promise, and their failure to do so is the reason for so much native support of the Communists in Indo-China. A showdown on this issue must be forced. The French must take this step, since it is the only way to obtain maximum cooperation from the natives of Indo-China, and the only way to counter both Communist propaganda and raise the morale of Vietnam troops. The United States has been put off on this point too long. If we had demanded a showdown a year or two ago, the war in Indo-China might have developed differently. MY WEEKLY SERMON REV. BLAIR T. HUNT, PASTOR MISSISSIPPI BLVD. CHRISTIAN CHURCH, MEMPHIS The past Sunday was "Mother's Day." I found myself in memory's lane wearing a white rose. And I thought of my mother, whose long absence made the world a lonely place in a crowded city. I wanted to hear my mother speak my name once more... I longed for the touch of her vanished hand. I thought of the old home. God, working thru my parents made that home. Surely God never loved man more than when he conceived this plan for rest, shelter, and happiness. Someone has said a house is where we hang our hat.... A home is where we hang our heart. Sunday, memories of that home surged through my mind... memories that blessed and burned and bade me dare to be the worthy fruit of my mother's prayers. My mother was the soul of that home. She was its heart-beat and Its very atmosphere, if you wore a white flower Sunday, your home, too was empty, dead, a homeless home. I imagine it was a climatic hour in heaven when God conceived in his heart the place of motherhood ....A plan to nourish the germ of life in mother's body, to graft a new baby's life into her life....to make herself the babe's shelter... to transform her touch into a tender caress .... to attune her voice into a lullaby. How wonderfully beautiful is motherhood. As I wandered down memory's lane I recalled that my mother was the quintessence of sacrifice. It seemed her arms never grew weary ....her feet did never tire. She taught me to take my first step, to lisp the little prayer. "now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep, if I should die before I wake. I pray the Lord my soul to take. God bless mamma and papa, sister and brother... make me a good little boy.. amen! In this sermonette I am trying to keep you from forgetting mother ... to make you thank God for mother. She carried such heavy loads for you. "Who ran to help me when I fell, And would some pretty story tell; Or kiss the place and make it well? My mother." If mother is living and you wore a red role or carnation, won't you smile at her oftener? She is starving to feel your arms about her neck. If she is living in another city she is hungry for a jetter from you. If you wore a white flower Sunday, send her a message by way of the throne of God and have angels whisper in her ears this message... "Tell mother I'll be there!" Children thank God for mother.. for the home she made. Each syllable in the word "mother" is a heart throb... Each letter is a leaping pulse. Some one has said: "The name 'mother' is the holiest name in human speech, except the name of God, who pities like a father, who comforts like a mother and who loves like both. Jesus the Christ whose love will not let us go, gave us an immortal example of filial devotion... hanging on a Roman cross dying for the sons and daughters of mothers... while the sun was lost behind the thickening umbrella of black clouds overhead with an infinite tenderness, Jesus called to his mother.... and with the deepest compassion mutterable. He turned His head to John and said: "Behold your mother"... Meaning, "Take care of my mother." 'Oh mother, when I think of thee Tis but a step to calvary. Thy gentle hand upon my brow Is leading me to Jesus now." MAN WHO STOLE TO FEED FIVE FREED Justice was tempered with mercy by County Judge Samuel s. Leibowtiz last week. He paroled an unemployed Coney Island handyman who snatched a woman's purse so he could get food for his wife and four small children. The freed man, Joseph Skelly, 36 returned to his home to find his family well cared for by neigh bors. His wife is expecting a fifth child. The patrolman who arrested him, promised to help him get a job. REVIEWING THE NEWS BY WILLIAM GORDON Managing Editor, Atlanta Daily World When a famous newspaper editor said a few days ago that the Negro in the South "stands at the threshold of full citizenship," he put his finger on one of America's most vital issues of today. He was more direct when he added that the legal stamp of second class citizen" is about to be removed. Those close