In American romance, almost nothing rates higher than what the movie men have called ``meeting cute'' -- that is, boy-meets-girl seems more adorable if it doesn't take place in an atmosphere of correct and acute boredom. Just about the most enthralling real-life example of meeting cute is the Charles MacArthur-Helen Hayes saga: reputedly all he did was give her a handful of peanuts, but he said simultaneously, ``I wish they were emeralds''. Aside from the comico-romantico content here, a good linguist-anthropologist could readily pick up a few other facts, especially if he had a little more of the conversation to go on. The way MacArthur said his line -- if you had the recorded transcript of a professional linguist -- would probably have gone like this: Af Primary stresses on emeralds and wish; note pitch 3 (pretty high) on emeralds but with a slight degree of drawl, one degree of oversoftness. Conclusions: The people involved (and subsequent facts bear me out here) knew clearly the relative values of peanuts and emeralds, both monetary and sentimental. And the drawling, oversoft voice of flirtation, though fairly overt, was still well within the prescribed gambit of their culture. In other words, like automation machines designed to work in tandem, they shared the same programming, a mutual understanding not only of English words, but of the four stresses, pitches, and junctures that can change their meaning from black to white. At this point, unfortunately, romance becomes a regrettably small part of the picture; but consider, if you can bear it, what might have happened if MacArthur, for some perverse, undaunted reason, had made the same remark to an Eskimo girl in Eskimo. To her peanuts and emeralds would have been just so much blubber. The point -- quite simply -- is this: words they might have had; but communication, no. This basic principle, the first in a richly knotted bundle, was conveyed to me by Dr. Henry Lee Smith, Jr., at the University of Buffalo, where he heads the world's first department of anthropology and linguistics. A brisk, amusing man, apparently constructed on an ingenious system of spring-joints attuned to the same peppery rhythm as his mind, Smith began his academic career teaching speech to Barnard girls -- a project considerably enlivened by his devotion to a recording about ``a young rat named Arthur, who never could make up his mind''. Later, he became one of the central spirits of the Army Language Program and the language school of Washington's Foreign Service Institute. It was there, in the course of trying to prepare new men for the ``culture shock'' they might encounter in remote overseas posts, that he first began to develop a system of charting the ``norms of human communication''. To the trained ear of the linguist, talk has always revealed a staggering quantity of information about the talker -- such things as geographical origin and / or history, socio-economic identity, education. It is only fairly recently, however, that linguists have developed a systematic way of charting voices on paper in a way that tells even more about the speakers and about the success or failure of human communication between two people. This, for obvious reasons, makes their techniques superbly useful in studying the psychiatric interview, so useful, in fact, that they have been successfully used to suggest ways to speed diagnosis and to evaluate the progress of therapy. In the early 1950's, Smith, together with his distinguished colleague, George Trager (so austerely academic he sometimes fights his own evident charm), and a third man with the engaging name of Birdwhistell (Ray), agreed on some basic premises about the three-part process that makes communication: (1) words or language (2) paralanguage, a set of phenomena including laughing, weeping, voice breaks, and ``tone'' of voice, and (3) kinesics, the technical name for gestures, facial expressions, and body shifts -- nodding or shaking the head, ``talking'' with one's hands, et cetera. Smith's first workout with stresses, pitches, and junctures was based on mother, which spells, in our culture, a good deal more than bread alone. For example, if you are a reasonably well-adjusted person, there are certain ways that are reasonable and appropriate for addressing your mother. The usual U. S. norm would be: Af Middle pitches, slight pause (juncture) before mother, slight rise at the end. The symbols of mother's status, here, are all usual for culture U. S. A.. Quite other feelings are evidenced by this style: Af Note the drop to pitch 1 (the lowest) on mother with no rise at the end of the sentence; this is a ``fade'' ending, and what you have here is a downtalking style of speech, expressing something less than conventional respect for mother. Even less regard for mom and mom's apple pie goes with: Af In other words, the way the speaker relates to mother is clearly indicated. And while the meaning of the words is not in this instance altered, the quality of communication in both the second and third examples is definitely impaired. An accompanying record of paralanguage factors for the second example might also note a throaty rasp. With this seven-word sentence -- though the speaker undoubtedly thought he was dealing only with the subject of food -- he was telling things about himself and, in the last two examples, revealing that he had departed from the customs of his culture. The joint investigations of linguistics and psychiatry have established, in point of fact, that no matter what the subject of conversation is or what words are involved, it is impossible for people to talk at all without telling over and over again what sort of people they are and how they relate to the rest of the world. Since interviewing is the basic therapeutic and diagnostic instrument of modern psychiatry, the recording of interviews for playbacks and study has been a boost of Redstone proportions in new research and training. Some of the earliest recordings, made in the 1940's demonstrated that psychiatrists reacted immediately to anger and anxiety in the sound track, whereas written records of the same interview offered far fewer cues to therapy which -- if they were at all discernible in print -- were picked up only by the most skilled and sensitive experts. In a general way, psychiatrists were able to establish on a wide basis what many of them had always felt -- that the most telling cues in psychotherapy are acoustic, that such things as stress and nagging are transmitted by sound alone and not necessarily by words. At a minimum, recording -- usually on tape, which is now in wide professional use -- brings the psychiatric interview alive so that the full range of emotion and meaning can be explored repeatedly by the therapist or by a battery of therapists. Newest to this high-powered battery are the experts in linguistics who have carried that minimum to a new level. By adding a systematic analysis with symbols to the typed transcripts of interviews, they have supplied a new set of techniques for the therapist. Linguistic charting of the transcribed interview flags points where the patient's voice departs from expected norms. It flags such possible breakdowns of communication as rehearsed dialogue, the note of disapproval, ambivalence or ambiguity, annoyance, resentment, and the disinclination to speak at all -- this last often marked by a fade-in beginning of sentences. Interpretation, naturally, remains the role of the therapist, but orientation -- not only the patient's vocal giveaways of geographical and socio-economic background, but also vocal but non-verbal giveaways of danger spots in his relationship to people -- can be considerably beefed up by the linguist. His esoteric chartings of the voice alert the therapist to areas where deeper probing may bring to light underlying psychological difficulties, making them apparent first to the therapist and eventually to the patient. In one now-historic first interview, for example, the transcript (reproduced from the book, The First Five Minutes) goes like this: The therapist's level tone is bland and neutral -- he has, for example, avoided stressing ``you'', which would imply disapproval; or surprise, which would set the patient apart from other people. The patient, on the other hand, is far from neutral; aside from her specifically regional accent, she reveals by the use of the triad, ``irritable, tense, depressed'', a certain pedantic itemization that indicates she has some familiarity with literary or scientific language (i. e., she must have had at least a high-school education), and she is telling a story she has mentally rehearsed some time before. Then she catapults into ``everything and everybody'', putting particular violence on ``everybody'', indicating to the linguist that this is a spot to flag -- that is, it is not congruent to the patient's general style of speech up to this point. Consequently, it is referred to the therapist for attention. He may then very well conclude that ``everybody'' is probably not the true target of her resentment. Immediately thereafter, the patient fractures her rehearsed story, veering into an oversoft, breathy, sloppily articulated, ``I don't feel like talking right now''. Within the first five minutes of this interview it is apparent to the therapist that ``everybody'' truthfully refers to the woman's husband. She says later, but still within the opening five minutes, ``I keep thinking of a divorce but that's another emotional death''. The linguistic and paralinguistic signals of misery are all present in the voice chart for this sentence; so are certain signals that she does not accept divorce. By saying ``another emotional death'', she reveals that there has been a previous one, although she has not described it in words. This the therapist may pursue in later questioning. The phrase, ``emotional death'', interesting and, to a non-scientific mind, rather touching, suggests that this woman may have some flair for words, perhaps even something of the temperament regrettably called ``creative''. Since the psychiatric interview, like any other interview, depends on communication, it is significant to note that the therapist in this interview was a man of marked skill and long experience. His own communication apparatus operated superbly, and Lillian Ross readers will note instantly its total lack of resemblance to the blunted, monumentally unmeshed mechanism of Dr. Blauberman. Interestingly enough -- although none of the real-life therapists involved could conceivably compare with Blauberman -- when groups of them began playing back interviews, they discovered any number of ways in which they wanted to polish their own interview techniques; almost everyone, on first hearing one of his own sessions on tape, expressed some desire to take the whole thing over again. Yet, in spite of this, intensive study of the taped interviews by teams of psychotherapists and linguists laid bare the surprising fact that, in the first five minutes of an initial interview, the patient often reveals as many as a dozen times just what's wrong with him; to spot these giveaways the therapist must know either intuitively or scientifically how to listen. Naturally, the patient does not say, ``I hate my father'', or ``Sibling rivalry is what bugs me''. What he does do is give himself away by communicating information over and above the words involved. Stammering or repetition of I, you, he, she, et cetera may signal ambiguity or uncertainty. On the other hand significant facts may be concealed -- she may mean I or everybody, as it did with the tense and irritable woman mentioned before, may refer to a specific person. The word that is not used can be as important as the word that is used; therapist and / or linguist must always consider the alternatives. When someone says, for example, ``They took x-rays to see that there was nothing wrong with me'', it pays to consider how this statement would normally be made. (This patient, in actuality, was a neurasthenic who had almost come to the point of accepting the fact that it was not her soma but her psyche that was the cause of her difficulty. ) Amateur linguists note here that Pursewarden, in Durrell's Alexandria Quartet, stammered when he spoke of his wife, which is hardly surprising in view of their disastrous relationship. She was just another freighter from the States, and she seemed as commonplace as her name. She was the John Harvey, one of those Atlantic sea-horses that had sailed to Bari to bring beans, bombs, and bullets to the U. S. Fifteenth Air Force, to Field Marshal Montgomery's Eighth Army then racing up the calf of the boot of Italy in that early December of 1943. The John Harvey arrived in Bari, a port on the Adriatic, on November 28th, making for Porto Nuovo, which, as the name indicates, was the ancient city's new and modern harbor. Hardly anyone ashore marked her as she anchored stern-to off Berth 29 on the mole. If anyone thought of the John Harvey, it was to observe that she was straddled by a pair of ships heavily laden with high explosive and if they were hit the John Harvey would likely be blown up with her own ammo and whatever else it was that she carried. Which was poison gas. It had required the approval of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt before the John Harvey could be loaded with 100 tons of mustard gas and despatched to the Italian warfront. For in a world as yet unacquainted with the horrors of the mushroom cloud, poison gas was still regarded as the ultimate in hideous weapons. Throughout the early years of World War 2,, reports persisted that the Axis powers had used gas -- Germany in Russia, Japan in China again. They were always denied. Influential people in America were warning the Pentagon to be prepared against desperation gas attacks by the Germans in future campaigns. Some extremists went so far as to urge our using it first. ``From time to time since the present war began there have been reports that one or more of the Axis powers were seriously contemplating use of poisonous gas or noxious gases or other inhumane devices of warfare. I have been loath to believe that any nation, even our present enemies, could or would be willing to loose upon mankind such terrible and inhumane weapons. ``However, evidence that the Axis powers are making significant preparations indicative of such an intention is being reported with increasing frequency from a variety of sources. ``Use of such weapons has been outlawed by the general opinion of civilized mankind. This country has not used them, and I hope that we never will be compelled to use them. I state categorically that we shall under no circumstances resort to the use of such weapons unless they are first used by our enemies''. The following month the invasion of Italy was begun, and Roosevelt gave effect to his warning by consenting to the stockpiling of poison gas in southern Italy. Bari was chosen as a depot, not only for its seeming safety, but because of its proximity to airfields. Any retaliatory gas attack would be airborne. It would be made in three waves -- the first to lay down a smokescreen, the second to drop the gas bombs, the third to shower incendiaries which would burn everything below. So the vile cargo went into the hole of the John Harvey. A detachment of six men from the 701st Chemical Maintenance Company under First Lt. Howard D. Beckstrom went aboard, followed by Lt. Thomas H. Richardson, the Cargo Security Officer. Secrecy was paramount. Only a few other people -- very important people -- knew of the nitrogen-mustard eggs nestled below decks. No one else must know. Thus, in the immemorial way -- in the way of the right hand that knows and the left that does not -- was the stage set for tragedy at Bari. It was the night of December 2, 1943, and it was growing dark in Bari. It was getting on toward 7 o'clock and the German Me-210 plane had been and gone on its eighth straight visit. Capt. A. B. Jenks of the Office of Harbor Defense was very worried. He knew that German long-range bombers had been returning to the attack in Italy. On November 24th, they had made a raid on La Maddalena. Two days later, some 30 of them had struck at a convoy off Bougie, sinking a troopship -- and it had been that very night that the Me-210 had made its first appearance. ``For three days now a German reconnaissance plane has been over the city taking pictures. They're just waiting for the proper time to come over here and dump this place into the Adriatic''. But the older and wiser heads had dismissed his warning as alarmist. Even though it was known that the Luftwaffe in the north was now being directed by the young and energetic General Peltz, the commander who would conduct the ``Little Blitz'' on London in 1944, a major raid on Bari at this juncture of the war was not to be considered seriously. True, there had been raids on Naples -- but Naples was pretty far north on the opposite coast. No, Bari was out of range. More than that, Allied air had complete superiority in the Eighth Army's sector. So Captain Jenks returned to his harbor post to watch the scouting plane put in five more appearances, and to feel the certainty of this dread rising within him. For Jenks knew that Bari's defenses were made of paper. The Royal Air Force had but a single light anti-aircraft squadron and two balloon units available. There were no R. A. F. fighter squadrons on Bari airfield. The radar station with the best location was still not serviceable. Telephone communication was bad. And everywhere in evidence among the few remaining defensive units was that old handmaiden of disaster -- multiple command. It had been made shockingly evident that very morning to Ensign Kay K. Vesole, in charge of the armed guard aboard the John Bascom. A British officer had come aboard and told him that in case of enemy air attack he was not to open fire until bombs were actually dropped. Then he was to co-ordinate his fire with a radar-controlled shore gun firing white tracers. ``This harbor is a bomber's paradise'', the Britisher had said with frank grimness. ``It's up to you to protect yourselves. We can't expect any help from the fighters at Foggia, either. They're all being used on offensive missions''. Vesole had been stunned. Not fire until the bombs came down! He thought of the tons and tons of flammable fluid beneath his feet and shook his head. Like hell! Like hell he'd wait -- and supposing the radar-controlled gun got knocked out? What would his guns guide on then -- the North Star? Ensign Vesole decided that he would not tarry until he heard the whispering of the bombs, and when night began to fall, he put Seaman 2 / c Donald L. Norton and Seaman 1 / c William A. Rochford on the guns and told them to start shooting the moment they saw an enemy silhouette. Below decks, Seaman 1 / c Stanley Bishop had begun to write a letter home. Above decks on the John Harvey, Lieutenant Richardson gazed at the lights still burning on the port wall and felt uneasy. There were lights glinting in the city, too, even though it was now dark enough for a few stars to become visible. Bari was asking for it, he thought. For five days now, they had been in port and that filthy stuff was still in the hold. Richardson wondered when it would be unloaded. He hoped they would put in somewhere way, way down in the earth. The burden of his secret was pressing down on him, as it was on Lieutenant Beckstrom and his six enlisted men. Lieutenant Richardson could envy the officers and men of the John Harvey in their innocent assumption that the ship contained nothing more dangerous than high explosive bombs. They seemed happy at the delay in unloading, glad at the chance to go ashore in a lively liberty port such as Bari. Nine of them had gone down the gangplank already. Deck Cadet James L. Cahill and Seaman Walter Brooks had been the first to leave. Richardson had returned their departing grins with the noncommittal nod that is the security officer's stock in trade. The other half of the crew, plus Beckstrom and his men, had remained aboard. Richardson glanced to sea and started slightly. Damned if that wasn't a sailing ship standing out of the old harbor -- Porto Vecchio. The night was so clear that Richardson had no difficulty making out the silhouette. Then the thought of a cloudless sky made him shiver, and he glanced upward. His eyes boggled. It was a clear night and it was raining! Capt. Michael A. Musmanno, Military governor of the Sorrentine Peninsula, had also seen and felt the ``rain''. But he had mistaken it for bugs. Captain Musmanno's renovated schooner with the flamboyant name Unsinkable had just left Porto Vecchio with a cargo of badly-needed olive oil for the Sorrentine's civilian population. Musmanno was on deck. At exactly 7: 30, he felt a fluttering object brush his face. He snatched at it savagely. He turned the beam of his flashlight on it. He laughed. It was the silver foil from the chocolate bar he had been eating. He frowned. But how could --? Another, longer strip of tinsel whipped his mouth. It was two feet long. It was not candy wrapping. It was ``window'' -- the tinsel paper dropped by bombers to jam radar sets, to fill the scope with hundreds of blips that would seem to be approaching bombers. ``Fermate''! Musmanno bellowed to his Italian crewmen. ``Stop! Stop the engines''! Unsinkable slowed and stopped, hundreds of brilliant white flares swayed eerily down from the black, the air raid sirens ashore rose in a keening shriek, the anti-aircraft guns coughed and chattered -- and above it all motors roared and the bombs came whispering and wailing and crashing down among the ships at anchor at Bari. They had come from airports in the Balkans, these hundred-odd Junkers 88's. They had winged over the Adriatic, they had taken Bari by complete surprise and now they were battering her, attacking with deadly skill. They had ruined the radar warning system with their window, they had made themselves invisible above their flares. And they also had the lights of the city, the port wall lanterns, and a shore crane's spotlight to guide on. After the first two were blacked out, the third light was abandoned by a terrified Italian crew, who left their light to shine for nine minutes like an unerring homing beacon until British MP's shot it out. In that interval, the German bombers made a hell of Bari harbor. Merchant ships illuminated in the light of the flares, made to seem like stones imbedded in a lake of polished mud, were impossible to miss. The little Unsinkable sank almost immediately. Captain Musmanno roared at his men to lash three of the casks of olive oil together for a raft. They got it over the side and clambered aboard only a few minutes before their schooner went under. John Bascom went down early, too. Ensign Vesole and his gunners had fought valiantly, but they had no targets. Most of the Junkers were above the blinding light of the flares, and the radar-controlled shore gun had been knocked out by one of the first sticks of bombs. Vesole rushed from gun to gun, attempting to direct fire. He was wounded, but fought on. Norton and Rochford fired wildly at the sounds of the motors. Bishop rushed on deck to grab a 20-mm gun, pumping out 400 rounds before sticks of three bombs each crashed into Holds One, Three and Five. Now the Bascom was mortally wounded. Luckily, she was not completely aflame and would go down before the gasoline could erupt. The order to abandon ship was given, but cries of pain could be heard from the wounded below decks. There is a pause in the merriment as your friends gaze at you, wondering why you are staring, open-mouthed in amazement. You explain, ``I have the strangest feeling of having lived through this very same event before. I can't tell when, but I'm positive I witnessed this same scene of this particular gathering at some time in the past''! This experience will have happened to many of you. Emerson, in his lecture, refers to the ``startling experience which almost every person confesses in daylight, that particular passages of conversation and action have occurred to him in the same order before, whether dreaming or waking, a suspicion that they have been with precisely these persons in precisely this room, and heard precisely this dialogue, at some former hour, they know not when''. Most psychiatrists dismiss these instances of that weird feeling as the deja vue (already seen) illusion, just as they dismiss dream previsions as coincidences. In this manner they side-step the seemingly hopeless investigation of the greater depths of mystery in which all of us grope continually. When a man recognizes a certain experience as the exact pattern of a previous dream, we have an instance of deja vue, except for the fact that he knows just why the experience seems familiar. Occasionally there are examples of pre-vision which cannot be pushed aside without confessing an unscientific attitude. One day Maeterlinck, coming with a friend upon an event which he recognized as the exact pattern of a previous dream, detailed the ensuing occurrences in advance so accurately that his companion was completely mystified. Rudyard Kipling's scorn for the ``jargon'' of psychical research was altered somewhat when he wondered ``how, or why, had I been shown an unreleased roll of my life film''? The famous author tells us of the strange incident in Something About Myself. One day when he attended a war memorial ceremony in Westminster Abbey his view was obstructed by a stout man on his left, his attention turned to the irregular pattern of the rough slab flooring and someone, clasping him by the arm, whispered, ``I want a word with you, please''. At that moment Kipling was overwhelmed with awed amazement, suddenly recalling that these identical details of scene, action and word had occurred to him in a dream six weeks earlier. Freud probably contributed more than anyone else to the understanding of dreams, enabling us to recognize their equivalents in our wakeful thoughts. However, readers who accept Freud's findings and believe that he has solved completely the mystery of dreams, should ponder over the following words in his Interpretation Of Dreams, Chapter 1: As ``a matter of fact no such complete solution of the dream has ever been accomplished in any case,, and what is more, every one attempting such solution has found that in most cases there have remained a great many components of the dream the source of which he has been unable to explain nor is the discussion closed on the subject of the mantic or prophetic power of dreams''. Dreams present many mysteries of telepathy, clairvoyance, prevision and retrovision. The basic mystery of dreams, which embraces all the others and challenges us from even the most common typical dream, is in the fact that they are original, visual continuities. I recall the startling, vivid realism of a dream in which I lived through the horror of the bombing of a little Korean town. I am sure that nothing within me is capable of composing that life-like sequence, so complete in detail, from the hodge-podge of news pictures I have seen. And when psychology explains glibly, ``but the subconscious mind is able to produce it'' it refers to a mental region so vaguely identified that it may embrace the entire universal mind as conceivably as part of the individual mind. Skeptics may deny the more startling phenomena of dreams as things they have never personally observed, but failure to wonder at their basic mystery is outright avoidance of routine evidence. The question becomes, ``What is a dream''? Is a dream simply a mental or cerebral movie? Every dream, and this is true of a mental image of any type even though it may be readily interpreted into its equivalent of wakeful thought, is a psychic phenomenon for which no explanation is available. In most cases we recognize certain words, persons, animals or objects. But these are dreamed in original action, in some particular continuity which we don't remember having seen in real life. For instance, the dreamer sees himself seated behind neighbor Smith and, with photographic realism, sees Smith driving the car; whereas, it is a matter of fact that Smith cannot drive a car. There is nothing to suggest that the brain can alter past impressions to fit into an original, realistic and unbroken continuity like we experience in dreams. The entire concept of cerebral imagery as the physical basis of a mental image can find no logical support. A ``mental image'' subconsciously impressing us from beneath its language symbols in wakeful thought, or consciously in light sleep, is actually not an image at all but is comprised of realities, viewed not in the concurrent sensory stream, but within the depths of the fourth dimension. Dreams that display events of the future with photographic detail call for a theory explaining their basic mystery and all its components, including that weird feeling of deja vue, inevitably fantastic though that theory must seem. As in the theory of perception, established in psycho-physiology, the eye is recognized as an integral part of the brain. But then this theory confesses that it is completely at a loss as to how the image can possibly be received by the brain. The opening paragraph of the chapter titled The Theory Of Representative Perception, in the book Philosophies Of Science by Albert G. Ramsperger says, ``passed on to the brain, and there, by some unexplained process, it causes the mind to have a perception''. But why is it necessary to reproduce the retinal image within the brain? As retinal images are conceded to be an integral function of the brain it seems logical to suppose that the nerves, between the inner brain and the eyes, carry the direct drive for cooperation from the various brain centers -- rather than to theorize on the transmission of an image which is already in required location. Hereby, the external object viewed by the eyes remains the thing that is seen, not the retinal image, the purpose of which would be to achieve perceptive cooperation by stirring sympathetic impulses in the other sensory centers, motor tensions, associated word symbols, and consciousness. Modern physics has developed the theory that all matter consists of minute waves of energy. We know that the number of radio and television impulses, sound waves, ultra-violet rays, etc., that may occupy the very same space, each solitary upon its own frequency, is infinite. So we may conceive the coexistence of the infinite number of universal, apparently momentary states of matter, successive one after another in consciousness, but permanent each on its own basic phase of the progressive frequencies. This theory makes it possible for any event throughout eternity to be continuously available at any moment to consciousness. Space in any form is completely measured by the three dimensions. If the fourth dimension is a physical concept and not purely metaphysical, through what medium does it extend? It is not through space nor time that the time machine most approved by science fiction must travel for a visit to the permanent prehistoric past, or the ever-existent past-fantasy future. Three seconds flat is the usual time, and the space is crossed by moderate mileage, while the overwhelming immensity of such journeys must be conceived as a static pulsation through an enormous number of coexistent frequencies which perpetuate all events. The body, senses and brain, in common with all matter, have their counterpart on each of a countless number of frequencies. The senses in each counterpart bear the impression only of phenomena that share its own frequency, whereas those upon all other frequencies are invisible, inaudible and intactible to them. Consciousness is the factor that provides the progressive continuity to sensory impressions. When consciousness deserts the sleeping body and the wakeful world, it continues in the myriad progressions of the ever-present past and future, in a life as vibrant and real as the one left when the body tired and required sleep. If the photographically realistic continuity of dreams, however bizarre their combinations, denies that it is purely a composition of the brain, it must be compounded from views of diverse realities, although some of them may never be encountered in what we are pleased to call the real life. Dr. H. V. Hilprecht, Professor of Assyrian at the University of Pennsylvania, dreamed that a Babylonian priest, associated with the king Kurigalzu, (1300 B. C.) escorted him to the treasure chamber of the temple of Bel, gave him six novel points of information about a certain broken relic, and corrected an error in its identification. As a matter of fact, the incorrect classification, the result of many weeks of labor by Dr. Hilprecht, was about to be published by him the following day. Some time later the missing part of the relic was found and the complete inscription, together with other new evidence, fully corroborated the ancient priest's information. Dr. Hilprecht was uncertain as to the language used by the ancient priest in his dream. He was almost positive it was not Assyrian nor Cassite, and imagined it must have been German or English. We may conclude that all six points of information, ostensibly given by the dream priest, could have been furnished by Dr. Hilprecht's subconscious reasoning. But, in denying any physical reality for this dream, how could the brain possibly compose that realistic, vividly visual continuity uninterrupted by misty fadeout, violent break or sudden substitution? Which theory is more fantastic: 1. That the perfect continuity was composed from the joblot of memory impressions in the professor's brain, or 2. That the dream was a reality on the infinite progressions of universal, gradient frequencies, across which the modern professor and the priest of ancient Nippur met? The degree of circumstance, the ratio of memory to forgetfulness, determines whether a dream will be a recognized, fulfilled prevision, or the vaguely, effective source of the weird deja vue feeling. No doubt some experiences vanish so completely as to leave no trace on the sleeper's mind. Probably less than one percent of our previsions escape final obliteration before we wake. When we arrive at the events concerned in the vanished majority, they, of course, cannot impress us as anything familiar. Nevertheless, there are notably frequent instances of deja vue, in which our recognition of an entirely novel event is a feeling of having lived through it before, a feeling which, though vague, withstands the verbal barrage from the most impressive corps of psychologists. If deja vue is an illusion, then peculiarly, it is a most prevalent mental disturbance affecting even the most level-headed people. Chauncey Depew, one-time runner-up for the Republican Presidential nomination, was attending a convention at Saratoga, where he was scheduled to nominate Colonel Theodore Roosevelt for Governor of New York when he noticed that the temporary chairman was a man he had never met. After the preliminary business affair was finished Depew arose and delivered the convincing speech that clinched the nomination for Roosevelt. If Depew had told any academic psychologist that he had a weird feeling of having lived through that identical convention session at some time in the past, he would have been informed that he was a victim of deja vue. But the famous orator felt more than vague recognition for the scene. He remembered exactly when he had lived through it before, and he had something to prove he had. One week before the convention, Depew was seated on the porch of a country home on the Hudson, gazing at the opposite shore. ``The food is wonderful and it is a lot of fun to be here''! So wrote a ten year old student in a letter to his parents from North Country School, Lake Placid, New York. In this one sentence, he unwittingly revealed the basic philosophy of the nutrition and psychological programs in operation at the school. Because the food is selected with thought for its nutritional value, care for its origin, and prepared in a manner that retains the most nutrients, the food does taste good. When served in a psychological atmosphere that allows young bodies to assimilate the greatest good from what they eat because they are free from tension, a foundation is laid for a high level of health that releases the children from physical handicaps to participate with enjoyment in the work assignments, the athletic programs and the most important phase, the educational opportunities. Situated in a region of some of the loveliest mountain scenery in the country, the school buildings are located amid open fields and farm lands. These contemporary structures, beautifully adapted to a school in the country, are home to 60 children, ages eight to fourteen, grades four through eight. From fourteen states and three foreign countries they come to spend the months from mid-September to June. The Director, Walter E. Clark, believes that a school with children living full time in its care must take full responsibility for their welfare. To him this means caring for the whole child, providing basic nutrition, and a spiritual attitude that lends freedom for the development of the mind. The concept of good nutrition really began with the garden. The school has always maintained a farm to supply the needs of the school. In a climate hostile to agriculture, Mr. Clark has had to keep alert to the most productive farm techniques. Where a growing season may, with luck, allow 60 days without frost, and where the soil is poor, sandy, quick-drying and subject to erosion, many farmers fail. Throughout the Adirondack region abandoned farm homes and wild orchards bear ghostly testimony that their owners met defeat. Mr. Clark found that orthodox procedures of deep plowing, use of chemical fertilizers and insecticides, plus the application of conservation principles of rotation and contouring, did not prevent sheet erosion in the potato fields and depreciation of the soil. ``To give up these notions required a revolution in thought'', Mr. Clark said in reminiscing about the abrupt changes in ideas he experienced when he began reading ``Organic Gardening'' And ``Modern Nutrition'' in a search for help with his problems. ``Louis Bromfield's writings excited me as a conservationist''. By 1952 he was convinced he would no longer spray. He locked his equipment in a cabinet where it still remains. After reading ``Plowman's Folly'' by Edward H. Faulkner, he stopped plowing. The basis for compost materials already existed on the school farm with a stable of animals for the riding program, poultry for eggs, pigs to eat garbage, a beef herd and wastes of all kinds. Separate pails were kept in the kitchen for coffee grounds and egg shells. All these materials and supplementary manure and other fertilizers from neighboring dairy and poultry farms made over 40 tons of finished compost a year. It was applied with a compost shredder made from a converted manure spreader. Years of patient application of compost and leaf mulching has changed the structure of the soil and its water-holding capacity. Soon after the method changed, visitors began asking how he managed to irrigate