Memphis World
Memphis World Publishing Co.
1956-12-05
Raymond F. Tisby

MEMPHIS WORLD
The South's Oldest and Leading Colored Semi-Weekly Newspaper
Published by MEMPHIS WORLD PUBLISHING CO.
Every WEDNESDAY and SATURDAY at 546 BEALE—Ph. JA. 6-4030
Member of SCOTT NEWSPAPER SYNDICATE
W. A. Scott, II, Founder; C. A. Scott, General Manager
Entered in the Post Office at Memphis, Tenn., as second-class mail
under the Act of Congress, March 1, 1870
RAYMOND F. TISBY Managing Editor
MRS. ROSA BROWN BRACY Public Relations and Advertising
ALYSON E. WISE Circulation Promotion
SUBSCRIPTION RATES
Year $5.00 — 6 Months $3.00 — 3 Months $1.50 (In Advance)
The MEMPHIS WORLD is an independent newspaper—non-sectarian
and non-partisan printing news unbiasedly and supporting those things
it believes to the interest of its readers and opposing those things
against the interest of its readers.

There's A Lessen To Be
Learned From Arkansas
Tennessee legislators bent on pushing new segregation bills
in the state legislature, in the vain hope of perpetuating public
school segregation despite the U. S. Supreme Court rulings,
should look to the neighboring state of Arkansas and learn
a valuable lesson.
On November 6 the state of Arkansas passed three measures
designed to halt integration of public schools in that state.
One was Amendment 47, another an Interposition Resolution 
and the other a Pupil Assignment Bill.
How much effect will these measures have on plans for desegregation 
of schools in Arkansas cities?
Virgil T. Blossom, superintendent of the Little Rock school board
which plans to begin integration during the 1957-58 school year,
posed the above question to the board's attorneys and the answer 
from the board's attorneys was: NO EFFECT!
Amendment 47 MERELY directs the Arkansas legislature to
enact laws  the Supreme Court decisions, the Interposition 
Resolution is ONLY THE EXPRESSION OF AN ATTITODE while
the Pupil Assignment law "if used as an evasive tactic, will run
counter to the federal Constitution and the federal courts will
halt its enforcement," the board's attorneys felt.
Thus, it would appear that segregation minded Tennessee
legislators could render themselves and their constituents statesmanlike 
service by not raising false hopes toward perpetuating
a fast dying custom, but, rather lend themselves to finding ways
of bringing the inevitable change to fore in the sanest and speediest 
manner.

On Christmas Mail
Postmaster-General Arthur E. Summerfield recently listed
ten rules for holiday mail users. We will not report all the ten
rules, for some of them are just simple, ordinary commonsense.
However, some of them are worth listing. Summerfield asks
that addresses be printed in full and not abbreivated, and that
senders should put their return address on them, in the upper
lefthand corner, on both parcels and Christmas cards.
It is also suggested that parcels be insured and that valuable
letters be registered. Free pamphlets on postal rates and package
sizes are available and should be obtained before mailings and
can be of great assistance to many.
The best tip by the Postmaster-General is probably the one
on the time one should go to the post office. Studies show that
if you go to the post office before ten O'clock in the morning and
between 1:30 and 3:30 p.m. in the afternoon, you will find
fewer people in line at the window. This does not hold true,
necessarily, in all towns, but for most cities and towns in the
country.
The last suggestion is that you get your Christmas mail off
as soon as possible. Parcels to men overseas should already have
been sent, and it is urged that all those sending parcels to friends
in this country should mail them, at the latest, by early Devember.

Institute For Goodwill
One week will be devoted to the use of Christian love in
the solution of vexed and hurting community problems by an
institute sponsored by the Montgomery Improvement Association
in the Alabama Capital City December 3-9. For about twelve
months Montgomery residents have had an opportunity to see
a demonstration of the rallying power of love. Neighbor-love
has unified and strengthened a population segment, and also had
a restraining affect on the whole city.
MIA leaders seem to be evolving a new technique of guiding
desirable social change. The cleansing power of love is put to
work. This love power is making the group stronger, providing it
with a disarming tool, and linking it more closely to God. Love has
given the protest leader the power to endure.
The bus protest leaders hope that the seven-day institute
will inspire freedom loving individuals to make contributions to
the Montgomery Improvement Association. for they see "many
financial responsibilities which lie ahead" and want to be in a
position to take care of them. MIA stalwarts point out that they
"will need funds to give assistance to those individuals who
sacrificed themselves in order to aid the movement." They claim
that many of the protest leaders are "marked men" who will
not be able to get work for some time."
Some ninety ministers and leaders, MIA claims, still have
court cases hanging over them in connection with the protest for
freedom. Unfriendly forces are using various devices to crush the
protest and punish the leaders. A freedom fight has to be backed
up by funds.
Might not one take a sweeping look over the world and fit
Montgomery, Alabama into the larger picture. Little men in high
places with narrow outlooks and distorted conceptions of American 
democracy are using their authority to hamper the legitimate
aspirations of a goodly portion the community. Such as this
is happening in a country upon which fate and the blessings of a
Higher Being has cast in the role of world leader. Which makes
the protest a part of America's fight as a leader of freedom,
dignity and goodwill on earth.
The MIA conference on sensible social change is in fact an
institute on goodwill. For the MIA since the time it was organized
has warned that hates poison the spirit and harden the heart.
Hate inflames; love elevates; hate destroys while love develops.
For better is he who knows the lifting power of love than that
man who is blinded by hate.
Goodwill is the gold standard of good community relations.
Yet goodwill has to be bolstered a will to fairness, to justice,
to fundamental equality. It is this kind of work which fair-minded
persons are asked to support with a financial contribution.