to Ralph McGill know where he stands on matters relative to race. Quietly, and yet very effectively, he has done a lot to fight the stigma that labels us second class Americans and he continues to push forward without letup. What the famous editor said about the South is also true in many other parts of our vast country. The stigma of second class citizenship is not primarily a Southern phenomenal but also a national pattern. The South, limited in productive know-how victimized by regionalism and stagnated by the lack of finance, has been the scapegoat of many evils inherent in our society. But today, there is a transition underway and the nation as well as the South is undergoing a metamorphosis. Out of this change, we look for a new day, not only for the Negro, but for all Americans. —a day dedicated to the proposition that all men are really "created equal"—at least to the point where ability and character will determine one's position in society and not the color of his skin. The work of editor McGill and others in the South and country, is back of the change now taking place. The thought of this brings to mind the time I sat waiting at the International Student Center in Cambridge, Massachusetts for a man who had invited a group of us to breakfast and lunch Glancing about I saw Cubans, Puerto Ricians and Americans. We would all sit down at the same table to eat and share ideas together. The significance of this little gathering did not hit me until we all had crowded into a small station wagon and were heading to the home of our host. Mr. Turner who had invited us, was a Boston business man. I learned later that he had once lived in Honolulu and got to appreciate people as they were. When he returned to his native America, he apparently wanted to prove to himself and his friends that he was as genuine as his statements about people. As we rolled along the street, the rhythm of the station wagon caused me to think back over some of the changes taking place in America. The rumbling sound of the wheels seemed to echo out of the past what had happened in the courts in the land. Negroes had been admitted to graduate and professional schools, the white primary had been dumped into the ash cans of history and ballot was being handed the Negro in almost every part of our land. The changes were numerous. I recall the invitation given me by a young lawyer from St. Petersburg, Fla. He was member of a church group, made up of young people on the university level. I was amazed to find them alert, and hungry for information about changes in the South, although many of them were native Southerners. There was a feeling among them that seemed to generate a dislike for conditions that prevail here and they wanted to do something about the situation. I also sensed the feeling that this business of first class citizenship was long overdue. There was another occasion. This time it was a young white teacher who had deserted his native Southland because he felt himself being affected by the stigma of race. As he told me, he had several Negro friends whom he admired very much. He could never invite them to his home because of what the neighbors might say. Whenever he did venture out he had to apologize for doing so. He complained that the stigma was too much and he sought employment elsewhere. There was the young Jewish fellow who greeted me in the library one morning after reading the life of Dr. George Washington Carver. He had a confession. "From this day on," he said, "I shall take my hat off to the people of your race." There is also the university instructor who made a pilgrimage to my dormitory. He waited for almost two hours. He had been converted. I learned later that he had had lunch with several Negroes and found them to possess the same habits and aspirations as other Americans. Finally, there was the New England salesman who sat next to me in a crowded club during a trip between New York and Boston. The question of race never entered our conversation during the trip. But all through the car seemed to exist the feeling of friendliness. The atmosphere was congenial. The real fact is, everywhere you go today, there seems to be an awareness within the American conscience, the effects of which are echoing throughout the world. The myth of race is on the run. This whole pattern of brotherhood is becoming the reality we have talked about for generations. I sensed that morel than at any other time, when the group of us sat down to dine at the home of Mr. Turner near Cambridge. At The Threshold Of Citizenship BY WILLIAM GORDON Managing Editor, Atlanta