his soil to keep it looking moist, when in reality, it was the soil treatment alone that accomplished this. To demonstrate the soil of his vegetable gardens as it is today, Mr. Clark stooped to scoop up a handful of rich dark earth. Sniffing its sweet smell and letting it fall to show its good crumbly consistency, he pointed to the nearby driveway and said, ``This soil used to be like that hard packed road over there''. ``People and soils respond slowly'', says Walter Clark, ``but the time has now come when the gardens produce delicious long-keeping vegetables due to this enrichment program. No chemical fertilizers and poisonous insecticides and fungicides are used''. The garden supplies enough carrots, turnips, rutabagas, potatoes, beets, cabbage and squash to store for winter meals in the root cellar. The carrots sometimes don't make it through the winter; the cabbage and squash keep until March or April. There is never enough corn, peas or strawberries. Mr. Clark still has to use rotenone with potatoes grown on the least fertile fields, but he has watched the insect damage decrease steadily and hopes that continued use of compost and leaf mulch will allow him to do without it in the future. A new project planned is the use of Bio-Dynamic Starter. New ideas for improving nutrition came with the study of soil treatment. ``After the soil, the kitchen'', says Mr. Clark. The first major change was that of providing wholewheat bread instead of white bread. ``Adults take a long time to convince and you are thwarted if you try to push''. At first the kitchen help was tolerant, but ordered their own supply of white bread for themselves. ``You can't make French toast with whole-wheat bread'', was an early complaint. Of course they learned in time that they not only could use whole-wheat bread, but the children liked it better. Mrs. Clark, as house manager, planned the menus and cared for the ordering. Then Miss Lillian Colman came from Vermont to be kitchen manager. Today whole grains are freshly ground every day and baked into bread. Mr. Clark's studies taught him that the only way to conserve the vitamins in the whole grain was prompt use of the flour. Once the grains are ground, vitamin E begins to deteriorate immediately and half of it is lost by oxidation and exposure to the air within one week. A mill stands in a room off the kitchen. Surrounding it are metal cans of grains ordered from organic farms in the state. Miss Colman pours measures of whole wheat, oats, and soy beans and turns on the motor. She goes on about her work and listens for the completion of the grinding. The bread baked from this mixture is light in color and fragrant in aroma. It is well liked by the children and faculty. There is one problem with the bread. ``Lillian's bread is so good and everything tastes so much better here that it is hard not to eat too much'', said the secretary ruefully eyeing her extra pounds. The school has not used cold prepared cereals for years, though at one time that was all they ever served. When the chance came, they first eliminated cold cereal once a week, then gradually converted to hot fresh-ground cereal every day. They serve cracked wheat, oats or cornmeal. Occasionally, the children find steamed, whole-wheat grains for cereal which they call ``buckshot''. At the beginning of the school year, the new students don't eat the cereal right away, but within a short time they are eating it voraciously. When they leave for vacations they miss the hot cereal. The school has received letters from parents asking, ``What happened to Johnny? He never used to like any hot cereal, now that's the only kind he wants. Where can we get this cereal he likes so much''? Salads are served at least once a day. Vegetables are served liberally. Most come from the root cellar or from the freezer. Home-made sauerkraut is served once a week. Sprouted grains and seeds are used in salads and dishes such as chop suey. Sometimes sprouted wheat is added to bread and causes the children to remark, ``Lillian, did you put nuts in the bread today''? Milk appears twice a day. The school raises enough poultry, pigs, and beef cattle for most of their needs. Lots of cheese made from June grass milk is served. Hens are kept on the range and roosters are kept with them for their fertility. Organ meats such as beef and chicken liver, tongue and heart are planned once a week. Also, salt water fish is on the table once a week. For deserts, puddings and pies are each served once a week. Most other desserts are fruit in some form, fresh fruits once daily at least, sometimes at snack time. Dried fruits are purchased from sources where they are neither sulphured nor sprayed. Apples come from a farm in Vermont where they are not sprayed. Oranges and grapefruit are shipped from Florida weekly from an organic farm. Finding sources for these high quality foods is a problem. Sometimes the solution comes in unexpected ways. Following a talk by Mr. Clark at the New York State Natural Food Associates Convention, a man from the audience offered to ship his unsprayed apples to the school from Vermont. Wheat-germ, brewer's yeast and ground kelp are used in bread and in dishes such as spaghetti sauce, meat loaves. Miss Colman hopes to find suitable shakers so that kelp can be available at the tables. Raw wheat-germ is available on the breakfast table for the children to help themselves. Very few fried foods are used and the use of salt and pepper is discouraged. Drinking with meals is also discouraged; pitchers of water merely appear on the tables. Nothing is peeled. The source is known so there is no necessity to remove insecticide residues. The cooking conserves a maximum of the vitamin C content of vegetables by methods which use very little water and cook in the shortest time possible. Since Mr. Clark believes firmly that the chewing of hard foods helps develop healthy gums and teeth, raw vegetables and raw whole-wheat grains are handed out with fresh fruit and whole-wheat cookies at snack time in the afternoons. To solve the problem of the wheat grains spilling on the floor and getting underfoot, a ball of maple syrup boiled to candy consistency was invented to hold the grains. On their frequent hikes into the nearby mountains, the children carry whole grains to munch along the trail. They learn to like these so well that it isn't surprising to hear that one boy tried the oats he was feeding his horse at chore time. They tasted good to him, so he brought some to breakfast to eat in his cereal bowl with milk and honey. Maple syrup is made by the children in the woods on the school grounds. This and raw sugar replace ordinary refined sugar on the tables and very little sugar is used in cooking. Candy is not allowed. Parents are asked in the bulletin to send packages of treats consisting of fruit and nuts, but no candy. Mr. Clark believes in a good full breakfast of fruit, hot cereal, milk, honey, whole-wheat toast with real butter and eggs. The heavy meal comes in the middle of the day. Soup is often the important dish at supper. Homemade of meat, bones and vegetables, it is rich in dissolved minerals and vitamins. The school finds that the children are satisfied with smaller amounts of food since all of it is high in quality. The cost to feed one person is just under one dollar a day. Even before he saw the necessity of growing better food and planning good nutrition, Mr. Clark felt the school had a good health program. Rugged outdoor exercise for an hour and a half every day in all kinds of weather was the rule. A vigorous program existed in skiing, skating sports and overnight hiking. Since the change to better nutrition, he feels he can report on improvements in health, though he considers the following statements observations and not scientific proof. Visitors to the school ask what shampoo they use on the children's hair to bring out the sheen. The ruddy complexion of the faces also brings comment. Buffeted by swirling winds, the little green biplane struggled northward between the mountains beyond Northfield Gulf. Wires whined as a cold November blast rocked the silver wings, but the engine roar was reassuring to the pilot bundled in the open cockpit. He peered ahead and grinned as the railroad tracks came into view again below. ``Good old iron compass''! He thought. A plume of smoke rose from a Central Vermont locomotive which idled behind a string of gravel cars, and little figures that were workmen labored to set the ruptured roadbed to rights. The girders of a shattered Dog River bridge lay strewn for half a mile downstream. Vermont's main railroad line was prostrate. And in the dark days after the Great Flood of 1927 -- the worst natural disaster in the state's history -- the little plane was its sole replacement in carrying the United States mails. Rain of near cloudburst proportions had fallen for three full days and it was still raining on the morning of Friday, November 4, 1927, when officials of the Post Office Department's Railway Mail Service realized that their distribution system for Vermont had been almost totally destroyed overnight. Clerks and postmasters shoveled muck out of their offices -- those who still had offices -- and wondered how to move the mail. The state's railroad system counted miles of broken bridges and missing rights-of-way: it would obviously remain out of commission for weeks. And once medicine, food, clothing and shelter had been provided for the flood's victims, communications and the mail were the next top problems. From Burlington, outgoing mail could be ferried across Lake Champlain to the railroad at Port Kent, N. Y.. But what came in was piling up. The nearest undisrupted end of track from Boston was at Concord, N. H.. When Governor Al Smith offered New York National Guard planes to fly the mail in and out of the state, it seemed a likely temporary solution, easing Burlington's bottleneck and that at Montpelier too. The question was ``Where to land''? There was no such thing as an airport in Vermont. Burlington aviator John J. Burns suggested the parade ground southwest of Fort Ethan Allen, and soon a dozen hastily-summoned National Guard pilots were bringing their wide-winged ``Jenny'' and DeHaviland two-seaters to rest on the frozen sod of the military base. The only available field that could be used near flood-ravaged Montpelier was on the Towne farm off upper Main Street, a narrow hillside where takeoffs and landings could be safely made only under light wind conditions. Over in Barre the streets had been deep in swirling water, and bridges were crumpled and gone. Anticipating delivery of medicines and yeast by plane, Granite City citizens formed an airfield committee and with the aid of quarrymen and the 172nd Infantry, Vermont National Guard, laid out runways on Wilson flat, high on Millstone Hill. The ``Barre Aviation Field'' was set to receive its first aircraft the Sunday following the flood. Though the makeshift airports were ready, the York State Guard flyers proved unable to keep any kind of mail schedule. They had courage but their meager training consisted of weekend hops in good weather, in and out of established airports, And the increasingly cold weather soon raised hob with the water cooled engines of their World War 1, planes. It seemed like a good time for officials to use a recently-passed law empowering the post office department to contract for the transport of first class mail by air. They had to act fast, for letters were clogging the terminals. Down in Concord, New Hampshire, was a flier in the right place at the right time: Robert S. Fogg, a native New Englander, had been a World War 1, flying instructor, barnstormer, and one of the original planners of the Concord Airport. Tall, wiry, dark-haired Bob Fogg had already racked up one historical first in air mail history. Piloting a Curtiss Navy MF flying boat off Lake Winnipesaukee in 1925, he had inaugurated the original Rural Delivery air service in America. During the excitement following Lindbergh's flight to Paris earlier in 1927, dare devil aviators overnight became legendary heroes. In Concord, Bob Fogg was the most prominent New Hampshire boy with wings. Public-spirited backers staked him to a brand-new airplane, aimed at putting their city and state on the flying map. The ship was a Waco biplane, one of the first two of its type to be fitted with the air cooled, 225 / hp Wright radial engine known as the Whirlwind. A trim green and silver-painted craft only 22-1 / 2 feet long, the Waco was entered to compete in the ``On-to-Spokane'' Air Derby of 1927. As a matter of fact, Fogg and his plane didn't get beyond Pennsylvania in the race -- an engine oil leak forced him down -- but the flying service and school he started subsequently were first steps in paying off his wry-faced backers. So with all this experience, Bob Fogg was a natural choice to receive the first Emergency Air Mail Star Route contract. His work began just six days after the flood. By airline from Concord to Burlington is a distance of about 150 miles, counting a slight deviation for the stop at either Barre or Montpelier. The first few days Bob Fogg set his plane down on Towne field back of the State House when the wind was right, and used Wilson flat above Barre when it wasn't. Between the unsafe Towne field and the long roundabout back road haul that was necessary to gain access to Wilson flat, arrangements at the state capital were far from satisfactory. Each time in, the unhappy pilot, pushing his luck, begged the postal officials that met him to find a safer landing place, preferably on the flat-topped hills across the Winooski River. ``But Fogg'', they countered, ``we can't get over there. And besides you seem to make it all right here''. It took a tragedy to bring things to a head. After a week of precarious uphill landings and downwind takeoffs, Fogg one day looked down at the shattered yellow wreckage of an Army plane strewn across snow-covered Towne field. Sent to Montpelier by Secretary Herbert Hoover, Red Cross Aide Reuben Sleight had been killed, and his pilot, Lt. Franklin Wolfe, badly injured. With the field a blur of white the unfortunate pilot had simply flown into the hillside. Faced with this situation, Postmaster Charles F. McKenna of Montpelier went with Fogg on a Burlington trip, and together they scouted the terrain on the heights of Berlin. A long flat known as the St. John field seemed to answer their purpose, and since the Winooski bridges were at last passable, they decided to use it. With a wary eye on the farmer's bull, Fred Somers of Montpelier and Mr. St. John marked the field with a red table cloth. As a wind direction indicator, they tied a cotton rag to a sapling. With these aids, and a pair of skiis substituting for wheels on the Waco, Bob Fogg made the first landing on what is now part of the Barre-Montpelier Airport on November 21, 1927. Each trip saw the front cockpit filled higher with mail pouches. During the second week of operations, Fogg received a telegram from the Post Office Department, asking him to ``put on two airplanes and make two flights daily, plus one Sunday trip''. Since Fogg's was a one-man, one-plane flying service, this meant that he would have to do both trips, flying alone 600 miles a day, under sub-freezing temperature conditions. Over the weeks, America's first Star Route Air Mail settled into a routine pattern despite the vagaries of weather and the lack of ground facilities and aids to navigation. Each morning at five Fogg crawled out of bed to bundle into flying togs over the furnace register of his home. Always troubled by poor circulation in his feet, he experimented with various combinations of socks and shoes before finally adopting old-style felt farmer's boots with his sheepskin flying boots pulled over them. A sheep-lined leather flying suit, plus helmet, goggles and mittens completed his attire for the rigors of the open cockpit. The airman's stock answer to ``Weren't you cold''? Became ``Yes, the first half hour is tough, but by then I'm so numb I don't notice it''! As daylight began to show through the frosty windows, Fogg would place a call to William A. Shaw at the U. S. Weather Station at Northfield, Vermont, for temperature and wind-velocity readings. Shaw could also give the flyer a pretty good idea of area visibility by a visual check of the mountains to be seen from his station. ``Ceilings'' were judged by comparison with known mountain heights and cloud positions. Later on in the day Fogg could get a better weather picture from the Burlington Weather Bureau supervised by Frank E. Hartwell. Out at the airport each morning, Fogg's skilled mechanic Caleb Marston would have the Waco warmed up and running in the drafty hangar. (He'd get the engine oil flowing with an electric heater under a big canvas cover. ) Wishing to show that aviation was dependable and here to stay, Bob Fogg always made a point of taking off each morning on the dot of seven, disregarding rain, snow and sleet in true postal tradition. Concord learned to set its clocks by the rackety bark of the Whirlwind's exhaust overhead. Sometimes the pilot had to turn back if fully blocked by fog, but 85 % of his trips were completed. Plane radios were not yet available, and once in the air, Fogg flew his ship by compass, a good memory for landmarks as seen from above, and a capacity for dead reckoning and quick computation. Often, threading through the overcast, he was forced to fly close to the ground by a low ceiling, skimming above the Winooski or the White River along the line of the broken railroad. When driving rain or mist socked in one valley, Fogg would chandelle up and over to reverse course and try another one, ranging from the Ottauquechee up to Danville in search of safe passage through the mountain passes. The dependable Wright engine was never stopped on these trips. It ticked over smoothly, idling while Fogg exchanged mails with the armed messenger from Burlington at Fort Ethan Allen, and one from Montpelier and Barre at the St. John field. Sometimes, on a return trip, the aviator would ``go upstairs'' high over the clouds. There he'd take a compass reading, figure his air speed, and deduce that in a certain number of minutes he'd be over the broad meadows of the Merrimack Valley where it would be safe to let down through the overcast and see the ground before it hit him. Bob Fogg didn't have today's advantages of Instrument Flight and Ground Control Approach systems. At the end of the calculated time he'd nose the Waco down through the cloud bank and hope to break through where some feature of the winter landscape would be recognizable. Usually back in Concord by noon, there was just time to get partially thawed out, refuel, and grab a bit of Mrs. Fogg's hot broth before starting the second trip. Day after day Fogg shuttled back and forth on his one-man air mail route, until the farmers in their snowy barnyards and the road repairmen came to recognize the stubby plane as their link with the rest of the country. The flyer had his share of near-misses. At Fort Ethan Allen the ever-present wind off Lake Champlain could readily flip a puny man-made thing like an airplane if the pilot miscalculated. Once the soldiers from the barracks had to hold the ship from blowing away while Fogg revved the engine and got the tail up. At a nod of his head they let go, turning to cup their ears against the icy slipstream. Tracks in the snow showed the plane was airborne in less than a hundred feet. One afternoon during a cold, powdery snowstorm, Fogg took off for Concord from the St. John field. Are you retiring now? If so, are you saying, ``Where did the last few years go? How did I get to be sixty-five so fast? What do I do now''? Yes, retirement seems to creep upon you suddenly. Somehow we old-timers never figured we would ever retire. We always thought we would die with our boots on. Out of the blue comes talk of pension plans. Compulsory retirement at sixty-five looms on our horizon. Still, it seems in the far future. Suddenly, one day, up it pops! Sixty-five years and you've had it! So, now what? Oh sure! You've thought about it before in a hazy sort of way. But! It never seemed real; never seemed as if it could happen to you; only to the other fellow. Now! Here it is! How am I going to live? What am I going to do? Where do I go from here? A great many retired people are the so-called white collar workers. Are you one of these? If so, you are of the old school. You are conscientious, hard working, honest, accurate, a good penman, and a stickler for a job well done, with no loose ends. Everything must balance to the last penny. Also you can spell, without consulting a dictionary for every other word. You never are late for work and seldom absent. Actually, you can take no special credit for this. It is the way you were taught and your way of life. All this is standard equipment for a man of your day; your stock in trade; your livelihood. However, the last few years of your life, things seem to be changing. Your way doesn't seem to be so darned important any more. You realize you are getting in the old fogy class. To put it bluntly, you are getting out-moded. What's happened? The answer is a new era. Now, looming on the horizon are such things as estimated totals, calculated risks and I. B. M. machines. The Planning Dept. comes into existence. All sorts of plans come to life. This is followed by a boom in conferences. Yes sir! Conferences become very popular. When a plan burst its seams, hasty conferences supply the necessary patch, and life goes merrily on. That's called progress! The new way of life! Let's face it! You had your day and it was a good day. Let this generation have theirs. Time marches on! Well, to get back to the problem of retirement. Every retiring person has a different situation facing him. Some have plenty of money -- some have very little money. Some are blest with an abundance of good health -- some are in poor health and many are invalids. Some have lovely homes -- some live in small apartments. Some have beautiful gardens -- some not even a blade of grass. Some have serenity of mind, the ability to accept what they have, and make the most of it (a wonderful gift to have, believe me) -- some see only darkness, the bitter side of everything. Well, whatever you have, that's it! You've got to learn to live with it. Now! The question is ``How are you going to live with it''? You can sit back and moan and bewail your lot. Yes! You can do this. But, if you do, your life will be just one thing -- unhappiness -- complete and unabridged. It seems to me, the first thing you've got to do, to be happy, is to face up to your problems, no matter what they may be. Make up your mind to pool your resources and get the most out of your remaining years of life. One thing, I am sure of, you must get an interest in life. You've got to do something. Many of you will say, ``Well, what can I do''? Believe me! There are many, many things to do. Find out what you like to do most and really give it a whirl. If you can't think of a thing to do, try something -- anything. Maybe you will surprise yourself. True! We are not all great artists. I, frankly, can't draw a straight line. Maybe you are not that gifted either, but how about puttering around with the old paints? You may amaze yourself and acquire a real knack for it. Anyway, I'll bet you have a lot of fun. Do you like to sew? Does making your own clothes or even doll clothes, interest you? Do you love to run up a hem, sew on buttons, make neat buttonholes? If you do, go to it. There is always a market for this line of work. Some women can sit and sew, crochet, tat or knit by the hour, and look calm and relaxed and turn out beautiful work. Where sewing is concerned, I'm a total loss. When you see a needle in my hands you will know the family buttons have fallen off and I have to sew them back on, or get out the safety pins. Then again, there's always that lovely old pastime of hooking or braiding rugs. Not for me, but perhaps just the thing for you. Well! How's about mosaic tile, ceramics or similar arts and crafts? Some people love to crack tile and it's amazing what beautiful designs they come up with as a result of their cracking good time. How about the art of cooking? Do you yearn to make cakes and pies, or special cookies and candies? There is always an open market for this sort of delicacy, in spite of low calorie diets, cottage cheese and hands-off-all-sweets to the contrary. Some people can carve most anything out of a piece of wood. Some make beautiful chairs, cabinets, chests, doll houses, etc.. Perhaps you couldn't do that but have you ever tried to see what you could do with a hunk of wood? Outside of cutting your fingers, maybe you would come up with nothing at all, but then again, you might turn out some dandy little gadgets. Some women get a real thrill out of housework. They love to dust, scrub, polish, wax floors, move the furniture around from place to place, take down the curtains, put up new ones and have themselves a real ball. Maybe that's your forte. It certainly isn't mine. I can look at furniture in one spot year in and year out and really feel for sure that's where it belongs. Perhaps you would like to become a writer. This gives you a wide and varied choice. Will it be short stories, fiction, nonfiction, biography, poetry, children's stories, or even a book if you are really ambitious? Ever since I was a child, I have always had a yen to try my hand at writing. If you do decide to write, you will soon become acquainted with rejection slips and dejection. Don't be discouraged! This is just being a normal writer. Just let the rejection slips fall where they may, and keep on plugging, and finally you will make the grade. Few new writers have their first story accepted, so they tell me. But, it could happen, and it may happen to you. Then there's always hobbies, collecting stamps, coins, timetables, salt and pepper shakers, elephants, dogs, dolls, shells, or shall we just say collecting anything your heart desires? I can hear some of you folks protesting. You say, ``But it costs a lot of money to have a hobby. I haven't got that kind of money''. True! It does cost a lot of money for most hobbies but there are hobbies that are for free. How about a rock collection, or a collection of leaves from different trees or shrubs and in different colors? Then, take flowers. They are many and varied. Also, there's scrap books, collecting newspaper pictures and clippings, or any items of interest to you. It's getting interested in something that counts. As for me, I am holding in reserve two huge puzzles (I love puzzles) to put together when time hangs heavy on my hands. So far, the covers have never been off the boxes. I just don't have time to do half the things I want to do now. So in closing, fellow retired members, I advise you to make the most of each day, enjoy each one to the n'th degree. Travel, if you can. Keep occupied to the point you are not bored with life and you will truly find these final days and years of your lives to be sunshine sweet. Good Luck! To one and all -- Good Days ahead! An important criterion of maturity is creativity. The mature person is creative. What does it mean to be creative, a term we hear with increasing frequency these days? When we turn to Noah Webster we find him helpful as usual. ``To be creative is to have the ability to cause to exist -- to produce where nothing was before -- to bring forth an original production of human intelligence or power''. We are creative, it seems, when we produce something which has not previously existed. Thus creativity may run all the way from making a cake, building a chicken coop, or producing a book, to founding a business, creating a League of Nations or, developing a mature character. All living creatures from the lowest form of insect or animal life evidence the power of creativity, if it is only to reproduce a form like their own. While man shares this procreative function with all his predecessors in the evolutionary process, he is the only animal with a true non-instinctive and conscious creative ability. An animal, bird or insect creates either a burrow, or nest or hive in unending sameness according to specie. Man's great superiority over these evolutionary forbears is in the development of his imagination. This gives him the power to form in his mind new image combinations of old memories, ideas and experiences and to project them outside of himself into his environment in new and ever-changing forms. It has been truly said that anything man can imagine he can produce or create by projecting this inner image into its counterpart in the objective world. In our own time we have seen the most fantastic imagery of a Jules Verne come into actuality. The vision of a Lord Tennyson expressed in a poem 100 years ago took visible form over London in the air blitzes of 1941. In fact all of our civilized world is the resultant of man's projection of his imagination over the past 60 centuries or more. It is in this one aspect, at least, that man seems to be made in the image of his Creator. Not only can man project his imagination out into his environment in concrete forms, but even more importantly, he can turn it inward to help create new and better forms of himself. We recognize that young people through imaginative mind and body training can become athletes, acrobats, dancers, musicians and artists, developing many potentialities. We know that actors can learn to portray a wide variety of character roles. By this same combination of the will and the imagination, each one of us can learn to portray permanently the kind of character we would like to be. We must realize with Prof. Charles Morris in his The Open Self that ``Man is the being that can continually remake himself, the artisan that is himself the material for his own creation''. So far in history man has been too greatly over-occupied with projecting things into his environment rather than first creating the sort of person who can make the highest use of the things he has created. Is not the present world crisis a race between things we have created which can now destroy us and between populations of sufficient wisdom and character to forestall the tragedy. Is it not the obligation of us older citizens to lend our weight to being creative on the character side and to hasten our own maturing process? Sir Julian Huxley in his book Uniqueness Of Man makes the novel point that just as man is unique in being the only animal which requires a long period of infancy and childhood under family protection, so is he the only animal who has a long period after the decline of his procreativity. Some recent writings assume that the ignorant young couples are a thing of the remote, Victorian past; that nowadays all honeymooners are thoroughly familiar with the best sex-manuals and know enough from talk with friends and personal experimentation to take all the anxiety and hazards out of the situation. Perhaps -- but extensive discussions with contemporary practitioners, family doctors and gynecologists indicate that this is still an area of enormous ignorance. Joking and talking may be freer and easier, but the important factual information is still lacking for far too many newly-married men and women. Various factors in the setting can still be of great advantage in making the first intercourse a good rather than a bad memory for one or both. Privacy must be highly assured both in time and place. That is, locking the room or stateroom door gives privacy of location, but it is equally important to be sure there is time enough for an utterly unhurried fulfillment. If the wedding party lasted late, and the travel schedule means there are only a few hours before resuming the trip or making an early start, the husband may forestall tensions and uncertainties by confiding to his bride that lying in each other's arms will be bliss enough for these few hours. The consummation should come at the next stopping place when they have a long private time (day or night) for that purpose. First intercourse for the bride brings with it the various problems connected with virginity and the hymen. One thing should be clear to both husband and wife -- neither pain nor profuse bleeding has to occur when the hymen is ruptured during the first sex act. Ignorance on this point has caused a great deal of needless anxiety, misunderstanding and suspicion. The hymen is, in essence, a fragile membrane that more or less completely covers the entrance to the vagina in most female human beings who have not had sex relations. (Hymen, in fact, is the Greek word for membrane. Often it is thin and fragile and gives way readily to the male organ at the first attempt at intercourse. As might be expected, girls in this situation bleed very little and perhaps not at all in the process of losing their virginity. It is also important to realize that many girls are born without a hymen or at most only a tiny trace of one; so that the absence of the hymen is by no means positive proof that a girl has had sex relations. But there is a basis in fact for the exaggerations of the folk-lore beliefs. Some hymens are so strongly developed that they cannot be torn without considerable pain to the girl and marked loss of blood. More rarely, the hymen is so sturdy that it does not yield to penetration. Extreme cases are on record in which the doctor has had to use instruments to cut through the hymen to permit marital relations to be consummated. These cases, for all their rarity, are so dramatic that friends and relations repeat the story until the general population may get an entirely false notion of how often the hymen is a serious problem to newly-weds. In recent times, when sexual matters began to be discussed more scientifically and more openly, the emotional aspects of virginity received considerable attention. Obviously, the bridal pair has many adjustments to make to their new situation. Is it necessary to add to the other tensions the hazard of making the loving husband the one who brought pain to his bride? Gynecologists and marriage manuals began to advise that the bride should consult a physician before marriage. If he foresaw any problem because of the quality of the hymen, it was recommended that simple procedures be undertaken at once to incise the hymen or, preferably, to dilate it. As a natural outgrowth of this approach it was often suggested that the doctor should complete the preparation for painless intercourse by dilating the vagina. This recommendation was based on the fact that the hymen was not the only barrier to smooth consummation of the sex act. The vagina is an organ capable of remarkable contraction and dilation. This is obvious when it is remembered that, during childbirth, the vagina must dilate enough to permit the passage of the baby. The intricate system of muscles that manage the contraction and dilatation of the vagina are partly under voluntary control. But an instinctive reflex may work against the conscious intention of the woman. That is, when first penetration takes place, the pressure and pain signals may involuntarily cause all the vaginal muscles to contract in an effort to bar the intrusion and prevent further pain. The advantages of dilatation by the physician are both physical and psychological. Since it is a purely professional situation, none of the pain is associated with love-making or the beloved. By using instruments of gradually increasing size, the vagina is gently, and with minimum pain at each stage, taught to yield to an object of the appropriate shape. In this process the vaginal muscles come under better conscious control by the girl. She learns how to relax them to accept -- instead of contracting them to repel -- the entering object. Apart from the standard problem of controlling the vaginal muscles, other serious barriers may exist that need special gynecological treatment. It is far better to have such conditions treated in advance than to have them show up on the honeymoon where they can create a really serious situation. When no medical problems exist, the newly married couple generally prefer to cope with the adjustments of their new relationship by themselves. Special information and guidance about the possible difficulties are still of great value. Folk-lore, superstition and remembered passages from erotic literature can create physical and emotional problems if blindly taken as scientific facts and useful hints. The importance of loving tenderness is obvious. The long, unhurried approach and the deliberate prolongation of fore-play work on several levels. Under the excitement of caresses and sexual stimulation the vagina relaxes and dilates and the local moisture greatly increases, providing an excellent lubricant to help achieve an easier penetration. Extensive observations by physicians during vaginal examinations have established the fact that a single finger inserted along the anterior wall (the top line of the vagina as the woman lies on her back) may cause a great deal of distress in a virgin. But during the same examination, two fingers may be inserted along the posterior wall (the bottom of the vagina in the same position) without any pain; and in fact without any difficulty if the pressure is kept downward at all times. These regional differences of sensitivity to pain may be of crucial significance during the earliest intercourse. The husband and wife should start with this anatomical information clearly in mind. They may then adjust their positions and movements to avoid too much pressure on the urethra and the anterior wall of the vagina; at least until repeated intercourse has dilated it and pain is no longer a possible threat against the full pleasure of love-making. In fact, the technical procedure in medical examinations may be wisely adapted to his romantic purposes by the husband during the honeymoon. Locker-room talk often stresses the idea that a man is doing the girl a favor if he is forceful and ruthless during the first penetration. The false reasoning is that a gradual advance prolongs the pain while a swift powerful act gets it over with and leaves the girl pleased with his virility and grateful for his decisiveness in settling the problem once and for all. Such talk is seriously in error. Ruthlessness at this time can be a very severe shock to the bride, both physically and psychologically. The insistent, forceful penetration may tear and inflame the vaginal walls as well as do excessive damage to the hymen. The pain and distress associated with the performance may easily give the wife a deep-seated dread of marital relations and cause her, unconsciously, to make the sex act unpleasant and difficult for both by exercising her vaginal muscles to complicate his penetration instead of relaxing them to facilitate it. Serious attention must also be given to the husband's problems in the honeymoon situation. The necessity for keeping alert to his bride's hazards can act as an interference with the man's spontaneous desire. The emotional stimulation may be so great that he may experience a premature climax. This is a very common experience and should in no way discourage or dishearten