Fowl Of Powell

There is no reason why the Democratic Party should be in a
good humor after the mauling it took from lke. But considering
it purely in terms of self-interest, it seems imprudent for it to
divest Adam Clayton Powell, the Harlem congressman, of his
patronage because he bolted his party and supported lke.
Powell . . . the object of much disesteem in Congress; 
but all the evidence says he has a powerful influence
among the Negro masses.
But if Powell is to be punished, why, as is asked, not likewise 
discipline Congressman Bell of Mississippi who also bolted
the party? And why not Senator Byrd of Virginia, who in 1952
rejected the ticket and wounded it heavily this year by refusing
to endorse it?
The answer is that Bell Byrd are too tough to handle,

just as was Senator Eastland after he supported the Dixiecrats
in 1948 and Senator Daniel of Texas, who went for Ike in '52.
As a matter of fact, the Democratic majority in the Senate
is made good by only two votes and it happens that these two
senators are spectacular bolters. Morse of Oregon bolted the
GOP to become a Democrat and Thurmond of South Carolina ran
as a Dixiecrat for President in '48, subsequently being elected
to the Senate as an Independent in opposition to the Democratic
candidate. Moreover, Lausche of Ohio voted for Taft and never
yet has promised to vote with the Democrats even to organize
the Senate.
A prominent characteristic of this month's election was the
growing independence of party labels by voters. In state after
state, citizens said the heck with labels and coldly split their
tickets between Democrats and Republicans. The entire Southern
region bolted the Democratic ticket, lke's total popular vote exceeding 
that of Adlai's.
Against that background, it would be aimless to single out
Powell for spiteful discipline. The Democrats have a right to be
sore, but this is the-time for restraint and a licking of wounds.
Giving Powell the works by depriving him of a couple of clerks
will strengthen him.

MY WEEKLY
SERMON
Subject: "There is No Death."
Text: 1 Corinthians Chapt. 15.
My weekly sermonette consists of
excerts from my eulogy delivered
above the bier of the late J. A.
Swayze who was vise-president of
the Universal life Insurance Company, 
Memphis Tennessee.
While no verbal expression of
mine can add peace to his ashes
or sweetness to his immortal soul
yet I beg leave to eulogize briefly
the late J. A. Swayze who was
minister of music, superintendent
of the Sunday school and trustee
of the Mississippi Blvd. Christian
Church.
There is a sense of loneliness
among the thousands in Memphis
and where ever the news of Swayze's 
death has gone. Something has
gone out of their lives; but because
of Swayze, thank God, something
noble has come into our lives and
will abide forever to greaten our
faith and comfort our sad Hearts.
He died as he had prayed to die
... Suddenly. It may be that his
prayers ran thus: "Let me live out
my years in the heat of blood! Let
me go quickly like a candle light
snuffed out just at the hey-dey of
its glow!", and so it was with
Swayze.
Swayze was unique, vibrant of
personality picturesque, human. He
loved life and he loved to live;
He loved people; he. loved to help
people. There was granite in his
nature and likewise exquisite tenderness 
in his nature. He was innately 
musical. His heart was big
like a mountain. The brilliancy of
his mind was like a scintillating
jewel. His wit effervesced. He had
a terrific memory .... where the
leaves of the Bible destroyed, his
marvelous memory would work
their restoration. He was a man.
But Swayze would have me take
a text from the book he loved so
much and knew so well. My text
comes from the mightiest passage fo
the fifteenth chapter of first corinthians. 
"For this Corruptible
must put on Incorruption and this
Mortal must put on Immorality.
O, Death where is thy Sting?
O Grave where is thy Victory?"
Many people erroneously think
of ressurection as resuscitation, giv
ing life again to these identical
bodies we now possess .. But not
so. Our earthly perishable bodies 
designed for this cannot take
possession of God's imperishable
kingdom. "Flesh and blood cannot
Inherit the kingdom of God."
These bodies of ours are but mudhouses 
in which we live; They are
destined for the dust. But thanks
be to God;" Dust Thou Art To
Dust Returneth Was Not Spoken
Of The Soul," The soul is immortal. 
So I tell you Swayze has
not died, his hand clasps yours
and mine. Swayze is but glorified,
he has become divine; Swayze lives
he knows, he can see; he shouts
with every breath life is eternity,
there is no death. Only the tenement 
of clay in which Swayze once
lived is dead.
With profound faith in Jesus
Christ is Lord standing upon the
impregnable, rock of Holy Scripture 
we can sing with the poet:
"There is no death; The stars go
down to rise upon some other shore
and bright in heaven's jeweled
crown they shine for evermore.
"An ever near us, though unseen,
the dear immortal spirits tread for
all the boundless universe is life
there are no dead."
Yes God has gathered in himself 
the generous spirit of our beloved 
friend, Swaye.
So good night — but not goodbye. 


REV. BLAIR T. HUNT
PASTOR
MISSISSIPPI BLVD. CHRISTIAN
CHURCH, MEMPHIS
Subject: "There is No Death."
Text: 1 Corinthians Chapt. 15.
My weekly sermonette consists of
excerts from my eulogy delivered
above the bier of the late J. A.
Swayze who was vise-president of
the Universal life Insurance Company, 
Memphis Tennessee.
While no verbal expression of
mine can add peace to his ashes
or sweetness to his immortal soul
yet I beg leave to eulogize briefly
the late J. A. Swayze who was
minister of music, superintendent
of the Sunday school and trustee
of the Mississippi Blvd. Christian
Church.
There is a sense of loneliness
among the thousands in Memphis
and where ever the news of Swayze's 
death has gone. Something has
gone out of their lives; but because
of Swayze, thank God, something
noble has come into our lives and
will abide forever to greaten our
faith and comfort our sad Hearts.
He died as he had prayed to die
... Suddenly. It may be that his
prayers ran thus: "Let me live out
my years in the heat of blood! Let
me go quickly like a candle light
snuffed out just at the hey-dey of
its glow!", and so it was with
Swayze.
Swayze was unique, vibrant of
personality picturesque, human. He
loved life and he loved to live;
He loved people; he. loved to help
people. There was granite in his
nature and likewise exquisite tenderness 
in his nature. He was innately 
musical. His heart was big
like a mountain. The brilliancy of
his mind was like a scintillating
jewel. His wit effervesced. He had
a terrific memory .... where the
leaves of the Bible destroyed, his
marvelous memory would work
their restoration. He was a man.
But Swayze would have me take
a text from the book he loved so
much and knew so well. My text
comes from the mightiest passage fo
the fifteenth chapter of first corinthians. 
"For this Corruptible
must put on Incorruption and this
Mortal must put on Immorality.
O, Death where is thy Sting?
O Grave where is thy Victory?"
Many people erroneously think
of ressurection as resuscitation, giv
ing life again to these identical
bodies we now possess .. But not
so. Our earthly perishable bodies 
designed for this cannot take
possession of God's imperishable
kingdom. "Flesh and blood cannot
Inherit the kingdom of God."
These bodies of ours are but mudhouses 
in which we live; They are
destined for the dust. But thanks
be to God;" Dust Thou Art To
Dust Returneth Was Not Spoken
Of The Soul," The soul is immortal. 
So I tell you Swayze has
not died, his hand clasps yours
and mine. Swayze is but glorified,
he has become divine; Swayze lives
he knows, he can see; he shouts
with every breath life is eternity,
there is no death. Only the tenement 
of clay in which Swayze once
lived is dead.
With profound faith in Jesus
Christ is Lord standing upon the
impregnable, rock of Holy Scripture 
we can sing with the poet:
"There is no death; The stars go
down to rise upon some other shore
and bright in heaven's jeweled
crown they shine for evermore.
"An ever near us, though unseen,
the dear immortal spirits tread for
all the boundless universe is life
there are no dead."
Yes God has gathered in himself 
the generous spirit of our beloved 
friend, Swaye.
So good night — but not goodbye. 