Daily World When a famous newspaper editor said a few days ago that the Negro in the South "stands at the threshold of full citizenship," he put his finger on one of America's most vital issues of today. He was more direct when he added that the legal stamp of second class citizen" is about to be removed. Those close to Ralph McGill know where he stands on matters relative to race. Quietly, and yet very effectively, he has done a lot to fight the stigma that labels us second class Americans and he continues to push forward without letup. What the famous editor said about the South is also true in many other parts of our vast country. The stigma of second class citizenship is not primarily a Southern phenomenal but also a national pattern. The South, limited in productive know-how victimized by regionalism and stagnated by the lack of finance, has been the scapegoat of many evils inherent in our society. But today, there is a transition underway and the nation as well as the South is undergoing a metamorphosis. Out of this change, we look for a new day, not only for the Negro, but for all Americans. —a day dedicated to the proposition that all men are really "created equal"—at least to the point where ability and character will determine one's position in society and not the color of his skin. The work of editor McGill and others in the South and country, is back of the change now taking place. The thought of this brings to mind the time I sat waiting at the International Student Center in Cambridge, Massachusetts for a man who had invited a group of us to breakfast and lunch Glancing about I saw Cubans, Puerto Ricians and Americans. We would all sit down at the same table to eat and share ideas together. The significance of this little gathering did not hit me until we all had crowded into a small station wagon and were heading to the home of our host. Mr. Turner who had invited us, was a Boston business man. I learned later that he had once lived in Honolulu and got to appreciate people as they were. When he returned to his native America, he apparently wanted to prove to himself and his friends that he was as genuine as his statements about people. As we rolled along the street, the rhythm of the station wagon caused me to think back over some of the changes taking place in America. The rumbling sound of the wheels seemed to echo out of the past what had happened in the courts in the land. Negroes had been admitted to graduate and professional schools, the white primary had been dumped into the ash cans of history and ballot was being handed the Negro in almost every part of our land. The changes were numerous. I recall the invitation given me by a young lawyer from St. Petersburg, Fla. He was member of a church group, made up of young people on the university level. I was amazed to find them alert, and hungry for information about changes in the South, although many of them were native Southerners. There was a feeling among them that seemed to generate a dislike for conditions that prevail here and they wanted to do something about the situation. I also sensed the feeling that this business of first class citizenship was long overdue. There was another occasion. This time it was a young white teacher who had deserted his native Southland because he felt himself being affected by the stigma of race. As he told me, he had several Negro friends whom he admired very much. He could never invite them to his home because of what the neighbors might say. Whenever he did venture out he had to apologize for doing so. He complained that the stigma was too much and he sought employment elsewhere. There was the young Jewish fellow who greeted me in the library one morning after reading the life of Dr. George Washington Carver. He had a confession. "From this day on," he said, "I shall take my hat off to the people of your race." There is also the university instructor who made a pilgrimage to my dormitory. He waited for almost two hours. He had been converted. I learned later that he had had lunch with several Negroes and found them to possess the same habits and aspirations as other Americans. Finally, there was the New England salesman who sat next to me in a crowded club during a trip between New York and Boston. The question of race never entered our conversation during the trip. But all through the car seemed to exist the feeling of friendliness. The atmosphere was congenial. The real fact is, everywhere you go today, there seems to be an awareness within the American conscience, the effects of which are echoing throughout the world. The myth