either husband or wife. Or the frequent need to check and discipline himself to the wisest pace of the consummation can put him off stride and make it impossible for him to be continuously ready for penetration over a long period. The signals to proceed may therefore come when he is momentarily not able to take advantage of them. The best course is to recover his physical excitement by a change of pace that makes him ardent again. This may require imagination and reminding himself that now he can be demanding and self-centered. He can take security from the fact that the progress he has made by his gentle approach will not be lost. Now while he uses talk, caresses or requires caresses from her, his bride will sympathetically understand the situation and eagerly help him restore his physical situation so they can have the consummation they both so eagerly desire. A final word. The accumulated information on this point shows that first intercourse, even when it is achieved with minimum pain or difficulty, is seldom an overwhelming sexual experience to a woman. Too many new things are happening for it to be a complete erotic fulfillment. Only under rare circumstances would a bride experience an orgasm during her first intercourse. Both man and wife should be aware of the fact that a lack of climax, and even the absence of the anticipated keen pleasure are not a sign that the wife may be cold or frigid. If the early approaches are wise, understanding and patient, the satisfactions of marital fulfillment will probably be discovered before the marriage is much older. Writing in a large volume on the nude in painting and sculptures, titled The Nude: A Study In Ideal Form, Kenneth Clark declares: ``The human body, as a nucleus, is rich in associations. It is ourselves and arouses memories of all the things we wish to do with ourselves''. Perhaps this is a clue to the amazing variety and power of reactions, attitudes, and emotions precipitated by the nude form. The wide divergence of reactions is clearly illustrated in the Kinsey studies in human sexuality. Differences were related to social, economic, and educational backgrounds. Whereas persons of eighth grade education or less were more apt to avoid or be shocked by nudity, those educated beyond the eighth grade increasingly welcomed and approved nudity in sexual relations. Such understanding helps to explain why one matron celebrating thirty-five years of married life could declare with some pride that her husband had ``never seen her entirely naked'', while another woman, boasting an equal number of years of married life, is proud of having ``shared the nudist way of life -- the really free, natural nude life -- for most of that period''. Attempts at censorship always involve and reveal such complex and multiple individual reactions. The indignant crusader sees the nude or semi-nude human form as ``lewd and pornographic, a threat and danger'' to all the young, or good, or religious, or moral persons. The equally ardent proponent of freedom from any kind of censorship may find the nude human form the ``natural, honest, free expression of man's spirit and the epitome of beauty and inspiration''. One is always a little surprised to bump into such individual distinctions when it is unexpected. I still recall the mild shock I experienced in reading material of an enthusiastic advocate of the ``clean, healthful, free way of natural life in nudism'', who seemed to brave much misunderstanding and persecution in fine spirit. In tradition and in poetry, the marriage bed is a place of unity and harmony. The partners each bring to it unselfish love, and each takes away an equal share of pleasure and joy. At its most ecstatic moments, husband and wife are elevated far above worldly cares. Everything else is closed away. This is the ideal. But marriage experts say that such mutual contribution and mutual joy are seldom achieved. Instead one partner or the other dominates the sexual relationship. In the past, it has been the husband who has been dominant and the wife passive. But today there are signs that these roles are being reversed. In a growing number of American homes, marriage counselors report, the wife is taking a commanding role in sexual relationships. It is she who decides the time, the place, the surroundings, and the frequency of the sexual act. It is she who says aye or nay to the intimate questions of sexual technique and mechanics -- not the husband. The whole act is tailored to her pleasure, and not to theirs. Beyond a certain point, of course, no woman can be dominant -- nature has seen to that. But there is little doubt that in many marriages the wife is boss of the marital bed. Of course, there remain many ``old-fashioned'' marriages in which the husband maintains his supremacy. Yet even in these marriages, psychologists say, wives are asserting themselves more strongly. The meekest, most submissive wife of today is a tiger by her mother's or grandmother's standards. To many experts, this trend was inevitable. They consider it simply a sign of our times. Our society has ``emancipated'' the woman, giving her new independence and new authority. It is only natural that she assert herself in the sexual role. ``The sexual relationship does not exist in a vacuum'', declares Dr. Mary Steichen Calderone, medical director of the Planned Parenthood Federation of America and author of the recent book, Release From Sexual Tensions. ``It reflects what is going on in other areas of the marriage and in society itself. A world in which wives have taken a more active role is likely to produce sexual relationships in which wives are more self-assertive, too''. Yet many psychologists and marriage counselors agree that domination of the sex relationship by one partner or the other can be unhealthy and even dangerous. It can, in fact, wreck a marriage. When a husband is sexually selfish and heedless of his wife's desires, she is cheated of the fulfillment and pleasure nature intended for her. And she begins to regard him as savage, bestial and unworthy. On the other hand, wifely supremacy demeans the husband, saps his self-respect, and robs him of his masculinity. He is a target of ridicule to his wife, and often -- since private affairs rarely remain private -- to the outside world as well. ``A marriage can survive almost any kind of stress except an open and direct challenge to the husband's maleness'', declares Dr. Calderone. This opinion is supported by one of the nation's leading psychiatrists, Dr. Maurice E. Linden, director of the Mental Health Division of the Philadelphia Department of Public Health. ``When the roles of husband and wife are reversed, so that the wife becomes leader and the husband follower'', Dr. Linden says, ``the effects on their whole relationship, sexual and otherwise, can be disastrous''. In one extreme case, cited by a Pittsburgh psychologist, an office worker's wife refused to have sexual relations with her husband unless he bought her the luxuries she demanded. To win her favors, her husband first took an additional job, then desperately began to embezzle from his employer. Caught at last, he was sentenced to prison. While he was in custody his wife divorced him. More typical is the case of a suburban Long Island housewife described by a marriage counselor. This woman repeatedly complained she was ``too tired'' for marital relations. To please her, her husband assumed some of the domestic chores. Finally, he was cooking, washing dishes, bathing the children, and even ironing -- and still his wife refused to have relations as often as he desired them. One wife, described by a New York psychologist, so dominated her husband that she actually placed their sexual relationship on a schedule, writing it down right between the weekly PTA meetings and the Thursday-night neighborhood card parties. Another put sex on a dollars-and-cents basis. After every money argument, she rebuffed her husband's overtures until the matter was settled in her favor. Experts say the partners in marriages like these can almost be typed. The wife is likely to be young, sophisticated, smart as a whip -- often a girl who has sacrificed a promising career for marriage. She knows the power of the sex urge and how to use it to manipulate her husband. The husband is usually a well-educated professional, preoccupied with his job -- often an organization man whose motto for getting ahead is: ``Don't rock the boat''. Sometimes this leads to his becoming demandingly dominant in marriage. Hemmed in on the job and unable to assert himself, he uses the sex act so he can be supreme in at least one area. More often, though, he is so accustomed to submitting to authority on the job without argument that he lives by the same rule at home. Some psychologists, in fact, suggest that career-bound husbands often are more to blame for topsy-turvy marriages than their wives. The wife's attempt at control, these psychologists contend, is sometimes merely a pathetic effort to compel her husband to pay as much attention to her as he does to his job. Naturally no woman can ever completely monopolize the sexual initiative. Unless her husband also desires sex, the act cannot be consummated. Generally, however, in such marriages as those cited, the husband is at his wife's mercy. ``The pattern'', says Dr. Morton Schillinger, psychologist at New York's Lincoln Institute for Psychotherapy, ``is for the husband to hover about anxiously and eagerly, virtually trembling in his hope that she will flash him the signal that tonight is the night''. No one seriously contends, of course, that the domineering wife is, sexually speaking, a new character in our world. After all, the henpecked husband with his shrewish wife is a comic figure of long standing, in literature and on the stage, as Dr. Schillinger points out. There is no evidence that these Milquetoasts became suddenly emboldened when they crossed the threshhold of the master bedroom. Furthermore, Dr. Calderone says, a certain number of docile, retiring men always have been around. They aren't ``frigid'' and they aren't homosexual; they're just restrained in all of life. They like to be dominated. One such man once confided to Dr. Theodor Reik, New York psychiatrist, that he preferred to have his wife the sexual aggressor. Asked why, he replied primly: ``Because that's no activity for a gentleman''. But such cases were, in the past, unusual. Society here and abroad has been built around the dominating male -- even the Bible appears to endorse the concept. Family survival on our own Western frontier, for example, could quite literally depend on a man's strength and ability to bring home the bacon; and the dependent wife seldom questioned his judgment about anything, including the marriage bed. This carried over into the more urbanized late 19th and early 20th centuries, when the man ruled the roost in the best bull-roaring Life With Father manner. In those days, a wife had mighty few rights in the domestic sphere and even fewer in the sexual sphere. ``Grandma wasn't expected to like it'', Dr. Marion Hilliard, the late Toronto gynecologist, once summed up the attitude of the'90s. Wives of the period shamefacedly thought of themselves as ``used'' by their husbands -- and, history indicates, they often quite literally were. When was the turning point? When did women begin to assert themselves sexually? Some date it from woman suffrage, others from when women first began to challenge men in the marketplace, still others from the era of the emancipated flapper and bathtub gin. Virtually everyone agrees, however, that the trend toward female sexual aggressiveness was tremendously accelerated with the postwar rush to the suburbs. Left alone while her husband was miles away in the city, the modern wife assumed more and more duties normally reserved for the male. Circumstances gave her almost undisputed sway over child-rearing, money-handling and home maintenance. She found she could cope with all kinds of problems for which she was once considered too helpless. She liked this taste of authority and independence, and, with darkness, was not likely to give it up. ``Very few wives'', says Dr. Calderone, ``who balance the checkbook, fix the car, choose where the family will live and deal with the tradesmen, are suddenly going to become submissive where sex is concerned. A woman who dominates other family affairs will dominate the sexual relationship as well''. And an additional factor was helping to make women more sexually self-assertive -- the comparatively recent discovery of the true depths of female desire and response. Marriage manuals and women's magazine articles began to stress the importance of the female climax. They began to describe in detail the woman's capacity for response. In fact, the noted psychologist and sex researcher, Dr. Albert Ellis, has declared flatly that women are ``sexually superior'' to men. According to Dr. Ellis, the average 20-year-old American woman is capable of far greater sexual arousal than her partner. Not surprisingly, Dr. Ellis says, some recently enlightened wives are out to claim these capabilities. Yet, paradoxically, according to Dr. Maurice Linden, many wives despise their husbands for not standing up to them. An aggressive woman wants a man to demand, not knuckle under. ``When the husband becomes passive in the face of his wife's aggressiveness'', Dr. Linden says, ``the wife, in turn, finds him inadequate. Often she fails to gain sexual satisfaction''. One such wife, Dr. Linden says, became disgusted with her weak husband and flurried through a series of extramarital affairs in the hope of finding a stronger man. But her personality was such that each affair lasted only until that lover, too, had been conquered and reduced to passivity. Then the wife bed-hopped to the next on the list. In some cases, however, domination of the sex act by one partner can be temporary, triggered by a passing but urgent emotional need. Thus a man who is butting a stone wall at the office may become unusually aggressive in bed -- the one place he can still be champion. If his on-the-job problems work out, he may return to his old pattern. Sometimes a burst of aggressiveness will sweep over a man -- or his wife -- because he or she feels age creeping up. On the other hand, a husband who always has been vigorous and assertive may suddenly become passive -- asking, psychologists say, for reassurance that his wife still finds him desirable. Or a wife may make sudden demands that she be courted, flattered or coaxed, simply because she needs her ego lifted. In any case, Dr. Calderone remarks, such problems are a couple's own affair, and can't always be measured by a general yardstick. ``As long as the couple is in agreement in their approach to sex, it makes little difference if one or the other dominates'', Dr. Calderone declares. ``The important point is that both be satisfied with the adjustment''. Other experts say, however, that if sexual domination by one or the other partner exists for longer than a brief period, it is likely to shake the marriage. And just as domination today often begins with the wife, so the cure generally must lie with the husband. ``To get a marriage back where it belongs'', comments Dr. Schillinger of the Lincoln Institute, ``the husband must take some very basic steps. He must begin, paradoxically, by becoming more selfish. He must become more expressive of his own desires, more demanding and less'understanding '''. Too many husbands, Dr. Schillinger continues, worry about ``how well they're doing'', and fear that their success depends on some trick or technique of sexual play. She gave herself a title, Lady Diana Harrington. The New York D. A. gave her another, The Golden Girl of cafe society. Houston police gave her a third, less flamboyant, title, prostitute. And Houston police have the final say in the matter since she died there on September 20, 1960, ``Diane Harris Graham, 30, D. O. A., circumstances -- unusual''. Early in her life she had discovered that where there were men, there was money, and with the two came luxury and liquor. She was still in the play for pay business when she died, a top trollop who had given the world's oldest profession one of its rare flashes of glamour. She never hid the fact that she liked to play. Her neighbors in the expensive Houston apartment building told reporters that the ash-blonde beauty had talked at times about her past as ``the Golden Girl of the Mickey Jelke trial''. It was the trial of oleomargarine heir Minot (Mickey) Jelke for compulsory prostitution in New York that put the spotlight on the international play-girl. (Jelke later served 21 months when he was found guilty of masterminding a ring of high-priced call girls. Diane was needed as a material witness in the case and New York police searched three continents before they found her in their own back yard -- in a swank hotel, of course. She had been moving in cafe society as Lady Diana Harrington, a name that made some of the gossip columns. It was when she was seized as a material witness that she got the designation she liked best. ``This girl is the Golden Girl of cafe society. ``In 1951 she was a prostitute in New York County. In the spring and early summer of that year she met a wealthy foreign tycoon who took her to France, where she later met a very wealthy man and toured all Europe with him. ``At Deauville she met an Egyptian by the name of Pulley Bey. He was the official procurer for King Farouk, now in exile. She was in Egypt during the revolution and had passport difficulty. She lied in order to get it. ``We have checked her in different parts of Europe and Egypt and finally back into this country. She has been acting as a prostitute. ``Our information is that she gave the proceeds of her acts to Jelke''. Diane sobbingly denied this to the court. ``That's a lie. I never gave that boy a cent. I am not a prostitute, and I had only one very wealthy boy friend'', she said. During the course of the trial, Jelke backed up part of that statement. ``Diane is the type of girl'', Jelke said, ``who wouldn't get loving -- even on her wedding night -- unless you piled up all your money in the middle of the floor''. But she seemed to have underestimated the number of her ``boy friends''. She came to New York from Detroit as a teenager, but with a ``sponsor'' instead of a chaperone. As she told it, ``He's a rich boy friend, an old guy about 60''. She was Mary Lou Brew then, wide-eyed, but not naive. She had talked her ``boy friend'' into sending her to New York to take a screen test. The screen test was never made -- but Diane was. She quickly moved into cafe society, possibly easing her conscience by talking constantly of her desire to be in show business. She seemed so anxious to go on the stage that some of her friends in the cocktail circuit set up a practical joke. An ex-fighter was introduced to her in a bar as ``Mr. Warfield, the famous producer''. The phony producer asked her if she would like to be in one of his shows. ``I'd love to audition for you'', she gushed. The audition was held a few minutes later in somebody's apartment. She thought she had great possibilities in the ballet and wanted to show the eminent producer how well she could dance. After a few minutes he said, ``I can't use you if you dance like that. I'd like to see you dance nude''. She hastily complied. Diane loved to dance in the nude, something she was to demonstrate time and again. She developed another quaint habit. Even among the fast set in which she was moving, her method for keeping an escort from departing too early was unique. When the date would try to bid her good-night at the door, she would tell him, ``If you go home now, I'll scream''. More often than not he would bow to the inevitable. One who needed no such threats was a French financier. One of the blonde's yearnings that he satisfied was for travel. She wanted to go around the world, but she settled for a French holiday. In an anonymous interview with a French newspaper the financier told of spending several months with her. ``Then she went to Deauville where she met a member of a powerful Greek syndicate of gamblers''. The Greek evidently fell for her, ``Monsieur X'' recounted, and to clinch what he thought was an affair in the making he gave her 100, 000 francs (about $ 300) and led her to the roulette tables. She could do no wrong at the tables that time. And in short order the croupier had pushed several million francs her way. Smarter than most gamblers, she slipped away from the casino, packed her bag and took the night train to Paris. No one ever learned what happened to the Greek. The luxury of Paris'most fashionable hotel, the George 5,, bored the beautifully-built blonde, so she high-tailed it to Rome. She teamed up with another beauty, whose name has been lost to history, and commenced with some fiddling that would have made Nero envious. To climax her Roman revels, she was thrown out of the swanky Hotel Excelsior after she had run naked through its marble halls screaming for help. It was a rugged finish for what must have been a very interesting night. Discreet Italian police described it in a manner typically continental. ``There had been a threesome at the party in the suite's bedroom: Miss Harrington (this was Diane's choice for a Roman name), another woman who has figured in other very interesting events and one of your well-known American actors. ``The actor had had much to drink and apparently became very violent. The hotel staff, as well as residents of the Excelsior, told us they saw that both ladies were bleeding from scratches as they were seen fleeing down the hall. ``They were wearing nothing but their scratches. They were asked to leave the hotel. No charges were filed''. The girls, after dressing, were indignant. ``You can't do this to us'', Diane screamed. ``We are Americans''. In the morning she found rooms directly across from the Excelsior at the equally luxurious Hotel Ambassador. With the Ambassador as headquarters, she continued to promote good will abroad. Of course, her benevolence was limited to those who could afford it, but then there is a limit to what one person can do. By this time Diane was a beguiling lass of 19 and still seeking her place in the world. She thought royal status might come her way when, while she was still in Rome, she met Pulley Bey, a personal procurer to King Farouk of Egypt. ``It was a strange relationship. Pulley Bey spoke no English. Diane spoke no Italian or French. She had a hard time making him understand that it was Farouk she wished to meet. ``Pulley Bey insisted that she bestow her favors on him'', the friend continued. It seemed as though she were always auditioning. No believer in the traditional devotion of royal servitors, the plump Pulley broke the language barrier and lured her to Cairo where she waited for nine months, vainly hoping to see Farouk. Pulley had set her up at the Semiramis Hotel, but she grew impatient waiting for a royal reception and moved to a luxurious apartment to which the royal pimp had no key. She picked her own Middle-Eastern friends from the flock of ardent Egyptians that buzzed around her. Tewfik Badrawi, Mohammed Gaafer and numerous other wealthy members of Cairo society enjoyed her company. ``So extensive became her circle of admirers'', Egyptian police said, ``that her escapades caused distrust''. The roof was about ready to fall in on Diane's little world, but it took nothing less than the Egyptian revolution to bring it down. When Farouk was overthrown, police picked up his personal pimp, Pulley Bey. They also called upon Diane with a request for a look at her passport. The cagey Pulley Bey, who spoke no English, had taken the passport so that Diane couldn't leave the country without his approval. Officials provided a temporary passport, good only for return to the United States. And return to the United States she did, into waiting arms -- the unromantic ones of the New York District Attorney's office. Held as a material witness in the compulsory prostitution trial of Mickey Jelke, the comely courtesan was unable to raise bail and was committed to the Women's House of Detention, a terribly overcrowded prison. It is a tribute to her talents that she was able to talk the District Attorney into having her removed from the prison to a hotel room, with her meals taken at Vesuvio's, an excellent Italian restaurant. Newspapers at the time noted that the move indicated that she was co-operating with the District Attorney. With the end of the trial Diane disappeared from New York. It was no longer fashionable to be seen with fabulous ``Lady Harrington''. Several years ago she married a Houston business man, Robert Graham. She later divorced Graham, who is believed to have moved to Bolivia. Houston police got to know Diane two years ago when the vice squad picked her up for questioning about a call girl ring. Last May, they said, she admitted being a prostitute. The next time the police saw her she was dead. It was September 20, 1960, in a lavishly decorated apartment littered with liquor bottles. She had had a party with a regular visitor, Dr. William W. McClellan. McClellan, who had once lost his medical license temporarily on a charge of drug addiction, was with her when she died. He had been in the apartment two days and was hazy about what had happened during that time. When he realized she was dead, he called two lawyers and then the police. When the police arrived, they found McClellan and the two lawyers sitting and staring silently. The blonde's nude body was in bed, a green sheet and a pink blanket covered her. Pictures of her in more glamorous days were on the walls. An autopsy disclosed a large amount of morphine in Diane's body. Police theorize that a combination of dope, drink and drugs killed her. ``I think that maybe she wanted it this way'', a vice squad cop said. ``A maid told us that she still bragged about getting $ 50 a date. She was on the junk, and they slide fast when that happens. At least she never knew what the bottom was like''. I am a carpet salesman. I work for one of the biggest chains of retail carpet houses in the East. We cater mostly to nice people in the $ 5-8, 000 annual income bracket and we run a string of snazzy, neon-lit, chromium-plated suburban stores. I am selling the stuff of which is made one of the Great American Dreams -- wall-to-wall carpeting. There is only one trouble with this big, beautiful dream. From where I sit it looks more like a nightmare. People come to me with confidence. They depend on my supposedly expert knowledge of a trade of which they themselves know little. But I knowingly abuse their confidence. Franklin D. Lee proved a man of prompt action when Mrs. Claire Shaefer, accompanied by a friend, visited him in Bakersfield, California, several months ago as a prospective patient. ``Doctor'' Lee asked her to lie down on a bed and remove her shoes. Then, by squeezing her foot three times, he came up -- presto -- with a different diagnosis with each squeeze. She had -- he informed her -- kidney trouble, liver trouble, and a severe female disorder. (He explained that he could diagnose these ailments from squeezing her foot because all of the nervous system was connected to it. ) He knew just the thing for her -- a treatment from his ``cosmic light ozone generator'' machine. As he applied the applicator extending from the machine -- which consisted of seven differently colored neon tubes superimposed on a rectangular base -- to the supposedly diseased portions of Mrs. Shaefer's body, Lee kept up a steady stream of pseudo-scientific mumbo-jumbo. Yes, the ozone from his machine would cure practically everything, he assured her. Did she know, he asked, why the colors of the tubes were important to people's health? The human body -- he pointed out, for example -- required 33 units of blue light. For that reason, he informed her, the Lord made the sky blue. ``Don't you worry. This machine will cure your cancer-ridden body''. ``Cancer''! Mrs. Shaefer practically shrieked. ``You didn't tell me I had cancer''. ``You have it, all right. But as long as you can have treatment from my machine you have nothing to worry about. Why, I once used this machine to cure a woman with 97 pounds of cancer in her body''. He urged her to buy one of his machines -- for $ 300. When she said that she didn't have the money, he said that she could come in for treatment with his office model until she was ready to buy one. He then sold her minerals to cure her kidney ailment, a can of sage ``to make her look like a girl again'', and an application of plain mud to take her wrinkles away. Lee renewed his pressure on Mrs. Shaefer to buy his machine when she visited him the next day. After another treatment with the machine, he told her that ``her entire body was shot through with tumors and cysts''. He then sold her some capsules that he asserted would take care of the tumors and cysts until she could collect the money for buying his machine. When she submitted to his treatment with the capsules, Mrs. Shaefer felt intense pain. Leaving Lee's office, Mrs. Shaefer hurried over to her family physician, who treated her for burned tissue. For several days, she was ill as a result of Lee's treatment. Mrs. Shaefer never got around to joining the thousand or so people who paid Lee some $ 30, 000 for his ozone machines. For Mrs. Shaefer -- who had been given a clean bill of health by her own physician at the time she visited Lee -- and her friend were agents for the California Pure Food and Drug Inspection Bureau. And she felt amply rewarded for her suffering when the evidence of Lee's quack shenanigans, gathered by the tape recorder under her friend's clothing, proved adequate in court for convicting Franklin D. Lee. The charge: violation of the California Medical Practices Act by practicing medicine without a license and selling misbranded drugs. The sentence: 360 days'confinement in the county jail. An isolated case of quackery? By no means. Rather, it is typical of the thousands of quacks who use phony therapeutic devices to fatten themselves on the miseries of hundreds of thousands of Americans by robbing them of millions of dollars and luring them away from legitimate, ethical medical treatment of serious diseases. The machine quack makes his Rube Goldberg devices out of odds and ends of metals, wires, and radio parts. With these gadgets -- impressive to the gullible because of their flashing light bulbs, ticks, and buzzes -- he then carries out a vicious medical con game, capitalizing on people's respect for the electrical and atomic wonders of our scientific age. He milks the latest scientific advances, translating them into his own special Buck Rogers vocabulary to huckster his fake machines as a cure-all for everything from hay fever to sexual impotence and cancer. The gadget faker operates or sells his phony machines for $ 5 to $ 10, 000 -- anything the traffic will bear. He may call himself a anaprapath, a physiotherapist, an electrotherapist, a naturopath, a sanipractor, a medical cultist, a masseur, a ``doctor'' -- or what have you. Not only do these quacks assume impressive titles, but represent themselves as being associated with various scientific or impressive foundations -- foundations which often have little more than a letterhead existence. The medical device pirate of today, of course, is a far more sophisticated operator than his predecessor of yesteryear -- the gallus-snapping hawker of snake oil and other patent medicines. His plunder is therefore far higher -- running into hundreds of millions. According to the Food And Drug Administration (FDA), ``Doctor'' Ghadiali, Dr. Albert Abrams and his clique, and Dr. Wilhelm Reich -- to name three notorious device quacks -- succeeded, respectively, in distributing 10, 000, 5000, and 2000 fake health machines. Authorities believe that many of the Doctor Frauds using these false health gadgets are still in business. Look at the sums paid by two device quack victims in Cleveland. Sarah Gross, a dress shop proprietor, paid $ 1020 to a masseur, and Mr. A., a laborer, paid $ 4200 to a chiropractor for treatment with two fake health machines -- the ``radioclast'' and the ``diagnometer''. Multiply these figures by the millions of people known to be conned by medical pirates annually. You will come up with a frightening total. That's why the FDA, the American Medical Association (AMA), and the National Better Business Bureau (BBB) have estimated the toll of mechanical quackery to be a substantial portion of the $ 610 million or so paid to medical charlatans annually. The Postmaster General recently reported that mail order frauds -- among which fake therapeutic devices figure prominently -- are at the highest level in history. Similarly, the American Cancer Society (ACS), the Arthritis and Rheumatism Foundation, and the BBB have each stated lately that medical quackery is at a new high. For example, the BBB has reported it was receiving four times as many inquiries about quack devices and 10 times as many complaints compared with two years ago. Authorities hesitate to quote exact figures, however, believing that any sum they come up with is only a surface manifestation -- turned up by their inevitably limited policing -- of the real loot of the medical racketeer. In this sense, authorities believe that all estimates of phony device quackery are conservative. The economic toll that the device quack extracts is important, of course. But it is our health -- more precious than all the money in the world -- that these modern witch doctors with their fake therapeutic gadgets are gambling away. By preying on the sick, by playing callously on the hopes of the desperate, by causing the sufferer to delay proper medical care, these medical ghouls create pain and misery by their very activity. Typically, Sarah Gross and Mr. A both lost more than their money as the result of their experiences with their Cleveland quacks. Sarah Gross found that the treatments given her for a nervous ailment by the masseur were not helping her. As a result, she consulted medical authorities and learned that the devices her quack ``doctor'' was using were phony. She suffered a nervous breakdown and had to be institutionalized. Mr. A., her fellow townsman, also experienced a nervous breakdown just as soon as he discovered that he had been bilked of his life savings by the limited practitioner who had been treating his wife -- a woman suffering from an incurable disease, multiple sclerosis -- and himself. Mr. A has recovered, but he is, justifiably, a bitter man. ``That's a lot of hard-earned money to lose'', he says today. ``Neither me nor my wife were helped by that chiropractor's treatments''. And there was the case of Tom Hepker, a machinist, who was referred by a friend to a health machine quack who treated him with a so-called diagnostic machine for what Doctor Fraud said was a system full of arsenic and strychnine. After his pains got worse, Tom decided to see a real doctor, from whom he learned he was suffering from cancer of the lung. Yes, Tom caught it in time to stay alive. But he's a welfare case now -- a human wreck -- thanks to this modern witch doctor. But the machine quack can cause far more than just suffering. In such diseases as cancer, tuberculosis, and heart disease, early diagnosis and treatment are so vital that the waste of time by the patient with Doctor Fraud's cure-all gadget can prove fatal. Moreover, the diabetic patient who relies on cure by the quack device and therefore cuts off his insulin intake can be committing suicide. In Chicago, some time ago, Mr. H., age 27, a diabetic since he was six, stopped using insulin because he had bought a ``magic spike'' -- a glass tube about the size of a pencil filled with barium chloride worth a small fraction of a cent -- sold by the Vrilium Company of Chicago for $ 306 as a cure-all. ``Hang this around your neck or attach it to other parts of your anatomy, and its rays will cure any disease you have'', said the company. Mr. H. is dead today because he followed this advice. Doris Hull, suffering from tuberculosis, was taken by her husband to see Otis G. Carroll, a sanipractor -- a licensed drugless healer -- in Spokane. Carroll diagnosed Mrs. Hull by taking a drop of blood from her ear and putting it on his ``radionic'' machine and twirling some knobs (fee $ 50). His prescription: hot and cold compresses to increase her absorption of water. Although she weighed only 108 pounds when she visited him, Carroll permitted her to go on a 10-day fast in which she took nothing but water. Inevitably, Mrs. Hull died of starvation and tuberculosis, weighing 60 pounds. Moreover, her husband and child contracted T. B. from her. (Small wonder a Spokane jury awarded the husband $ 35, 823 for his wife's death. In California, a few years ago, a ghoul by the name of H. F. Bell sold electric blankets as a cure for cancer. He did this by the charming practice of buying up used electric blankets for $ 5 to $ 10 from survivors of patients who had died, reconditioning them, and selling them at $ 185 each. When authorities convicted him of practicing medicine without a license (he got off with a suspended sentence of three years because of his advanced age of 77), one of his victims was not around to testify: He was dead of cancer. By no means are these isolated cases. ``Unfortunately'', says Chief Postal Inspector David H. Stephens, who has prosecuted many device quacks, ``the ghouls who trade on the hopes of the desperately ill often cannot be successfully prosecuted because the patients who are the chief witnesses die before the case is called up in court''. Death! Have no doubt about it. That's where device quackery can lead. The evidence shows that fake therapeutic machines, substituted for valid medical cures, have hastened the deaths of thousands. Who are the victims of the device quacks? Authorities say that oldsters are a prime target. Says Wallace F. Jannsen, director of the FDA's Division of Public Information: ``Quacks are apt to direct their appeal directly to older people, or to sufferers from chronic ailments such as arthritis, rheumatism, diabetes, and cancer. People who have not been able to get relief from regular medical doctors are especially apt to be taken in by quacks''. The victims of the quacks are frequently poor people, like Mr. A., who scrape up their life savings to offer as a sacrifice to Doctor Fraud's avarice. They are often ignorant as well as underprivileged. Ten-year-old Richard Stewart had been irritable and quarrelsome for almost a year. His grades had gone steadily downhill, and he had stopped bringing friends and classmates home from school. Mr. and Mrs. Stewart were puzzled and concerned. Then one day Dick's classmate Jimmy, from next door, let the cat out of the bag. The youngsters in the boys'class had nicknamed Dick ``Bugs Bunny'' because his teeth protruded. When Richard's parents told him they wanted to take him to an orthodontist -- a dentist who specializes in realigning teeth and jaws -- their young son was interested. During the year that followed, Dick co-operated whole-heartedly with the dentist and was delighted with the final