Memphis World
Memphis World Publishing Co.
1955-03-18
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 Bracy
Public Relations and Advertising
William C. Weathers
Circulation Promotion
The MEMPHIS WORLD to 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)

National Negro Newspaper Week
National Negro Newspaper Week is being hailed with the enthusiasm 
it so richly deserves. It is encouraging to note reactive
appreciations as well as those suggestions coming in from laymen
who realize the importance of the Fourth Estate as well as their
duties in supporting our newspapers.
The first efforts of the Negro press started off with handwritten 
bulletins which their forceful and determined editors dared 
to call newspapers. This was a crude method of disseminating
thought and opinion, but it betrayed the bold spirits in the bosoms
of forgotten men who in that early era realized the power of the
press.
This event marks the 128 Anniversary of the Negro press.
There are at present 150 Negro newspapers; sever of these are
semi-weeklies; 1 daily. Two have circulations above 200,000;
three others have about 25,000, making a total approximating 2
million copies weekly.
Just as other segments of citizens, we have opinions and native 
reactions to the currency of government and history. There
are those in every group endowed with the native gift of creative
powers and authentic and consistent narration. Group thinking
makes up the powerful unit of standardized thinking-and from this
source sentiments are molded and the populace is influenced.
National Newspaper Week should be the occasion of our inquiry 
into the demands of the times, that we may better serve our
people and our country.
Those not actually engaged in newspapering also have a
function. They are on the sidelines, they are our sounding boards
and the sponsors without which no successful venture could be attempted. 

Managing Editor, William Gordon of The Atlanta Daily World
who was featured in a special lecture at Atlanta's Hungry Club
on Wednesday possibly climaxed Newspaper Week with its most
lasting and well deserved laurels.
Along in other vocations, the Negro newspaper ran boast of
some strong and bold pioneers who blazed this trail in the days
that tried men's souls. High up on the scrolls of honor their
names are enscribed and to this, day one still hears the illustrious
names of William Monroe Trotter, T. Thomas Fortune, W. E. B. DuBois 
and others who made the world better by having left it a
contribution.
The Negro press made bricks without straw; with plenty of
straw now coming in "it doth not yet appear what we shall be."

ALONG THE COLONIAL FRONT
The muchpublicized 
speech of the prime
minister, Sir Winston Churchill,
was reported by the Manchester
Guardian last week as "The most
thorough and effective study of defense 
in the age of the hydrogen
bomb we have yet had."
That comment just about sizes
up the opinion of a majority of
white colorphobic imperialists on
that "the mediocrity of the prime
the speech.
Today, Aneurin Bevan claimed
minister's thinking had been concealed 
by the majesty of his language." 
Bevan also suggested that
the course Britain was following
in making hydrogen bombs and
joining the peripheral plan of
bombing Communist states was at
the dictation of the United States.
The Communist and extreme left
comments on the speech were
scathing.
But, although Britain's action in
making bombs and joining the U.
S.A. in manning bases around the
world, which the speech announced 
as Britain's intention, may not
have been actually and literally
dictated by America, there is no
doubt at all that a speech of such
importance would have been submitted 
to the United States lead
ers 
before delivery.
Sir Winston Churchill is entitled
to his own opinions regarding the
number of hydrogen bombs—if any
—possessed, by the Soviets and to
the probable effects of his speech
on both friends and foes, potential 
and otherwise, but there is no
doubt at all in my mind that the
speech has done an immense
amount of harm to the prestige not
only of Britain but of all Western
European powers. And it has lowered 
Sir Winston's prestige in the
eyes of all people except a minority 
of white colonialist colorphobes. 

To be able to say, "We can obliterate 
your country if you attack
us" and then sit down to a good
dinner and talk the situation over
as Sir Winston said he would like
to do, is surely the very height of
stupidity in an atomic age.
For one thing, if the Soviets
managed to drop three large H.
bombs on the British Isle any
British leader who sat down to
dinner at all would have very
little except piles of radio-active
bubble and some millions of starving 
people as materials for bargaining. 
And there would be the
matter of a suddenly liberated Empire—or 
empires because all colonial 
empires would be rendered owner-less 
after the colonial powers
were obliterated.
The Communists know this just
as well as the prime minister of
Brittan. And when all the belliger
ants 
have their bases prepared and
bombers ready for the "away," the
bargainers will reach either a
stalemate or a mutual suicide pact.
In either case, the greater issue
of relief and rehabilitation of two
thirds of mankind now more in
need than ever, has been left completely 
alone. Yet this is the most
important of all bargaining issues
and is the one which should concern 
the leaders of Western Christian 
Europeans civilization most.
This is the issue Sir Winston should
offer to discuss now around a
dinner table—a dinner table set for
a billion and a half people.
Like all his important speeches,
the Prime Minister's latest one was
timed and delivered with an object
view. In the case of that speech
the object was to strengthen the
hands, of President Eisenhower,
Dulles and all the European supporters 
of European Defense.
And it was particularly hoped
that the expression of unity and
strength at this time would influence 
all Asian, Arab and African 
peoples who may be hesitating
between East and West now that
the great revolutionary movements
of colored races is to be canalized
into definite physical channels
leading to relief and rehabilitation
of a majority of mankind at Bandoeg 
in April.

SPREADING DEATH AND
DESOLATION AND CALLING
IT PEACE
The muchpublicized 
speech of the prime
minister, Sir Winston Churchill,
was reported by the Manchester
Guardian last week as "The most
thorough and effective study of defense 
in the age of the hydrogen
bomb we have yet had."
That comment just about sizes
up the opinion of a majority of
white colorphobic imperialists on
that "the mediocrity of the prime
the speech.
Today, Aneurin Bevan claimed
minister's thinking had been concealed 
by the majesty of his language." 
Bevan also suggested that
the course Britain was following
in making hydrogen bombs and
joining the peripheral plan of
bombing Communist states was at
the dictation of the United States.
The Communist and extreme left
comments on the speech were
scathing.
But, although Britain's action in
making bombs and joining the U.
S.A. in manning bases around the
world, which the speech announced 
as Britain's intention, may not
have been actually and literally
dictated by America, there is no
doubt at all that a speech of such
importance would have been submitted 
to the United States lead
ers 
before delivery.
Sir Winston Churchill is entitled
to his own opinions regarding the
number of hydrogen bombs—if any
—possessed, by the Soviets and to
the probable effects of his speech
on both friends and foes, potential 
and otherwise, but there is no
doubt at all in my mind that the
speech has done an immense
amount of harm to the prestige not
only of Britain but of all Western
European powers. And it has lowered 
Sir Winston's prestige in the
eyes of all people except a minority 
of white colonialist colorphobes. 