REV BLAIR T. HUNT, PASTOR,
Mississippi Blvd. Christian Church
Subject: "There is No Death."
Text: 1 Corinthians Chapt. 15.
My weekly sermonette consists of
excerts from my eulogy delivered
above the bier of the late J. A.
Swayze who was vise-president of
the Universal life Insurance Company, 
Memphis Tennessee.
While no verbal expression of
mine can add peace to his ashes
or sweetness to his immortal soul
yet I beg leave to eulogize briefly
the late J. A. Swayze who was
minister of music, superintendent
of the Sunday school and trustee
of the Mississippi Blvd. Christian
Church.
There is a sense of loneliness
among the thousands in Memphis
and where ever the news of Swayze's 
death has gone. Something has
gone out of their lives; but because
of Swayze, thank God, something
noble has come into our lives and
will abide forever to greaten our
faith and comfort our sad Hearts.
He died as he had prayed to die
... Suddenly. It may be that his
prayers ran thus: "Let me live out
my years in the heat of blood! Let
me go quickly like a candle light
snuffed out just at the hey-dey of
its glow!", and so it was with
Swayze.
Swayze was unique, vibrant of
personality picturesque, human. He
loved life and he loved to live;
He loved people; he. loved to help
people. There was granite in his
nature and likewise exquisite tenderness 
in his nature. He was innately 
musical. His heart was big
like a mountain. The brilliancy of
his mind was like a scintillating
jewel. His wit effervesced. He had
a terrific memory .... where the
leaves of the Bible destroyed, his
marvelous memory would work
their restoration. He was a man.
But Swayze would have me take
a text from the book he loved so
much and knew so well. My text
comes from the mightiest passage fo
the fifteenth chapter of first corinthians. 
"For this Corruptible
must put on Incorruption and this
Mortal must put on Immorality.
O, Death where is thy Sting?
O Grave where is thy Victory?"
Many people erroneously think
of ressurection as resuscitation, giv
ing life again to these identical
bodies we now possess .. But not
so. Our earthly perishable bodies 
designed for this cannot take
possession of God's imperishable
kingdom. "Flesh and blood cannot
Inherit the kingdom of God."
These bodies of ours are but mudhouses 
in which we live; They are
destined for the dust. But thanks
be to God;" Dust Thou Art To
Dust Returneth Was Not Spoken
Of The Soul," The soul is immortal. 
So I tell you Swayze has
not died, his hand clasps yours
and mine. Swayze is but glorified,
he has become divine; Swayze lives
he knows, he can see; he shouts
with every breath life is eternity,
there is no death. Only the tenement 
of clay in which Swayze once
lived is dead.
With profound faith in Jesus
Christ is Lord standing upon the
impregnable, rock of Holy Scripture 
we can sing with the poet:
"There is no death; The stars go
down to rise upon some other shore
and bright in heaven's jeweled
crown they shine for evermore.
"An ever near us, though unseen,
the dear immortal spirits tread for
all the boundless universe is life
there are no dead."
Yes God has gathered in himself 
the generous spirit of our beloved 
friend, Swaye.
So good night — but not goodbye. 


BRIEF COMMENTS
Personally, we prefer for the go-getter type of women to goget 
somebody else.
Words have o different meaning to different ears, so be
careful how you use them.
We know old men who remember the compliments that came
to them as little boys.
Being courteous may require a little extra time but, in the
long run, it often saves time.

REVIEWING
THE NEWS
BY WILLIAM GORDON
The large crowd of white people which stood on the grounds
of a Georgia school recently protesting the action of the Klan,
came to grips with the elements of a dying political force, yet
still strong in many areas.
But the most interesting aspect is that the group stood up
for what is right. The political forces at work kept a Negro
football team from playing on the grounds of o white high school,
where the results would have been a gesture of good race relations. 
The proceeds would hove gone to buy uniforms for a
band for the white school.
Charles Farrar, president of the Junior Chamber of Commerce
sponsoring the game said it would eventually be held.
"We'll hold it in a cow pasture if we have to," he said. "We
feel a principle in involved."
This was a chance to do a decent job of race relations, to
offset much of the rabble and misunderstanding constantly seeping
out of the South. 'But the political forces spoke and the game was
called off.
This is no atempt to discuss the merits or demerits of segregation; 
the game was called to do a charitable job and not
to promote integration as some would assume. So the matter
as I see it, is one of moral ethics irrespective of the mores and
superstitions or the concepts of race.
The fact that we still have to submit to the Klan methods
is discouraging if we are to continue to support the theory of a
free society; ours is a country governed by laws rather than
men. Men may still have their views about segregation, but such
views should not be imposed on others if we are to remain a free
nation.
The story out of Summerville, Ga. is not in line of good
ethics. Such incidents hurt the South; they hurt the country.
Another example would be the story of two German editors
who visited the South recently.
One of 4he editors was called aside by a Southerner who
asked why he apologized to a Negro woman after brushing
against her on the street.
"I was trying to be polite," he said. "Here in the South,
we don't make it a practice to respect Negroes," the Southerner
told the editor.
The fact is that the Southerner was too ignorant or either
didn't care how much his actions would be publicized both here
and abroad. Actually, the German editor was not concerned
with the matter merely on the basis of race. It was simply that
of a human being, and he could not believe that, even in the
South, there were still people who could not respect his position.
"The incident irked me, and all of the good I had seen,
seemed to crumble right before my eyes." Moreover, we

had not too long ago won a war from his country on the
principles of democracy and the dignity of the individual. In
America, of all places, he simply couldn't see why some people
were still bent on maintaining segregation. But Southern politics,
he concluded, is a mill-stone around the neck of what could be
an enlightened region.