result achieved -- an upper row of strong straight teeth that completely changed his facial appearance. Richard Stewart is no special case. ``The majority of children in the United States could benefit by some form of orthodontic treatment'', says Dr. Allan G. Brodie, professor and head of the department of orthodontics at the University of Illinois and a nationally recognized authority in his field. What do parents need to know about those ``years of the braces'' in order not to waste a child's time and their money? How can they tell whether a child needs orthodontic treatment? Why and when should tooth-straightening be undertaken? What is it likely to cost? occlusion is the dentist's expression for the way teeth fit together when the jaws are closed. Malocclusion, or a bad fit, is what parents need to look out for. One main type of malocclusion is characterized by a receding chin and protruding upper front teeth. A chin too prominent in relation to the rest of the face, a thrusting forward of the lower front teeth, an overdeveloped lower jawbone, and an underdeveloped upper jaw indicate the opposite type of malocclusion. These two basic malformations have, of course, many variations. A noticeable protrusion of the upper or lower jaw. Crooked, overlapping, twisted, or widely spaced teeth. Front teeth not meeting when the back teeth close. Upper teeth completely covering the lowers when the back teeth close. The eyeteeth (third from the middle on top, counting each front tooth as the first) beginning to protrude like fangs. Second teeth that have come in before the first ones have fallen out, making a double row. Contrary to the thinking of 30 to 40 years ago, when all malocclusion was blamed on some unfortunate habit, recent studies show that most tooth irregularity has at least its beginning in hereditary predisposition. However, this does not mean that a child's teeth or jaws must necessarily resemble those of someone in his family. Tooth deformity may be the result of excessive thumb-or finger-sucking, tongue-thrusting, or lip-sucking -- but it's important to remember that there's a difference between normal and excessive sucking habits. It's perfectly normal for babies to suck their thumbs, and no mother need worry if a child continues this habit until he is two or three years old. Occasional sucking up to the fifth year may not affect a youngster's teeth; but after that, if thumb-sucking pressure is frequent, it will have an effect. Malocclusion can also result if baby teeth are lost too soon or retained too long. If a child loses a molar at the age of two, the adjoining teeth may shift toward the empty space, thus narrowing the place intended for the permanent ones and producing a jumble. If baby teeth are retained too long, the incoming second teeth may be prevented from emerging at the normal time or may have to erupt in the wrong place. every orthodontist sees children who are embarrassed by their malformed teeth. Some such youngsters rarely smile, or they try to speak with the mouth closed. In certain cases, as in Dick Stewart's, a child's personality is affected. Yet from the dentist's point of view, bad-fitting teeth should be corrected for physical reasons. Bad alignment may result in early loss of teeth through a breakdown of the bony structure that supports their roots. This serious condition, popularly known as pyorrhea, is one of the chief causes of tooth loss in adults. Then, too, misplaced or jammed-together teeth are prone to trapping food particles, increasing the likelihood of rapid decay. ``For these and other reasons'', says Dr. Brodie, ``orthodontics can prolong the life of teeth''. The failure of teeth to fit together when closed interferes with normal chewing, so that a child may swallow food whole and put a burden on his digestive system. Because of these chewing troubles, a child may avoid certain foods he needs for adequate nutrition. Badly placed teeth can also cause such a speech handicap as lisping. ``most orthodontic work is done on children between the ages of 10 and 14, though there have been patients as young as two and as old as 55'', says Dr. Brodie. In the period from 10 to 14 the permanent set of teeth is usually completed, yet the continuing growth of bony tissue makes moving badly placed teeth comparatively easy. Orthodontic work is possible because teeth are held firmly but not rigidly, by a system of peridontal membrane with an involved nerve network, to the bone in the jaw; they are not anchored directly to the bone. Abnormal pressure, applied over a period of time, produces a change in the bony deposit, so a tooth functions normally in the new position into which it has been guided. What can 10-year-old Susan expect when she enters the orthodontist's office? On her first visit the orthodontist will take x-rays, photographs, tooth measurements, and ``tooth prints'' -- an impression of the mouth that permits him to study her teeth and jaws. If he decides to proceed, he will custom-make for Susie an appliance consisting of bands, plastic plates, fine wires, and tiny springs. This appliance will exert a gentle and continuous or intermittent pressure on the bone. As the tooth moves, bone cells on the pressure side of it will dissolve, and new ones will form on the side from which the tooth has moved. This must be done at the rate at which new bony tissue grows, and no faster. ``If teeth are moved too rapidly, serious injury can be done to their roots as well as to the surrounding bone holding them in place'', explains Dr. Brodie. ``Moving one or two teeth can affect the whole system, and an ill-conceived plan of treatment can disrupt the growth pattern of a child's face''. During the first few days of wearing the appliance and immediately following each adjustment, Susan may have a slight discomfort or soreness, but after a short time this will disappear. Parents are often concerned that orthodontic appliances may cause teeth to decay. When in place, a well-cemented band actually protects the part of the tooth that is covered. Next Susie will enter the treatment stage and visit the orthodontist once or twice a month, depending on the severity of her condition. During these visits the dentist will adjust the braces to increase the pressure on her teeth. Last comes the retention stage. Susie's teeth have now been guided into a desirable new position. But because teeth sometimes may drift back to their original position, a retaining appliance is used to lock them in place. Usually this is a thin band of wire attached to the molars and stretching across the teeth. Susie may wear this only at night or for a few hours during the day. Then comes the time when the last wire is removed and Susie walks out a healthier and more attractive girl than when she first went to the orthodontist. How long will this take? Straightening one tooth that has come in wrong may take only a few months. Aligning all the teeth may take a year or more. An added complication such as a malformed jaw may take two or three years to correct. The charge for a complete full-banded job differs in various parts of the country. Work that might cost $ 500 to $ 750 in the South could cost $ 750 to $ 1, 200 in New York City or Chicago. An average national figure for two to three years of treatment would be $ 650 to $ 1, 000. ``Factors in the cost of treatment are the length of time involved and the skill and education of the practitioner'', says Dr. Brodie. To become an orthodontist, a man must first be licensed by his state as a dentist, then he must spend at least two years in additional training to acquire a license as a specialist. ``Costs may seem high, but they used to be even higher'', says Dr. Brodie. ``Fees are about half to a third of what they were 25 years ago''. The reason? People today are aware of the value of orthodontics, and as a result there are more practitioners in the field. Most orthodontists require an initial payment to cover the cost of diagnostic materials and construction of the appliances, but usually the remainder of the cost may be spread over a period of months or years. In many cities in the United States clinics associated with dental schools will take patients at a nominal fee. Some municipal agencies will pay for orthodontic treatment for children of needy parents. growth studies have been carried on consistently by orthodontists. Dr. Brodie has 30-year records of head growth, started 20 minutes after children's births. ``In the past anyone who said that 90 % of all malocclusion is hereditary was scoffed at; now we know that family characteristics do affect tooth formation to a large extent'', he says. ``Fortunately through our growth studies we have been able to see what nature does, and that helps us know what we can do''. This knowledge both modifies and dictates diagnosis and treatment. For example, a boy may inherit a small jaw from one ancestor and large teeth from another. In the past an orthodontist might have tried, over four or five years, to straighten and fit the boy's large teeth into a jaw that, despite some growth, would never accommodate them. Now a dentist can recommend extraction immediately. In other cases, in view of present-day knowledge of head growth, orthodontists will recommend waiting four or five years before treatment. The child is kept on call, and the orthodontist watches the growth. ``Nature often takes care of the problem'', says Dr. Brodie. ``A child with a certain type of head and teeth will outgrow tooth deformity''. That is why Dr. Brodie asks parents not to insist, against their dentist's advice, that their child have orthodontic work done too early. ``Both because of our culture's stress on beauty and our improved economic conditions, some parents demand that the dentist try to correct a problem before it is wise to do so. Let the orthodontist decide the proper time to start treatment'', he urges. Superior new material for orthodontic work is another result of research. Plastics are easier to handle than the vulcanized rubber formerly used, and they save time and money. Plaster of Paris, once utilized in making impressions of teeth, has been replaced by alginates (gelatin-like material) that work quickly and accurately and with least discomfort to a child. as a rule, the earlier general dental treatment is started, the less expensive and more satisfactory it is likely to be. ``After your child's baby teeth are all in -- usually at the age of two and one half to three -- it's time for that first dental appointment'', Dr. Brodie advises. ``Then see that your youngster has a routine checkup once a year''. He can correct decay, thus preventing early loss of teeth. If a child does lose his first teeth prematurely because of decay -- and if no preventive steps are taken -- the other teeth may shift out of position, become overcrowded and malformed. In turn the other teeth are likely to decay because food particles may become impacted in them. From time to time the medium mentions other people ``around him'', who were ``on the other side'', and reports what they are saying. After a while there come initials and names, and he is interested to hear some rather unusual family nicknames. As the hour progresses, the sensitive seems to probe more deeply and to make more personal and specific statements. There are a few prognoses of coming events. Another medium, another sitter, would produce a somewhat different content, but in general it would probably sound much like the foregoing reading. Some mediums speak in practical, down-to-earth terms, while others may stress the spiritual. Not all, as a matter of fact, consider themselves ``mediums'' in the sense of receiving messages from the deceased. In fact, some sensitives rule this out, preferring to consider their expression as strictly extra-sensory perception (ESP), on this side of the ``veil''. However that may be, people are known to go to mediums for diverse reasons. Perhaps they are mourning a recent death and want comfort, to feel in touch with the deceased, or seek indications for future plans. They may, of course, be curiosity seekers -- or they may just be interested in the phenomenon of mediumship. The mediums with whom the Parapsychology Foundation is working in this experiment are in a waking or only slightly dissociated state, so that the sitter can make comments, ask and answer questions, instead of talking with a ``control'' who speaks through an entranced sensitive. What we have here is in some ways more like an ordinary conversation. But it is not really only a conversation. Many a sitter (in a personal sitting) has been amazed to realize that the medium was describing very vividly his state of mind. He himself might not have been really aware of his own mood; it had been latent, unspecified, semi-conscious and only partly realized -- until she described it to him! Most striking indeed is this beyond-normal ability to put a finger on ``pre-conscious'' moods and to clarify them. However, in the next visit that the researcher made to the medium, he did not receive a personal reading. Instead he brought with him the names of some people he had never met and of whom the medium knew nothing. For this was to be a ``proxy sitting''. As was noted earlier, it is important that in valid, objective study of this sort of communication, the interested sitter should be separated from the sensitive. Dr. Karlis Osis, Director of Research at the Parapsychology Foundation, described the basis for the experiment in a tomorrow article, (``New Research On Survival After Death'', Spring 1958). He remarked: ``It has been clearly established that in a number of instances the message did not come from a spirit but was received telepathically by the medium from the sitter''. The possibility has to be ruled out that the medium's ESP may tap the memory of the sitter, and to do this, the two central characters in this drama must be separated. One way to do this is by ``proxy sittings'', wherein the person seeking a message does not himself meet with the medium but is represented by a substitute, the proxy sitter. If the latter knows nothing about the absent sitter except his name (given by the experimenter), he cannot possibly give any clues, conscious or unconscious, far less ask leading questions. All he can do is to be an objective and careful questioner, seeking to help the sensitive in clarifying and making more specific her paranormal impressions. Sometimes in these experiments ``appointment sittings'' are used. Here the absent sitter makes a ``date'' with a communicator (someone close to him who is deceased), asking him to ``come in'' at a certain hour, when a channel will be open for him. In this case the proxy sitter will know only the name of the communicator, nothing else. He gives this to the medium at the appointed time, and the reading then will be concerned with material about or messages from the communicator. As always, a tape recording or detailed notes are made, and a typescript of this is sent to the absent sitter. So this proxy situation has set up at least a partial barrier between the medium's ESP and the absent sitter's mind. It is now harder to assume telepathy as a basis for the statements -- though research still does not know how far afield ESP can range. Now the original absent sitter must decide whether the statements are meaningful to him. Here again laboratory approaches are being evolved, for it is recognized how ``elastic'' these readings can be, how they can apply to many people, and are often stated in general terms all too easily applied to any individual's own case. If you look at a reading meant for someone else, you will probably see that many of the items could be considered as applicable to you, even when you were not in the picture at all! An interested sitter may think the sensitive has made a ``hit'', describing something accurately for him, but can he really be sure that another sitter, hearing the same statement, would not apply it subjectively to his own circumstances? It is, of course, easy to see how ``J'' will mean Uncle Jack to one person and little Jane to another. ``A journey'', ``a little white house'', ``a change of outlook'', can apply to many people. And even more complex items can be interpreted to conform to one's own point of view, which is by nature so personal. One sitter may think ``a leather couch'' identifies a reading as surely directed to him; to another, it seems that nobody but his father ever used the phrase, ``Atta boy''! To get around this quite difficult corner, there is one first aid to objectiveness: prevent the distant sitter from knowing which reading was for him. If he is not told which of four or five readings was meant for him, he can more readily assess each item in a larger frame: ``Does that statement really sound as if it were for me, significant in my particular life? Or am I taking something that could really apply to almost anybody, and forgetting that many other people probably have had a similar experience''? ``He had four children, two sets of twins. After being a lawyer for twenty-five years he started studying for the ministry. Part of his house had been moved to the other side of the road. He died of typhoid in 1921''. Methods have been developed of assigning ``weights'' to statements; that is, it is known empirically that names beginning with R are more common than those beginning with Z; that fewer women are named Miranda than Elizabeth; that in the United States more people die of heart disease than of smallpox. So each reading can be given a weight and each reading a score by adding up these weights. Specific dates would be important, as would double names. Various categories have been explored to find out about these ``empirical probabilities'' against which to measure the readings. In the parapsychology foundation's long-range experiment, readings are made by a variety of sensitives for a large number of cooperating sitters, trying to throw light on this question of the significance of mediumistic statements. It is very important indeed, in the field of extra-sensory perception and its relation to the survival hypothesis, to know whether the statements are actually only those which any intuitive person might venture and an eager sitter attach to himself. Or, on the other hand, are unlikely facts being stated, facts which are in themselves significant and not easily applicable to everybody? That is one thing the experiments are designed to find out. So, after the sitting has been held, several readings at one time are mailed, and the distant sitter (whose name or whose communicator's name was given to the medium) must mark each little item as Correct (Hit), Incorrect (Miss), Doubtful, or Especially Significant (applying to him and, he feels, not to anyone else). He is required to mark every item and to indicate which reading he feels is actually his. All these evaluations are then totted up and tabulated, by adding up the Hits and Significants, with the weight placed on those in the sitter's own reading. That is, if he marks as most correct a reading not meant for him, the total experimental score falls. Conversely, if he gives a heavy rating to his own reading, and finds more accurate facts in it than in the others, a point is chalked up for the intrinsic, objective meaningfulness of this type of mediumistic material. And there are some positive results, though the final findings will not be known for a long time -- and then further research can be formulated. In another approach to the same procedure, the content of the readings is analyzed so as to see how the particular medium is likely to slant her statements. Does she often speak of locations, of cause of death? Does she accurately give dates, ages, kind of occupation? It is possible to find out in which categories most of her correct statements fall, and where she makes most of her ``hits''. Now when, so to speak, the cream has been skimmed off, and the items in the successful categories separated out, the sitter can be asked to consider and rate only this concentrated ``cream'', where the sensitive is at her best. Mediumistic impressions are evidently of all sorts and seem to involve all the senses. ``I feel cold'', the medium says, or ``My leg aches'', ``My head is heavy''. Or perhaps she hears words or sounds: ``There's such a noise of loud machinery'', or ``I hear a child crying'', or ``He says we're all here and glad to see you''. Maybe an entire scene comes into consciousness, with action and motion, or a static view: ``a house under a pine tree, with a little stone path going up to the door''. The sensitive often seems to smell definite odors, too, or subjectively feels emotions. Sometimes she displays amazing eidetic imagery and seems to see all details in perspective, as if the scene were actually there. If pressed by the sitter for more detail, she may be able to bring the picture more into focus and see more sharply, almost as if she were physically going closer. If asked how she gets her impressions, she probably can only say that she ``just gets them'' -- some more vividly than others. Perhaps this is not so extraordinary after all. Even in normal experience one gets impressions without knowing exactly how -- of atmosphere, of one another's personalities, moods, intentions. Of course, there is an element of training here: these gifted people, by concentration, study, guidance, have learned to develop their power. Simply using it increases its intensity, I was told by one sensitive. Nor does a medium automatically know how to interpret her imagery. Impressions often appear in a symbolic form and cannot be taken at face value. It is apparently by symbols that the unconscious speaks to the conscious, and the medium has to translate these into meaning. If communication with an entity on the ``other side'' is taking place, this too may assume the form of clairvoyant symbolism. During one reading an image appeared of a prisoner in irons. But this did not necessarily refer to an actual jail; taken with other details it could have referred to a state of mental or spiritual confinement. In this connection it is worth noting how names are sometimes obtained. Though they are often heard clairaudiently, as if a voice were speaking them, in other cases they are apprehended visually as symbols: a slope to signify the name ``Hill'', for instance. One medium saw two sheets flapping on a line and found that the name Shietz was significant to the sitter. Farming is confining. The farmer's life must be arranged to meet the demands of crops and livestock. Livestock must be tended every day, routinely. A slight change in the work schedule may cut the production of cows or chickens. Even if there are no livestock, the farmer cannot leave the farm for long periods, particularly during the growing season. The worker who lives on a farm cannot change jobs readily. He cannot leave the farm to take work in another locality on short notice; such a move may mean a loss of capital. Hard physical labor and undesirable hours are a part of life. The farmer must get up early, and, at times, work late at night. Frequently he must work long hours in the hot sun or cold rain. No matter how well work is planned, bad weather or unexpected setbacks can cause extra work that must be caught up. It may not be profitable for a part-time farmer to own the labor-saving machinery that a full-time farmer can invest in profitably. Production may fall far below expectations. Drought, hail, disease, and insects take their toll of crops. Sickness or loss of some of the livestock may cut into the owner's earnings, even into his capital. Returns for money and labor invested may be small even in a good year. The high cost of land, supplies, and labor make it difficult to farm profitably on a part-time basis. Land within commuting distance of a growing city is usually high in price, higher if it has subdivision possibilities. Part-time farmers generally must pay higher prices for supplies than full-time farmers because they buy in smaller quantities. If the farm is in an industrial area where wages are high, farm labor costs will also be high. A part-time farmer needs unusual skill to get as high production per hen, per cow, or per acre as can be obtained by a competent full-time farmer. It will frequently be uneconomical for him to own the most up-to-date equipment. He may have to depend upon custom service for specialized operations, such as spraying or threshing, and for these, he may have to wait his turn. There will be losses caused by emergencies that arise while he is away at his off-farm job. The farm may be an additional burden if the main job is lost. This may be true whether the farm is owned or rented. If the farm is rented, the rent must be paid. If it is owned, taxes must be paid, and if the place is not free of mortgage, there will be interest and payments on the principal to take care of. A farm provides a wholesome and healthful environment for children. It gives them room to play and plenty of fresh air. The children can do chores adapted to their age and ability. Caring for a calf, a pig, or some chickens develops in children a sense of responsibility for work. Part-time farming gives a measure of security if the regular job is lost, provided the farm is owned free of debt and furnishes enough income to meet fixed expenses and minimum living costs. For some retired persons, part-time farming is a good way to supplement retirement income. It is particularly suitable for those who need to work or exercise out of doors for their health. Generally, the same level of living costs less in the country than in the city. The savings are not as great, however, as is sometime supposed. Usually, the cost of food and shelter will be somewhat less on the farm and the cost of transportation and utilities somewhat more. Where schools, fire and police protection, and similar municipal services are of equal quality in city and country, real estate taxes are usually about the same. A part-time farmer and his family can use their spare time profitably. Some persons consider the work on a farm recreational. For some white-collar workers it is a welcome change from the regular job, and a physical conditioner. Part-time farming can take comparatively little land, labor, and equipment -- or a great deal. It depends on the kind and the scale of the farming operation. General requirements for land, labor, and equipment are discussed below. Specific requirements for each of various types of enterprises are discussed on pages 8 to 14. Three quarters to 1 acre of good land is enough for raising fruits and vegetables for home use, and for a small flock of chickens, a cow, and two pigs. You could not, of course, raise feed for the livestock on a plot this small. If you want to raise feed or carry out some enterprise on a larger scale, you'll need more land. In deciding how much land you want, take into account the amount you'll need to bring in the income you expect. But consider also how much you and your family can keep up along with your other work. The cost of land and the prospects for appreciation in value may influence your decision. Some part-time farmers buy more land than they need in anticipation of suburban development. This is a highly speculative venture. Sometimes a desired acreage is offered only as part of a larger tract. When surplus land is not expensive to buy or to keep up, it is usually better to buy it than to buy so small an acreage that the development of adjoining properties might impair the residential value of the farm. If you have a year-round, full-time job you can't expect to grow much more than your family uses -- unless other members of the family do a good deal of the work or you hire help. As a rule, part-time farmers hire little help. In deciding on the enterprises to be managed by family labor, compare the amount of labor that can be supplied by the family with the labor needs of various enterprises listed in table 1. List the number of hours the family can be expected to work each month. You may want to include your own regular vacation period if you have one. Do not include all your spare time or all your family's spare time -- only what you are willing to use for farm work. If you are going to produce for home use only, you will need only hand tools. You will probably want to hire someone to do the plowing, however. For larger plantings, you'll need some kind of power for plowing, harrowing, disking, and cultivating. If you have a planting of half an acre or more you may want to buy a small garden tractor (available for $ 300 to $ 500 with attachments, 1960 prices). These tractors are not entirely satisfactory for plowing, particularly on heavier soils, so you may still want to hire someone to do the plowing. Cost of power and machinery is often a serious problem to the small-scale farmer. If you are going to farm for extra cash income on a part-time basis you must keep in mind the needed machinery investments when you choose among farm enterprises. You can keep your machinery investment down by buying good secondhand machinery, by sharing the cost and upkeep of machinery with a neighbor, and by hiring someone with machinery to do certain jobs. If an expensive and specialized piece of machinery is needed -- such as a spray rig, a combine, or a binder -- it is better to pay someone with a machine to do the work. Before you look for a farm you'll need to know (1) the kind and scale of farming you want to undertake; and (2) whether you want to buy or rent. Information on pages 8 to 14 may help you in deciding on the kind and scale of your farming venture. If you are not well acquainted with the area in which you wish to locate, or if you are not sure that you and your family will like and make a success of farming, usually you would do better to rent a place for a year or two before you buy. Discussed below are some of the main things to look for when you select a part-time farm. Choose a location within easy commuting distance of both the regular job and other employment opportunities. Then if you change jobs you won't necessarily have to sell the farm. The presence of alternative job opportunities also will make the place easier to sell if that should become desirable. Obviously the farm should be on an all-weather road. If you grow anything to sell you will need markets nearby. If you plan to sell fresh vegetables or whole milk, for example, you should be close to a town or city. Look for a farm in a neighborhood of well-kept homes. There are slums in the country as well as in the city. Few rural areas are protected by zoning. A tavern, filling station, junk yard, rendering plant, or some other business may go up near enough to hurt your home or to hurt its value. Check on the schools in the area, the quality of teaching, and the provision for transportation to and from them. Find out whether fire protection, sewage system, gas, water mains, and electrical lines are available in the locality. If these facilities are not at the door, getting them may cost more than you expect. You may have to provide them yourself or get along without them. You cannot get along without an adequate supply of pure water. If you are considering a part-time farm where the water must be provided by a well, find out if there is a good well on the farm or the probable cost of having one drilled. A pond may provide adequate water for livestock and garden. Pond water can be filtered for human use, but most part-time farmers would not want to go to so much trouble. The following amounts of water are needed per day for livestock and domestic uses. Is the land suited to the crops you intend to raise? If you can't tell, get help from your county agricultural agent or other local specialist. Soil type, drainage, or degree of slope can make the difference between good crops and poor ones. Small areas that aren't right for a certain crop may lie next to areas that are well suited to that crop. Will the house on any part-time farm you are considering make a satisfactory full-time residence? How much will it cost to do any necessary modernizing and redecorating? If the house is not wired adequately for electricity or if plumbing or a central heating system must be installed, check into the cost of making these improvements. Its worth as a place to live. The value of the products you can raise on it. The possibilities of selling the property later on for suburban subdivision. Decide first what the place is worth to you and your family as a home in comparison with what it would cost to live in town. Take into account the difference in city and county taxes, insurance rates, utility rates, and the cost of travel to work. Next, estimate the value of possible earnings of the farm. To do this, set up a plan on paper for operating the farm. List the kind and quantity of things the farm can be expected to produce in an average year. Estimate the value of the produce at normal prices. The total is the probably gross income from farming. To find estimated net farm income, subtract estimated annual farming expenditures from probable gross income from farming. Include as expenditures an allowance for depreciation of farm buildings and equipment. Also count as an expense a charge for the labor to be contributed by the family. It may be hard to decide what this labor is worth, but charge something for it. Otherwise, you may pay too much for the farm and get nothing for your labor. To figure the value of the farm in terms of investment income, divide the estimated annual net farm income by the percentage that you could expect to get in interest if the money were invested in some other way. Everyone with a personal or group tragedy to relate had to be given his day in court as in some vast collective dirge. For almost two months, the defendant and the world heard from individuals escaped from the grave about fathers and mothers, graybeards, adolescents, babies, starved, beaten to death, strangled, machine-gunned, gassed, burned. One who had been a boy in Auschwitz had to tell how children had been selected by height for the gas chambers. The gruesome humor of the Nazis was not forgotten -- the gas chamber with a sign on it with the name of a Jewish foundation and bearing a copper Star of David -- nor the gratuitous sadism of SS officers. Public relations strategists everywhere, watching the reaction of the German press, the liberal press, the lunatic-fringe press, listening to their neighbors, studying interviews with men and women on the street, cried out: Too much, too much -- the mind of the audience is becoming dulled, the horrors are losing their effect. And still another witness, one who had crawled out from under a heap of corpses, had to tell how the victims had been forced to lay themselves head to foot one on top of the other before being shot. Most of this testimony may have been legally admissible as bearing on the corpus delicti of the total Nazi crime but seemed subject to question when not tied to the part in it of the defendant's Department of Jewish Affairs. Counsel for the defense, however, shrewdly allowing himself to be swept by the current of dreadful recollections, rarely raised an objection. Would not the emotional catharsis eventually brought on by this awfulness have a calming, if not exhausting, effect likely to improve his client's chances? Those who feared ``emotionalism'' at the Trial showed less understanding than Dr. Servatius of the route by which man achieves the distance necessary for fairness toward enemies. Interruptions came largely from the bench, which numerous times rebuked the Attorney General for letting his witnesses run on, though it, too, made no serious effort to choke off the flow. But there was a contrast even more decisive than a hunger for fact between the Trial in Jerusalem and those in Moscow and New York. In each of the last, the trial marked the beginning of a new course: in Moscow the liquidation of the Old Bolsheviks and the tightening of Stalin's dictatorship; in the United States the initiation of militant anti-Communism, with the repentant ex-Communist in the vanguard. These trials were properly termed ``political cases'' in that the trial itself was a political act producing political consequences. But what could the Eichmann Trial initiate? Of what new course could it mark the beginning? The Eichmann case looked to the past, not to the future. It was the conclusion of the first phase of a process of tragic recollection, and of refining the recollection, that will last as long as there are Jews. As such, it was beyond politics and had no need of justification by a ``message''. ``It is not an individual that is in the dock at this historical trial'' -- said Ben Gurion, ``and not the Nazi regime alone -- but anti-Semitism throughout history''. How could supplying Eichmann with a platform on which to maintain that one could collaborate in the murder of millions of Jews without being an anti-semite contribute to a verdict against anti-Semitism? And if it was not an individual who was in the dock, why was the Trial, as we shall observe later, all but scuttled in the attempt to prove Eichmann a ``fiend''? These questions touch the root of confusion in the prosecution's case. It might be contended, of course, that Eichmann in stubbornly denying anti-Semitic feelings was lying or insisting on a private definition of anti-Semitism. But in either event he was the wrong man for the kind of case outlined by Ben Gurion and set forth in the indictment. In such a case the defendant should serve as a clear example and not have to be tied to the issue by argument. One who could be linked to anti-Semitism only by overcoming his objections is scarcely a good specimen of the Jew-baiter throughout the ages. Shout at Eichmann though he might, the Prosecutor could not establish that the defendant was falsifying the way he felt about Jews or that what he did feel fell into the generally recognized category of anti-Semitism. Yes, he believed that the Jews were ``enemies of the Reich'', and such a belief is, of course, typical of ``patriotic'' anti-Semites; but he believed in the Jew-as-enemy in a kind of abstract, theological way, like a member of a cult speculating on the nature of things. The real question was how one passed from anti-Semitism of this sort to murder, and the answer to this question is not to be found in anti-Semitism itself. In regard to Eichmann, it was to be found in the Nazi outlook, which contained a principle separate from and far worse than anti-Semitism, a principle by which the poison of anti-Semitism itself was made more virulent. Perhaps under the guidance of this Nazi principle one could, as Eichmann declared, feel personally friendly toward the Jews and still be their murderer. Not through fear of disobeying orders, as Eichmann kept trying to explain, but through a peculiar giddiness that began in a half-acceptance of the vicious absurdities contained in the Nazi interpretation of history and grew with each of Hitler's victories into a permanent light-mindedness and sense of magical rightness that was able to respond to any proposal, and the more outrageous the better, ``Well, let's try it''. At any rate, the substance of Eichmann's testimony