To be able to say, "We can obliterate 
your country if you attack
us" and then sit down to a good
dinner and talk the situation over
as Sir Winston said he would like
to do, is surely the very height of
stupidity in an atomic age.
For one thing, if the Soviets
managed to drop three large H.
bombs on the British Isle any
British leader who sat down to
dinner at all would have very
little except piles of radio-active
bubble and some millions of starving 
people as materials for bargaining. 
And there would be the
matter of a suddenly liberated Empire—or 
empires because all colonial 
empires would be rendered owner-less 
after the colonial powers
were obliterated.
The Communists know this just
as well as the prime minister of
Brittan. And when all the belliger
ants 
have their bases prepared and
bombers ready for the "away," the
bargainers will reach either a
stalemate or a mutual suicide pact.
In either case, the greater issue
of relief and rehabilitation of two
thirds of mankind now more in
need than ever, has been left completely 
alone. Yet this is the most
important of all bargaining issues
and is the one which should concern 
the leaders of Western Christian 
Europeans civilization most.
This is the issue Sir Winston should
offer to discuss now around a
dinner table—a dinner table set for
a billion and a half people.
Like all his important speeches,
the Prime Minister's latest one was
timed and delivered with an object
view. In the case of that speech
the object was to strengthen the
hands, of President Eisenhower,
Dulles and all the European supporters 
of European Defense.
And it was particularly hoped
that the expression of unity and
strength at this time would influence 
all Asian, Arab and African 
peoples who may be hesitating
between East and West now that
the great revolutionary movements
of colored races is to be canalized
into definite physical channels
leading to relief and rehabilitation
of a majority of mankind at Bandoeg 
in April.

THE AMERICAN WAY
I'LL TAKE
ONE!
PRIVATE
ENTERPRISE
SHARE
OF
STOCK
THRIFTY CHAP
WHO SAVES HIS
MONEY FOR
INVESTMENT

THAT'S  MEMORIAL AND
UNCONSTITUTIONAL AND BESIDES
THERE'S NOTHING
IN IT FOR

POLITICAL
PLANNER
His Real Objection!

LETTERS TO THE
Editor
TO THE WORLD EDITOR:
Until a solution is found for the
traffic congestion problem, let us
keep some of the cars off the
streets by having a more rigid
driver's license code.
William R. Sullivan,
720 West Tenth Place,
Los Angeles 15, California.

TRAFFICE SOLUTION?
TO THE WORLD EDITOR:
Until a solution is found for the
traffic congestion problem, let us
keep some of the cars off the
streets by having a more rigid
driver's license code.
William R. Sullivan,
720 West Tenth Place,
Los Angeles 15, California.

YW Jumps In

charge of the 10 attractive Young
Senior Y-Teens who will serve as
ushers on the night of the affair.
These young ladies are from the
five high schools-Melrose, B. T.
Washington, Hamilton, Douglass
and Manassas. They will be dressed
in striking evening attire.
Mrs. Robinson has been associated 
with the YWCA for over
seven years and has served as chaperon 
on the educational tours
sponsored by the YWCA for the
Y-Teens each year following the Potato-Chip 
Drive. It is under her
leadership that the out-standing YTeen 
Mother-Daughter banquet of
Douglass has become a part of the
Community Activities.
Tickets may be secured from the
Y-Teen Clubs or at the YWCA.
Don't fail to see this striking extravaganza 
which will be followed
by the crowning of the Queen and
Princess of the Centennial and the
tehhnicolor movie starring Danny
Kay," Hans Christian Anderson."
All for the price of fifty cents.
Proceeds will go to the National
YWCA in New York as part of the
Memphis Birthday gift to the
YWCA during its 100 Anniversary.

AKA Presents

will go for scholarships for Memphis 
girls, to aid the A. K. A.'s
Health Project that aids patients
at Oaksville Tuberculosis Hospital
and for many other worthy civic
activities.

Senate Kills

and extending corporation and excite 
levies for 27 months instead of
the 12 months requested by Mr.
Eisenhower.
The excise taxes apply to such
items as ciragettes, whiskey, beer
and other luxuries.
Five Democrats joined 45 Republicans 
in voting against the tax cut
proposal. Only one RepublicanSen. 
William Langer of North Dakota—voted 
with 43 Democrats in
favor of the move.

Noted Baptists

held top ranking position in the
Baptist movement including 18
years as president of the Mississippi 
General Baptist State Convention, 
treasurer of the national finance 
committee of the National
Baptist Convention, member of the
BTU Board, moderator of the Union 
Missionary Baptist. District Association 
of Cleveland, corresponding 
secretary of the Ohio State
Baptist Convention and corresponding 
secretary of the Riverside
Educational Baptist Association of
Memphis for 35 years.
Survivors include a wife, Mrs.
Mary Wade Perkins; a son Gus
Perkins of St. Louis, and other relatives. 