of race is on the run. This whole pattern of brotherhood is becoming the reality we have talked about for generations. I sensed that morel than at any other time, when the group of us sat down to dine at the home of Mr. Turner near Cambridge. Letters To The Editor Originally there was no basically logical reason for segregation. There was a good reason from the point of view of handling the poor whites and Negroes by the lauded gentry just after the slavery. Before the emancipation the slaves did the work and the poor whites were unemployed mostly because of the competition of slave labor. After freedom Negroes were thrown out of a job and the poor whites took them. A rivalry was thus begun and the poor whites were played against the Negroes and neither made an adequate living. That practice was carried on even until now. It is sociologically settled that people fit in groups and classes. That is, landlords have the same interest and they act just about the same, the fact that one is a Negro and one is white is incidental. We now live in an era of big government, big business and big labor unions. Big business now knows that it has to pay high wages so that the people can purchase its merchandise; the government must have its taxes and the unions must continue to have better working conditions, higher wages and shorter hours. Add this up find reach the conclusion that the reason, logic or wisdom for racial segregation no longer exists to America—North or South. The question that comes up at all times is the Negro ready for integration? It worries me to hear Negroes who should have intelligence enough to know the answer, since they have had a formal edu cation, and have not even the slightest idea about the subject. Yes, the Negro is ready for justice, fair play and all that the constitution guarantees its citizens. The Negroes do not enjoy this freedom. The poor whites do not enjoy this freedom, either, but being blinded by being white they fail to wholly realize it. Let us look at the solid South. There seems to be enough real and genuine friendship between the whites and Negroes to suppress any hatred that is existing. If the Jim Crow laws were not and a little public relations were done for justice and for a recognition of the constitution, the South would change like magic for the best interest of the nation and for the South which needs help in all departments so badly. It is easy for a person to get use to customs and follow them without question. That is not only done in nations and states but in local situations and even in families, the question of Justice never arises. The pattern can cause so many to not only get use to injustice but too many victims condone It. The quicker we Negroes and white people, especially, in the South, realize that neither group has a monopoly on the vices, the better it Will be for all concerned. Since knowledge is certainly power, let us learn and teach. Let's close that wide gap which exists in the Negro group. The distinction Between the educated and uneducated Negroes has been so wide that it has slowed down a good bit of progress we could have made. We Negroes are in no position to attempt being "class conscious." Too many of us dets to much thought to such foolishness. Charles H. Fisher. Editor, Memphis World Will you please, allow space in your paper and print the enclosed picture and article in helping us to find our son. Thank, you sincerely, Mr. Harl G. Baker, 621 Camden St. Parkersburg, W. Va. SEGREGATION SCHOOL CASE Originally there was no basically logical reason for segregation. There was a good reason from the point of view of handling the poor whites and Negroes by the lauded gentry just after the slavery. Before the emancipation the slaves did the work and the poor whites were unemployed mostly because of the competition of slave labor. After freedom Negroes were thrown out of a job and the poor whites took them. A rivalry was thus begun and the poor whites were played against the Negroes and neither made an adequate living. That practice was carried on even until now. It is sociologically settled that people fit in groups and classes. That is, landlords have the same interest and they act just about the same, the fact that one is a Negro and one is white is incidental. We now live in an era of big government, big business and big labor unions. Big business now knows that it has to pay high wages so that the people can purchase its merchandise; the government must have its taxes and the unions must continue to have better working conditions, higher wages and shorter hours. Add this up