was that all his actions flowed from his membership in the party and the SS, and though the Prosecutor did his utmost to prove actual personal hatred of Jews, his success on this score was doubtful and the anti-Semitic lesson weakened to that extent. But if the Trial did not expose the special Nazi mania so deadly to Jews as well as to anyone upon whom it happened to light, neither did it warn very effectively against the ordinary anti-Semitism of which the Nazis made such effective use in Germany and wherever else they could find it. If anti-Semitism was on trial in Jerusalem, why was it not identified, and with enough emphasis to capture the notice of the world press, in its connection with the activities of Eichmann's Department of Jewish Affairs, as exemplified by the betrayal and murder of Jews by non-police and non-party anti-Semites in Germany, as well as in Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary? The infamous Wansee Conference called by Heydrich in January 1942, to organize the material and technical means to put to death the eleven million Jews spread throughout the nations of Europe, was attended by representatives of major organs of the German state, including the Reich Minister of the Interior, the State Secretary in charge of the Four Year Plan, the Reich Minister of Justice, the Under Secretary of Foreign Affairs. The measures for annihilation proposed and accepted at the Conference affected industry, transportation, civilian agencies of government. Heydrich, in opening the Conference, followed the reasoning and even the phraseology of the order issued earlier by Goering which authorized the Final Solution as ``a complement to'' previous ``solutions'' for eliminating the Jews from German living space through violence, economic strangulation, forced emigration, and evacuation. In other words, the promulgators of the murder plan made clear that physically exterminating the Jews was but an extension of the anti-Semitic measures already operating in every phase of German life, and that the new conspiracy counted on the general anti-Semitism that had made those measures effective, as a readiness for murder. This, in fact, it turned out to be. Since the magnitude of the plan made secrecy impossible, once the wheels had began to turn, persons controlling German industries, social institutions, and armed forces became, through their anti-Semitism or their tolerance of it, conscious accomplices of Hitler's crimes; whether in the last degree or a lesser one was a matter to be determined individually. What more could be asked for a Trial intended to warn the world against anti-Semitism than this opportunity to expose the exact link between the respectable Anti-Semite and the concentration-camp brute? Not in Eichmann's anti-Semitism but in the anti-Semitism of the sober German man of affairs lay the potential warning of the Trial. No doubt many of the citizens of the Third Reich had conceived their anti-Semitism as an ``innocent'' dislike of Jews, as do others like them today. The Final Solution proved that the Jew-baiter of any variety exposes himself as being implicated in the criminality and madness of others. Ought not an edifying Trial have made every effort to demonstrate this once and for all by showing how representative types of ``mere'' anti-Semites were drawn step by step into the program of skull-bashings and gassings? The Prosecutor in his opening remarks did refer to ``the germ of anti-Semitism'' among the Germans which Hitler ``stimulated and transformed''. But if there was evidence at the Trial that aimed over Eichmann's head at his collaborators in the societies where he functioned, the press seems to have missed it. Nor did the Trial devote much attention to exposing the usefulness of anti-Semitism to the Nazis, both in building their own power and in destroying that of rival organizations and states. Certainly, one of the best ways of warning the world against anti-Semitism is to demonstrate its workings as a dangerous weapon. Eichmann himself is a model of how the myth of the enemy-Jew can be used to transform the ordinary man of present-day society into a menace to all his neighbors. Do patriots everywhere know enough about how the persecution of the Jews in Germany and later in the occupied countries contributed to terrorizing the populations, splitting apart individuals and groups, arousing the meanest and most dishonest impulses, pulverizing trust and personal dignity, and finally forcing people to follow their masters into the abyss by making them partners in unspeakable crimes? The career of Eichmann made the Trial a potential showcase for anti-Semitic demoralization: fearful of being mistaken for a Jew, he seeks protection in his Nazi uniform; clinging to the enemy-Jew idea, he is forced to overcome habits of politeness and neighborliness; once in power he begins to give vent to a criminal opportunism that causes him to alternate between megalomania and envy of those above him. ``Is this the type of citizen you desire''? The Trial should have asked the nations. But though this characterization in no way diminished Eichmann's guilt, the Prosecutor, more deeply involved in the tactics of a criminal case than a political one, would have none of it. Finally, if the mission of the Trial was to convict anti-Semitism, how could it have failed to post before the world the contrasting fates of the countries in which the Final Solution was aided by native Jew-haters -- i. e., Germany, Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia -- and those in which it met the obstacle of human solidarity -- Denmark, Holland, Italy, Bulgaria, France? Should not everyone have been awakened to it as an outstanding fact of our time that the nations poisoned by anti-Semitism proved less fortunate in regard to their own freedom than those whose citizens saved their Jewish compatriots from the transports? Wasn't this meaning of Eichmann's experience in various countries worth highlighting? As the first collective confrontation of the Nazi outrage, the Trial of Eichmann represents a recovery of the Jews from the shock of the death camps, a recovery that took fifteen years and which is still by no means complete (though let no one believe that it could be hastened by silence). Only across a distance of time could the epic accounting begin. It is already difficult to recall how little we knew before the Trial of what had been done to the Jews of Europe. It is not that the facts of the persecution were unavailable; most of the information elicited in Jerusalem had been brought to the surface by the numerous War Crimes tribunals and investigating commissions, and by reports, memoirs, and survivors'accounts. In Poughkeepsie, N. Y.,, in 1952, a Roman Catholic hospital presented seven Protestant physicians with an ultimatum to quit the Planned Parenthood Federation or to resign from the hospital staff. Three agreed, but four declined and were suspended. After a flood of protests, they were reinstated at the beginning of 1953. The peace of the community was badly disturbed, and people across the nation, reading of the incident, felt uneasy. In New York City in 1958, the city's Commissioner of Hospitals refused to permit a physician to provide a Protestant mother with a contraceptive device. He thereby precipitated a bitter controversy involving Protestants, Jews and Roman Catholics that continued for two months, until the city's Board of Hospitals lifted the ban on birth-control therapy. A year later in Albany, N. Y., a Roman Catholic hospital barred an orthopedic surgeon because of his connection with the Planned Parenthood Association. Immediately, the religious groups of the city were embroiled in an angry dispute over the alleged invasion of a man's right to freedom of religious belief and conscience. These incidents, typical of many others, dramatize the distressing fact that no controversy during the last several decades has caused more tension, rancor and strife among religious groups in this country than the birth-control issue. It has flared up periodically on the front pages of newspapers in communities divided over birth-prevention regulations in municipal hospitals and health and family-welfare agencies. It has erupted on the national level in the matter of including birth-control information and material in foreign aid to underdeveloped countries. Where it is not actually erupting, it rumbles and smolders in sullen resentment like a volcano, ready to explode at any moment. The time has come for citizens of all faiths to unite in an effort to remove this divisive and nettlesome issue from the political and social life of our nation. The first step toward the goal is the establishment of a new atmosphere of mutual good will and friendly communication on other than the polemical level. Instead of emotional recrimination, loaded phrases and sloganeering, we need a dispassionate study of the facts, a better understanding of the opposite viewpoint and a more serious effort to extend the areas of agreement until a solution is reached. ``All too frequently'', points out James O'Gara, managing editor of Commonweal, ``Catholics run roughshod over Protestant sensibilities in this matter, by failure to consider the reasoning behind the Protestant position and, particularly, by their jibes at the fact that Protestant opinion on birth control has changed in recent decades''. All too often our language is unduly harsh. The second step is to recognize the substantial agreement -- frequently blurred by emotionalism and inaccurate newspaper reporting -- already existing between Catholics and Non-Catholics concerning the over-all objectives of family planning. Instead of Catholics'being obliged or even encouraged to beget the greatest possible number of offspring, as many Non-Catholics imagine, the ideal of responsible parenthood is stressed. Family planning is encouraged, so that parents will be able to provide properly for their offspring. Pope Pius 12, declared in 1951 that it is possible to be exempt from the normal obligation of parenthood for a long time and even for the whole duration of married life, if there are serious reasons, such as those often mentioned in the so-called medical, eugenic, economic and social ``indications''. This means that such factors as the health of the parents, particularly the mother, their ability to provide their children with the necessities of life, the degree of population density of a country and the shortage of housing facilities may legitimately be taken into consideration in determining the number of offspring. These are substantially the same factors considered by Non-Catholics in family planning. The laws of many states permit birth control only for medical reasons. The Roman Catholic Church, however, sanctions a much more liberal policy on family planning. Catholics, Protestants and Jews are in agreement over the objectives of family planning, but disagree over the methods to be used. The Roman Catholic Church sanctions only abstention or the rhythm method, also known as the use of the infertile or safe period. The Church considers this to be the method provided by nature and its divine Author: It involves no frustration of nature's laws, but simply an intelligent and disciplined use of them. With the exception of the Roman Catholic and the Orthodox Catholic Churches, most churches make no moral distinction between rhythm and mechanical or chemical contraceptives, allowing the couple free choice. There is a difference in theological belief where there seems little chance of agreement. The grounds for the Church's position are Scriptural (Old Testament), the teachings of the fathers and doctors of the early Church, the unbroken tradition of nineteen centuries, the decisions of the highest ecclesiastical authority and the natural law. The latter plays a prominent role in Roman Catholic theology and is considered decisive, entirely apart from Scripture, in determining the ethical character of birth-prevention methods. The Roman Catholic natural-law tradition regards as self-evident that the primary objective purpose of the conjugal act is procreation and that the fostering of the mutual love of the spouses is the secondary and subjective end. This conclusion is based on two propositions: that man by the use of his reason can ascertain God's purpose in the universe and that God makes known His purpose by certain ``given'' physical arrangements. Thus, man can readily deduce that the primary objective end of the conjugal act is procreation, the propagation of the race. Moreover, man may not supplant or frustrate the physical arrangements established by God, who through the law of rhythm has provided a natural method for the control of conception. Believing that God is the Author of this law and of all laws of nature, Roman Catholics believe that they are obliged to obey those laws, not frustrate or mock them. Let it be granted then that the theological differences in this area between Protestants and Roman Catholics appear to be irreconcilable. But people differ in their religious beliefs on scores of doctrines, without taking up arms against those who disagree with them. Why is it so different in regard to birth control? It is because each side has sought to implement its distinctive theological belief through legislation and thus indirectly force its belief, or at least the practical consequences thereof, upon others. It is always a temptation for a religious organization, especially a powerful or dominant one, to impose through the clenched fist of the law its creedal viewpoint upon others. Both Roman Catholics and Protestants have succumbed to this temptation in the past. Consider what happened during World War 1,, when the Protestant churches united to push the Prohibition law through Congress. Many of them sincerely believe that the use of liquor in any form or in any degree is intrinsically evil and sinful. With over four million American men away at war, Protestants forced their distinctive theological belief upon the general public. With the return of our soldiers, it soon became apparent that the belief was not shared by the great majority of citizens. The attempt to enforce that belief ushered in a reign of bootleggers, racketeers, hijackers and gangsters that led to a breakdown of law unparalleled in our history. The so-called ``noble experiment'' came to an inglorious end. That tumultuous, painful and costly experience shows clearly that a law expressing a moral judgment cannot be enforced when it has little correspondence with the general view of society. That experience holds a lesson for us all in regard to birth control today. Up to the turn of the century, contraception was condemned by all Christian churches as immoral, unnatural and contrary to divine law. This was generally reflected in the civil laws of Christian countries. Today, the Roman Catholic and Orthodox Churches stand virtually alone in holding that conviction. The various Lambeth Conferences, expressing the Anglican viewpoint, mirror the gradual change that has taken place among Protestants generally. In 1920, the Lambeth Conference repeated its 1908 condemnation of contraception and issued ``an emphatic warning against the use of unnatural means for the avoidance of conception, together with the grave dangers -- physical, moral, and religious -- thereby incurred, and against the evils which the extension of such use threaten the race''. Denouncing the view that the sexual union is an end in itself, the Conference declared: ``We steadfastly uphold what must always be regarded as the governing considerations of Christian marriage. One is the primary purpose for which marriage exists, namely, the continuance of the race through the gift and heritage of children; the other is the paramount importance in married life of deliberate and thoughtful self-control''. The Conference called for a vigorous campaign against the open or secret sale of contraceptives. In 1930, the Lambeth Conference again affirmed the primary purpose of marriage to be the procreation of children, but conceded that, in certain limited circumstances, contraception might be morally legitimate. In 1958, the Conference endorsed birth control as the responsibility laid by God on parents everywhere. Many other Protestant denominations preceded the Anglicans in such action. In March, 1931, 22 out of 28 members of a committee of the Federal Council of Churches ratified artificial methods of birth control. ``As to the necessity'', the committee declared, ``for some form of effective control of the size of the family and the spacing of children, and consequently of control of conception, there can be no question. There is general agreement also that sex union between husbands and wives as an expression of mutual affection without relation to procreation is right''. Since then, many Protestant denominations have made separate pronouncements, in which they not only approved birth control, but declared it at times to be a religious duty. What determines the morality, they state, is not the means used, but the motive In general, the means (excluding abortion) that prove most effective are considered the most ethical. The board approved and commended the use of birth-control devices as a part of Christian responsibility in family planning. It called for opposition to laws and institutional practices restricting the information or availability of contraceptives. The general board declared: ``Most of the Protestant churches hold contraception and periodic continence to be morally right when the motives are right. The general Protestant conviction is that motives, rather than methods, form the primary moral issue, provided the methods are limited to the prevention of conception''. An action once universally condemned by all Christian churches and forbidden by the civil law is now not only approved by the overwhelming majority of Protestant denominations, but also deemed, at certain times, to be a positive religious duty. This viewpoint has now been translated into action by the majority of people in this country. Repeated polls have disclosed that most married couples are now using contraceptives in the practice of birth control. For all concerned with social-welfare legislation, the significance of this radical and revolutionary change in the thought and habits of the vast majority of the American people is clear, profound and far-reaching. To try to oppose the general religious and moral conviction of such a majority by a legislative fiat would be to invite the same breakdown of law and order that was occasioned by the ill-starred Prohibition experiment. This brings us to the fact that the realities we are dealing with lie not in the field of civil legislation, but in the realm of conscience and religion: They are moral judgments and matters of theological belief. Conscience and religion are concerned with private sin: The civil law is concerned with public crimes. Only confusion, failure and anarchy result when the effort is made to impose upon the civil authority the impossible task of policing private homes to preclude the possibility of sin. Among the chief victims of such an ill-conceived imposition would be religion itself. On April 17, 1610, the sturdy little three-masted bark, Discovery, weighed anchor in St. Katherine's Pool, London, and floated down the Thames toward the sea. She carried, besides her captain, a crew of twenty-one and provisions for a voyage of exploration of the Arctic waters of North America. Seventeen months later, on September 6, 1611, an Irish fishing boat sighted the Discovery limping eastward outside Galway Bay. When she reached port, she was found to have on board only eight men, all near starvation. The captain was gone, and the mate was gone. The man who now commanded her had started the voyage as an ordinary seaman. What disaster struck the Discovery during those seventeen months? What happened to the fourteen missing men? These questions have remained one of the great sea mysteries of all time. For hundreds of years, the evidence available consisted of (1) the captain's fragmentary journal, (2) a highly prejudiced account by one of the survivors, (3) a note found in a dead man's desk on board, and (4) several second-hand reports. All told, they offered a highly confused picture. But since 1927, researchers digging into ancient court records and legal files have been able to find illuminating pieces of information. Not enough to do away with all doubts, but sufficient to give a fairly accurate picture of the events of the voyage. Historians have had two reasons for persisting so long in their investigations. First, they wanted to clarify a tantalizing, bizarre enigma. Second, they believed it important to determine the fate of the captain -- a man whose name is permanently stamped on our maps, on American towns and counties, on a great American river, and on half a million square miles of Arctic seas. The name: Henry Hudson. The sailing in the spring of 1610 was Hudson's fourth in four years. Each time his objective had been the same -- a direct water passage from Western Europe to the Far East. In 1607 and 1608, the English Muscovy Company had sent him northward to look for a route over the North Pole or across the top of Russia. Twice he had failed, and the Muscovy Company indicated it would not back him again. In 1609, the Dutch East India Company hired Hudson, gave him two learned geographers, fitted him out with a ship called the Half Moon, and supplied him with Dutch sailors. This time he turned westward, to the middle Atlantic coast of North America. His chief discovery was important -- the Great North (later, the Hudson) River -- but it produced no northwest passage. When the Half Moon put in at Dartmouth, England, in the fall of 1609, word of Hudson's findings leaked out, and English interest in him revived. The government forbade Hudson to return to Amsterdam with his ship. He thereupon went to London and spent the winter talking to men of wealth. By springtime, he was supported by a rich merchant syndicate under the patronage of Henry, Prince of Wales. He had obtained and provisioned a veteran ship called the Discovery and had recruited a crew of twenty-one, the largest he had ever commanded. The purpose of this fourth voyage was clear. A century of exploration had established that a great land mass, North and South America, lay between Europe and the Indies. One by one, the openings in the coast that promised a passage through had been explored and discarded. In fact, Hudson's sail up the Great North River had disposed of one of the last hopes. But there remained one mysterious, unexplored gap, far to the north. Nearly twenty-five years before, Captain John Davis had noted, as he sailed near the Arctic Circle, ``a very great gulf, the water whirling and roaring, as it were the meeting of tides''. He named this opening, between Baffin Island and Labrador, the ``Furious Overfall''. (Later, it was to be called Hudson Strait. In 1602, George Waymouth, in the same little Discovery that Hudson now commanded, had sailed 300 miles up the strait before his frightened men turned the ship back. Hudson now proposed to sail all the way through and test the seas beyond for the long-sought waterway. Even Hudson, experienced in Arctic sailing and determined as he was, must have had qualms as he slid down the Thames. Ahead were perilous, ice-filled waters. On previous voyages, it had been in precisely such dangerous situations that he had failed as a leader and captain. On the second voyage, he had turned back at the frozen island of Novaya Zemlya and meekly given the crew a certificate stating that he did so of his own free will -- which was obviously not the case. On the third voyage, a near-mutiny rising from a quarrel between Dutch and English crew members on the Half Moon had almost forced him to head the ship back to Amsterdam in Mid-Atlantic. Worse, his present crew included five men who had sailed with him before. Of only one could he be sure -- young John Hudson, his second son. The mate, Robert Juet, who had kept the journal on the Half Moon, was experienced -- but he was a bitter old man, ready to complain or desert at any opportunity. Philip Staffe, the ship's carpenter, was a good worker, but perversely independent. Arnold Lodley and Michael Perse were like the rest -- lukewarm, ready to swing against Hudson in a crisis. But men willing to sail at all into waters where wooden ships could be crushed like eggs were hard to find. Hudson knew he had to use these men as long as he remained an explorer. And he refused to be anything else. It is believed that Hudson was related to other seafaring men of the Muscovy Company and was trained on company ships. He was a Londoner, married, with three sons. (The common misconception that he was Dutch and that his first name was Hendrik stem from Dutch documents of his third voyage. ) In 1610, Hudson was probably in his early forties, a good navigator, a stubborn voyager, but otherwise fatally unsuited to his chosen profession. Hudson's first error of the fourth voyage occurred only a few miles down the Thames. There at the river's edge waited one Henry Greene, whom Hudson listed as a ``clerk''. Greene was in actuality a young ruffian from Kent, who had broken with his parents in order to keep the company he preferred -- pimps, panders and whores. He was not the sort of sailor Hudson wanted his backers to see on board and he had Greene wait at Gravesend, where the Discovery picked him up. For the first three weeks, the ship skirted up the east coast of Great Britain, then turned westward. On May 11, she reached Iceland. Poor winds and fog locked her up in a harbor the crew called ``Lousie Bay''. The subsequent two-weeks wait made the crew quarrelsome. With Hudson looking on, his protege Greene picked a fight with the ship's surgeon, Edward Wilson. The issue was settled on shore, Greene winning and Wilson remaining ashore, determined to catch the next fishing boat back to England. With difficulty, Hudson persuaded him to rejoin the ship, and they sailed from Iceland. Early in June, the Discovery passed ``Desolation'' (southern Greenland) and in mid-June entered the ``Furious Overfall''. Floating ice bore down from the north and west. Fog hung over the route constantly. Turbulent tides rose as much as fifty feet. The ship's compass was useless because of the nearness of the magnetic North Pole. As the bergs grew larger, Hudson was forced to turn south into what is now Ungava Bay, an inlet of the Great Strait. After finding that its coasts led nowhere, however, he turned north again, toward the main, ice-filled passageway -- and the crew, at first uneasy, then frightened, rebelled. The trouble was at least partly Juet's doing. For weeks he had been saying that Hudson's idea of sailing through to Java was absurd. The great, crushing ice masses coming into view made him sound like the voice of pure reason. A group of sailors announced to Hudson that they would sail no farther. Instead of quelling the dissension, as many captains of the era would have done (Sir Francis Drake lopped a man's head off under similar circumstances), Hudson decided to be reasonable. He went to his cabin and emerged carrying a large chart, which he set up in view of the crew. Patiently, he explained what he knew about their course and their objectives. When Hudson had finished, the ``town meeting'' broke down into a general, wordy argument. One man remarked that if he had a hundred pounds, he would give ninety of them to be back in England. Up spoke carpenter Staffe, who said he wouldn't give ten pounds to be home. The statement was effective. The meeting broke up. Hudson was free to sail on. All through July the Discovery picked her way along the 450-mile-long strait, avoiding ice and rocky islands. On August 3, two massive headlands reared out of the mists -- great gateways never before, so far as Hudson knew, seen by Europeans. To starboard was a cape a thousand feet high, patched with ice and snow, populated by thousands of screaming sea birds. To port was a point 200 feet high rising behind to a precipice of 2, 000 feet. Hudson named the capes Digges and Wolstenholme, for two of his backers. Hudson pointed the Discovery down the east coast of the newly discovered sea (now called Hudson Bay), confident he was on his way to the warm waters of the Pacific. After three weeks'swift sailing, however, the ship entered an area of shallow marshes and river deltas. The ship halted. The great ``sea to the westwards'' was a dead end. This must have been Hudson's blackest discovery. For he seemed to sense at once that before him was no South Sea, but the solid bulk of the North American continent. This was the bitter end, and Hudson seemed to know he was destined to failure. Feverishly, he tried to brush away this intuition. North and south, east and west, back and forth he sailed in the land-locked bay, plowing furiously forward until land appeared, then turning to repeat the process, day after day, week after week. Hundreds of miles to the north, the route back to England through the ``Furious Overfall'' was again filling with ice. The men were at first puzzled, then angered by the aimless tacking. Once more, Juet's complaints were the loudest. Hudson's reply was to accuse the mate of disloyalty. Juet demanded that Hudson prove his charges in an open trial. The trial was held September 10. Hudson, presiding, heard Juet's defense, then called for testimony from crew members. Juet had made plentiful enemies, several men stepped forward. Hands on Bible, seaman Lodley and carpenter Staffe swore that Juet had tried to persuade them to keep muskets and swords in their cabins. Cook Bennett Mathues said Juet had predicted bloodshed on the ship. Others added that Juet had wanted to turn the ship homeward. Hudson deposed Juet and cut his pay. The new mate was Robert Bylot, talented but inexperienced. There were other shifts and pay cuts according to the way individuals had conducted themselves. The important result, however, was that Juet and Francis Clemens, the deposed boatswain, became Hudson's sworn enemies. As Hudson resumed his desperate criss-crossing of the little bay, every incident lessened the crew's respect for him. Once, after the Discovery lay for a week in rough weather, Hudson ordered the anchor raised before the sea had calmed. Just as it was being hauled inboard, a sea hit the ship. Michael Butt and Adame Moore were thrown off the capstan and badly injured. The anchor cable would have been lost overboard, but Philip Staffe was on hand to sever it with his axe. Thomas Douglas, fifth Earl of Selkirk, a noble humanitarian Scot concerned with the plight of the crofters of his native Highlands, conceived a plan to settle them in the valley of the Red River of the North. Since the land he desired lay within the great northern empire of the Hudson's Bay Company, he purchased great blocks of the Comany's stock with the view to controlling its policies. Having achieved this end, he was able to buy 116, 000 square miles in the valleys of the Red and Assiniboine rivers. The grant, which stretched southward to Lake Traverse -- the headwaters of the Red -- was made in May, 1811, and by October of that year a small group of Scots was settling for the winter at York Factory on Hudson Bay. Thus at the same time that William Henry Harrison was preparing to pacify the aborigines of Indiana Territory and winning fame at the battle of Tippecanoe, Anglo-Saxon settlement made a great leap into the center of the North American continent to the west of the American agricultural frontier. Seven hundred miles south of York Factory, at ``the Forks'' of the Red and the Assiniboine, twenty-three men located a settlement in August 1812. By October the little colony about Fort Douglas (present-day Winnipeg) numbered 100. Within a few years the Scots, engaged in breaking the thick sod and stirring the rich soil of the valley, were joined by a group called Meurons. The latter, members of two regiments of Swiss mercenaries transported by Great Britain to Canada to fight the Americans in the War of 1812, had settled in Montreal and Kingston at the close of the war in 1815. Selkirk persuaded eighty men and four officers to go to Red River where they were to serve as a military force to protect his settlers from the hostile Northwest Company which resented the intrusion of farmers into the fur traders'empire. The mercenaries were little interested in farming and added nothing to the output of the farm plots on which all work was still done with hoes as late as 1818. It was the low yield of the Selkirk plots and the ravages of grasshoppers in 1818 that led to the dispersal of the settlement southward. When late in the summer the full extent of the damage was assessed, all but fifty of the Scots, Swiss and metis moved up the Red to the mouth of the Pembina river. Here they built huts and a stockade named Fort Daer after Selkirk's barony in Scotland. The new site was somewhat warmer than Fort Douglas and much closer to the great herds of buffalo on which the settlement must depend for food. The Selkirk settlers had been anticipated in their move southward by British fur traders. For many years the Northwest Company had its southern headquarters at Prairie Du Chien on the Mississippi River, some 300 miles southeast of present-day St. Paul, Minnesota. When in 1816 an act of Congress forced the foreign firm out of the United States, its British-born employees, now become American citizens -- Joseph Rolette, Joseph Renville and Alexis Bailly -- continued in the fur business. On Big Stone Lake near the headwaters of the Red River, Robert Dickson, Superintendent of the Western Indian Department of Canada, had a trading post and planned in 1818 to build a fort to be defended by twenty men and two small artillery pieces. His trading goods came from Canada to the Forks of Red River and from Selkirk's settlement he brought them south in carts. These carts were of a type devised in Pembina in the days of Alexander Henry the Younger about a decade before the Selkirk colony was begun. In 1802 Henry referred to ``our new carts'' as being about four feet off the ground and carrying five times as much as a horse could pack. They were held together by pegs and withes and in later times drawn by a single ox in thills. It was Dickson who suggested to Lord Selkirk that he return to the Atlantic coast by way of the United States. In September 1817 at Fort Daer (Pembina) Dickson met the noble lord whom, with the help of a band of Sioux, he escorted to Prairie Du Chien. During the trip Selkirk decided that the route through Illinois territory to Indiana and the eastern United States was the best route for goods from England to reach Red River and that the United States was a better source of supply for many goods than either Canada or England. Upon arriving at Baltimore, Selkirk on December 22 wrote to John Quincy Adams, Secretary of State at Washington, inquiring about laws covering trade with ``Missouri and Illinois Territories''. This traffic, he declared prophetically, ``tho'it might be of small account at first, would increase with the progress of our Settlements. The route which he had traveled and which he believed might develop into a trade route was followed by his settlers earlier than he might have expected. In 1819 grasshoppers again destroyed the crop at ``the Forks'' (Fort Douglas) and in December 1819, twenty men left Fort Daer for the most northerly American outpost at Prairie Du Chien. It was a three-month journey in the dead of winter followed by three months of labor on Mackinac boats. With these completed and ice gone from the St. Peter's River (present-day Minnesota river) their 250 bushels of wheat, 100 bushels of oats and barley and 30 bushels of peas and some chickens were loaded onto the flat-bottomed boats and rowed up the river to Big Stone Lake, across into Lake Traverse, and down the Red. They reached Fort Douglas in June 1820. This epic effort to secure seed for the colony cost Selkirk Ab1, 040. Nevertheless so short was the supply of seed that the settlers were forced to retreat to Fort Daer for food. Thereafter seed and food became more plentiful and the colony remained in the north the year round. Activity by British traders and the presence of a colony on the Red prompted the United State War Department in 1819 to send Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Leavenworth from Detroit to put a post 300 miles northwest of Prairie Du Chien, until then the most advanced United States post. In September 1822 two companies of infantry arrived at the mouth of the St. Peter's River, the head of navigation on the Mississippi, and began construction of Fort St. Anthony which, upon completion, was renamed in honor of its commander, Colonel Josiah Snelling. It was from the American outposts that Red River shortages of livestock were to be made good. Hercules L. Dousman, fur trader and merchant at Prairie Du Chien, contracted to supply Selkirk's people with some 300 head of cattle, and Alexis Bailly and Francois Labothe were hired as drovers. Bailly, after leaving Fort Snelling in August 1821, was forced to leave some of the cattle at the Hudson's Bay Company's post on Lake Traverse ``in the Sieux Country'' and reached Fort Garry, as the Selkirk Hudson's Bay Company center was now called, late in the fall. He set out on his 700-mile return journey with five families of discontented and disappointed Swiss who turned their eyes toward the United States. Observing their distressing condition, Colonel Snelling allowed these half-starved immigrants to settle on the military reservation. As these Swiss were moving from the Selkirk settlement to become the first civilian residents of Minnesota, Dousman of Michilimackinac, Michigan, and Prairie Du Chien was traveling to Red River to open a trade in merchandise. Early in 1822 he was at Fort Garry offering to bring in pork, flour, liquor and tobacco. Alexander McDonnell, governor of Red River, and James Bird, a chief factor of the Hudson's Bay Company, ordered such ``sundry articles'' to a value of Ab4, 500. For its part the Hudson's Bay Company was troubled by the approach of American settlement. As the time drew near for the drawing of the British-American frontier by terms of the agreement of 1818, the company suspected that the Pembina colony -- its own post and Fort Daer -- was on American territory. Accordingly Selkirk's agents ordered the settlers to move north, and by October, John Halkett had torn down both posts, floating the timber to ``the Forks'' in rafts. ``I have done everything'', he wrote, ``to break up the whole of that unfortunate establishment. '' Despite Company threats, duly carried through, to cut off supplies of powder, ball, and thread for fishing nets, about 350 persons stayed in the village. They would attempt to bring supplies from St. Louis or Prairie Du Chien at ``great expense as well as danger''. At Fort Garry some of the Swiss also decided to cast their lot with the United States, and in 1823 several families paid guides to take them to Fort Snelling. The disasters of 1825-1826 caused more to leave. After heavy rains and an onslaught of mice, snow fell on October 15, 1825, and remained on the ground through a winter so cold that the ice on the Red was five feet thick. In April came a rapid thaw that produced high waters which did not recede until mid-June. On June 24 more than 400 families started the three-month trip across the plains to the Mississippi. By fall, 443 survivors of this arduous journey were clustered about Fort Snelling, but most of them were sent on to Galena and St. Louis, with a few going as far as Vevay, Indiana, a notable Swiss center in the United States. In 1837, 157 Red River people with more than 200 cattle were living on the reservation at Fort Snelling. Below the fort, high bluffs extended uninterruptedly for six miles along the Mississippi River. At the point where they ended, another settlement grew up around a chapel built at the boat landing by Father Lucian Galtier in 1840. Its people, including Pierre Bottineau and other American Fur Company employees and the refugees from Fort Garry, were joined by the remaining Scots and Swiss from Fort Snelling when Major Joseph Plympton expelled them from the reservation in May 1840. The resultant town, platted in 1847 and named for the patron of Father Galtier's mission, St. Paul, was to become an important center of the fur trade and was to take on a new interest for those Selkirkers who remained at Red River. While population at Fort Garry increased rapidly, from 2, 417 in 1831 to 4, 369 in 1840, economic opportunities did not increase at a similar rate. Accordingly, though the practice violated the no-trading provision of the Selkirk charter which reserved all such activity in merchandise and furs to the Hudson's Bay Company, some settlers went into trade. The Company maintained a store at which products of England could be purchased and brought in goods for the new merchants on the understanding that they refrain from trading in furs. Despite this prohibiton, by 1844 some of the Fort Garry merchants were trading with the Indians for furs. In June 1845, the Governor and Council of Assiniboia imposed a 20 per cent duty on imports via Hudson's Bay which were viewed as aimed at the ``very vitals of the Company's trade and power''. To reduce further the flow of goods from England, the Company's local officials asked that its London authorities refrain from forwarding any more trade goods to these men. With their customary source of supply cut off, the Fort Garry free traders engaged three men to cart goods to them from the Mississippi country. Others carried pemmican from ``the Forks'' to St. Paul and goods from St. Paul to Red River, as in the summer of 1847 when one trader, Wells, transported twenty barrels of whisky to the British settlement. This trade was subject to a tariff of 7. 