Managing Editor
Atlanta Daily World
BY WILLIAM GORDON
The large crowd of white people which stood on the grounds
of a Georgia school recently protesting the action of the Klan,
came to grips with the elements of a dying political force, yet
still strong in many areas.
But the most interesting aspect is that the group stood up
for what is right. The political forces at work kept a Negro
football team from playing on the grounds of o white high school,
where the results would have been a gesture of good race relations. 
The proceeds would hove gone to buy uniforms for a
band for the white school.
Charles Farrar, president of the Junior Chamber of Commerce
sponsoring the game said it would eventually be held.
"We'll hold it in a cow pasture if we have to," he said. "We
feel a principle in involved."
This was a chance to do a decent job of race relations, to
offset much of the rabble and misunderstanding constantly seeping
out of the South. 'But the political forces spoke and the game was
called off.
This is no atempt to discuss the merits or demerits of segregation; 
the game was called to do a charitable job and not
to promote integration as some would assume. So the matter
as I see it, is one of moral ethics irrespective of the mores and
superstitions or the concepts of race.
The fact that we still have to submit to the Klan methods
is discouraging if we are to continue to support the theory of a
free society; ours is a country governed by laws rather than
men. Men may still have their views about segregation, but such
views should not be imposed on others if we are to remain a free
nation.
The story out of Summerville, Ga. is not in line of good
ethics. Such incidents hurt the South; they hurt the country.
Another example would be the story of two German editors
who visited the South recently.
One of 4he editors was called aside by a Southerner who
asked why he apologized to a Negro woman after brushing
against her on the street.
"I was trying to be polite," he said. "Here in the South,
we don't make it a practice to respect Negroes," the Southerner
told the editor.
The fact is that the Southerner was too ignorant or either
didn't care how much his actions would be publicized both here
and abroad. Actually, the German editor was not concerned
with the matter merely on the basis of race. It was simply that
of a human being, and he could not believe that, even in the
South, there were still people who could not respect his position.
"The incident irked me, and all of the good I had seen,
seemed to crumble right before my eyes." Moreover, we

had not too long ago won a war from his country on the
principles of democracy and the dignity of the individual. In
America, of all places, he simply couldn't see why some people
were still bent on maintaining segregation. But Southern politics,
he concluded, is a mill-stone around the neck of what could be
an enlightened region.

Southern Politics, The Mill Stone
BY WILLIAM GORDON
The large crowd of white people which stood on the grounds
of a Georgia school recently protesting the action of the Klan,
came to grips with the elements of a dying political force, yet
still strong in many areas.
But the most interesting aspect is that the group stood up
for what is right. The political forces at work kept a Negro
football team from playing on the grounds of o white high school,
where the results would have been a gesture of good race relations. 
The proceeds would hove gone to buy uniforms for a
band for the white school.
Charles Farrar, president of the Junior Chamber of Commerce
sponsoring the game said it would eventually be held.
"We'll hold it in a cow pasture if we have to," he said. "We
feel a principle in involved."
This was a chance to do a decent job of race relations, to
offset much of the rabble and misunderstanding constantly seeping
out of the South. 'But the political forces spoke and the game was
called off.
This is no atempt to discuss the merits or demerits of segregation; 
the game was called to do a charitable job and not
to promote integration as some would assume. So the matter
as I see it, is one of moral ethics irrespective of the mores and
superstitions or the concepts of race.
The fact that we still have to submit to the Klan methods
is discouraging if we are to continue to support the theory of a
free society; ours is a country governed by laws rather than
men. Men may still have their views about segregation, but such
views should not be imposed on others if we are to remain a free
nation.
The story out of Summerville, Ga. is not in line of good
ethics. Such incidents hurt the South; they hurt the country.
Another example would be the story of two German editors
who visited the South recently.
One of 4he editors was called aside by a Southerner who
asked why he apologized to a Negro woman after brushing
against her on the street.
"I was trying to be polite," he said. "Here in the South,
we don't make it a practice to respect Negroes," the Southerner
told the editor.
The fact is that the Southerner was too ignorant or either
didn't care how much his actions would be publicized both here
and abroad. Actually, the German editor was not concerned
with the matter merely on the basis of race. It was simply that
of a human being, and he could not believe that, even in the
South, there were still people who could not respect his position.
"The incident irked me, and all of the good I had seen,
seemed to crumble right before my eyes." Moreover, we

had not too long ago won a war from his country on the
principles of democracy and the dignity of the individual. In
America, of all places, he simply couldn't see why some people
were still bent on maintaining segregation. But Southern politics,
he concluded, is a mill-stone around the neck of what could be
an enlightened region.

POETRY MART
A BABE OF BEAUTY
A babe of beauty was born one
morn,
In a stable dreat and bare;
His bed was only a manger,
And teach them his Father's love.
He was born of the Virgin Mary,
The son of our God up above;
He came down to save all people,
An dteach them his Father's love.
He grew up on earth and among us,
And told of God's mansions on
high;
He taught us to love each other
To meet God above the sky.
He suffered and died on the cross
here,
That all might have eternal life;
And follow in his own footsteps
To win in every strife.
So why not have love for each
other,
And to everyone be kind and true;
And live up to Christ's own teachings, 

In everything we do.
BY MABEL KELLY WRIGHT


VD Among Teens

to 1954 but that it bad risen In
1955.
Phillip R. Mather of Boston,
Association president said the increase 
in veneral disease among
young people "is somehow equated 
with the nationwide increase in
juvenile deliquency."
'Young people from the ages of
11 to 19 make up more than half
of the total VD caseload in the
United States today." he said "and
by conservative estimates 200,000
youths will acquire a venereal disease 
this year!"
Mather said the increase among
teen-age girls "is particularly disturbing." 

He said they accounted for 34
per cent of the cases last year,
compared with 30 per cent in
1953.