find reach the conclusion that the reason, logic or wisdom for racial segregation no longer exists to America—North or South. The question that comes up at all times is the Negro ready for integration? It worries me to hear Negroes who should have intelligence enough to know the answer, since they have had a formal edu cation, and have not even the slightest idea about the subject. Yes, the Negro is ready for justice, fair play and all that the constitution guarantees its citizens. The Negroes do not enjoy this freedom. The poor whites do not enjoy this freedom, either, but being blinded by being white they fail to wholly realize it. Let us look at the solid South. There seems to be enough real and genuine friendship between the whites and Negroes to suppress any hatred that is existing. If the Jim Crow laws were not and a little public relations were done for justice and for a recognition of the constitution, the South would change like magic for the best interest of the nation and for the South which needs help in all departments so badly. It is easy for a person to get use to customs and follow them without question. That is not only done in nations and states but in local situations and even in families, the question of Justice never arises. The pattern can cause so many to not only get use to injustice but too many victims condone It. The quicker we Negroes and white people, especially, in the South, realize that neither group has a monopoly on the vices, the better it Will be for all concerned. Since knowledge is certainly power, let us learn and teach. Let's close that wide gap which exists in the Negro group. The distinction Between the educated and uneducated Negroes has been so wide that it has slowed down a good bit of progress we could have made. We Negroes are in no position to attempt being "class conscious." Too many of us dets to much thought to such foolishness. Charles H. Fisher. Editor, Memphis World Will you please, allow space in your paper and print the enclosed picture and article in helping us to find our son. Thank, you sincerely, Mr. Harl G. Baker, 621 Camden St. Parkersburg, W. Va. The Quest by ELSIE MACK Copyrights, Miss. by Elsie Mack Distributed by King syndicates. THE pathway through the garden was so narrow that Armorel and Date had to walk single file. Already, brushing of the remembered stickiness of cobwebs in the rusty old cedars. Dale wished she hadn't come. Close up, the toursquare solidness of the house was for bidding, as it rejecting the intrusion of any save its one familiar occupant. Dale found herself drawing quick, shallow breaths as she waited for Armorel's Key to unlock the heavy front door. Once inside, her heart knocked heavily in tier throat. The air was closed-in and burdened, and as Dale's eyes grew accustomed to the dimness of tightly drawn window blinds, she saw the dust. Thick. Everywhere. "In here," Armorel said, opening a door. "This is my favorite room. Sit down, my dear. I'll just carry my groceries out to the kitchen and put the kettle on." "No, really—" "I've never returned the lovely tea I had With you and Kelly, my dear." It silenced Dale. Armorel opened another door and vanished through it like a dark wraith. Dale cast tentative glances about her. After the first shock, she thought, it's Miss. Havisham's room, come to life from . A mangy carpet covered the floor. No one piece of furniture matched another bottoms sagged, cushions were limp and lumpy, draperies and upholstery faded. From the high ceiling hung a dusty crystal chandelier. But transcending the nondescript in dreariness was the room's clutter. The remains of a meal were on a roll-top desk. A single housefly buzzed over crumbs. Dale stared about her inconsistency nagged at her. Something was wrong dreadfully wrong here... Then, her glance falling on a man's briar pipe, she found the shattering clue to paradox. Armorel lived in it alone, but maleness was its keynote. The piper the to much spilling shreds dry as bone-dust. A pair of men's brogues, polished to a gloss incongruous in the general dinginess. A hatrack on a table held a man's shapeless, faded fedora. A feather work jacket hung from a hook on the door. On another table—the only space in the room free of disorder—was a man's photograph. Dale had never known the man, or ever seen him. In his late twenties, she judged, studying the smile caught and held forever behind glass. A little to one side of the photograph was a tall vase stuffed tightly with zinnias so wilted they should have been thrown out days ago. Dale's heart flattered strangely. She was struck by