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Atlanta, Georgia

The Inheritors
By JANE ABBOTT
Copyright, 1955, by Jane Abbott, Distributed by King Features Syndicate
If the three heirs to old Josh Trevitt's 
sizeable upstate New fork farm
remain on it for at least three months
after his death each will inherit onethird 
of the land. Those leaving sooner
must relinquish their share or shares
to those remaining, final resident to
be awarded the entire farm. So when
old Josh died, his kin were notified
and copies of his will mailed them. In
the late spring, we find Jennie Todd, an
inheritor, a spinster, at the Trevitt
place, malting ready her quarters in
the rambling old farmhouse, and being
assisted by Wick Middleton, executor of
the Trevitt estate. Cindy Todd, a pretty
little motherless teen-ager, joins her
Aunt Jenny at the farm, to file claim
for her "missing" father's share of the
land. She's disappointed at finding this
aunt a timid soul, but her day brightens
when she meets with Gary Norbeck.
who has been assigned a wooded acre
on the place. Then, with much flair,
beneficiary Hester Wilmar arrives accompanied 
by her daughter Enid. Hester 
finds everything about the place
distasteful, but schemes to win the
major land award. And as this wilderness 
is no place for the daughter of a
socially ambitious mother. Hester plans
to speed Enid off to Europe.
STEPPING back from his easel
to study his work of the morning,
Gary Norbeck gave voice to a
sharp sound of anger. These eyes
he had painted were not Cindy's,
young, candid, innocent of guile;
they were Ursula's—the mouth,
full-lipped, lifting at one corner,
was Ursula's. With some violence
he threw down his brush. Was his
brother's wife still so much a part
of him that his hands portrayed
her without his willing?
He had finished painting in the
background yesterday, had thought
he had done it well—that the canvas 
might be good enough to send
to Arturo Bressi, the art dealer in
Boston with whom he had become
well acquainted a few years ago.
Today he had done the slender
figure, the uplifted head, the
face....
And now, this, Ursula, challenging 
him with eyes and mouth.
He strode down the length pf
the room, shaken by disgust at
himself. To have held her in his
memory, yet knowing what she
was.... A knowledge that had
come slowly and in the end had
driven him to hide here in this
out-of-the-way spot, not only from
Ursula, but from the man he had
let himself become. A betrayer of
those instincts of honor and loyalty 
that were his by upbringing and
heritage. A killer—if not in the
eyes of the law, in his own. His
arm had been raised to strike Alec,
his brother—he had been too
blinded with fury to know that his
grandfather had come into the
room, had thrown himself between
them, until he saw the old man
crumple to the floor. Whether he
actually had struck his grandfather 
or not had not mattered. The
doctor had pronounced it a heart
attack, but he was dead, the gentle, 
loving man who had been father 
and mother to him....
Back to him rushed the memory
of that night after his grandfather's 
funeral when he had
walked out from his home in
Salem, a fugitive, carrying no
more than the least he needed
for decency in appearance. A floorboard 
in the upstairs hall must
have creaked under his step—

when he reached the lower hall
Ursula, who with Alec was staying 
at the house until the funeral
services were over, was behind
him, a thin robe thrown over her
nightgown. She had whispered:
"Gary, where are you going at this
hour?" He had moved on toward
the door and she had run after
him, flung her arms around him,
holding him motionless, pressed
her face, her body, against him.
"Gary, don't go! We'll find ways.
... Alec has to go out of town
next week...." Her soft mouth
had lifted to his. He remembered
how he had flung her from him,
so violently that, but for the newel
post at which she caught, she must
have fallen to the floor. And he
remembered her soft laugh as he
opened the door. "I'll find you,
darling!" She might, he had
known, if he rode Pullman trains,
registered at hotels, so he had
walked through that night and the
next day, and the next, over any
road as long as it was unfrequented, 
stopping nights in obscure 
houses with "Tourists" signs
hung out.
Then the storm, the fever burning 
in him, the lights of a farmhouse 
and old Jehosophat opening
the door. "Come in, come in,
young fellow! You're soaking wet!
You're shaking like a leaf!"
Warmed blankets, warming drinks
and the old man's rough hands
fussing over him....
Before he was able to be up and
around winter had set in. "Might
as well stay here, son, if you've no
place in mind to go. Makes it
company for me." He had stayed.
Jehosophat had asked him no
questions as to where he had come
from or where he was headed for,
that stormy night. Jehosophat
probably had taken it for granted
that he was without home or family. 
As he was. There had been
plenty of work for him to do for
the old man and he had liked doing 
it. He had money enough with
him to share the expenses of their
simple living. Spring had come,
and old Josh had said: "Mebbe
you'd like to move on, son. Young
fellows get restless, I know.
Though I'd sort of hate to see you
go. I'd miss you." He could not
go, after that. He had sent for
painting materials, books, subscribed 
to magazines and newspapers. 
The summer before Jehosophat 
had urged him to build the
cabin. "It'd be a nice place for you
to come to do your pictures."
A girl appeared in the open
doorway with a suddenness that
made Gary think crazily she was
Ursula Thiel. The green slacks
she wore—Ursula almost always
wore green, the green of her eyes.
Then with a sharp relief he saw
that this girl's eyes were blue.
"I'm sorry...." She said it
quickly with some embarrassment
as if she had interrupted him in
some very private, occupation. "I
stopped to ask—how does one get
to the other side of this creek?
I crossed it on a bridge farther
down but I can't find any place up
here."
"There's a shallow stretch and

some flat stones—the path next to
the cabin leads to it." He spoke
brusquely.
But she did not go. She asked:
"You're Gary Norbeck, the man
who Inherited part of the farm?
I'm Enid Wilmer. I came with my
mother a few days ago."
Then she took a step forward
into the cabin, "This is nice—my
mother thinks you're a farmhand,
but you're not, are you? Oh!" For
over his shoulder she saw the canvas 
on the easel. "You're an artist.
You're painting Cindy." She
walked to the easel. "No. It looks
like Cindy—the figure and the
slacks—but it isn't!"
"No, it isn't." Gary snapped the
words out.
The girl studied the canvas interestedly. 
"Whoever it is—she's
lovely! Cindy's beautiful, I think,
but this girl has more in her
face..."
"A great deal more!" He said it
savagely. Then he strode to it,
tore it from its frame and across,
threw the pieces to the floor.
Enid took a step away from him,
looking at him and then down at
the ruin of his work. "Oh, why did
you do that! You ought to be
pleased, proud, that you painted
it."
"I can assure you I am not in
the least pleased or proud." Gary
saw the puzzled expression on her
face.
He added: "I don't usually go to
such extreme lengths—I apply turpentine—but 
in this instance I had
my own reasons for tearing it up,
and they did not spring from
pride."
Enid knelt down on the floor and
put the torn pieces together. "I
think I understand—she's a real
person, someone you know—and
you hate her. You were hating
her when I stopped at the door.
At least you looked as if you were
hating something. I know—I feel
like that sometimes but it is about
things I can't tear up. So I just
don't do anything. All I've ever
done all my life, it seems, is to
keep ray mouth shut—just agree
to everything." She looked over
the cabin. "All alone like this,
don't you get lonely sometimes?"
Gary wondered if this were a
hint for an invitation to call again,
but before he could decide she
added, in a tone of only speaking
aloud what she was thinking:
"You'd get to know your own self
awfully well!"
She walked toward the door but
at the door she paused, looked at
him over her shoulder. "I take it
you've met Cindy but why don't
you come up to the farmhouse and
meet the rest of the family—Aunt
Jennie and my mother? After all,
we're all here together—we should
be at least on speaking terms. It's
all fantastic enough as it is!" She
smiled. "It'd be nice if some day
you would cut the grass—there's
no one else, and it bothers mother.
She likes everything to look tidy."
With that she went out of the
door and along the path toward
the creek.