NAACP FREEDOM SEALS
1956




THE BLONDE
DIED DANCING
by KELLEY ROOS
From the Dodd, Mead & Co. novel. © Copyright 1949 by William and Audrey Kelley Roos. © 1956 by Kelley Roos.
Distributed by King Features Syndicate.
Connie Barton a husband of almost
five happy years has made her suspicious 
lately by his Wednesday
night absences: his alibis for going
out these evening have worn thin. So
Connie concludes Steve must be having 
blonde trouble. She resolves to
fight fire with fire. She begins by going 
to Paul's beauty parlor and having 
her jet black hair dyed the blondest 
blonde Then-
I would have to hurry. Steve
would already be home, wanting 
his dinner, impatient to get
all dolled up and be on his
Wednesday night way. But I
took time to stop at the corner
of Lexington and Fifty-ninth and
do a little testing. Perhaps I had
been deceiving myself. Maybe
Paul hadn't been so overcome by
me; maybe it was just pride in
his own work.
I leaned one shoulder up
against the fruit Juice stand window 
and loitered. Two young intellectuals, 
male, approached.
They were arguing violently.
They saw me. They stopped solving 
the world's problems, they
slowed down. After they passed
me and got faced front again I
heard one of them ask, "What
were we saying?" I was gratified. 
An elderly delivery boy
came along on a bicycle-cart. He
was nearly maimed by a taxi. I
was further gratified, but not
yet satisfied. A little man,
carrying his big wife's bundles,
turned the corner. He almost
stopped. She grasped his arm,
marched him off. I heard what
she said. She called me a hussy.
I was deeply gratified, completely 
satisfied. I went home.
It was only two rooms, bath
and kitchenette over a Lexington
Avenue delicatessen, but to me
it was the home I was trying to
save, and I went there as fast as
I could.
I went into the kitchen. Steve
had already got himself something 
to eat. I went into the
bedroom. His clothes were all
laid out, including the tie I had
given him last Christmas. Steve
was In the shower.
I got out the negligee he had
given me last Christmas. I put
it on, spent a few minutes at my
dressing table. I draped myself
on the chaise tongue, practicing
slow smiles and eyelid lowering
in a hand mirror. I tried a
throaty laugh or two.
Then the bathroom door opened
and Steve was standing there,
almost naked. He saw me. He
Jumped back into the bathroom
and slammed the door. He did
a double-take with the door. It
opened slightly once, slammed
shut again. It opened once more,
stayed open. He was looking at
me.
He ventured a step toward me.
"Connie . . ."
"Darling . . ."
"Connie, what In Gods name
happened to you?"
I've been to the beauty
parlor."
"Did it explode with you in
it?"
"Darling..."
Connie, no! Oh, no!"
He came closer and peered into
my face. I slow smiled him. I
slipped him the lowered lid business. 
I put a cigarette between
my half-parted lips. It fell out.
"Connie, why?" His voice rose.
"Why in hell did you do this to
yourself?"
I opened my mouth to speak,
but I was trying for something
too throaty, too husky. Nothing
came out.
"No!" Steve shouted. "We
won't discuss it now. I'm, late
for my appointment."
I got up and went into the
living room. I heard him scraming 
into his clothes. I fixed the
lights, low but not top tow. When
he came in, I was leaning provocatively 
against the fireplace,
one foot extended a little, my
knee bent in the Dietrich manner.
He stopped and stared at me.
I said, "Must you go out ...
must you really?"
He wavered. I was making
time. I threw back my shoulders,
lazily though, and tilted back my
head. I lowered my lids another
notch. I could hardly see him.
He said, "Yes, I really do have
to go. I ... I promised Al
Finch."
"Promised him what?"
"His aunt's coming to town,
his only aunt, and he's tied up.
I have to meet her at Pennsylvania 
Station ..."
"Darling." I swayed toward
him. "Darling ..."
"Connie, for God's sake ..."
Then he was laughing so hard
he couldn't speak. He choked,
he doubled up. Then he staggered
to the door and was gone.
I sat down. .another Wednesday 
night and I was alone. I
started for the phone to call
Paul, demand my money back.
But I by-passed the phone. There
was still something I could do.
I could follow Steve and learn
the truth. I could find out what
gorgeous, fascinating creature's
eyes needed scratching out.
I gambled on the direction
Steve might have taken, and I
won. He was crossing Lexington
at Bloomingdale's, headed for the
downtown station of the IRT
subway, when I caught sight of
him. There were enough people
on the platform to screen me
from him until a train came in.
I got in the car just behind his.
I watched him sit down. He was
smiling; occasionally his lips
would quiver in a chuckle.
At Fifty-first Street an overdone, 
outlandish blonde of an uncertain 
age boarded the train and
sat opposite Steve. He started
laughing out loud, uncontrollably.
Everybody in the car looked at
him, then looked around to find
the joke. Thwarted, they shook
their heads and shrugged at one
another. One man drew circles
on his temple and pointed to
Steve .His diagnosis received
considerable approval.
Steve got off the train at
Grand Central. I followed him
up through the teeming depot,

across Vanderbilt Avenue, West
along Forty-fourth Street it was
quite a chore. Steve was la a
hurry, anxious to get where he
was going. Bitterly I thought of
the times when he came hurrying
home to me, even on Wednesday,
nights.
He turned north on Madison
and he was practically galloping.
I was about ready to cave in
when he ducked into a large office 
building on a corner, I
reached the lobby just in time to
see him board an elevator. He
was its only passenger. Its doors
closed; it started up. I watched
the, indicator; it was at the fourteenth 
floor that Steve got out.
I took a step toward another
elevator, then hesitated. I had
a moment of shattering misgivings. 
Why was I here? Just
what did I intend to do? Confront 
the homewrecker, plant
with her to return what was lawfully 
mine? No, I could never
bring myself to do that. Then I
remembered a thing or two ...
like the first time I met Steve
Barton.
After college there was enough
of Uncle Willie's money left for
me to study journalism for a year
at Columbia. That spring, growing 
a little worried about my finances, 
I started looking for a
Job. I ventured down to one of
New York's largest if not most
literate newspaper. But I never
did get to see anyone important
there. Because this fellow named
Steve Barton was trying to main
some time with the switchboard
girl when I got there. He thought
I should let him tell me about
this newspaper dodge over a
drink, maybe two.
Two weeks later he was still
telling me, nightly. He said it
would take years for me to forget 
my education and become a
passable reporter. It was different
with him. He was only a high
school man and the New York
City high school had been so
overcrowded that he hadn't
learned anything really. He had
a chance in this newspaper dodge.
He was unsullied by any high
ideals of journalism ... I didn't
really listen to him much. I sat
there nightly in that smoky bar
and looked at him. I found myself 
enjoying that.
June I was graduated With
honors from my school of journalism. 
Steve got a raise and a
promotion from police reporting
to the sports department. We
got married.
The elevator operator was asking 
me impatiently, "Going up or
not?"
I stepped" into the car. I had
something to fight for.
"What floor?" the operator
asked.
"Fourteenth," I said emphati
cally.
"Boy, you really mean it, don't
you, lady!"
Connie comes face to face
with death tomorrow in Chapter 
3 of "The Blonde Died
Dancing"