the disconcerting sensation of standing at a neglected shrine. There was a faint rustling sound from the doorway and Armorel, her hands fluttering with excitement; came in. "It's been a long time since I had a visitor," she exclaimed. "Ah," seeing Dale's eyes move questioningly to the photograph, "Arthur. My husband, you know." Her hands skimmed lightly over the brittle brown bouquet. "I must get fresh flowers. Sometimes I forget. So many, many things to attend to." She pointed to the brogues under the couch. "Those I forget. Polished once a week, my dear. On Saturday night, you know. Arthur wouldn't dream of going to church if his shoes weren't shined." Her voice turned matter-of-fact, shocking Dale more sharply than the vague meanderings. "Did you come back here to find Kelly?" "No, Armorel. I—" She stopped. "My dear, I know," Armorel soothed. "I was quite lost, too. until I found Arthur again." "You—found him?" "Here." whispered Armorer slyly, coming close. Her hand touched Dale delicately. "When they were here, they Kept him from me. But now I nave Arthur to myself. No one can take him away again. You see time does stand still, because memories never change." Dale steadied herself feeling vertigo taking possession of her The room spun. Yes, for Armorel time stood still. Memories peopled a dream world for her to inhabit. Even her son—for there was no trace of him here—had too much reality to be let in. There were only Armorel and Arthur, and a bunch of withered zinnias in a vase before a photograph. Nausea assailed her in great engulfing waves. Armorel's sallow face was flushed, her eyes glittering. She took a step toward Dale, then stopped abruptly as her arm brushed the brown zinnias. She looked down, bearing the rustle of dry petals. "Dead," she said dully. "Dead." "Armorel, I can't wait for tea," Dale said hurriedly. "I must go." Armorel nodded, her face puckered and grave. "Yes, Dale. Go quickly," She looked directly into Dale's eyes. "Go away from Swanscombe, from the house where you live alone. Better to burn it down," she said, "than to fill it up with memories. Do you understand me. Dale Fraser? Better to burn your house down." Dale ran from the room. Daylight streamed into the dim hallway as she dragged the door open. She didn't stop to close it. Armorel would do that, turning, the key on reality and life. The car was pointed north, away from the village With a clashing of gears, Dale sent it forward along the Ridge Road. Beside her cupped in the low bowl which centuries ago had formed the bottom of the lake, lay the village. Compact and serene, its incidental pulse drowned in the sweet gold of afternoon. And also bathed an impartial gold was the house on the hilltop, where a sick woman crushed the past to her in a dark embrace, forcing time to a stand still. As impossible, Dale thought as to have tried to stop the ancient recession of the lake which once had lapped the edges of this very road. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE by ELSIE MACK Copyrights, Miss. by Elsie Mack Distributed by King syndicates. THE pathway through the garden was so narrow that Armorel and Date had to walk single file. Already, brushing of the remembered stickiness of cobwebs in the rusty old cedars. Dale wished she hadn't come. Close up, the toursquare solidness of the house was for bidding, as it rejecting the intrusion of any save its one familiar occupant. Dale found herself drawing quick, shallow breaths as she waited for Armorel's Key to unlock the heavy front door. Once inside, her heart knocked heavily in tier throat. The air was closed-in and burdened, and as Dale's eyes grew accustomed to the dimness of tightly drawn window blinds, she saw the dust. Thick. Everywhere. "In here," Armorel said, opening a door. "This is my favorite room. Sit down, my dear. I'll just carry my groceries out to the kitchen and put the kettle on." "No, really—" "I've never returned the lovely tea I had With you and Kelly, my dear." It silenced Dale. Armorel opened another door and vanished through it like a dark wraith. Dale cast tentative glances about her. After the first shock, she thought, it's Miss. Havisham's room, come to life from . A mangy carpet covered the floor. No one piece of furniture matched another bottoms sagged, cushions were limp and lumpy, draperies and upholstery faded. From the high ceiling hung a dusty crystal chandelier. But transcending the nondescript in dreariness was the room's clutter. The remains of a meal were on a roll-top desk. A single housefly buzzed over crumbs. Dale stared about her inconsistency nagged at