5 per cent after February 1835, but much was smuggled into Assiniboia with the result that the duty was reduced by 1841 to 4 per cent on the initiative of the London committee. The trade in a few commodities noted above was to grow in volume as a result of changes both north and south of the 49th parallel. The letters of the common soldiers are rich in humor. Indeed, no richer humor is to be found in the whole of American literature than in the letters of the semi-literate men who wore the blue and the gray. Some of their figures of speech were colorful and expressive. A Confederate observed that the Yankees were: ``thicker than lise on a hen and a dam site ornraier''. Another reported that his comrades were ``in fine spirits pitching around like a blind dog in a meat house''. A third wrote that it was ``raining like poring peas on a rawhide''. Yanks were equally adept at figurative expression. One wrote: ``(I am so hungry) I could eat a rider off his horse & snap at the stirups''. A second reported that the dilapidated houses in Virginia ``look like the latter end of original sin and hard times''. A third remarked of slowness of Southerners: ``they moved about from corner to corner, as uneasy as a litter of hungry leaches on the neck of a wooden god''. Still another, annoyed by the brevity of a recently received missive, wrote: ``yore letter was short and sweet, jist like a roasted maget''. A Yankee sergeant gave the following description of his sweetheart: ``my girl is none of your one-horse girls. She is a regular stub and twister, double geered. She is well-educated and refined, all wildcat and fur, and Union from the muzzle to the crupper''. Humor found many modes of expression. A Texan wrote to a male companion at home: ``what has become of Halda and Laura? When you see them again give them my love -- not best respects now, but love by God''. William R. Stillwell, an admirable Georgian whose delightful correspondence is preserved in the Georgia Department of Archives and History, liked to tease his wife in his letters. After he had been away from home about a year he wrote: ``(dear Wife) if I did not write and receive letters from you I believe that I would forgit that I was married. I don't feel much like a maryed man but I never forgit it sofar as to court enny other lady but if I should you must forgive me as I am so forgitful''. A Yank, disturbed by his increasing corpulence, wrote: ``I am growing so fat I am a burden 2 myself''. Another Yank parodied the familiar bedtime prayer: ``now I lay me down to sleep, the gray-backs o'er my body creep; if they should bite before I wake, I pray the Lord their jaws to break''. Charles Thiot, a splendid Georgia soldier, differed from most of his comrades in the ranks in that he was the owner of a large plantation, well-educated, and nearly fifty years of age. But he was very much like his associates in his hatred of camp routine. Near the end of his service he wrote that when the war was over he was going to buy two pups, name one of them ``Fall-in'' and the other ``Close-up'', and then shoot them both, ``and that will be the end of Fall-in and Close-up''. The soldiers who comprised the rank and file of the Civil War armies were an earthy people. They talked and wrote much about the elemental functions of the body. One of the most common of camp maladies was diarrhoea. Men of more delicate sensibilities referred to this condition as ``looseness of the bowels''; but a much more common designation was ``the sh-ts''. A Michigan soldier stationed in Georgia wrote in 1864: ``I expect to be tough as a knott as soon as I get over the Georgia Shitts''. Johnny Rebs from the deep South who were plagued with diarrhoea after transfer to the Virginia front often informed their families that they were suffering from the ``the Virginia quickstep''. A Georgia soldier gave his wife the following description of the cause and consequence of diarrhoea: ``I have bin a little sick with diorah two or three days. I eat too much eggs and poark. It sowered (on) my stomack and turn loose on me''. A Michigan soldier wrote his brother: ``I am well at present with the exception I have got the Dyerear and I hope thease few lines find you the same''. The letters which poured forth from camps were usually written under adverse circumstances. Save for brief periods in garrison or winter quarters, soldiers rarely enjoyed the luxury of a writing desk or table. Most of the letters were written in the hubbub of camp, on stumps, pieces of bark, drum heads, or the knee. In the South, after the first year of the war, paper and ink were very poor. Scarcity of paper caused many Southerners to adopt the practice of cross-writing, i. e., after writing from left to right of the page in the usual manner, they gave the sheet a half turn and wrote from end to end across the lines previously written. Sometimes soldiers wrote letters while bullets were whizzing about their heads. A Yank writing from Vicksburg, May 28, 1863, stated: ``not less than 50 balls have passed over me since I commenced writing. I could tell you of plenty narrow escapes, but we take no notice of them now''. A Reb stationed near Petersburg informed his mother: ``I need not tell you that I dodge pretty often for you can see that very plainly by the blots in this letter. Just count each blot a dodge and add in a few for I don't dodge every time''. Another Reb writing under similar circumstances before Atlanta reported: ``the Yankees keep shooting so I am afraid they will knock over my ink, so I will close''. the most common type of letter was that of soldier husbands to their wives. But fathers often addressed communications to their small children; and these, full of homely advice, are among the most human and revealing of Civil War letters. Rebs who owned slaves occasionally would include in their letters admonitions or greetings to members of the Negro community. Occasionally they would write to the slaves. Early in the war it was not uncommon for planters'sons to retain in camp Negro ``body servants'' to perform the menial chores such as cooking, foraging, cleaning the quarters, shining shoes, and laundering clothes. Sometimes these servants wrote or dictated for enclosure with the letters of their soldier-masters messages to their relatives and to members of their owners'families. Unmarried soldiers carried on correspondence with sweethearts at home. Owing to the restrained usages characteristic of 19th-century America, these letters usually were stereotyped and revealed little depth of feeling. Occasionally gay young blades would write vividly to boon companions at home about their amorous exploits in Richmond, Petersburg, Washington, or Nashville. But these comments are hardly printable. An Alabama soldier whose feminine associations were of the more admirable type wrote boastfully of his achievements among the Virginia belles: ``they thout I was a saint. I told them some sweet lies and they believed it all. I would tell them I got a letter from home stating that five of my Negroes had runaway and ten of Pappy's. But I wold say I recond he did not mind it for he had a plenty more left and then they would lean to me like a sore eyd kitten to a basin of milk''. Some of the letters were pungently expressive. An Ohio soldier who, from a comrade just returned from leave, received an unfavorable comment on the conduct of his sister, took pen in hand and delivered himself thus: ``dear Sis. Alf sed he heard that you and Hardy was a runing together all the time and he though he wod gust quit having any thing mor to doo with you for he thought it was no more yuse. I think you made a dam good chouise to turn off as nise a feler as Alf Dyer and let that orney thefin, drunkard, damed card playing sun of a bich com to sea you, the god damed theaf and lop yeard pigen tode helion, he is too orney for hel. I will shute him as shore as I sea him''. Initiation into combat sometimes elicited from soldier correspondents choice comments about their experiences and reactions. A Federal infantryman wrote to his father shortly after his first skirmish in Virginia: ``dear Pa. Went out a skouting yesterday. We got to one house where there were five secessionists. They brok & run and Arch holored out to shoot the ornery suns of biches and we all let go at them. Thay may say what they please but godamit Pa it is fun''. Some of the choicest remarks made by soldiers in their letters were in disparagement of unpopular officers. A Mississippi soldier wrote: ``our General Reub Davis is a vain, stuck-up, illiterate ass''. An Alabamian wrote: ``Col. Henry is (an ignoramus) fit for nothing higher than the cultivation of corn''. A Floridian stated that his officers were ``not fit to tote guts to a bear''. On December 9, 1862, Sergeant Edwin H. Fay, an unusual Louisianan who held A. B. and M. A. degrees from Harvard University and who before the war was headmaster of a private school for boys in Louisiana, wrote his wife: ``I saw Pemberton and he is the most insignificant puke I ever saw. His head cannot contain enough sense to command a regiment, much less a corps. Jackson runs first and his Cavalry are well drilled to follow their leader. He is not worth shucks. But he is a West Point graduate and therefore must be born to command''. Similar comments about officers are to be found in the letters of Northern soldiers. A Massachusetts soldier, who seems to have been a Civil War version of Bill Mauldin, wrote: ``the officers consider themselves as made of a different material from the low fellows in the ranks. They get all the glory and most of the pay and don't earn ten cents apiece on the average, the drunken rascals''. Private George Gray Hunter of Pennsylvania wrote: ``I am well convinced in my own mind that had it not been for officers this war would have ended long ago''. Another Yankee became so disgusted as to state: ``I wish to God one half of our officers were knocked in the head by slinging them against (the other half)''. No group of officers came in for more spirited denunciation than the doctors. One Federal soldier wrote: ``the docters is no aconte -- hell will be filde with do (c) ters and offersey when this war is over''. Shortly after the beginning of Sherman's Georgia campaign, an ailing Yank wrote his homefolk: ``the surgeon insisted on sending me to the hospital for treatment. I insisted on takeing the field and prevailed -- thinking that I had better die by rebel bullets than (by) Union quackery''. The attitudes which the Rebs and Yanks took toward each other were very much the same and ranged over the same gamut of feeling, from friendliness to extreme hatred. The Rebs were, to a Massachusetts corporal, ``fighting madmen or not men at all but whiskey & gunpowder put into a human frame''. A Pennsylvania soldier wrote that ``they were the hardest looking set of men that ever I saw. They looked as if they had been fed on vinegar and shavings. '' Private Jenkins Lloyd Jones of the Wisconsin Light Artillery wrote in his diary: ``I strolled among the Alabamans on the right, found some of the greenest specimens of humanity I think in the universe, their ignorance being little less than the slave they despise with as imperfect a dialect. They recooned as how you'uns all would be a heap wus to we'uns all '''. In a similar vein, but writing from the opposite side, Thomas Taylor, a private in the 6th Alabama Volunteers, in a letter to his wife, stated: ``you know that my heart is with you but I never could have been satisfied to have staid at home when my country is invaded by a thievin foe, by a set of cowardly skunks whose motto is Booty. The popularity of folklore in America stands in direct proportion to the popularity of nationalism in America. And the emphasis on nationalism in America is in proportion to the growth of American influence across the world. Thus, if we are to observe American folklore in the twentieth century, we will do well to establish the relationships between folklore, nationalism and imperialism at the outset. Historians have come to recognize two cardinal facts concerning nationalism and international influence. 1) Every age rewrites the events of its history in terms of what should have been, creating legends about itself that rationalize contemporary beliefs and excuse contemporary actions. What actually occurred in the past is seldom as important as what a given generation feels must have occurred. 2) As a country superimposes its cultural and political attitudes on others, it searches its heritage in hopes of justifying its aggressiveness. Its folklore and legend, usually disguised as history, are allowed to account for group actions, to provide a focal point for group loyalty, and to become a cohesive force for national identification. One can apply these facts to Britain in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as she spread her dominion over palm and pine, and they can be applied again to the United States in more recent years. The popularity of local color literature before the Spanish-American War, the steady currency of the Lincoln myth, the increased emphasis on the frontier West in our mass media are cases in point. Nor is it an accident that baseball, growing into the national game in the last 75 years, has become a microcosm of American life, that learned societies such as the American Folklore Society and the American Historical Association were founded in the 1880s, or that courses in American literature, American civilization, American anything have swept our school and college curricula. Of course, nationalism has really outlived its usefulness in a country as world-oriented as ours, and its continued existence reflects one of the major culture lags of the twentieth-century United States. Yet nationalism has lost few of its charms for the historian, writer or man in the street. It is an understandable paradox that most American history and most American literature is today written from an essentially egocentric and isolationistic point of view at the very time America is spreading her dominion over palm and pine. After all, the average American as he lies and waits for the enemy in Korea or as she scans the newspaper in some vain hope of personal contact with the front is unconcerned that his or her plight is the result of a complex of personal, economic and governmental actions far beyond the normal citizen's comprehension and control. Anyone's identification with an international struggle, whether warlike or peaceful, requires absurd oversimplification and intense emotional involvement. Such identification comes for each group in each crisis by rewriting history into legend and developing appropriate national heroes. In America, such self-deception has served a particularly useful purpose. A heterogeneous people have needed it to attain an element of cultural and political cohesion in a new and ever-changing land. But we must never forget, most of the appropriate heroes and their legends were created overnight, to answer immediate needs, almost always with conscious aims and ends. Parson Weems's George Washington became the symbol of honesty and the father image of the uniting States. Abraham Lincoln emerged as an incarnation of the national Constitution. Robert E. Lee represented the dignity needed by a rebelling confederacy. And their roles are paralleled by those of Patrick Henry, Nathan Hale, Andrew Jackson, Davy Crockett, Theodore Roosevelt and many, many more. Therefore, the scholar, as he looks at our national folklore of the last 60 years, will be mindful of two facts. 1) Most of the legends that are created to fan the fires of patriotism are essentially propagandistic and are not folk legends at all. 2) The concept that an ``American national folklore'' exists is itself probably another propagandistic legend. Folklore is individually created art that a homogeneous group of people preserve, vary and recreate through oral transmission. It has come to mean myths, legends, tales, songs, proverbs, riddles, superstitions, rhymes and such literary forms of expression. Related to written literature, and often remaining temporarily frozen in written form, it loses its vitality when transcribed or removed from its oral existence. Though it may exist in either literate or illiterate societies, it assumes a role of true cultural importance only in the latter. In its propagandistic and commercial haste to discover our folk heritage, the public has remained ignorant of definitions such as this. Enthusiastically, Americans have swept subliterary and bogus materials like Paul Bunyan tales, Abe Lincoln anecdotes and labor union songs up as true products of our American oral tradition. Nor have we remembered that in the melting pot of America the hundreds of isolated and semi-isolated ethnic, regional and occupational groups did not fuse into a homogeneous national unit until long after education and industrialization had caused them to cast oral tradition aside as a means of carrying culturally significant material. Naturally, such scholarly facts are of little concern to the man trying to make money or fan patriotism by means of folklore. That much of what he calls folklore is the result of beliefs carefully sown among the people with the conscious aim of producing a desired mass emotional reaction to a particular situation or set of situations is irrelevant. As long as his material is Americana, can in some way be ascribed to the masses and appears ``democratic'' to his audience, he remains satisfied. From all this we can now see that two streams of development run through the history of twentieth-century American folklore. On the one side we have the university professors and their students, trained in Teutonic methods of research, who have sought out, collected and studied the true products of the oral traditions of the ethnic, regional and occupational groups that make up this nation. On the other we have the flag-wavers and the national sentimentalists who have been willing to use any patriotic, ``frontier western'' or colonial material willy-nilly. Unfortunately, few of the artists (writers, movie producers, dramatists and musicians) who have used American folklore since 1900 have known enough to distinguish between the two streams even in the most general of ways. After all, the field is large, difficult to define and seldom taught properly to American undergraduates. In addition, this country has been settled by many peoples of many heritages and their lore has become acculturated slowly, in an age of print and easy communication, within an ever-expanding and changing society. The problems confuse even the experts. For that matter, the experts themselves are a mixed breed. Anthropologists, housewives, historians and such by profession, they approach their discipline as amateurs, collectors, commercial propagandists, analysts or some combination of the four. They have widely varying backgrounds and aims. They have little ``esprit de corps''. The outlook for the amateur, for instance, is usually dependent on his fondness for local history or for the picturesque. His love of folklore has romanticism in it, and he doesn't care much about the dollar-sign or the footnote. Folklore is his hobby, and he, all too rightly, wishes it to remain as such. The amateur is closely related to the collector, who is actually no more than the amateur who has taken to the field. The collector enjoys the contact with rural life; he hunts folklore for the very ``field and stream'' reasons that many persons hunt game; and only rarely is he acutely concerned with the meaning of what he has located. Fundamentally, both these types, the amateur and the collector, are uncritical and many of them don't distinguish well between real folklore and bogus material. But there are also the commercial propagandists and the analysts -- one dominated by money, the other by nineteenth-century German scholarship. Both are primarily concerned with the uses that can be made of the material that the collector has found. Both shudder at the thought of proceeding too far beyond the sewage system and the electric light lines. The commercial propagandist, who can't afford to be critical, gets along well with the amateur, from whom he feeds, but he frequently steps on the analyst's toes by refusing to keep his material genuine. His standards are, of course, completely foreign to those of the analyst. To both the amateur and the commercial progandist the analyst lacks a soul, lacks appreciation with his endless probings and classifications. Dominated by the vicious circle of the university promotion system, the analyst looks down on and gets along poorly with the other three groups, although he cannot deny his debt to the collector. The knowledge that most Americans have of folklore comes through contact with commercial propagandists and a few energetic amateurs and collectors. The work done by the analysts, the men who really know what folklore is all about, has no more appeal than any other work of a truly scientific sort and reaches a limited, learned audience. Publishers want books that will sell, recording studios want discs that will not seem strange to ears used to hillbilly and jazz music, grade and high schools want quaint, but moral, material. The analyst is apt to be too honest to fit in. As a result, most people don't have more than a vague idea what folklore actually is; they see it as a potpourri of charming, moral legends and patriotic anecdotes, with a superstition or remedy thrown in here and there. And so well is such ignorance preserved by the amateur and the money-maker that even at the college level most of the hundred-odd folklore courses given in the United States survive on sentiment and nationalism alone. If one wishes to discuss a literary figure who uses folklore in his work, the first thing he must realize is that the literary figure is probably part of this ignorant American public. And while every writer must be dealt with as a special case, the interested student will want to ask himself a number of questions about each. Does the writer know the difference between an ``ersatz'' ballad or tall tale and a true product of the folk? When the writer uses material does he tamper with it to improve its commercial effect or does he leave it pure? Is the writer propagandistic? Is he swept away by sentiment and nostalgia for an America that was? Or does he sincerely want to tap the real springs of American attitude and culture regardless of how unpopular and embarrassing they may be? When he gets the answers to his questions he will be discouraged. In the first place, a good many writers who are said to use folklore, do not, unless one counts an occasional superstition or tale. Robert Frost, for instance, writes about rural life in New England, but he does not include any significant amount of folklore in his poems. This has not, however, prevented publishers from labeling him a ``folk poet'', simply because he is a rural one. In the second place, a large number of writers, making a more direct claim than Frost to being ``folk writers'' of one sort or another, clearly make no distinctions between genuine and bogus material. Stephen Vincent Benet's John Brown's Body comes immediately to mind in this connection, as does John Steinbeck's The Grapes Of Wrath and Carl Sandburg's The People, Yes. The last two writers introduce strong political bias into their works, and not unlike the union leaders that we will discuss soon, see folklore as a reservoir of protest by a downtrodden and publically silenced mass. Folklore, as used by such writers, really reflects images engraved into it by the very person using it. The folk are simply not homogeneous with respect to nation or political attitude. In fact, there is much evidence to indicate they don't care a bit about anything beyond their particular regional, ethnic and occupational limits. Nevertheless, with a reading public that longs for the ``good old days'' and with an awareness of our expanding international interests, it is easy for the Benets to obtain a magnified position in literature by use of all sorts of Americana, real or fake, and it is easy for the Steinbecks and Sandburgs to support their messages of reform by reading messages of reform into the minds of the folk. As part of the same arrangement, Torrio had, in the spirit of peace and good will, and in exchange for armed support in the April election campaign, bestowed upon O'Banion a third share in the Hawthorne Smoke Shop proceeds and a cut in the Cicero beer trade. The coalition was to prove inadvisable. O'Banion was a complex and frightening man, whose bright blue eyes stared with a kind of frozen candour into others '. He had a round, frank Irish face, creased in a jovial grin that stayed bleakly in place even when he was pumping bullets into someone's body. He carried three guns -- one in the right trouser pocket, one under his left armpit, one in the left outside coat pocket -- and was equally lethal with both hands. He killed accurately, freely, and dispassionately. The police credited him with twenty-five murders but he was never brought to trial for one of them. Like a fair number of bootleggers he disliked alcohol. He was an expert florist, tenderly dextrous in the arrangement of bouquets and wreaths. He had no apparent comprehension of morality; he divided humanity into ``right guys'' and ``wrong guys'', and the wrong ones he was always willing to kill and trample under. He had what was described by a psychologist as a ``sunny brutality''. He walked with a heavy list to the right, as that leg was four inches shorter than the other, but the lurch did not reduce his feline quickness with his guns. Landesco thought him ``just a superior sort of plugugly'' but he was, in fact, with his aggression and hostility, and nerveless indifference to risking or administering pain, a casebook psychopath. He was also at this time, although not so interwoven in high politics and the rackets as Torrio and Capone, the most powerful and most dangerous mob leader in the Chicago underworld, the roughneck king. O'Banion was born in poverty, the son of an immigrant Irish plasterer, in the North Side's Little Hell, close by the Sicilian quarter and Death Corner. He had been a choir boy at the Holy Name Cathedral and also served as an acolyte to Father O'Brien. The influence of Mass was less pervasive than that of the congested, slum tenements among the bawdy houses, honkytonks, and sawdust saloons of his birthplace; he ran wild with the child gangs of the neighbourhood, and went through the normal pressure-cooker course of thieving, police-dodging, and housebreaking. At the age of ten, when he was working as a newsboy in the Loop, he was knocked down by a streetcar which resulted in his permanently shortened leg. Because of this he was known as Gimpy (but, as with Capone and his nickname of Scarface, never in his presence). In his teens O'Banion was enrolled in the vicious Market Street gang and he became a singing waiter in McGovern's Cafe, a notoriously low and rowdy dive in North Clark Street, where befuddled customers were methodically looted of their money by the singing waiters before being thrown out. He then got a job with the Chicago Herald-Examiner as a circulation slugger, a rough fighter employed to see that his paper's news pitches were not trespassed upon by rival vendors. He was also at the same time gaining practical experience as a safe breaker and highwayman, and learning how to shoot to kill from a Neanderthal convicted murderer named Gene Geary, later committed to Chester Asylum as a homicidal maniac, but whose eyes misted with tears when the young Dion sang a ballad about an Irish mother in his clear and syrupy tenor. O'Banion's first conflict with the police came in 1909, at seventeen, when he was committed to Bridewell Prison for three months for burglary; two years later he served another three months for assault. Those were his only interludes behind bars, although he collected four more charges on his police record in 1921 and 1922, three for burglary and one for robbery. But by now O'Banion's political pull was beginning to be effective. On the occasion of his 1922 indictment the $ 10, 000 bond was furnished by an alderman, and the charge was nolle prossed. On one of his 1921 ventures he was actually come upon by a Detective Sergeant John J. Ryan down on his knees with a tool embedded in a labour office safe in the Postal Telegraph Building; the jury wanted better evidence than that and he was acquitted, at a cost of $ 30, 000 in bribes, it was estimated. As promptly as Torrio, O'Banion jumped into bootlegging. He conducted it with less diplomacy and more spontaneous violence than the Sicilians, but he had his huge North Side portion to exploit and he made a great deal of money. Unlike the Sicilians, he additionally conducted holdups, robberies, and safe-cracking expeditions, and refused to touch prostitution. He was also personally active in ward politics, and by 1924 O'Banion had acquired sufficient political might to be able to state: ``I always deliver my borough as per requirements''. But whose requirements? Until 1924 O'Banion pistoleers and knuckle-duster bullyboys had kept his North Side domain solidly Democratic. There was a question-and-answer gag that went around at that time: Q. ``Who'll carry the Forty-second and Forty-third wards''? A. O'Banion, in his pistol pocket''. But as November 1924 drew close the Democratic hierarchy was sorely troubled by grapevine reports that O'Banion was being wooed by the opposition, and was meeting and conferring with important Republicans. To forestall any change of allegiance, the Democrats hastily organised a testimonial banquet for O'Banion, as public reward for his past services and as a reminder of where his loyalties lay. The reception was held in a private dining room of the Webster Hotel on Lincoln Park West. It was an interesting fraternisation of ex-convicts, union racketeers, ward heelers, sold-out officials, and gunmen. The guest list is in itself a little parable of the state of American civic life at this time. It included the top O'Banion men and Chief of Detectives Michael Hughes. When Mayor Dever heard of the banquet he summoned Hughes for an explanation of why he had been dishonouring the police department by consorting with these felons and fixers. Hughes said that he had understood the party was to be in honour of Jerry O'Connor, the proprieter of a Loop gambling house. ``But when I arrived and recognised a number of notorious characters I had thrown into the detective bureau basement half a dozen times, I knew I had been framed, and withdrew almost at once''. In fact, O'Connor was honoured during the ceremony with the presentation of a $ 2500 diamond stickpin. There was a brief interruption while one of O'Banion's men jerked out both his guns and threatened to shoot a waiter who was pestering him for a tip. Then O'Banion was presented with a platinum watch set with rubies and diamonds. This dinner was the start of a new blatancy in the relationship between the gangs and the politicians, which, prior to 1924, says Pasley, ``had been maintained with more or less stealth'', but which henceforth was marked by these ostentatious gatherings, denounced by a clergyman as ``Belshazzar feasts'', at which ``politicians fraternized cheek by jowl with gangsters, openly, in the big downtown hotels''. Pasley continued: ``They became an institution of the Chicago scene and marked the way to the moral and financial collapse of the municipal and county governments in 1928-29''. However, this inaugural feast did its sponsors no good whatever. O'Banion accepted his platinum watch and the tributes to his loyalty, and proceeded with the bigger and better Republican deal. On Election Day -- November 4 -- he energetically marshalled his force of bludgeon men, bribers, and experts in forging repeat votes. The result was a landslide for the Republican candidates. This further demonstration of O'Banion's ballooning power did not please Torrio and Capone. In the past year there had been too many examples of his euphoric self-confidence and self-aggrandisement for their liking. He behaved publicly with a cocky, swaggering truculence that offended their vulpine Latin minds, and behaved towards them personally with an unimpressed insolence that enraged them beneath their blandness. They were disturbed by his idiotic bravado -- as, when his bodyguard, Yankee Schwartz, complained that he had been snubbed by Dave Miller, a prize-fight referee, chieftain of a Jewish gang and one of four brothers of tough reputation, who were Hirschey, a gambler-politician in loose beer-running league with Torrio and O'Banion, Frank, a policeman, and Max, the youngest. To settle this slight, O'Banion went down to the La Salle Theatre in the Loop, where, he had learned, Dave Miller was attending the opening of a musical comedy. At the end of the performance, Dave and Max came out into the brilliantly lit foyer among a surge of gowned and tuxedoed first nighters. O'Banion drew his guns and fired at Dave, severely wounding him in the stomach. A second bullet ricocheted off Max's belt buckle, leaving him unhurt but in some distress. O'Banion tucked away his gun and walked out of the theatre; he was neither prosecuted nor even arrested. That sort of braggadocio, for that sort of reason, in the view of Torrio and Capone, was a nonsense. A further example of the incompatible difference in personalities was when two policemen held up a Torrio beer convoy on a West Side street and demanded $ 300 to let it through. One of the beer-runners telephoned O'Banion -- on a line tapped by the detective bureau -- and reported the situation. O'Banion's reaction was: ``Three hundred dollars! To them bums? Why, I can get them knocked off for half that much''. Upon which the detective bureau despatched rifle squads to prevent trouble if O'Banion should send his gunmen out to deal with the hijacking policemen. But in the meantime the beer-runner, unhappy with this solution, telephoned Torrio and returned to O'Banion with the message: ``Say, Dionie, I just been talking to Johnny, and he said to let them cops have the three hundred. He says he don't want no trouble''. But Torrio and Capone had graver cause to hate and distrust the Irishman. For three years, since the liquor territorial conference, Torrio had, with his elastic patience, and because he knew that retaliation could cause only violent warfare and disaster to business, tolerated O'Banion's impudent double-crossing. They had suffered, in sulky silence, the sight of his sharp practice in Cicero. When, as a diplomatic gesture of amity and in payment for the loan of gunmen in the April election, Torrio had given O'Banion a slice of Cicero, the profits from that district had been $ 20, 000 a month. In six months O'Banion had boosted the profits to $ 100, 000 a month -- mainly by bringing pressure to bear on fifty Chicago speak-easy proprietors to shift out to the suburb. These booze customers had until then been buying their supplies from the Sheldon, Saltis-McErlane, and Druggan-Lake gangs, and now they were competing for trade with the Torrio-Capone saloons; once again O'Banion's brash recklessness had caused a proliferation of ill will. The revenue from O'Banion's Cicero territory went up still higher, until the yield was more than the Torrio-Capone takings from the far bigger trade area of Chicago's South and West Sides. But he still showed no intention of sharing with the syndicate. At last, even the controlled Torrio was unable to hold still, and he tentatively suggested that O'Banion should take a percentage in the Stickney brothels in return for one from his Cicero beer concession. O'Banion's reply was a raucous laugh and a flat refusal. Still more jealous bitterness was engendered by the O'Banion gang's seizure from a West Side marshalling yard of a freight-car load of Canadian whisky worth $ 100, 000 and by one of the biggest coups of the Prohibition era -- the Sibley warehouse robbery, which became famous for the cool brazenness of the operation. Here was stored $ 1, 000, 000 worth of bonded whisky. These 1750 cases were carted off in a one-night operation by the O'Banion men, who left in their stead the same number of barrels filled with water. A tsunami may be started by a sea bottom slide, an earthquake or a volcanic eruption. The most infamous of all was launched by the explosion of the island of