SYNOPSIS
by KELLEY ROOS
From the Dodd, Mead & Co. novel. © Copyright 1949 by William and Audrey Kelley Roos. © 1956 by Kelley Roos.
Distributed by King Features Syndicate.
Connie Barton a husband of almost
five happy years has made her suspicious 
lately by his Wednesday
night absences: his alibis for going
out these evening have worn thin. So
Connie concludes Steve must be having 
blonde trouble. She resolves to
fight fire with fire. She begins by going 
to Paul's beauty parlor and having 
her jet black hair dyed the blondest 
blonde Then-
I would have to hurry. Steve
would already be home, wanting 
his dinner, impatient to get
all dolled up and be on his
Wednesday night way. But I
took time to stop at the corner
of Lexington and Fifty-ninth and
do a little testing. Perhaps I had
been deceiving myself. Maybe
Paul hadn't been so overcome by
me; maybe it was just pride in
his own work.
I leaned one shoulder up
against the fruit Juice stand window 
and loitered. Two young intellectuals, 
male, approached.
They were arguing violently.
They saw me. They stopped solving 
the world's problems, they
slowed down. After they passed
me and got faced front again I
heard one of them ask, "What
were we saying?" I was gratified. 
An elderly delivery boy
came along on a bicycle-cart. He
was nearly maimed by a taxi. I
was further gratified, but not
yet satisfied. A little man,
carrying his big wife's bundles,
turned the corner. He almost
stopped. She grasped his arm,
marched him off. I heard what
she said. She called me a hussy.
I was deeply gratified, completely 
satisfied. I went home.
It was only two rooms, bath
and kitchenette over a Lexington
Avenue delicatessen, but to me
it was the home I was trying to
save, and I went there as fast as
I could.
I went into the kitchen. Steve
had already got himself something 
to eat. I went into the
bedroom. His clothes were all
laid out, including the tie I had
given him last Christmas. Steve
was In the shower.
I got out the negligee he had
given me last Christmas. I put
it on, spent a few minutes at my
dressing table. I draped myself
on the chaise tongue, practicing
slow smiles and eyelid lowering
in a hand mirror. I tried a
throaty laugh or two.
Then the bathroom door opened
and Steve was standing there,
almost naked. He saw me. He
Jumped back into the bathroom
and slammed the door. He did
a double-take with the door. It
opened slightly once, slammed
shut again. It opened once more,
stayed open. He was looking at
me.
He ventured a step toward me.
"Connie . . ."
"Darling . . ."
"Connie, what In Gods name
happened to you?"
I've been to the beauty
parlor."
"Did it explode with you in
it?"
"Darling..."
Connie, no! Oh, no!"
He came closer and peered into
my face. I slow smiled him. I
slipped him the lowered lid business. 
I put a cigarette between
my half-parted lips. It fell out.
"Connie, why?" His voice rose.
"Why in hell did you do this to
yourself?"
I opened my mouth to speak,
but I was trying for something
too throaty, too husky. Nothing
came out.
"No!" Steve shouted. "We
won't discuss it now. I'm, late
for my appointment."
I got up and went into the
living room. I heard him scraming 
into his clothes. I fixed the
lights, low but not top tow. When
he came in, I was leaning provocatively 
against the fireplace,
one foot extended a little, my
knee bent in the Dietrich manner.
He stopped and stared at me.
I said, "Must you go out ...
must you really?"
He wavered. I was making
time. I threw back my shoulders,
lazily though, and tilted back my
head. I lowered my lids another
notch. I could hardly see him.
He said, "Yes, I really do have
to go. I ... I promised Al
Finch."
"Promised him what?"
"His aunt's coming to town,
his only aunt, and he's tied up.
I have to meet her at Pennsylvania 
Station ..."
"Darling." I swayed toward
him. "Darling ..."
"Connie, for God's sake ..."
Then he was laughing so hard
he couldn't speak. He choked,
he doubled up. Then he staggered
to the door and was gone.
I sat down. .another Wednesday 
night and I was alone. I
started for the phone to call
Paul, demand my money back.
But I by-passed the phone. There
was still something I could do.
I could follow Steve and learn
the truth. I could find out what
gorgeous, fascinating creature's
eyes needed scratching out.
I gambled on the direction
Steve might have taken, and I
won. He was crossing Lexington
at Bloomingdale's, headed for the
downtown station of the IRT
subway, when I caught sight of
him. There were enough people
on the platform to screen me
from him until a train came in.
I got in the car just behind his.
I watched him sit down. He was
smiling; occasionally his lips
would quiver in a chuckle.
At Fifty-first Street an overdone, 
outlandish blonde of an uncertain 
age boarded the train and
sat opposite Steve. He started
laughing out loud, uncontrollably.
Everybody in the car looked at
him, then looked around to find
the joke. Thwarted, they shook
their heads and shrugged at one
another. One man drew circles
on his temple and pointed to
Steve .His diagnosis received
considerable approval.
Steve got off the train at
Grand Central. I followed him
up through the teeming depot,