her. Something was wrong dreadfully wrong here... Then, her glance falling on a man's briar pipe, she found the shattering clue to paradox. Armorel lived in it alone, but maleness was its keynote. The piper the to much spilling shreds dry as bone-dust. A pair of men's brogues, polished to a gloss incongruous in the general dinginess. A hatrack on a table held a man's shapeless, faded fedora. A feather work jacket hung from a hook on the door. On another table—the only space in the room free of disorder—was a man's photograph. Dale had never known the man, or ever seen him. In his late twenties, she judged, studying the smile caught and held forever behind glass. A little to one side of the photograph was a tall vase stuffed tightly with zinnias so wilted they should have been thrown out days ago. Dale's heart flattered strangely. She was struck by the disconcerting sensation of standing at a neglected shrine. There was a faint rustling sound from the doorway and Armorel, her hands fluttering with excitement; came in. "It's been a long time since I had a visitor," she exclaimed. "Ah," seeing Dale's eyes move questioningly to the photograph, "Arthur. My husband, you know." Her hands skimmed lightly over the brittle brown bouquet. "I must get fresh flowers. Sometimes I forget. So many, many things to attend to." She pointed to the brogues under the couch. "Those I forget. Polished once a week, my dear. On Saturday night, you know. Arthur wouldn't dream of going to church if his shoes weren't shined." Her voice turned matter-of-fact, shocking Dale more sharply than the vague meanderings. "Did you come back here to find Kelly?" "No, Armorel. I—" She stopped. "My dear, I know," Armorel soothed. "I was quite lost, too. until I found Arthur again." "You—found him?" "Here." whispered Armorer slyly, coming close. Her hand touched Dale delicately. "When they were here, they Kept him from me. But now I nave Arthur to myself. No one can take him away again. You see time does stand still, because memories never change." Dale steadied herself feeling vertigo taking possession of her The room spun. Yes, for Armorel time stood still. Memories peopled a dream world for her to inhabit. Even her son—for there was no trace of him here—had too much reality to be let in. There were only Armorel and Arthur, and a bunch of withered zinnias in a vase before a photograph. Nausea assailed her in great engulfing waves. Armorel's sallow face was flushed, her eyes glittering. She took a step toward Dale, then stopped abruptly as her arm brushed the brown zinnias. She looked down, bearing the rustle of dry petals. "Dead," she said dully. "Dead." "Armorel, I can't wait for tea," Dale said hurriedly. "I must go." Armorel nodded, her face puckered and grave. "Yes, Dale. Go quickly," She looked directly into Dale's eyes. "Go away from Swanscombe, from the house where you live alone. Better to burn it down," she said, "than to fill it up with memories. Do you understand me. Dale Fraser? Better to burn your house down." Dale ran from the room. Daylight streamed into the dim hallway as she dragged the door open. She didn't stop to close it. Armorel would do that, turning, the key on reality and life. The car was pointed north, away from the village With a clashing of gears, Dale sent it forward along the Ridge Road. Beside her cupped in the low bowl which centuries ago had formed the bottom of the lake, lay the village. Compact and serene, its incidental pulse drowned in the sweet gold of afternoon. And also bathed an impartial gold was the house on the hilltop, where a sick woman crushed the past to her in a dark embrace, forcing time to a stand still. As impossible, Dale thought as to have tried to stop the ancient recession of the lake which once had lapped the edges of this very road. Philip Morris "Snap-Open" Pack It's It's It's PHILIP MORRIS KING SIZE SPECIAL PLENO This means no torn, messy packs... no tobacco in pocket or purse! Snap open the pack... and enjoy the cigarette with PHILIP MORRIS has the new "Snap-Open" pack... the fastest, easiest opening pack in the world! It's neat—clean—convenient! It's the result of years of research. It's the greatest advance in cigarette packaging in 50 years. And PHILIP MORRIS... King Size and Regular... gives you than other leading cigarettes. Try a carton— VINTAGE TOBACCO U. S. CONTRYMENT STANDARDS Call for Philip Morris Ladies Social Club Holds Meeting THE LADIES COMMUNITY Club of Riverside Subdivision met at the home of Mrs. Kentie Green 234 W. Dison Tuesday, April 27. Devotion was conducted by Mrs. L. Harris. After the business