SYNOPSIS
By JANE ABBOTT
Copyright, 1955, by Jane Abbott, Distributed by King Features Syndicate
If the three heirs to old Josh Trevitt's 
sizeable upstate New fork farm
remain on it for at least three months
after his death each will inherit onethird 
of the land. Those leaving sooner
must relinquish their share or shares
to those remaining, final resident to
be awarded the entire farm. So when
old Josh died, his kin were notified
and copies of his will mailed them. In
the late spring, we find Jennie Todd, an
inheritor, a spinster, at the Trevitt
place, malting ready her quarters in
the rambling old farmhouse, and being
assisted by Wick Middleton, executor of
the Trevitt estate. Cindy Todd, a pretty
little motherless teen-ager, joins her
Aunt Jenny at the farm, to file claim
for her "missing" father's share of the
land. She's disappointed at finding this
aunt a timid soul, but her day brightens
when she meets with Gary Norbeck.
who has been assigned a wooded acre
on the place. Then, with much flair,
beneficiary Hester Wilmar arrives accompanied 
by her daughter Enid. Hester 
finds everything about the place
distasteful, but schemes to win the
major land award. And as this wilderness 
is no place for the daughter of a
socially ambitious mother. Hester plans
to speed Enid off to Europe.
STEPPING back from his easel
to study his work of the morning,
Gary Norbeck gave voice to a
sharp sound of anger. These eyes
he had painted were not Cindy's,
young, candid, innocent of guile;
they were Ursula's—the mouth,
full-lipped, lifting at one corner,
was Ursula's. With some violence
he threw down his brush. Was his
brother's wife still so much a part
of him that his hands portrayed
her without his willing?
He had finished painting in the
background yesterday, had thought
he had done it well—that the canvas 
might be good enough to send
to Arturo Bressi, the art dealer in
Boston with whom he had become
well acquainted a few years ago.
Today he had done the slender
figure, the uplifted head, the
face....
And now, this, Ursula, challenging 
him with eyes and mouth.
He strode down the length pf
the room, shaken by disgust at
himself. To have held her in his
memory, yet knowing what she
was.... A knowledge that had
come slowly and in the end had
driven him to hide here in this
out-of-the-way spot, not only from
Ursula, but from the man he had
let himself become. A betrayer of
those instincts of honor and loyalty 
that were his by upbringing and
heritage. A killer—if not in the
eyes of the law, in his own. His
arm had been raised to strike Alec,
his brother—he had been too
blinded with fury to know that his
grandfather had come into the
room, had thrown himself between
them, until he saw the old man
crumple to the floor. Whether he
actually had struck his grandfather 
or not had not mattered. The
doctor had pronounced it a heart
attack, but he was dead, the gentle, 
loving man who had been father 
and mother to him....
Back to him rushed the memory
of that night after his grandfather's 
funeral when he had
walked out from his home in
Salem, a fugitive, carrying no
more than the least he needed
for decency in appearance. A floorboard 
in the upstairs hall must
have creaked under his step—

when he reached the lower hall
Ursula, who with Alec was staying 
at the house until the funeral
services were over, was behind
him, a thin robe thrown over her
nightgown. She had whispered:
"Gary, where are you going at this
hour?" He had moved on toward
the door and she had run after
him, flung her arms around him,
holding him motionless, pressed
her face, her body, against him.
"Gary, don't go! We'll find ways.
... Alec has to go out of town
next week...." Her soft mouth
had lifted to his. He remembered
how he had flung her from him,
so violently that, but for the newel
post at which she caught, she must
have fallen to the floor. And he
remembered her soft laugh as he
opened the door. "I'll find you,
darling!" She might, he had
known, if he rode Pullman trains,
registered at hotels, so he had
walked through that night and the
next day, and the next, over any
road as long as it was unfrequented, 
stopping nights in obscure 
houses with "Tourists" signs
hung out.
Then the storm, the fever burning 
in him, the lights of a farmhouse 
and old Jehosophat opening
the door. "Come in, come in,
young fellow! You're soaking wet!
You're shaking like a leaf!"
Warmed blankets, warming drinks
and the old man's rough hands
fussing over him....
Before he was able to be up and
around winter had set in. "Might
as well stay here, son, if you've no
place in mind to go. Makes it
company for me." He had stayed.
Jehosophat had asked him no
questions as to where he had come
from or where he was headed for,
that stormy night. Jehosophat
probably had taken it for granted
that he was without home or family. 
As he was. There had been
plenty of work for him to do for
the old man and he had liked doing 
it. He had money enough with
him to share the expenses of their
simple living. Spring had come,
and old Josh had said: "Mebbe
you'd like to move on, son. Young
fellows get restless, I know.
Though I'd sort of hate to see you
go. I'd miss you." He could not
go, after that. He had sent for
painting materials, books, subscribed 
to magazines and newspapers. 
The summer before Jehosophat 
had urged him to build the
cabin. "It'd be a nice place for you
to come to do your pictures."
A girl appeared in the open
doorway with a suddenness that
made Gary think crazily she was
Ursula Thiel. The green slacks
she wore—Ursula almost always
wore green, the green of her eyes.
Then with a sharp relief he saw
that this girl's eyes were blue.
"I'm sorry...." She said it
quickly with some embarrassment
as if she had interrupted him in
some very private, occupation. "I
stopped to ask—how does one get
to the other side of this creek?
I crossed it on a bridge farther
down but I can't find any place up
here."
"There's a shallow stretch and