across Vanderbilt Avenue, West
along Forty-fourth Street it was
quite a chore. Steve was la a
hurry, anxious to get where he
was going. Bitterly I thought of
the times when he came hurrying
home to me, even on Wednesday,
nights.
He turned north on Madison
and he was practically galloping.
I was about ready to cave in
when he ducked into a large office 
building on a corner, I
reached the lobby just in time to
see him board an elevator. He
was its only passenger. Its doors
closed; it started up. I watched
the, indicator; it was at the fourteenth 
floor that Steve got out.
I took a step toward another
elevator, then hesitated. I had
a moment of shattering misgivings. 
Why was I here? Just
what did I intend to do? Confront 
the homewrecker, plant
with her to return what was lawfully 
mine? No, I could never
bring myself to do that. Then I
remembered a thing or two ...
like the first time I met Steve
Barton.
After college there was enough
of Uncle Willie's money left for
me to study journalism for a year
at Columbia. That spring, growing 
a little worried about my finances, 
I started looking for a
Job. I ventured down to one of
New York's largest if not most
literate newspaper. But I never
did get to see anyone important
there. Because this fellow named
Steve Barton was trying to main
some time with the switchboard
girl when I got there. He thought
I should let him tell me about
this newspaper dodge over a
drink, maybe two.
Two weeks later he was still
telling me, nightly. He said it
would take years for me to forget 
my education and become a
passable reporter. It was different
with him. He was only a high
school man and the New York
City high school had been so
overcrowded that he hadn't
learned anything really. He had
a chance in this newspaper dodge.
He was unsullied by any high
ideals of journalism ... I didn't
really listen to him much. I sat
there nightly in that smoky bar
and looked at him. I found myself 
enjoying that.
June I was graduated With
honors from my school of journalism. 
Steve got a raise and a
promotion from police reporting
to the sports department. We
got married.
The elevator operator was asking 
me impatiently, "Going up or
not?"
I stepped" into the car. I had
something to fight for.
"What floor?" the operator
asked.
"Fourteenth," I said emphati
cally.
"Boy, you really mean it, don't
you, lady!"
Connie comes face to face
with death tomorrow in Chapter 
3 of "The Blonde Died
Dancing"

CHAPTKR 2
by KELLEY ROOS
From the Dodd, Mead & Co. novel. © Copyright 1949 by William and Audrey Kelley Roos. © 1956 by Kelley Roos.
Distributed by King Features Syndicate.
Connie Barton a husband of almost
five happy years has made her suspicious 
lately by his Wednesday
night absences: his alibis for going
out these evening have worn thin. So
Connie concludes Steve must be having 
blonde trouble. She resolves to
fight fire with fire. She begins by going 
to Paul's beauty parlor and having 
her jet black hair dyed the blondest 
blonde Then-
I would have to hurry. Steve
would already be home, wanting 
his dinner, impatient to get
all dolled up and be on his
Wednesday night way. But I
took time to stop at the corner
of Lexington and Fifty-ninth and
do a little testing. Perhaps I had
been deceiving myself. Maybe
Paul hadn't been so overcome by
me; maybe it was just pride in
his own work.
I leaned one shoulder up
against the fruit Juice stand window 
and loitered. Two young intellectuals, 
male, approached.
They were arguing violently.
They saw me. They stopped solving 
the world's problems, they
slowed down. After they passed
me and got faced front again I
heard one of them ask, "What
were we saying?" I was gratified. 
An elderly delivery boy
came along on a bicycle-cart. He
was nearly maimed by a taxi. I
was further gratified, but not
yet satisfied. A little man,
carrying his big wife's bundles,
turned the corner. He almost
stopped. She grasped his arm,
marched him off. I heard what
she said. She called me a hussy.
I was deeply gratified, completely 
satisfied. I went home.
It was only two rooms, bath
and kitchenette over a Lexington
Avenue delicatessen, but to me
it was the home I was trying to
save, and I went there as fast as
I could.
I went into the kitchen. Steve
had already got himself something 
to eat. I went into the
bedroom. His clothes were all
laid out, including the tie I had
given him last Christmas. Steve
was In the shower.
I got out the negligee he had
given me last Christmas. I put
it on, spent a few minutes at my
dressing table. I draped myself
on the chaise tongue, practicing
slow smiles and eyelid lowering
in a hand mirror. I tried a
throaty laugh or two.
Then the bathroom door opened
and Steve was standing there,
almost naked. He saw me. He
Jumped back into the bathroom
and slammed the door. He did
a double-take with the door. It
opened slightly once, slammed
shut again. It opened once more,
stayed open. He was looking at
me.
He ventured a step toward me.
"Connie . . ."
"Darling . . ."
"Connie, what In Gods name
happened to you?"
I've been to the beauty
parlor."
"Did it explode with you in
it?"
"Darling..."
Connie, no! Oh, no!"
He came closer and peered into
my face. I slow smiled him. I
slipped him the lowered lid business. 
I put a cigarette between
my half-parted lips. It fell out.
"Connie, why?" His voice rose.
"Why in hell did you do this to
yourself?"
I opened my mouth to speak,
but I was trying for something
too throaty, too husky. Nothing
came out.
"No!" Steve shouted. "We
won't discuss it now. I'm, late
for my appointment."
I got up and went into the
living room. I heard him scraming 
into his clothes. I fixed the
lights, low but not top tow. When
he came in, I was leaning provocatively 
against the fireplace,
one foot extended a little, my
knee bent in the Dietrich manner.
He stopped and stared at me.
I said, "Must you go out ...
must you really?"
He wavered. I was making
time. I threw back my shoulders,
lazily though, and tilted back my
head. I lowered my lids another
notch. I could hardly see him.
He said, "Yes, I really do have
to go. I ... I promised Al
Finch."
"Promised him what?"
"His aunt's coming to town,
his only aunt, and he's tied up.
I have to meet her at Pennsylvania 
Station ..."
"Darling." I swayed toward
him. "Darling ..."
"Connie, for God's sake ..."
Then he was laughing so hard
he couldn't speak. He choked,
he doubled up. Then he staggered
to the door and was gone.
I sat down. .another Wednesday 
night and I was alone. I
started for the phone to call
Paul, demand my money back.
But I by-passed the phone. There
was still something I could do.
I could follow Steve and learn
the truth. I could find out what
gorgeous, fascinating creature's
eyes needed scratching out.
I gambled on the direction
Steve might have taken, and I
won. He was crossing Lexington
at Bloomingdale's, headed for the
downtown station of the IRT
subway, when I caught sight of
him. There were enough people
on the platform to screen me
from him until a train came in.
I got in the car just behind his.
I watched him sit down. He was
smiling; occasionally his lips
would quiver in a chuckle.
At Fifty-first Street an overdone, 
outlandish blonde of an uncertain 
age boarded the train and
sat opposite Steve. He started
laughing out loud, uncontrollably.
Everybody in the car looked at
him, then looked around to find
the joke. Thwarted, they shook
their heads and shrugged at one
another. One man drew circles
on his temple and pointed to
Steve .His diagnosis received
considerable approval.
Steve got off the train at
Grand Central. I followed him
up through the teeming depot,