Krakatoa in 1883; it raced across the Pacific at 300 miles an hour, devastated the coasts of Java and Sumatra with waves 100 to 130 feet high, and pounded the shore as far away as San Francisco. The ancient Greeks recorded several catastrophic inundations by huge waves. Whether or not Plato's tale of the lost continent of Atlantis is true, skeptics concede that the myth may have some foundation in a great tsunami of ancient times. Indeed, a tremendously destructive tsunami that arose in the Arabian Sea in 1945 has even revived the interest of geologists and archaeologists in the Biblical story of the Flood. One of the most damaging tsunami on record followed the famous Lisbon earthquake of November 1, 1755; its waves persisted for a week and were felt as far away as the English coast. Tsunami are rare, however, in the Atlantic Ocean; they are far more common in the Pacific. Japan has had 15 destructive ones (eight of them disastrous) since 1596. The Hawaiian Islands are struck severely an average of once every 25 years. In 1707 an earthquake in Japan generated waves so huge that they piled into the Inland Sea; one wave swamped more than 1, 000 ships and boats in Osaka Bay. A tsunami in the Hawaiian Islands in 1869 washed away an entire town (Ponoluu), leaving only two forlorn trees standing where the community had been. In 1896 a Japanese tsunami killed 27, 000 people and swept away 10, 000 homes. The dimensions of these waves dwarf all our usual standards of measurement. An ordinary sea wave is rarely more than a few hundred feet long from crest to crest -- no longer than 320 feet in the Atlantic or 1, 000 feet in the Pacific. But a tsunami often extends more than 100 miles and sometimes as much as 600 miles from crest to crest. While a wind wave never travels at more than 60 miles per hour, the velocity of a tsunami in the open sea must be reckoned in hundreds of miles per hour. The greater the depth of the water, the greater is the speed of the wave; Lagrange's law says that its velocity is equal to the square root of the product of the depth times the acceleration due to gravity. In the deep waters of the Pacific these waves reach a speed of 500 miles per hour. Tsunami are so shallow in comparison with their length that in the open ocean they are hardly detectable. Their amplitude sometimes is as little as two feet from trough to crest. Usually it is only when they approach shallow water on the shore that they build up to their terrifying heights. On the fateful day in 1896 when the great waves approached Japan, fishermen at sea noticed no unusual swells. Not until they sailed home at the end of the day, through a sea strewn with bodies and the wreckage of houses, were they aware of what had happened. The seemingly quiet ocean had crashed a wall of water from 10 to 100 feet high upon beaches crowded with bathers, drowning thousands of them and flattening villages along the shore. The giant waves are more dangerous on flat shores than on steep ones. They usually range from 20 to 60 feet in height, but when they pour into a V-shaped inlet or harbor they may rise to mountainous proportions. Generally the first salvo of a tsunami is a rather sharp swell, not different enough from an ordinary wave to alarm casual observers. This is followed by a tremendous suck of water away from the shore as the first great trough arrives. Reefs are left high and dry, and the beaches are covered with stranded fish. At Hilo large numbers of people ran out to inspect the amazing spectacle of the denuded beach. Many of them paid for their curiosity with their lives, for some minutes later the first giant wave roared over the shore. After an earthquake in Japan in 1793 people on the coast at Tugaru were so terrified by the extraordinary ebbing of the sea that they scurried to higher ground. When a second quake came, they dashed back to the beach, fearing that they might be buried under landslides. Just as they reached the shore, the first huge wave crashed upon them. A tsunami is not a single wave but a series. The waves are separated by intervals of 15 minutes to an hour or more (because of their great length), and this has often lulled people into thinking after the first great wave has crashed that it is all over. The waves may keep coming for many hours. Usually the third to the eighth waves in the series are the biggest. Among the observers of the 1946 tsunami at Hilo was Francis P. Shepard of the Scripps Institution of Oceanography, one of the world's foremost marine geologists. He was able to make a detailed inspection of the waves. Their onrush and retreat, he reported, was accompanied by a great hissing, roaring and rattling. The third and fourth waves seemed to be the highest. On some of the islands'beaches the waves came in gently; they were steepest on the shores facing the direction of the seaquake from which the waves had come. In Hilo Bay they were from 21 to 26 feet high. The highest waves, 55 feet, occurred at Pololu Valley. Scientists and fishermen have occasionally seen strange by-products of the phenomenon. During a 1933 tsunami in Japan the sea glowed brilliantly at night. The luminosity of the water is now believed to have been caused by the stimulation of vast numbers of the luminescent organism Noctiluca miliaris by the turbulence of the sea. Japanese fishermen have sometimes observed that sardines hauled up in their nets during a tsunami have enormously swollen stomachs; the fish have swallowed vast numbers of bottom-living diatoms, raised to the surface by the disturbance. The waves of a 1923 tsunami in Sagami Bay brought to the surface and battered to death huge numbers of fishes that normally live at a depth of 3, 000 feet. Gratified fishermen hauled them in by the thousands. The tsunami-warning system developed since the 1946 disaster in Hawaii relies mainly on a simple and ingenious instrument devised by Commander C. K. Green of the Coast and Geodetic Survey staff. It consists of a series of pipes and a pressure-measuring chamber which record the rise and fall of the water surface. Ordinary water tides are disregarded. But when waves with a period of between 10 and 40 minutes begin to roll over the ocean, they set in motion a corresponding oscillation in a column of mercury which closes an electric circuit. This in turn sets off an alarm, notifying the observers at the station that a tsunami is in progress. Such equipment has been installed at Hilo, Midway, Attu and Dutch Harbor. The moment the alarm goes off, information is immediately forwarded to Honolulu, which is the center of the warning system. This center also receives prompt reports on earthquakes from four Coast Survey stations in the Pacific which are equipped with seismographs. Its staff makes a preliminary determination of the epicenter of the quake and alerts tide stations near the epicenter for a tsunami. By means of charts showing wave-travel times and depths in the ocean at various locations, it is possible to estimate the rate of approach and probable time of arrival at Hawaii of a tsunami getting under way at any spot in the Pacific. The civil and military authorities are then advised of the danger, and they issue warnings and take all necessary protective steps. All of these activities are geared to a top-priority communication system, and practice tests have been held to assure that everything will work smoothly. Since the 1946 disaster there have been 15 tsunami in the Pacific, but only one was of any consequence. On November 4, 1952, an earthquake occurred under the sea off the Kamchatka Peninsula. At 17: 07 that afternoon (Greenwich time) the shock was recorded by the seismograph alarm in Honolulu. The warning system immediately went into action. Within about an hour with the help of reports from seismic stations in Alaska, Arizona and California, the quake's epicenter was placed at 51 degrees North latitude and 158 degrees East longitude. While accounts of the progress of the tsunami came in from various points in the Pacific (Midway reported it was covered with nine feet of water), the Hawaiian station made its calculations and notified the military services and the police that the first big wave would arrive at Honolulu at 23: 30 Greenwich time. It turned out that the waves were not so high as in 1946. They hurled a cement barge against a freighter in Honolulu Harbor, knocked down telephone lines, marooned automobiles, flooded lawns, killed six cows. But not a single human life was lost, and property damage in the Hawaiian Islands did not exceed $ 800, 000. There is little doubt that the warning system saved lives and reduced the damage. But it is plain that a warning system, however efficient, is not enough. In the vulnerable areas of the Pacific there should be restrictions against building homes on exposed coasts, or at least a requirement that they be either raised off the ground or anchored strongly against waves. The key to the world of geology is change; nothing remains the same. Life has evolved from simple combinations of molecules in the sea to complex combinations in man. The land, too, is changing, and earthquakes are daily reminders of this. Earthquakes result when movements in the earth twist rocks until they break. Sometimes this is accompanied by visible shifts of the ground surface; often the shifts cannot be seen, but they are there; and everywhere can be found scars of earlier breaks once deeply buried. Today's earthquakes are most numerous in belts where the earth's restlessness is presently concentrated, but scars of the past show that there is no part of the earth that has not had them. The effects of earthquakes on civilization have been widely publicized, even overemphasized. The role of an earthquake in starting the destruction of whole cities is tremendously frightening, but fire may actually be the principal agent in a particular disaster. Superstition has often blended with fact to color reports. We have learned from earthquakes much of what we now know about the earth's interior, for they send waves through the earth which emerge with information about the materials through which they have traveled. These waves have shown that 1, 800 miles below the surface a liquid core begins, and that it, in turn, has a solid inner core. Earthquakes originate as far as 400 miles below the surface, but they do not occur at greater depths. Two unsolved mysteries are based on these facts. (1) As far down as 400 miles below the surface the material should be hot enough to be plastic and adjust itself to twisting forces by sluggish flow rather than by breaking, as rigid surface rocks do. (2) If earthquakes do occur at such depths, why not deeper? Knowledge gained from studying earthquake waves has been applied in various fields. In the search for oil and gas, we make similar waves under controlled conditions with dynamite and learn from them where there are buried rock structures favorable to the accumulation of these resources. We have also developed techniques for recognizing and locating underground nuclear tests through the waves in the ground which they generate. The following discussion of this subject has been adapted from the book Causes Of Catastrophe by L. Don Leet. At twelve minutes after five on the morning of Wednesday, April 18, 1906, San Francisco was shaken by a severe earthquake. A sharp tremor was followed by a jerky roll. In Ireland's County Limerick, near the River Shannon, there is a quiet little suburb by the name of Garryowen, which means ``Garden of Owen''. Undoubtedly none of the residents realize the influence their town has had on American military history, or the deeds of valor that have been done in its name. The cry ``Garryowen''! Bursting from the lips of a charging cavalry trooper was the last sound heard on this earth by untold numbers of Cheyennes, Sioux and Apaches, Mexican banditos under Pancho Villa, Japanese in the South Pacific, and Chinese and North Korean Communists in Korea. Garryowen is the battle cry of the 7th U. S. Cavalry Regiment, ``The Fighting Seventh''. Today a battle cry may seem an anachronism, for in the modern Army, esprit de corps has been sacrificed to organizational charts and tables. But don't tell that to a veteran of the Fighting Seventh, especially in a saloon on Saturday night. Of all the thousands of men who have served in the 7th Cav, perhaps no one knows its spirit better than Lieutenant Colonel Melbourne C. Chandler. Wiry and burr-headed, with steel blue eyes and a chest splattered with medals, Chandler is the epitome of the old-time trooper. The truth is, however, that when Mel Chandler first reported to the regiment the only steed he had ever ridden was a swivel chair and the only weapon he had ever wielded was a pencil. Chandler had been commissioned in the Medical Service Corps and was serving as a personnel officer for the Kansas City Medical Depot when he decided that if he was going to make the Army his career, he wanted to be in the fighting part of it. Though he knew no more about military science and tactics than any other desk officer, he managed to get transferred to the combat forces. The next thing he knew he was reporting for duty as commanding officer of Troop H, 7th Cavalry, in the middle of corps maneuvers in Japan. Outside of combat, he couldn't have landed in a tougher spot. First of all, no unit likes to have a new CO brought in from the outside, especially when he's an armchair trooper. Second, if there is ever a perfect time to pull the rug out from under him, it's on maneuvers. In combat, helping your CO make a fool of himself might mean getting yourself killed. But in maneuvers, with the top brass watching him all the time, it's easy. Chandler understood this and expected the worst. But his first few days with Troop H were full of surprises, beginning with First Sergeant Robert Early. Chandler had expected a tough old trooper with a gravel voice. Instead Sergeant Early was quiet, sharp and confident. He had enlisted in the Army straight out of high school and had immediately set about learning his new trade. There was no weapon Early could not take apart and reassemble blind-folded. He could lead a patrol and he knew his paper work. Further, he had taken full advantage of the Army's correspondence courses. He not only knew soldiering, but mathematics, history and literature as well. But for all his erudite confidence, Sergeant Early was right out of the Garryowen mold. He was filled with the spirit of the Fighting Seventh. That saved Mel Chandler. Sergeant Early let the new CO know just how lucky he was to be in the best troop in the best regiment in the United States Army. He fed the captain bits of history about the troops and the regiment. For example, it was a battalion of the 7th Cavalry under Colonel George Armstrong Custer that had been wiped out at the Battle of The Little Big Horn. But what made the load lighter was the realization that every officer, non-com and trooper was ready and willing to help him carry it, for the good of the troop and the regiment. Maneuvers over, the 7th returned to garrison duty in Tokyo, Captain Chandler still with them. It was the 7th Cavalry whose troopers were charged with guarding the Imperial Palace of the Emperor. But still Mel Chandler was not completely convinced that men would really die for a four-syllable word, ``Garryowen''. The final proof was a small incident. It happened at the St. Patrick's Day party, a big affair for a regiment which had gone into battle for over three-quarters of a century to the strains of an Irish march. In the middle of the party Chandler looked up to see four smiling faces bearing down upon him, each beaming above the biggest, greenest shamrock he had ever seen. The faces belonged to Lieutenant Marvin Goulding, his wife and their two children. And when the singing began, it was the Gouldings who sang the old Irish songs the best. Though there was an occasional good-natured chuckle about Marvin Goulding, the Jewish officer from Chicago, singing tearfully about the ould sod, no one really thought it was strange. For Marvin Goulding, like Giovanni Martini, the bugler boy who carried Custer's last message, or Margarito Lopez, the one-man Army on Leyte, was a Garryowen, through and through. It was no coincidence that Goulding was one of the most beloved platoon leaders in the regiment. And so Mel Chandler got the spirit of Garryowen. He set out to keep Troop H the best troop in the best regiment. One of his innovations was to see to it that every man -- cook and clerk as well as rifleman -- qualified with every weapon in the troop. Even the mess sergeant, Bill Brown, a dapper, cocky transfer from an airborne division, went out on the range. The troop received a new leader, Lieutenant Robert M. Carroll, fresh out of ROTC and bucking for Regular Army status. Carroll was sharp and military, but he was up against tough competition for that RA berth, and he wanted to play it cool. So Mel Chandler set out to sell him on the spirit of Garryowen, just as he himself had been sold a short time before. When the Korean war began, on June 25, 1950, the anniversary of the day Custer had gone down fighting at the Little Big Horn and the day the regiment had assaulted the beachhead of Leyte during World War 2,, the 7th Cavalry was not in the best fighting condition. Its entire complement of non-commissioned officers on the platoon level had departed as cadre for another unit, and its vehicles were still those used in the drive across Luzon in World War 2. Just a month after the Korean War broke out, the 7th Cavalry was moving into the lines, ready for combat. From then on the Fighting Seventh was in the thick of the bitterest fighting in Korea. One night on the Naktong River, Mel Chandler called on that fabled esprit de corps. The regiment was dug in on the east side of the river and the North Koreans were steadily building up a concentration of crack troops on the other side. The troopers knew an attack was coming, but they didn't know when, and they didn't know where. At 6 o'clock on the morning of August 12, they were in doubt no longer. The enemy had filtered across the river during the night and a full force of 1000 men, armed with Russian machine guns, attacked the position held by Chandler's men. They came in waves. First came the cannon fodder, white-clad civilians being driven into death as a massive human battering ram. They were followed by crack North Korean troops, who mounted one charge after another. They overran the 7th Cav's forward machine-gun positions through sheer weight of numbers, over piles of their own dead. Another force flanked the company and took up a position on a hill to the rear. Captain Chandler saw that it was building up strength. He assembled a group of 25 men, composed of wounded troopers awaiting evacuation, the company clerk, supply men, cooks and drivers, and led them to the hill. One of the more seriously wounded was Lieutenant Carroll, the young officer bucking for the Regular Army. Chandler left Carroll at the bottom of the hill to direct any reinforcements he could find to the fight. Then Mel Chandler started up the hill. He took one step, two, broke into a trot and then into a run. The first thing he knew the words ``Garryowen''! Burst from his throat. His followers shouted the old battle cry after him and charged the hill, firing as they ran. The Koreans fell back, but regrouped at the top of the hill and pinned down the cavalrymen with a screen of fire. Chandler, looking to right and left to see how his men were faring, suddenly saw another figure bounding up the hill, hurling grenades and hollering the battle cry as he ran. It was Bob Carroll, who had suddenly found himself imbued with the spirit of Garryowen. He had formed his own task force of three stragglers and led them up the hill in a Fighting Seventh charge. Because of this diversionary attack the main group that had been pinned down on the hill was able to surge forward again. But an enemy grenade hit Carroll in the head and detonated simultaneously. He went down like a wet rag and the attackers hit the dirt in the face of the withering enemy fire. Enemy reinforcements came pouring down, seeking a soft spot. They found it at the junction between Troops H and G, and prepared to counterattack. Marvin Goulding saw what was happening. He turned to his platoon. ``Okay, men'', he said. ``Follow me''. Goulding leaped to his feet and started forward, ``Garryowen''! On his lips, his men following. But the bullets whacked home before he finished his battle cry and Marvin Goulding fell dead. For an instant his men hesitated, unable to believe that their lieutenant, the most popular officer in the regiment, was dead. Then they let out a bellow of anguish and rage and, cursing, screaming and hollering ``Garryowen''! They charged into the enemy like wild men. That finished the job that Captain Chandler and Lieutenant Carroll had begun. Goulding's platoon pushed back the enemy soldiers and broke up the timing of the entire enemy attack. Reinforcements came up quickly to take advantage of the opening made by Goulding's platoon. The North Koreans threw away their guns and fled across the rice paddies. Artillery and air strikes were called in to kill them by the hundreds. Though Bob Carroll seemed to have had his head practically blown off by the exploding grenade, he lived. Today he is a major -- in the Regular Army. So filled was Mel Chandler with the spirit of Garryowen that after Korea was over, he took on the job of writing the complete history of the regiment. After years of digging, nights and weekends, he put together the big, profusely illustrated book, Of Garryowen And Glory, which is probably the most complete history of any military unit. The battle of the Naktong River is just one example of how the battle cry and the spirit of The Fighting Seventh have paid off. For nearly a century the cry has never failed to rally the fighting men of the regiment. Take the case of Major Marcus A. Reno, who survived the Battle of The Little Big Horn in 1876. From the enlisted men he pistol-whipped to the subordinate officer whose wife he tried to rape, a lot of men had plenty of reason heartily to dislike Marcus Reno. Many of his fellow officers refused to speak to him. But when a board of inquiry was called to look into the charges of cowardice made against him, the men who had seen Reno leave the battlefield and the officer who had heard Reno suggest that the wounded be left to be tortured by the Sioux, refused to say a harsh word against him. He was a member of The Fighting Seventh. Although it was at the Battle of The Little Horn, about which more words have been written than any other battle in American history, that the 7th Cavalry first made its mark in history, the regiment was ten years old by then. Brevet Major General George Armstrong Custer was the regiment's first permanent commander and, like such generals as George S. Patton and Terry De La Mesa Allen in their rise to military prominence, Custer was a believer in blood and guts warfare. During the Civil War, Custer, who achieved a brilliant record, was made brigadier general at the age of 23. He finished the war as a major general, commanding a full division, and at 25 was the youngest major general in the history of the U. S. Army. I do not mean to suggest that these assumptions are self-evident, in the sense that everyone agrees with them. If they were, Walter Lippmann would be writing the same columns as George Sokolsky, and Herb Lock would have nothing to draw cartoons about. I do mean, however, that I take them for granted, and that everything I shall be saying would appear quite idiotic against any contrary assumptions. The ultimate objective of American policy is to help establish a world in which there is the largest possible measure of freedom and justice and peace and material prosperity; and in particular -- since this is our special responsibility -- that these conditions be enjoyed by the people of the United States. I speak of ``the largest possible measure'' because any person who supposes that these conditions can be universally and perfectly achieved -- ever -- reckons without the inherent imperfectability of himself and his fellow human beings, and is therefore a dangerous man to have around. These conditions are unobtainable -- are not even approachable in the qualified sense I have indicated -- without the prior defeat of world Communism. This is true for two reasons: because Communism is both doctrinally, and in practice, antithetical to these conditions; and because Communists have the will and, as long as Soviet power remains intact, the capacity to prevent their realization. Moreover, as Communist power increases, the enjoyment of these conditions throughout the world diminishes pro rata and the possibility of their restoration becomes increasingly remote. It follows that victory over Communism is the dominant, proximate goal of American policy. Proximate in the sense that there are more distant, more ``positive'' ends we seek, to which victory over Communism is but a means. But dominant in the sense that every other objective, no matter how worthy intrinsically, must defer to it. Peace is a worthy objective; but if we must choose between peace and keeping the Communists out of Berlin, then we must fight. Freedom, in the sense of self-determination, is a worthy objective; but if granting self-determination to the Algerian rebels entails sweeping that area into the Sino-Soviet orbit, then Algerian freedom must be postponed. Justice is a worthy objective; but if justice for Bantus entails driving the government of the Union of South Africa away from the West, then the Bantus must be prepared to carry their identification cards yet a while longer. Prosperity is a worthy objective; but if providing higher standards of living gets in the way of producing sufficient guns to resist Communist aggression, then material sacrifices and denials will have to be made. It may be, of course, that such objectives can be pursued consisently with a policy designed to overthrow Communism; my point is that where conflicts arise they must always be resolved in favor of achieving the indispensable condition for a tolerant world -- the absence of Soviet Communist power. This much having been said, the question remains whether we have the resources for the job we have to do -- defeat Communism -- and, if so, how those resources ought to be used. This brings us squarely to the problem of power, and the uses a nation makes of power. I submit that this is the key problem of international relations, that it always has been, that it always will be. And I suggest further that the main cause of the trouble we are in has been the failure of American policy-makers, ever since we assumed free world leadership in 1945, to deal with this problem realistically and seriously. In the recent political campaign two charges were leveled affecting the question of power, and I think we might begin by trying to put them into proper focus. One was demonstrably false; the other, for the most part, true. The first was that America had become -- or was in danger of becoming -- a second-rate military power. I know I do not have to dwell here on the absurdity of that contention. You may have misgivings about certain aspects of our military establishment -- I certainly do -- but you know any comparison of over-all American strength with over-all Soviet strength finds the United States not only superior, but so superior both in present weapons and in the development of new ones that our advantage promises to be a permanent feature of U. S.- Soviet relations for the foreseeable future. I have often searched for a graphic way of impressing our superiority on those Americans who have doubts, and I think Mr. Jameson Campaigne has done it well in his new book American Might And Soviet Myth. Suppose, he says, that the tables were turned, and we were in the Soviets'position: ``There would be more than 2, 000 modern Soviet fighters, all better than ours, stationed at 250 bases in Mexico and the Caribbean. Overwhelming Russian naval power would always be within a few hundred miles of our coast. Half of the population of the U. S. would be needed to work on arms just to feed the people''. Add this to the unrest in the countries around us where oppressed peoples would be ready to turn on us at the first opportunity. Add also a comparatively primitive industrial plant which would severely limit our capacity to keep abreast of the Soviets even in the missile field which is reputed to be our main strength. If we look at the situation this way, we can get an idea of Khrushchev's nightmarish worries -- or, at least, of the worries he might have if his enemies were disposed to exploit their advantage. The other charge was that America's political position in the world has progressively deteriorated in recent years. The contention needs to be formulated with much greater precision than it ever was during the campaign, but once that has been done, I fail to see how any serious student of world affairs can quarrel with it. The argument was typically advanced in terms of U. S. ``prestige''. Prestige, however, is only a minor part of the problem; and even then, it is a concept that can be highly misleading. Prestige is a measure of how other people think of you, well or ill. But contrary to what was implied during the campaign, prestige is surely not important for its own sake. Only the vain and incurably sentimental among us will lose sleep simply because foreign peoples are not as impressed by our strength as they ought to be. The thing to lose sleep over is what people, having concluded that we are weaker than we are, are likely to do about it. The evidence suggests that foreign peoples believe the United States is weaker than the Soviet Union, and is bound to fall still further behind in the years ahead. This ignorant estimate, I repeat, is not of any interest in itself; but it becomes very important if foreign peoples react the way human beings typically do -- namely, by taking steps to end up on what appears to be the winning side. To the extent, then, that declining U. S. prestige means that other nations will be tempted to place their bets on an ultimate American defeat, and will thus be more vulnerable to Soviet intimidation, there is reason for concern. Still, these guesses about the outcome of the struggle cannot be as important as the actual power relationship between the Soviet Union and ourselves. Here I do not speak of military power where our advantage is obvious and overwhelming but of political power -- of influence, if you will -- about which the relevant questions are: Is Soviet influence throughout the world greater or less than it was ten years ago? And is Western influence greater or less than it used to be? In answering these questions, we need to ask not merely whether Communist troops have crossed over into territories they did not occupy before, and not merely whether disciplined agents of the Cominform are in control of governments from which they were formerly excluded: the success of Communism's war against the West does not depend on such spectacular and definitive conquests. Success may mean merely the displacement of Western influence. Communist political warfare, we must remember, is waged insidiously and in deliberate stages. Fearful of inviting a military showdown with the West which they could not win, the Communists seek to undermine Western power where the nuclear might of the West is irrelevant -- in backwoods guerrilla skirmishes, in mob uprisings in the streets, in parliaments, in clandestine meetings of undercover conspirators, at the United Nations, on the propaganda front, at diplomatic conferences -- preferably at the highest level. The Soviets understand, moreover, that the first step in turning a country toward Communism is to turn it against the West. Thus, typically, the first stage of a Communist takeover is to ``neutralize'' a country. The second stage is to retain the nominal classification of ``neutralist'', while in fact turning the country into an active advocate and adherent of Soviet policy. And this may be as far as the process will go. The Kremlin's goal is the isolation and capture, not of Ghana, but of the United States -- and this purpose may be served very well by countries that masquerade under a ``neutralist'' mask, yet in fact are dependable auxiliaries of the Soviet Foreign Office. To recite the particulars of recent Soviet successes is hardly reassuring. Six years ago French Indochina, though in troubie, was in the Western camp. Today Northern Vietnam is overtly Communist; Laos is teetering between Communism and pro-Communist neutralism; Cambodia is, for all practical purposes, neutralist. Indonesia, in the early days of the Republic, leaned toward the West. Today Sukarno's government is heavily besieged by avowed Communists, and for all of its ``neutralist'' pretensions, it is a firm ally of Soviet policy. Ceylon has moved from a pro-Western orientation to a neutralism openly hostile to the West. In the Middle East, Iraq, Syria and Egypt were, a short while ago, in the Western camp. Today the Nasser and Kassem governments are adamantly hostile to the West, are dependent for their military power on Soviet equipment and personnel; in almost every particular follow the Kremlin's foreign policy line. A short time ago all Africa was a Western preserve. Never mind whether the Kikiyus and the Bantus enjoyed Wilsonian self-determination: the point is that in the struggle for the world that vast land mass was under the domination and influence of the West. Today, Africa is swerving violently away from the West and plunging, it would seem, into the Soviet orbit. Latin America was once an area as ``safe'' for the West as Nebraska was for Nixon. Today it is up for grabs. One Latin American country, Cuba, has become a Soviet bridgehead ninety miles off our coast. In some countries the trend has gone further than others: Mexico, Panama, and Venezuela are displaying open sympathy for Castroism, and there is no country -- save the Dominican Republic whose funeral services we recently arranged -- where Castroism and Anti-Americanism does not prevent the government from unqualifiedly espousing the American cause. Only in Europe have our lines remained firm -- and there only on the surface. The strains of neutralism are running strong, notably in England, and even in Germany. What have we to show by way of counter-successes? We have had opportunities -- clear invitations to plant our influence on the other side of the Iron Curtain. There was the Hungarian Revolution which we praised and mourned, but did nothing about. There was the Polish Revolution which we misunderstood and then helped guide along a course favorable to Soviet interests. There was the revolution in Tibet which we pretended did not exist. Only in one instance have we moved purposively and effectively to dislodge existing Communist power: in Guatemala. And contrary to what has been said recently, we did not wait for ``outside pressures'' and ``world opinion'' to bring down that Communist government; we moved decisively to effect an Anti-Communist coup d'etat. We served our national interests, and by so doing we saved the Guatemalan people the ultimate in human misery. The first rattle of the machine guns, at 7: 10 in the evening, roused around me the varied voices and faces of fear. ``Sounds exactly like last time''. The young man spoke steadily enough, but all at once he looked grotesquely unshaven. The middle-aged man said over and over, ``Why did I come here, why did I come here''. Then he was sick. Amid the crackle of small arms and automatic weapons, I heard the thumping of mortars. Then the lights went out. This was my second day in Vientiane, the administrative capital of Laos, and my thoughts were none too brave. Where was my flashlight? Where should I go? To my room? Better stay in the hotel lobby, where the walls looked good and thick. Chinese and Indian merchants across the street were slamming their steel shutters. Hotel attendants pulled parked bicycles into the lobby. A woman with a small boy slipped in between them. ``Please'', she said, ``please''. She held out her hand to show that she had money. The American newspaperman worried about getting to the cable office. But what was the story? Had the Communist-led Pathet Lao finally come this far? Or was it another revolt inside Vientiane? ``Let's play hero'', I said. ``Let's go to the roof and see''. By 7: 50 the answer was plain. There had been an eclipse of the moon. A traditional Lao explanation is that the moon was being swallowed by a toad, and the remedy was to make all possible noise, ideally with firearms. The din was successful, too, for just before the moon disappeared, the frightened toad had begun to spit it out again, which meant good luck all around. How quaint it all seemed the next day. A restaurant posted a reminder to patrons ``who became excited and left without paying their checks''. But everyone I met had sought cover first and asked questions later. And no wonder, for Vientiane, the old City of Sandalwood, had become the City of Bullet Holes. I saw holes in planes at the airport and in cars in the streets. Along the main thoroughfares hardly a house had not been peppered. In place of the police headquarters was a new square filled with rubble. Mortars had demolished the defense ministry and set fire to the American Embassy next door. What had been the ambassador's suite was now jagged walls of blackened brick. This damage had been done in the battle of Vientiane, fought less than three months earlier when four successive governments had ruled here in three days (December 9-11, 1960). And now, in March, all Laos suffered a state of siege. The Pathet Lao forces held two northern provinces and openly took the offensive in three more. Throughout the land their hit-and-run terrorists spread fear of ambush and death. ``And it's all the more tragic because it's so little deserved'', said Mr. J. J. A. Frans, a Belgian official of the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization. We talked after I hailed his Jeep marked with the U. N. flag. Practically all the people of Laos, he explained -- about two million of them -- are rice farmers, and the means and motives of modern war are as strange to them as clocks and steel plows. They look after their fields and children and water buffaloes in ten or eleven thousand villages, with an average of 200 souls. Nobody can tell more closely how many villages there are. They spread over an area no larger than Oregon; yet they include peoples as different from one another as Oregonians are from Patagonians. What matters here is family loyalty; faith in the Buddha and staying at peace with the phis, the spirits; and to live in harmony with nature''. Harmony in Laos? ``Precisely'', said Mr. Frans. He spoke of the season of dryness and dust, brought by the monsoon from the northeast, in harmony with the season of rain and mud, brought by the monsoon from the southwest. The slim pirogues in harmony with the majestically meandering Mekong River. Shy, slender-waisted girls at the loom in harmony with the frangipani by the wayside. Even life in harmony with death. For so long as death was not violent, it was natural and to be welcomed, making a funeral a feast. To many a Frenchman -- they came 95 years ago, colonized, and stayed until Laos became independent in 1953 -- the land had been even more delightfully tranquil than Tahiti. Yet Laos was now one of the most explosive headaches of statesmen around the globe. The Pathet Lao, stiffened by Communist Veterans from neighboring North Viet Nam, were supplied by Soviet aircraft. The Royal Lao Army, on the other hand, was paid and equipped with American funds. In six years, U. S. aid had amounted to more than $ 1. 