some flat stones—the path next to
the cabin leads to it." He spoke
brusquely.
But she did not go. She asked:
"You're Gary Norbeck, the man
who Inherited part of the farm?
I'm Enid Wilmer. I came with my
mother a few days ago."
Then she took a step forward
into the cabin, "This is nice—my
mother thinks you're a farmhand,
but you're not, are you? Oh!" For
over his shoulder she saw the canvas 
on the easel. "You're an artist.
You're painting Cindy." She
walked to the easel. "No. It looks
like Cindy—the figure and the
slacks—but it isn't!"
"No, it isn't." Gary snapped the
words out.
The girl studied the canvas interestedly. 
"Whoever it is—she's
lovely! Cindy's beautiful, I think,
but this girl has more in her
face..."
"A great deal more!" He said it
savagely. Then he strode to it,
tore it from its frame and across,
threw the pieces to the floor.
Enid took a step away from him,
looking at him and then down at
the ruin of his work. "Oh, why did
you do that! You ought to be
pleased, proud, that you painted
it."
"I can assure you I am not in
the least pleased or proud." Gary
saw the puzzled expression on her
face.
He added: "I don't usually go to
such extreme lengths—I apply turpentine—but 
in this instance I had
my own reasons for tearing it up,
and they did not spring from
pride."
Enid knelt down on the floor and
put the torn pieces together. "I
think I understand—she's a real
person, someone you know—and
you hate her. You were hating
her when I stopped at the door.
At least you looked as if you were
hating something. I know—I feel
like that sometimes but it is about
things I can't tear up. So I just
don't do anything. All I've ever
done all my life, it seems, is to
keep ray mouth shut—just agree
to everything." She looked over
the cabin. "All alone like this,
don't you get lonely sometimes?"
Gary wondered if this were a
hint for an invitation to call again,
but before he could decide she
added, in a tone of only speaking
aloud what she was thinking:
"You'd get to know your own self
awfully well!"
She walked toward the door but
at the door she paused, looked at
him over her shoulder. "I take it
you've met Cindy but why don't
you come up to the farmhouse and
meet the rest of the family—Aunt
Jennie and my mother? After all,
we're all here together—we should
be at least on speaking terms. It's
all fantastic enough as it is!" She
smiled. "It'd be nice if some day
you would cut the grass—there's
no one else, and it bothers mother.
She likes everything to look tidy."
With that she went out of the
door and along the path toward
the creek.


CHAPTER TWELVE
By JANE ABBOTT
Copyright, 1955, by Jane Abbott, Distributed by King Features Syndicate
If the three heirs to old Josh Trevitt's 
sizeable upstate New fork farm
remain on it for at least three months
after his death each will inherit onethird 
of the land. Those leaving sooner
must relinquish their share or shares
to those remaining, final resident to
be awarded the entire farm. So when
old Josh died, his kin were notified
and copies of his will mailed them. In
the late spring, we find Jennie Todd, an
inheritor, a spinster, at the Trevitt
place, malting ready her quarters in
the rambling old farmhouse, and being
assisted by Wick Middleton, executor of
the Trevitt estate. Cindy Todd, a pretty
little motherless teen-ager, joins her
Aunt Jenny at the farm, to file claim
for her "missing" father's share of the
land. She's disappointed at finding this
aunt a timid soul, but her day brightens
when she meets with Gary Norbeck.
who has been assigned a wooded acre
on the place. Then, with much flair,
beneficiary Hester Wilmar arrives accompanied 
by her daughter Enid. Hester 
finds everything about the place
distasteful, but schemes to win the
major land award. And as this wilderness 
is no place for the daughter of a
socially ambitious mother. Hester plans
to speed Enid off to Europe.
STEPPING back from his easel
to study his work of the morning,
Gary Norbeck gave voice to a
sharp sound of anger. These eyes
he had painted were not Cindy's,
young, candid, innocent of guile;
they were Ursula's—the mouth,
full-lipped, lifting at one corner,
was Ursula's. With some violence
he threw down his brush. Was his
brother's wife still so much a part
of him that his hands portrayed
her without his willing?
He had finished painting in the
background yesterday, had thought
he had done it well—that the canvas 
might be good enough to send
to Arturo Bressi, the art dealer in
Boston with whom he had become
well acquainted a few years ago.
Today he had done the slender
figure, the uplifted head, the
face....
And now, this, Ursula, challenging 
him with eyes and mouth.
He strode down the length pf
the room, shaken by disgust at
himself. To have held her in his
memory, yet knowing what she
was.... A knowledge that had
come slowly and in the end had
driven him to hide here in this
out-of-the-way spot, not only from
Ursula, but from the man he had
let himself become. A betrayer of
those instincts of honor and loyalty 
that were his by upbringing and
heritage. A killer—if not in the
eyes of the law, in his own. His
arm had been raised to strike Alec,
his brother—he had been too
blinded with fury to know that his
grandfather had come into the
room, had thrown himself between
them, until he saw the old man
crumple to the floor. Whether he
actually had struck his grandfather 
or not had not mattered. The
doctor had pronounced it a heart
attack, but he was dead, the gentle, 
loving man who had been father 
and mother to him....
Back to him rushed the memory
of that night after his grandfather's 
funeral when he had
walked out from his home in
Salem, a fugitive, carrying no
more than the least he needed
for decency in appearance. A floorboard 
in the upstairs hall must
have creaked under his step—

when he reached the lower hall
Ursula, who with Alec was staying 
at the house until the funeral
services were over, was behind
him, a thin robe thrown over her
nightgown. She had whispered:
"Gary, where are you going at this
hour?" He had moved on toward
the door and she had run after
him, flung her arms around him,
holding him motionless, pressed
her face, her body, against him.
"Gary, don't go! We'll find ways.
... Alec has to go out of town
next week...." Her soft mouth
had lifted to his. He remembered
how he had flung her from him,
so violently that, but for the newel
post at which she caught, she must
have fallen to the floor. And he
remembered her soft laugh as he
opened the door. "I'll find you,
darling!" She might, he had
known, if he rode Pullman trains,
registered at hotels, so he had
walked through that night and the
next day, and the next, over any
road as long as it was unfrequented, 
stopping nights in obscure 
houses with "Tourists" signs
hung out.
Then the storm, the fever burning 
in him, the lights of a farmhouse 
and old Jehosophat opening
the door. "Come in, come in,
young fellow! You're soaking wet!
You're shaking like a leaf!"
Warmed blankets, warming drinks
and the old man's rough hands
fussing over him....
Before he was able to be up and
around winter had set in. "Might
as well stay here, son, if you've no
place in mind to go. Makes it
company for me." He had stayed.
Jehosophat had asked him no
questions as to where he had come
from or where he was headed for,
that stormy night. Jehosophat
probably had taken it for granted
that he was without home or family. 
As he was. There had been
plenty of work for him to do for
the old man and he had liked doing 
it. He had money enough with
him to share the expenses of their
simple living. Spring had come,
and old Josh had said: "Mebbe
you'd like to move on, son. Young
fellows get restless, I know.
Though I'd sort of hate to see you
go. I'd miss you." He could not
go, after that. He had sent for
painting materials, books, subscribed 
to magazines and newspapers. 
The summer before Jehosophat 
had urged him to build the
cabin. "It'd be a nice place for you
to come to do your pictures."
A girl appeared in the open
doorway with a suddenness that
made Gary think crazily she was
Ursula Thiel. The green slacks
she wore—Ursula almost always
wore green, the green of her eyes.
Then with a sharp relief he saw
that this girl's eyes were blue.
"I'm sorry...." She said it
quickly with some embarrassment
as if she had interrupted him in
some very private, occupation. "I
stopped to ask—how does one get
to the other side of this creek?
I crossed it on a bridge farther
down but I can't find any place up
here."
"There's a shallow stretch and