across Vanderbilt Avenue, West
along Forty-fourth Street it was
quite a chore. Steve was la a
hurry, anxious to get where he
was going. Bitterly I thought of
the times when he came hurrying
home to me, even on Wednesday,
nights.
He turned north on Madison
and he was practically galloping.
I was about ready to cave in
when he ducked into a large office 
building on a corner, I
reached the lobby just in time to
see him board an elevator. He
was its only passenger. Its doors
closed; it started up. I watched
the, indicator; it was at the fourteenth 
floor that Steve got out.
I took a step toward another
elevator, then hesitated. I had
a moment of shattering misgivings. 
Why was I here? Just
what did I intend to do? Confront 
the homewrecker, plant
with her to return what was lawfully 
mine? No, I could never
bring myself to do that. Then I
remembered a thing or two ...
like the first time I met Steve
Barton.
After college there was enough
of Uncle Willie's money left for
me to study journalism for a year
at Columbia. That spring, growing 
a little worried about my finances, 
I started looking for a
Job. I ventured down to one of
New York's largest if not most
literate newspaper. But I never
did get to see anyone important
there. Because this fellow named
Steve Barton was trying to main
some time with the switchboard
girl when I got there. He thought
I should let him tell me about
this newspaper dodge over a
drink, maybe two.
Two weeks later he was still
telling me, nightly. He said it
would take years for me to forget 
my education and become a
passable reporter. It was different
with him. He was only a high
school man and the New York
City high school had been so
overcrowded that he hadn't
learned anything really. He had
a chance in this newspaper dodge.
He was unsullied by any high
ideals of journalism ... I didn't
really listen to him much. I sat
there nightly in that smoky bar
and looked at him. I found myself 
enjoying that.
June I was graduated With
honors from my school of journalism. 
Steve got a raise and a
promotion from police reporting
to the sports department. We
got married.
The elevator operator was asking 
me impatiently, "Going up or
not?"
I stepped" into the car. I had
something to fight for.
"What floor?" the operator
asked.
"Fourteenth," I said emphati
cally.
"Boy, you really mean it, don't
you, lady!"
Connie comes face to face
with death tomorrow in Chapter 
3 of "The Blonde Died
Dancing"

Jaycees Slate Programs
To Raise Funds For Needy
In order to boost the funds of
their annual Christmas Charity
Drive to buy toys and clothes for
needy children the Memphis Negro 
Junior Chamber of Commerce
is sponsoring two benefit programs
here Dec. 17 and Dec. 21, announced 
Onie Horne, Jaycee publicity
chairman.
First will be the Jaycee "Calvacade 
of Bands" Monday night,
Dec. 17, at Club Ebony, 500 Beale,
Gifting free, performances will be
the Willie Mitchell band v/h vocalist 
Bill Taylor. Bob (Honeymoon) 
Garner and his group featuring 
singers Harold Conner and
Frances Burett: Bern Branch and
orchestra, the Al Jackson orchestra

with Dick (Cane) Cole. vocalist;
the comedy team of Bones and
Britt, and vocal groups: the Tinos,
the Del Rios and the Five Rubies.
WLOK disc jockey "Hunky Dory" 
will emcee the program along
with other announcers.
Following the band parade will
be the Gospel Calvacade Friday
night, Dec. 21, at the Christian
Youth Auditorium, Front and
Popular. Making free apearances
will be the Southern Wonders, the
Southern Male Chorus the Jordan 
Wonders the Pentecostal Ensemble 
and others.
Admission to either program Is
$1.

Jackson College Staffer
To Serve As Consultant
Dr. A. C. Blanks, Chairman of
the Division of Education, at Jackson 
State College, has been approved 
by the Board of Trustees of
Mississippi Training Schools as a
psychological consultant for the
Oakley Training School, Raymond,
Mississippi. He will administer
clinical tests to the Juvenile delinquent 
population at the Oakley
Training School, and in addition
to this Dr. Blanks will supervise
the development of an educational 
testing program to serve as the

basis for a training program in
educational rehabilitation.
D. Blanks received the Ph. D
Degree in Psychology from New
York University. He is a member
of the American Psychological Association 
and is Director of Graduate 
Studies at Jackson State
College.
Sammy
Garcia, 7, found a pair of handcuffs
on his way home from school and,
boylike, he snapped one end around
his wrist. Along came Ronald
Davis, 12, who snapped the other
end around a garage-door handle.
Sammy's yells for help brought his
mother, Mrs. Frances Garcia, who
took one look and, called police.
They unlocked Sammy and the
garage door, checked the serial
number on the handcuffs and found
that an officer had lost them on
patrol.

NOT TOO FUNNY
Dr. A. C. Blanks, Chairman of
the Division of Education, at Jackson 
State College, has been approved 
by the Board of Trustees of
Mississippi Training Schools as a
psychological consultant for the
Oakley Training School, Raymond,
Mississippi. He will administer
clinical tests to the Juvenile delinquent 
population at the Oakley
Training School, and in addition
to this Dr. Blanks will supervise
the development of an educational 
testing program to serve as the

basis for a training program in
educational rehabilitation.
D. Blanks received the Ph. D
Degree in Psychology from New
York University. He is a member
of the American Psychological Association 
and is Director of Graduate 
Studies at Jackson State
College.
Sammy
Garcia, 7, found a pair of handcuffs
on his way home from school and,
boylike, he snapped one end around
his wrist. Along came Ronald
Davis, 12, who snapped the other
end around a garage-door handle.
Sammy's yells for help brought his
mother, Mrs. Frances Garcia, who
took one look and, called police.
They unlocked Sammy and the
garage door, checked the serial
number on the handcuffs and found
that an officer had lost them on
patrol.

BUTTER-FINGERED
BURGLAR
It must have
been a butter-fingered burglar who
recently "broke into a packing company 
here. The burglar slashed
his hands on broken glass; jimmied 
a door only to find it led to
an outside loading dock; tried
again and pried two padlocks free
to find they guarded a cooler door;
found a quarter of beef too heavy
to carry and settled for a small
piece of beef cut from the quarter,
which was of the very poorest
grade.

BUY BONDS