session all enjoined a delicious repast. Members present were Mrs. T. J. Colston, Mrs. A. Henry, Mrs. Dan Hawkins, Mrs. George Harris, Mrs. A. Livingston. Mrs. B. D. Robinson, Mrs. A. Crawford, Mrs. A. J. Roberts, Mrs. R. Lee, Mrs. Wm. Johnson and Mrs. G. Curtis. Visitors were Mrs. Frankie White Mrs. Elmira S. Love, Mrs. Lee Moore, and Mrs. Beatrice Person, Remarks by Mrs. Love and Mrs. Moore. Special thanks to the hostess by Mrs. Rosa Lee. Next meeting will be held at the home of Mrs. Lillie Harris 270 W. Person Avenue. Mrs. R. D. Robinson, president; Mrs. L. Hawkins, secretary. Miss Spirit Of Cotton Greeted By Ezra Benson Secretary of Agriculture Ezra Tar Benson greeted Miss. Juana Hendricks, the 1954 "Spirit of Cotton. Makers Jubilee" in his office Tuesday during her visit to the U. S. Department of Agriculture. After hearing Miss. Hendrick's report on her tour of 15 major cities, including Havana, Cuba and Port Au Prince, Haiti, New York and Chicago in an effort to increase the popularity of cotton wearing apparel, Secretary Benson praised the young lady and Mrs. R. Q. Venson, tour director, for their contribution to wider utilization of cotton products. He pointed out that their work may help to reduce the cotton surplus During the visit, Miss. Hendricks presented the Secretary a minature bale of cotton and had him sign her honor scroll. Following the conference with Secretary Benson, "The Spirit of Cotton" had lunch in the South Agriculture Building and modeled a number of garments from her beautiful cotton wardrobes before a group of women government worlers, clothing specialists and civic leaders. Church News Sunday, May 19th, will bf highlighted by "Achievement Day" at Centenary Methodist Church, corner Mississippi and Alston Streets under the auspices of the Woman's Society of Christian Service. Mrs. M. W. Clair Jr., will be the guest speaker of the afternoon program. Mrs. Clair is the wife of Bishop M. W. Clair, Jr., of the St. Louis Area, Central Jurisdiction of the Methodist Church. The program will begin at 4 p. m. The public is invited to attend. Mrs. E. O. Rodgers, president; Mrs. St. Elmo Hampton, publicity secretary, Rev. D. M. Grisham, pastor. ACHIEVEMENT DAY AT CENTENARY MAT 16TH Sunday, May 19th, will bf highlighted by "Achievement Day" at Centenary Methodist Church, corner Mississippi and Alston Streets under the auspices of the Woman's Society of Christian Service. Mrs. M. W. Clair Jr., will be the guest speaker of the afternoon program. Mrs. Clair is the wife of Bishop M. W. Clair, Jr., of the St. Louis Area, Central Jurisdiction of the Methodist Church. The program will begin at 4 p. m. The public is invited to attend. Mrs. E. O. Rodgers, president; Mrs. St. Elmo Hampton, publicity secretary, Rev. D. M. Grisham, pastor. Powell said Martin is not playing baseball except on the company level and will be assigned to duty following basic training just as anyother private. The House unit charged that, John mid Edward O'Brien, former Seattle University basketball stars and under contract last year with the Pittsburgh Pirates baseball team, had 43 days off between December 18, 1953, and April 2. Lt. Col. Alfred H. Crawford, Deputy Chief of Staff at Fort Eustis, said. Mays "was asked for specifically." However, Crawford did not know who made the request and said the entire case is now under investigation. MAY SEE ACTION SUNDAY— Handling heavy chores on the mound for the Memphis Red Sox is the task of Charlie Davis, now entering his second season in a Memphis uniform. The 22-year-old southpaw, who hails from Atlanta, Ga., scored 14 Wins against 4 losses in the 1953 campaign to rack up one of the best pitching records in the Negro American Leagued. Highlighting his efforts last year was a sensational 2-hitter pitched against the hapless Birmingham Black Barons in Nashville. Next Sunday the Memphis Red Sox will clash with the Birmingham Black Barons in an exhibition game at Martin Stadium beginning at 2 p. m. Just might be that Charlie may be chosen by Red Sox Manager Buster Haywood to duplicate his mastery of the Birmingham invaders. The Red Sox have won 13 out of 17 spring exhibition games so far this year and are priming themselves for the Negro American League opener against the Kansas City Monarchs on "Memphis Red Sox Day", Sun., May 16, at Martin Stadium. Larceny Charged To Woman Here Mary Eale Johnson, 18, 1342 College was held to the state in City Court Thursday on a guilty plea to a larceny charge. Johnson is alleged to have stolen $60 from the purse of another woman with which to purchase clothes to wear to church.