some flat stones—the path next to
the cabin leads to it." He spoke
brusquely.
But she did not go. She asked:
"You're Gary Norbeck, the man
who Inherited part of the farm?
I'm Enid Wilmer. I came with my
mother a few days ago."
Then she took a step forward
into the cabin, "This is nice—my
mother thinks you're a farmhand,
but you're not, are you? Oh!" For
over his shoulder she saw the canvas 
on the easel. "You're an artist.
You're painting Cindy." She
walked to the easel. "No. It looks
like Cindy—the figure and the
slacks—but it isn't!"
"No, it isn't." Gary snapped the
words out.
The girl studied the canvas interestedly. 
"Whoever it is—she's
lovely! Cindy's beautiful, I think,
but this girl has more in her
face..."
"A great deal more!" He said it
savagely. Then he strode to it,
tore it from its frame and across,
threw the pieces to the floor.
Enid took a step away from him,
looking at him and then down at
the ruin of his work. "Oh, why did
you do that! You ought to be
pleased, proud, that you painted
it."
"I can assure you I am not in
the least pleased or proud." Gary
saw the puzzled expression on her
face.
He added: "I don't usually go to
such extreme lengths—I apply turpentine—but 
in this instance I had
my own reasons for tearing it up,
and they did not spring from
pride."
Enid knelt down on the floor and
put the torn pieces together. "I
think I understand—she's a real
person, someone you know—and
you hate her. You were hating
her when I stopped at the door.
At least you looked as if you were
hating something. I know—I feel
like that sometimes but it is about
things I can't tear up. So I just
don't do anything. All I've ever
done all my life, it seems, is to
keep ray mouth shut—just agree
to everything." She looked over
the cabin. "All alone like this,
don't you get lonely sometimes?"
Gary wondered if this were a
hint for an invitation to call again,
but before he could decide she
added, in a tone of only speaking
aloud what she was thinking:
"You'd get to know your own self
awfully well!"
She walked toward the door but
at the door she paused, looked at
him over her shoulder. "I take it
you've met Cindy but why don't
you come up to the farmhouse and
meet the rest of the family—Aunt
Jennie and my mother? After all,
we're all here together—we should
be at least on speaking terms. It's
all fantastic enough as it is!" She
smiled. "It'd be nice if some day
you would cut the grass—there's
no one else, and it bothers mother.
She likes everything to look tidy."
With that she went out of the
door and along the path toward
the creek.


"Negro Press Will Live Through
Public Desire For Truth," Gordon
The Negro press, despite the
promise of racial integration,
will have a long life, with a
reading audience of more than
two billion members of the darker 
races "who are rising to a
position where they want only
the truth," a well known journalist 
declared yesterday.
William Gordon, Managing Editor 
of the Atlanta Daily World, was
speaking to a session of the Hungry 
Club and a WERD audience,
in a joint celebration of Negro
Newspaper Week.
The speech, made in the Banquet
Room of the Butler Street YMCA,
was accompanied by tribute to the
World and its founders and a
pointed session in which the Negro 
press in general was discussed.
Warren Cochrane, Executive Secretary 
of the YMCA, paid tribute
to the World's contribution to the
Atlanta community, and introduced
three generations of the paper's
founders: Mrs. W. A. Scott, Sr. her
grandson, William A. Scott, III,
and C. A. Scott; Editor of the
World.
Mr. Gordon, a Nieman Fellow,
who spoke of "Desegregation and
the Negro Press," outlined a history 
of the Negro newspapers in
the United States. He explained the
role of the Negro press and the
changes in character which accompanied 
liberal tendencies toward 
Negroes; and wound up with
a conviction that:
"The newspaper is a public institution. 
It actually belongs to
the community.
"The Negro Press has a bright
future," he said. "In these times
of social changes, the press will
continue to reiterate what it has
done during the past century. Moreto 
tell and more than two billion
over, the Negro Press has a story
people are waiting to hear that
story.
"These people include the more
than three hundred million in India 
more than 80 million in Pakistan 
and the more than 80 million
in Japan and not without, of
course, the millions of blacks in
Africa. Like the Negro in America,
these people have also been suppressed 
peoples who are rising to
a position where they want only
the truth, and the truth today can
come only from a democratic
press."
"The Negro press in America,"
Gordon said, "represents fully that
philosophy."
The speaker said he felt that
the battle against segregation was
being won, but complete integration 
would take a long time. During 
this period, he said, inconsistences, 
not touched by the major
press, will arise.
Minorities will not at first trust
the major press and will continue
to take its problems to the Negro
papers.
The speech, which attempted to
cover as much as the Negro newspaper 
story as possible, did not
dodge other issues.
Gordon told his, audience that
"The Negro editor makes no claim

to perfection as is true of the metropolitan 
press."
"The press," he said, "is made
of human beings whose emotional
reactions are similar to those of
people whose skins are of no different 
pigmentation.
"Among us are Republicans, Democrats, 
Protestants, Catholics and
Hebrews; conservative and radicals.
Different members of our press
hold different points of view on
methods and techniques for extracting 
the race from the network
of discriminatory devices designed
to keep us in a permanent status
of second class citizenship.
The dinner was attended by an
overflow group, including a Journalism 
class from Morris Brown
College, several Japanese visitors
and a group from Clark College.

THREE GENERATIONS
The Negro press, despite the
promise of racial integration,
will have a long life, with a
reading audience of more than
two billion members of the darker 
races "who are rising to a
position where they want only
the truth," a well known journalist 
declared yesterday.
William Gordon, Managing Editor 
of the Atlanta Daily World, was
speaking to a session of the Hungry 
Club and a WERD audience,
in a joint celebration of Negro
Newspaper Week.
The speech, made in the Banquet
Room of the Butler Street YMCA,
was accompanied by tribute to the
World and its founders and a
pointed session in which the Negro 
press in general was discussed.
Warren Cochrane, Executive Secretary 
of the YMCA, paid tribute
to the World's contribution to the
Atlanta community, and introduced
three generations of the paper's
founders: Mrs. W. A. Scott, Sr. her
grandson, William A. Scott, III,
and C. A. Scott; Editor of the
World.
Mr. Gordon, a Nieman Fellow,
who spoke of "Desegregation and
the Negro Press," outlined a history 
of the Negro newspapers in
the United States. He explained the
role of the Negro press and the
changes in character which accompanied 
liberal tendencies toward 
Negroes; and wound up with
a conviction that:
"The newspaper is a public institution. 
It actually belongs to
the community.
"The Negro Press has a bright
future," he said. "In these times
of social changes, the press will
continue to reiterate what it has
done during the past century. Moreto 
tell and more than two billion
over, the Negro Press has a story
people are waiting to hear that
story.
"These people include the more
than three hundred million in India 
more than 80 million in Pakistan 
and the more than 80 million
in Japan and not without, of
course, the millions of blacks in
Africa. Like the Negro in America,
these people have also been suppressed 
peoples who are rising to
a position where they want only
the truth, and the truth today can
come only from a democratic
press."
"The Negro press in America,"
Gordon said, "represents fully that
philosophy."
The speaker said he felt that
the battle against segregation was
being won, but complete integration 
would take a long time. During 
this period, he said, inconsistences, 
not touched by the major
press, will arise.
Minorities will not at first trust
the major press and will continue
to take its problems to the Negro
papers.
The speech, which attempted to
cover as much as the Negro newspaper 
story as possible, did not
dodge other issues.
Gordon told his, audience that
"The Negro editor makes no claim

to perfection as is true of the metropolitan 
press."
"The press," he said, "is made
of human beings whose emotional
reactions are similar to those of
people whose skins are of no different 
pigmentation.
"Among us are Republicans, Democrats, 
Protestants, Catholics and
Hebrews; conservative and radicals.
Different members of our press
hold different points of view on
methods and techniques for extracting 
the race from the network
of discriminatory devices designed
to keep us in a permanent status
of second class citizenship.
The dinner was attended by an
overflow group, including a Journalism 
class from Morris Brown
College, several Japanese visitors
and a group from Clark College.

EXEMPLIFIES DEMOCRATIC
PHILOSOPHY
The Negro press, despite the
promise of racial integration,
will have a long life, with a
reading audience of more than
two billion members of the darker 
races "who are rising to a
position where they want only
the truth," a well known journalist 
declared yesterday.
William Gordon, Managing Editor 
of the Atlanta Daily World, was
speaking to a session of the Hungry 
Club and a WERD audience,
in a joint celebration of Negro
Newspaper Week.
The speech, made in the Banquet
Room of the Butler Street YMCA,
was accompanied by tribute to the
World and its founders and a
pointed session in which the Negro 
press in general was discussed.
Warren Cochrane, Executive Secretary 
of the YMCA, paid tribute
to the World's contribution to the
Atlanta community, and introduced
three generations of the paper's
founders: Mrs. W. A. Scott, Sr. her
grandson, William A. Scott, III,
and C. A. Scott; Editor of the
World.
Mr. Gordon, a Nieman Fellow,
who spoke of "Desegregation and
the Negro Press," outlined a history 
of the Negro newspapers in
the United States. He explained the
role of the Negro press and the
changes in character which accompanied 
liberal tendencies toward 
Negroes; and wound up with
a conviction that:
"The newspaper is a public institution. 
It actually belongs to
the community.
"The Negro Press has a bright
future," he said. "In these times
of social changes, the press will
continue to reiterate what it has
done during the past century. Moreto 
tell and more than two billion
over, the Negro Press has a story
people are waiting to hear that
story.
"These people include the more
than three hundred million in India 
more than 80 million in Pakistan 
and the more than 80 million
in Japan and not without, of
course, the millions of blacks in
Africa. Like the Negro in America,
these people have also been suppressed 
peoples who are rising to
a position where they want only
the truth, and the truth today can
come only from a democratic
press."
"The Negro press in America,"
Gordon said, "represents fully that
philosophy."
The speaker said he felt that
the battle against segregation was
being won, but complete integration 
would take a long time. During 
this period, he said, inconsistences, 
not touched by the major
press, will arise.
Minorities will not at first trust
the major press and will continue
to take its problems to the Negro
papers.
The speech, which attempted to
cover as much as the Negro newspaper 
story as possible, did not
dodge other issues.
Gordon told his, audience that
"The Negro editor makes no claim

to perfection as is true of the metropolitan 
press."
"The press," he said, "is made
of human beings whose emotional
reactions are similar to those of
people whose skins are of no different 
pigmentation.
"Among us are Republicans, Democrats, 
Protestants, Catholics and
Hebrews; conservative and radicals.
Different members of our press
hold different points of view on
methods and techniques for extracting 
the race from the network
of discriminatory devices designed
to keep us in a permanent status
of second class citizenship.
The dinner was attended by an
overflow group, including a Journalism 
class from Morris Brown
College, several Japanese visitors
and a group from Clark College.

Point-Four Program Is
Broadcast In Ethiopia
The technical cooperation
(Point 4) program was broadened in Ethiopia in the six-month period 
ended last December 31, according to the semi-annual report
on the Mutual Security program which President Eisenhower sent
to Congress Monday covering that period.
In his letter of transmittal, Mr.
Eisenhower told Congress that there
has been "a significant acceleration
of operations in Asia, where the
bulk of the free world's population
occupies its greatest land mass, and
where Communism is stepping up
its efforts of expansion."
He added that the "worldwide

programs of military aid, economic
development and technical cooperation 
are increasing the military security 
and economic progress of the
United States and our cooperating
partners in the free world."
At the end of 1954 technical cooperation 
programs were being carried 
on by the United States jointly
with fifteen countries and eleven
territories in the Near East, South
Asia, and Africa, nineteen countries
and nine territories in Latin America, 
and nine countries in the Far
East.
The purpose of the program is to
share technical knowledge and skills
for the betterment of the free
world.
In addition to Ethiopia, Liberia
and Libya are other independent
countries in Africa which are jointly 
carrying on such programs with
the United States.
The report states that the expanded 
program in Ethiopia will
include new projects in teacher
training, the establishment of additional 
local institutions for developing 
competent administrators and
technicians, and an increase in
scholarship grants for bringing
trainees to the United States.
In addition, the report discloses
plans were made for a 'community'

development project to assist the
Ethiopian Government with its program 
of distributing public lands for
agricultural resettlement and development. 

After nearly two years of planning, 
the report reveals, the Eritrean 
Vocational Trades School
was opened in September with a
beginning class of 100. The threeyear 
curriculum will include sheetmetal 
work, forge and foundry practice, 
machine-shop instruction, and
courses in auto mechanics, masonry,
electricity and plumbing.
With the assistance of an education 
specialist provided by the Foreign 
Operations Administration, 600
experimental copies of the first illustrated 
Ethiopian (Amharic) word
book and reader were completed in
October.
Later, this book will be revised in
final form and reprinted by Ethiopians 
in an edition of 50,000 copies
to serve schools throughout Ethiopia. 

Other developments in the program 
in Ethiopia covered by the
report were:
The program to enlarge Ethiopia's
handicraft industry was launched
with FOA aid when the first handicraft 
center was opened in Ansela
to promote the use of native wools
in the weaving of rugs and blankets. 

Arrangements were completed to
open Ethiopia's first rural health
center at the town of Colladuba near
Gondar. The local population will
construct the center under the
direction of a contractor whose services 
will be financed by Joint United 
States-Ethiopia funds.
An agreement was reached on the
scope of technical assistance, requested 
by the Ethiopian Government, 
for developing an improved
water supply and sewage system for
Addis Ababa.
With a number of improvements
already put into effect in the field
of agricultural production, the technical 
cooperation program in Liberia, 
the report states, has been redirected 
to give more attention to
education, public health and public
works.
With United States assistance, the
report says, a highway department
has been established in Liberia, and
most of a basic staff has been
trained. The program presently provides 
for on-the-job training in the
preparation of specifications and
the letting of contracts for a series
of roads which are being financed
under an Export-Import Bank loan.
During the second half of 1954,
FOA contracted with Prairie View
A. and M. College for an expanded
program of vocational training in
Liberia.
Prairie View, the report says, will
help train Liberian teachers in a
variety of subjects, including building 
construction trades, metal trades
and clerical and secretarial skills.
The college, it was added, also
will seek to train a larger body of
skilled nongovernmental workers in
Liberia.
The report discloses that the
United Kingdom has expressed an
interest in further United States
assistance in meeting growing problems 
in British East Africa comprising 
Kenya, Uganda, and the Trust
Territory of Tanganyika.
Kenya is in a particularly, difficult 
position because expenses in
connection with the Mau Mau emergency 
are absorbing so much of its
resources that necessary work in
the educational and agricultural
fields cannot be maintained at a
proper level.
Uganda, the report states, is facing 
new possibilities for industrial
development but has few skilled
workmen among the local peoples.
At the request of the United
Kingdom, the report states, the
United States Operations Mission in
London sent representatives to that
region and worked out an agreement
on a series of projects, in technical,
education, agriculture, and transportation. 

Negotiations are under way with
Tugers University to carry out the
educational, and possibly the agricultural, 
aspects of the program.
As British territories in West Africa 
— Nigeria, the Gold Coast,
Sierra Leone, and the Gambia —
assume responsibility for governing 
themselves, the report states
far more trained local people are
needed, particularly in the technical 
fields, to staff both government
and Industry.
With the agreement of the United 
Kingdom, the report reveals, F.
O. A. representatives visited these
territories and assisted local officials 
in drafting a number of projects 
in agriculture, technical education, 
community development,
and transportation.

KNOW HOW
IT FEELS TO HELP
WEAR THIS
BUTTON PROUDLY!


Death Traps A Gambler

Night rain! Cruel rain! Clawing
at the windshield. Streaking like
crazy under the rhythmic swishswish 
of dead wiper blades. Country 
heeds rain? Sure! But not like
this.
Homebound—alone—half blinded
—the driver slows to twenty. Then
fifteen. Headlight glare pounds at
his tired eyes. If only he could see
for sure a little of the road. If
only those were live, new wiper
blades! His wife had urged him
yesterday—again—to have a pair
slipped on. Takes almost no time
at all. But he forgot.
Rain drumming, drumming, on
the roof of the car. Even side windows 
drenched blind. His car
swerves sharply to a gust of wind.
That does it! He'll pull off the
road until the rain stops! But he
can't see a spot. Headlights close
behind him. A horn blasting. The
threat of being crushed from the
rear frightens him.
Why hasn't his serviceman suggested 
new blades? He sees him
often. Blades don't cost too much.
Let's see. Maybe a couple of bucks
a pair. Could be more for curved

windshields. He'd give twice that
now—yes, or three times—or anything. 

Now he knows! He has gambled
his life against a mere two or
three bucks. Seems stupid. Neighbor 
Jones, he remembers, carries
in his car a spare pair of blades
to slip on first time the old ones
start streaking. Kinda smart! There
is a service station somewhere
ahead. Get blades there. A trucker's 
stop, with coffee and food.
Could use a cup or two of coffee.
How many miles?
Coming again! Those blurs of
maddening light. Ridges of water
streaking beneath his wiper blades
grab that light. Twist it to fiery
rainbows. He hugs what he hopes
is his side of the road. The heavy
truck roars past. His car shivers.
Safe! Dear God! He missed that
one! How long will it rain. He
turns on the radio.
The rain slows to a drizzle. But
the streaks are still there. Rain
stops briefly. A snorting truck tosses 
a torrent of blinding road muck
against his windshield. The muck
streaks worse! He clutches the
wheel. Stares wildly at wierd patterns 
writhing on the glass. Looks
like he's trapped—trapped by his
weather-beaten wiper blades.
More rain! Hard rain. More
lights looming ahead! He braces
himself. Dead blades. Streakers!
Treacherous things. Very next
chance he'll change them. Can't
risk the wife and kids getting
caught in spots like this. Wonderful 
pals, that family of his.
Twin balls of fire zoom closer.
If only he could see! Pinwheels of
blazing light tear at his tortured
eyes. Blind him completely. He
grips the wheel in panic. Sweat
streams down his face. Te scream's
a prayer as his car bounces off the
mammoth truck and rolls.
"Funny thing," said the cop to
the ambulance man. "When I first
got to the car, I thought he was
talkin'. But it was the crazy car
radio. Still runnin'. Our highway
safety chief broadcastin'—tellin' us
how wiper blades don't really wear
our. Warnin' they all just sort of
dry up. Look OK, but lose their
bounce. Then-start streakin'.
"This is it, ail right," the cop
went on. "Darndest feelin' I ever
had Poor devil, there in the car!
His neck all twisted out o' shape.
And me thinkin' he was doin' the
talkin'. Pity he couldn't have heard
it all—yesterday!'

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