60 for each American -- a total of three hundred million dollars. We were there at a moment when the situation in Laos threatened to ignite another war among the world's giants. Even if it did not, how would this little world of gentle people cope with its new reality of grenades and submachine guns? To find out, we traveled throughout that part of Laos still nominally controlled, in the daytime at least, by the Royal Lao Army: from Attopeu, the City of Buffalo Dung in the southeast, to Muong Sing, the City of Lions in the northwest, close to Communist China (map, page 250). We rode over roads so rough that our Jeep came to rest atop the soil between ruts, all four wheels spinning uselessly. We flew in rickety planes so overloaded that we wondered why they didn't crash. In the end we ran into Communist artillery fire. ``We'' were Bill Garrett of the National Geographic Illustrations Staff, whose three cameras and eight lenses made him look as formidable as any fighting man we met; Boun My, our interpreter; and myself. Boun My -- the name means one who has a boun, a celebration, and is therefore lucky -- was born in Savannakhet, the Border of Paradise. He had attended three universities in the United States. But he had never seen the mountainous half of his native land north of Vientiane, including the royal capital, Luang Prabang. Before the airplanes came, he said, travel in Laos was just about impossible. Alas, so it almost proved for us, too. To go outside the few cities required permits. And getting them seemed a life's work. Nobody wanted Americans to be hurt or captured, and few soldiers could be spared as escorts. We were told that to the Pathet Lao, a kidnaped American was worth at least $ 750, a fortune in Laos. Everyone had heard of the American contractor who had spurned an escort. Now Pathet Lao propagandists were reported marching him barefoot from village to village, as evidence of evil American intervention. Although we enjoyed our rounds of the government offices in Vientiane, with officials offering tea and pleasing conversation in French, we were getting nowhere. We had nearly decided that all the tales of Lao lethargy must be true, when we were invited to take a trip with the Prime Minister. Could we be ready in 15 minutes? His Highness had decided only two hours ago to go out of town, and he was eager to be off. And so, after a flight southeast to Savannakhet, we found ourselves bouncing along in a Jeep right behind the Land-Rover of Prince Boun Oum of Champassak, a tall man of Churchillian mien in a bush jacket and a ten-gallon hat from Texas. From his shoulder bag peeked the seven-inch barrel of a Luger. The temperature rose to 105-degrees. With our company of soldiers, we made one long column of reddish dust. In Keng Kok, the City of Silkworms, the Prime Minister bought fried chickens and fried cicadas, and two notebooks for me. Then we drove on, until there was no more road and we traversed dry rice fields, bouncing across their squat earth walls. It was a spleen-crushing day. An hour of bouncing, a brief stop in a village to inspect a new school or dispensary. More bouncing, another stop, a new house for teachers, a new well. Then off again, rushing to keep up. We were miserable. But our two Jeep mates -- Keo Viphakone from Luang Prabang and John Cool from Beaver, Pennsylvania -- were beaming under their coatings of dust. Together they had probably done more than any other men to help push Laos toward the 20th century -- constructively. Mr. Keo, once a diplomat in Paris and Washington, was Commissioner of Rural Affairs. John, an engineer and anthropologist with a doctorate from the London School of Economics, headed the rural development division of USOM, the United States Operations Mission administering U. S. aid. ``What you see are self-help projects'', John said. ``We ask the people what they want, and they supply the labor. We send shovels, cement, nails, and corrugated iron for roofs. That way they have an infirmary for $ 400. We have 2, 500 such projects, and they add up to a lot more than just roads and wells and schools. Ask Mr. Keo''. Mr. Keo agreed. ``Our people have been used to accepting things as they found them'', he said. ``Where there was no road, they lived without one. Now they learn that men can change their surroundings, through their traditional village elders, without violence. That's a big step toward a modern state. You might say we are in the nation-building business''. In the villages people lined up to give us flowers. Then came coconuts, eggs, and rice wine. The Prime Minister paid his respects to the Buddhist monks, strode rapidly among the houses, joked with the local soldiery, and made a speech. The soldiers are fighting and the Americans are helping, he said, but in the fight against the Pathet Lao the key factor is the villager himself. Then we were off again. We did it for three days. But our stumping tour of the south wasn't all misery. Crossing the 4, 000-foot width of the Mekong at Champassak, on a raft with an outboard motor, we took off our dusty shirts and enjoyed a veritable ocean breeze. Then we hung overboard in the water. Briefly we rolled over a paved road up to Pak Song, on the cool Bolovens Plateau. The Prince visited the hospital of Operation Brotherhood, supported by the Junior Chamber of Commerce of the Philippines, and fed rice to two pet elephants he kept at his residence at Pak Song. In the village of Soukhouma, which means ``Peaceful'', we had a baci. This is the most endearing of Lao ceremonies. It takes place in the household, a rite of well-wishing for myriad occasions -- for the traveler, a wedding, a newborn child, the sick, the New Year, for any good purpose. The preparations were elaborate: flowers, candles, incense sticks, rice wine, dozens of delicacies, and pieces of white cotton string. The strings were draped around flowers in tall silver bowls (page 261). The candles were lighted, and we sat on split-bamboo mats among the village notables. I was careful to keep my feet, the seat of the least worthy spirits, from pointing at anyone's head, where the worthiest spirits reside. Now a distinguished old man called on nine divinities to come and join us. Next he addressed himself to our souls. A man has 32 souls, one for each part of the body. Those souls like to wander off, and must be called back. With the divinities present and our souls in place, we were wished health, happiness, and power. Then, one after another, the villagers tied the waiting cotton strings around our wrists. These were to be kept on, to hold in the 32 souls. As we stepped out into the sunlight, a man came up to John Cool and silently showed him his hand. It had a festering hole as big as a silver dollar. We could see maggots moving. John said: ``I have some antiseptic salve with me, but it's too late for that''. My interviews with teen-agers confirmed this portrait of the weakening of religious and ethnic bonds. Jewish identity was often confused with social and economic strivings. ``Being Jewish gives you tremendous drive'', a boy remarked. ``It means that you have to get ahead''. When I pressed for a purely religious definition, I encountered the familiar blend of liberal piety, interfaith good will, and a small residue of ethnic loyalty. ``I like the tradition'', a girl said. ``I like to follow the holidays when they come along. But you don't have to worship in the traditional way. You can communicate in your own way. As I see it, there's no real difference between being Jewish, Catholic, or Protestant''. Another teen-ager remarked: ``Most Jews don't believe in God, but they believe in people -- in helping people''. Still another boy asserted: ``To be a good Jew is to do no wrong; it's to be a good person''. When asked how this was different from being a good Protestant, the boy answered, ``It's the same thing''. This accords with the study by Maier and Spinrad. They discovered that, although 42 per cent of a sample of Catholic students and 15 per cent of the Protestants believed it important to live in accordance with the teachings of their religion, only 8 per cent of the Jewish students had this conviction. The most important aims of the Jewish students were as follows: to make the world a better place to live in -- 30 per cent; to get happiness for yourself -- 28 per cent; and financial independence -- 21 per cent. Nevertheless, most of the teen-agers I interviewed believed in maintaining their Jewish identity and even envisioned joining a synagogue or temple. However, they were hostile to Jewish Orthodoxy, professing to believe in Judaism ``but in a moderate way''. One boy said querulously about Orthodox Jews: ``It's the twentieth century, and they don't have to wear beards''. The reason offered for clinging to the ancestral faith lacked force and authority even in the teen-agers'minds. ``We were brought up that way'' was one statement which won general assent. ``I want to show respect for my parents'religion'' was the way in which a boy justified his inhabiting a halfway house of Judaism. Still another suggested that he would join a temple ``for social reasons, since I'll be living in a suburb''. Intermarriage, which is generally regarded as a threat to Jewish survival, was regarded not with horror or apprehension but with a kind of mild, clinical disapproval. Most of the teen-agers I interviewed rejected it on pragmatic grounds. ``When you marry, you want to have things in common'', a girl said, ``and it's hard when you don't marry someone with your own background''. A fourteen-year-old girl from the Middle West observed wryly that, in her community, religion inconveniently interfered with religious activities -- at least with the peripheral activities that many middle class Jews now regard as religious. It appears that an Orthodox girl in the community disrupted plans for an outing sponsored by one of the Jewish service groups because she would not travel on Saturday and, in addition, required kosher food. Another girl from a relatively large midwestern city described herself as ``the only Orthodox girl in town''. This is, no doubt, inaccurate, but it does convey how isolated she feels among the vast army of the nonobservant. One of the significant things about Jewish culture in the older teen years is that it is largely college-oriented. Sixty-five per cent of the Jewish teen-agers of college age attend institutions of higher learning. This is substantially higher than the figures for the American population at large -- 45. 6 per cent for males and 29. 2 per cent for females. This may help explain a phenomenon described by a small-town Jewish boy. In their first two years in high school, Jewish boys in this town make strenuous exertions to win positions on the school teams. However, in their junior and senior years, they generally forego their athletic pursuits, presumably in the interest of better academic achievement. It is significant, too, that the older teen-agers I interviewed believed, unlike the younger ones, that Jewish students tend to do better academically than their gentile counterparts. The percentage of Jewish girls who attend college is almost as high as that of boys. The motivations for both sexes, to be sure, are different. The vocational motive is the dominant one for boys, while Jewish girls attend college for social reasons and to become culturally developed. One of the significant developments in American-Jewish life is that the cultural consumers are largely the women. It is they who read -- and make -- Jewish best-sellers and then persuade their husbands to read them. In upper teen Jewish life, the non-college group tends to have a sense of marginality. ``People automatically assume that I'm in college'', a nineteen-year-old machinist observed irritably. However, among the girls, there are some morale-enhancing compensations for not going to college. The Jewish working girl almost invariably works in an office -- in contradistinction to gentile factory workers -- and, buttressed by a respectable income, she is likely to dress better and live more expansively than the college student. She is even prone to regard the college girl as immature. One of the reasons for the high percentage of Jewish teen-agers in college is that a great many urban Jews are enabled to attend local colleges at modest cost. This is particularly true in large centers of Jewish population like New York, Chicago, and Philadelphia. What is noteworthy about this large group of teen-agers is that, although their attitudes hardly differentiate them from their gentile counterparts, they actually lead their lives in a vast self-enclosed Jewish cosmos with relatively little contact with the non-Jewish world. Perhaps the Jewish students at Brooklyn College -- constituting 85 per cent of those who attend the day session -- can serve as a paradigm of the urban, lower-middle class Jewish student. There is, to begin, an important sex difference. Typically, in a lower-middle class Jewish family, a son will be sent to an out-of-town school, if financial resources warrant it, while the daughter will attend the local college. There are two reasons for this. First, the girl's education has a lower priority than the son's. Second, the attitude in Jewish families is far more protective toward the daughter than toward the son. Most Jewish mothers are determined to exercise vigilance over the social and sexual lives of their daughters by keeping them home. The consequence of this is that the girls at Brooklyn College outnumber the boys and do somewhat better academically. One can assume that some of the brightest boys are out of town. Brooklyn College students have an ambivalent attitude toward their school. On the one hand, there is a sense of not having moved beyond the ambiance of their high school. This is particularly acute for those who attended Midwood High School directly across the street from Brooklyn College. They have a sense of marginality at being denied that special badge of status, the out-of-town school. At the same time, there is a good deal of self-congratulation at attending a good college -- they are even inclined to exaggerate its not inconsiderable virtues -- and they express pleasure at the cozy in-group feeling that the college generates. ``It's people of your own kind'', a girl remarked. ``You don't have to watch what you say. Of course, I would like to go to an out-of-town school where there are all kinds of people, but I would want lots of Jewish kids there''. For most Brooklyn College students, college is at once a perpetuation of their ethnic attachments and a breaking away from the cage of neighborhood and family. Brooklyn College is unequivocally Jewish in tone, and efforts to detribalize the college by bringing in unimpeachably midwestern types on the faculty have been unavailing. However, a growing intellectual sophistication and the new certitudes imparted by courses in psychology and anthropology make the students increasingly critical of their somewhat provincial and overprotective parents. And the rebellion of these third generation Jews is not the traditional conflict of culture but, rather, a protest against a culture that they view as softly and insidiously enveloping. ``As long as I'm home, I'll never grow up'', a nineteen-year-old boy observed sadly. ``They don't like it if I do anything away from home. It's so much trouble, I don't usually bother''. For girls, the overprotection is far more pervasive. Parents will drive on Friday night to pick up their daughters after a sorority or House Plan meeting. A freshman girl's father not too long ago called a dean at Brooklyn College and demanded the ``low-down'' on a boy who was going out with his daughter. The domestic tentacles even extend to the choice of a major field. Under pressure from parents, the majority of Brooklyn College girls major in education since that co-ordinates best with marriage plans -- limited graduate study requirement and convenient working hours. This means that a great many academically talented girls are discouraged from pursuing graduate work of a more demanding nature. A kind of double standard exists here for Jewish boys and girls as it does in the realm of sex. The breaking away from the prison house of Brooklyn is gradual. First, the student trains on his hapless parents the heavy artillery of his newly acquired psychological and sociological insights. Then, with the new affluence, there is actually a sallying forth into the wide, wide world beyond the precincts of New York. It is significant that the Catskills, which used to be the summer playground for older teen-agers, a kind of summer suburb of New York, no longer attracts them in great numbers -- except for those who work there as waiters, bus boys, or counselors in the day camps. The great world beyond beckons. But it should be pointed out that some of the new watering places -- Fire Island, Nantucket, Westhampton, Long Island, for example -- tend to be homogeneously Jewish. Although Brooklyn College does not yet have a junior-year-abroad program, a good number of students spend summers in Europe. In general, however, the timetable of travel lags considerably behind that of the student at Harvard or Smith. And acculturation into the world at large is likely to occur for the Brooklyn College student after college rather than during the four school years. Brooklyn College is Marjorie Morningstar territory, as much as the Bronx or Central Park West. There are hordes of nubile young women there who, prodded by their impatient mothers, are determined to marry. It is interesting that, although the percentage of married students is not appreciably higher at Brooklyn than elsewhere -- about 30 per cent of the women and 25 per cent of the men in the graduating class -- the anxiety of the unmarried has puffed up the estimate. ``Almost everybody in the senior class is married'', students say dogmatically. And the school newspaper sells space to jubilant fraternities, sororities, and houses (in the House Plan Association) that have good news to impart. These announcements are, in effect, advertisements for themselves as thriving marriage marts. There are boxed proclamations in the newspaper of watchings, pinnings, ringings, engagements, and marriages in a scrupulously graded hierarchy of felicity. ``Witt House happily announces the engagement of Fran Horowitz to Erwin Schwartz of Fife House''. The Brooklyn College student shows some striking departures from prevailing collegiate models. The Ivy League enjoys no easy dominion here, and the boys are as likely to dress in rather foppish Continental fashion, or even in nondescript working class manner, as they are in the restrained, button-down Ivy way. The girls are prone to dress far more flamboyantly than their counterparts out of town, and eye shadow, mascara, and elaborate bouffant hairdos -- despite the admonitions of cautious guidance personnel -- are not unknown even in early morning classes. Among the boys, there is very little bravado about drinking. Brooklyn College is distinctive for not having an official drinking place. The Fort Lauderdale encampment for drinking is foreign to most Brooklyn College boys. This should be used frequently (but shaken before using). For galled breasts, the mother should shave into half a cup of fresh unsalted lard enough white chalk to make a paste. This could also be used for any other skin irritation. Or she might place cornstarch in the oven for a short time and then apply this under her breasts. ``Female troubles'' of various kinds do not seem to have been common on the frontier; at least I have only one remedy for anything of this kind in my collection, one for hastening delayed menstruation. The sufferer drinks tansy tea. Bruises, burns, cuts, etc., occurred frequently on the frontier, and folk medicine gave the answers to these problems too. Bruises and black eyes were relieved by application of raw beefsteak. (Doctors now say that it was not the meat but the coolness of the applications which relieved the pain. ) Salted butter was another cure for bruises. Many people agreed that burns should be treated with bland oily salves or unsalted butter or lard, but one informant told me that a burn should be bathed in salt water; the burn oozed watery fluid for many days, and finally the healing was completed by bathing it with epsom salts. Another swore by vinegar baths for burns, and still another recommended salted butter. ``Butter salve'' or ``butter ointment'' was used for burns, and for bruises as well. This was made by putting butter in a pan of water and allowing it to boil; when it was cool, the fat was skimmed off and bottled. Cow's milk was another cure for burns, and burns covered with gum arabic or plain mucilage healed quickly. One man, badly burned about the face and eyes by an arc welding torch, was blinded and could not find a doctor at the time. A sympathetic friend made poultices of raw potato parings, which she said was the best and quickest way to draw out the ``heat''. Later the doctor used mineral oil on the burns. The results were good, but which treatment helped is still not known. To stop bleeding, cobwebs were applied to cuts and wounds. One old-timer said to sprinkle sugar on a bleeding cut, even when on a knuckle, if it was made by a rusty tool; this would stop the flow and also prevent infection. My lawyer told me that his mother used a similar remedy for cuts and wounds; she sprinkled common sugar directly on the injury and then bound it loosely with cotton cloth, over which she poured turpentine. He showed me one of his fingers which had been practically amputated and which his mother had treated; there is scarcely a scar showing. Tobacco was common first aid. A ``chaw'' of tobacco put on an open wound was both antiseptic and healing. Or a thin slice of plug tobacco might be laid on the open wound without chewing. One old man told me that when he was a boy he was kicked in the head by a fractious mule and had his scalp laid back from the entire front of his head. His brother ran a mile to get the father; when they reached the boy, the father sliced a new plug of tobacco, put the scalp back in place, and covered the raw edges with the slices. Then he put a rag around the dressing to keep it in place. There was no cleaning or further care, but the wound healed in less than two weeks and showed no scar. Veronica from the herb garden was also used to stop bleeding, and rue was an antiseptic. Until quite recently, ``sterile'' maggots could be bought to apply to a wound; they would feed on its surface, leaving it clean so that it could be medically treated. Tetanus could be avoided by pouring warm turpentine over a wound. One family bound wounds with bacon or salt pork strips, or, if these were not handy, plain lard. Another sprinkled sugar on hot coals and held the wounded foot or hand in the smoke. Rabies were cured or prevented by ``madstones'' which the pioneer wore or carried. In 1872 there were known to be twenty-two in Norton County, and one had been in the family for 200 years. Another cure for hydrophobia was to suck the wounds, then cauterize them with a hot knife or poker. While nowadays we recognize the fact that there are many causes for bleeding at the nose, not long ago a nosebleed was simply that, and treatment had little variation. Since a fall or blow might have caused it, a cold pack was usually first aid. This might be applied to the top of the nose or the back of the neck, pressed on the upper lip, or inserted into the nostril (cotton was usually used in this last). Nosebleed could be stopped by wrapping a red woolen string about the patient's neck and tying it in a knot for each year of his life. Or the victim could chew hard on a piece of paper, meanwhile pressing his fingers tight in his ears. Old sores could be healed by the constant application of a wash made of equal parts vinegar and water. Blood blisters could be prevented from forming by rubbing a work blister immediately with any hard nonpoisonous substance. Felons were cured by taking common salt and drying it in the oven, pounding it fine, and mixing it with equal parts of spirits of turpentine; this mixture was then spread on a cloth and wrapped around the affected part. As the cloth dried, more of the mixture was applied, and after twenty-four hours the felon was supposed to be ``killed''. Insect bites were cured in many ways. Many an old-timer swore by the saliva method; ``get a bite, spit on it'' was a proverb. This was used also for bruises. Yellow clay was used as a poultice for insect bites and also for swellings; not long ago ``Denver Mud'' was most popular. Chiggers were a common pest along streams and where gardens and berries thrived; so small as to be scarcely visible to the eye, they buried themselves in the victim's flesh. Bathing the itching parts with kerosene gave relief and also killed the pests. Ant bites were eased by applying liquid bluing. For mosquito bites a paste of half a glass of salt and half a glass of soda was made. For wasp stings onion juice, obtained by scraping an onion, gave quick relief. A handier remedy was to bathe the painful part in strong soapy water; mud was sometimes used as well as soap. Just plain old black dirt was also used as a pack to relieve wasp or bee stings. Bedbugs were a common pest in pioneer days; to keep them out of homes, even in the 1900's, was a chore. Bed slats were washed in alum water, legs of beds were placed in cups of kerosene, and all woodwork was treated liberally with corrosive sublimate, applied with a feather. Kerosene was very effective in ridding pioneer homes of the pests. At times pioneer children got lice in their hair. A kerosene shampoo seems a heroic treatment, but it did the job. To remove an insect from one's ear warm water should be inserted. A cinder or other small object could be removed from the eye by placing a flaxseed in the eye. As the seed swelled its glutinous covering protected the eyeball from irritation, and both the cinder and the seed could soon be washed out. Another way to remove small objects from the eye was to have the person look cross-eyed; the particle would then move toward the nose, where it could be wiped out with a wisp of cotton. Shingles were cured by gentian, an old drug, used in combinations. For erysipelas a mixture of one dram borax and one ounce glycerine was applied to the afflicted part on linen cloth. Itching skin, considered ``just nerves'', was eased by treating with whiskey and salt. Winter itch was treated by applying strong apple cider in which pulverized bloodroot had been steeped. To cure fungus growths on mouth or hands people made a strong tea by using a handful of sassafras bark in a quart of water. They drank half a cup of this morning and night, and they also washed and soaked their hands in the same solution. Six treatments cured one case which lasted a month and had defied other remedies. Frostbite was treated by putting the feet and hands in ice water or by rubbing them with snow. Now one hears that heat and hot water are used instead. Another remedy was oil of eucalyptus, used as well for chilblains. Chilblains were also treated with tincture of capsicum or cabbage leaves. Boils have always been a source of much trouble. A German informant gave me a sure cure made by combining rye flour and molasses into a poultice. Another poultice was made from the inner bark of the elm tree, steeped in water until it formed a sticky, gummy solution. This was also used for sores. Another frequent pioneer difficulty, caused by wearing rough and heavy shoes and boots, was corns. One veracious woman tells me she has used thin potato parings for both corns and calluses on her feet and they remove the pain or ``fire''. Another common cure was to soak the feet five or ten minutes in warm water, then to apply a solution of equal parts of soda and common brown soap on a kid bandage overnight. This softened the skin so that in the morning when the bandage was removed the corn could be scraped off and a bit of corn plaster put on. There were many cures for warts. One young girl told me how her mother removed a wart from her finger by soaking a copper penny in vinegar for three days and then painting the finger with the liquid several times. Another wart removal method was to rub each wart with a bean split open and then to bury the bean halves under the drip of the house for seven days. Saliva gathered in the mouth after a night's sleep was considered poisonous; wetting a wart with this saliva on wakening the first thing in the morning was supposed to cause it to disappear after only a few treatments, and strangely enough many warts did just that. One wart cure was to wrap it in a hair from a blonde gypsy. Another was to soak raw beef in vinegar for twenty-four hours, tie it on the wart, and wear it for a week. A simpler method was to tie a thread tightly around the wart at its base and wear it this way. I know this worked. One person recommended to me washing the wart with sulphur water; another said it should be rubbed with a cut potato three times daily. Another common method was to cut an onion in two and place each half on the wart for a moment; the onion was then fastened together with string and placed beneath a dripping eave. As the onion decayed, so did the wart. Sore muscles were relieved by an arnica rub; sore feet by calf's-foot, an herb from the pioneer's ubiquitous herb garden, or by soaking the feet in a pan of hot water in which two cups of salt had been dissolved. Leg cramps, one person tells me, were relieved by standing barefoot with the weight of the body on the heel and pressing down hard. This does give relief, as I can testify. One doctor prescribed a tablespoon of whiskey or brandy before each meal for leg cramps. Pains in the back of the leg and in the abdomen were prevented from reaching the upper body by tying a rope about the patient's waist. For sprains and swellings, one pint of cider vinegar and half a pint of spirits of turpentine added to three well beaten eggs was said to give speedy relief. Except for the wine waiter in a restaurant -- always an inscrutable plenipotentiary unto himself, the genii with the keys to unlock the gates of the wine world are one's dealer, and the foreign shipper or negociant who in turn supplies him. In instances where both of these are persons or firms with integrity, the situation is ideal. It may, on occasion, be anything but that. However, by cultivating a wine dealer and accepting his advice, one will soon enough ascertain whether he has any knowledge of wines (as opposed to what he may have been told by salesmen and promoters) and, better yet, whether he has a taste for wine. Again, by spreading one's purchases over several wine dealers, one becomes familiar with the names and specialties of reputable wine dealers and shippers abroad. This is important because, despite all the efforts of the French government, an appreciable segment of France's export trade in wines is still tainted with a misrepresentation approaching downright dishonesty, and there are many too many negociants who would rather turn a sou than amass a creditable reputation overseas. A good negociant or shipper will not only be the man or the firm which has cornered the wines from the best vineyards, or the best parts of them; he may also be the one who makes and bottles the best blends -- sound wines from vineyards generally in his own district. These are the wines the French themselves use for everyday drinking, for even in France virtually no one drinks the Grands Crus on a meal-to-meal basis. The Grands Crus are expensive, and even doting palates tire of them. And certainly, in the case of the beginner or the comparatively uninitiated wine drinker, the palate and the capacity for appreciation will not be ready for the Grands Crus as a steady diet without frequent recourse to crus of less renown. There is nothing infra dig about a good blend from a good shipper. Some of them are very delicious indeed, and there are many good ones exported -- unfortunately, along with others not so good, and worse. Consultation with a reputable wine dealer and constant experimentation -- ``steering ever from the known to the unknown'' -- are the requisites. Wine waiters are something else again; especially if one is travelling or dining out a great deal, their importance mounts. Most of them, the world over, operate on the same principle by which justice is administered in France and some other Latin countries: the customer is to be considered guilty of abysmal ignorance until proven otherwise, with the burden of proof on the customer himself. Now the drinking of wine (and happily so! ) is for the most part a recondite affair, for manifestly, if everyone in the world who could afford the best wines also liked them, the supply would dry up in no time at all. This is the only valid, and extenuating, argument that may be advanced in defense of the reprehensible attitude of the common wine waiter. A really good wine waiter is, paradoxically, the guardian (and not the purveyor) of his cellar against the Visigoths. Faced, on the one hand, with an always exhaustible supply of his best wines, and on the other by a clientele usually equipped with inexhaustible pocketbooks, it is a wonder indeed that all wine waiters are not afflicted with chronic ambivalence. The one way to get around them -- short of knowing exactly what one wants and sticking to it -- is to frequent a single establishment until its wine waiter is persuaded that one is at least as interested in wine as in spending money. Only then, perhaps, will he reveal his jewels and his bargains. Wine bought from a dealer should ideally be allowed to rest for several weeks before it is served. This is especially true of red wines, and a practice which, though not always practicable, is well worth the effort. It does no harm for wine to stand on end for a matter of days, but in terms of months and years it is fatal. Wine stored for a long time should be on its side; otherwise, the cork dries and air enters to spoil it. When stacking wine on its side in a bin, care should always be taken to be sure there is no air bubble left next to the cork. Fat bottles, such as Burgundies, have a way of rolling around in the bin and often need little props, such as a bit of cardboard or a chip of wood, to hold them in the proper reclining posture. Too much dampness in the cellar rots the corks, again with ill effects. The best rule of thumb for detecting corked wine (provided the eye has not already spotted it) is to smell the wet end of the cork after pulling it: if it smells of wine, the bottle is probably all right; if it smells of cork, one has grounds for suspicion. Seasonal rises or drops in temperature are bad for wine: they age it prematurely. The ideal storage temperature for long periods is about fifty-five degrees, with an allowable range of five degrees above or below this, provided there are no sudden or frequent changes. Prolonged vibration is also undesirable; consequently, one's wine closet or cellar should be away from machines or electrically driven furnaces. If one lives near a subway or an express parkway, the solution is to have one's wines stored with a dealer and brought home a few at a time. Light, especially daylight, is always bad for wine. All in all, though, there is a good deal of nonsense expended over the preparations thought necessary for ordinary wine drinking; many people go to extreme lengths in decanting, chilling or warming, or banishing without further investigation any bottle with so much as a slightly suspicious cork. No one should wish to deny these purists the obvious pleasure they derive from all this, and to give fair warning where warning is due, no one who becomes fond of wines ever avoids acquiring some degree of purism! But the fact remains that in most restaurants, including some of the best of Paris and Bordeaux and Dijon, the bottle is frankly and simply brought from the cellar to the table when ordered, and all the conditioning or preparation it ever receives takes place while the chef is preparing the meal. A white wine, already at cool cellar temperature, may be adequately chilled in a bucket of ice and water or the freezing compartment of a refrigerator (the former is far preferable) in about fifteen minutes; for those who live in a winter climate, there is nothing better than a bucket of water and snow. Though by no means an ideal procedure, a red wine may similarly be brought from the cellar to the dining room and opened twenty minutes or so before serving time. It may be a bit cold when poured; but again, as one will have observed at any restaurant worth its salt, wine should be served in a large, tulip-shaped glass, which is never filled more than half full. In this way, red wine warms of itself quite rapidly -- and though it is true that it may not attain its potential of taste and fragrance until after the middle of the meal (or the course), in the meantime it will have run the gamut of many beguiling and interesting stages. The only cardinal sin which may be committed in warming a wine is to force it by putting it next to the stove or in front of an open fire. This invariably effaces any wine's character, and drives its fragrance underground. It should not be forgotten that wines mature fastest in half-bottles, less fast in full bottles, slowly in Magnums -- and slower yet in Tregnums, double Magnums, Jeroboams, Methuselahs, and Imperiales, respectively. Very old red wines often require several hours of aeration, and any red wine, brought from the cellar within half an hour of mealtime, should be uncorked and allowed some air. But white wines never! White wines should be opened when served, having been previously chilled in proportion to their sweetness. Thus, Sauternes or Barsacs should be very cold; a Pouilly-Fuisse or a Chablis somewhat less cold. Over-chilling is an accepted method for covering up the faults of many a cheap or poor white wine, especially a dry wine -- and certainly less of a crime than serving a wine at a temperature which reveals it as unattractive. The fragrance and taste of any white wine will die a lingering death when it is allowed to warm or is exposed for long to the air. To quote Professor Saintsbury: ``The last glass of claret or Burgundy is as good as the first; but the first glass of Chateau d'Yquem or Montrachet is a great deal better than the last''! This does not mean, though, that a red wine improves with prolonged aeration: there is a reasonable limit -- and wines kept over to the next meal or the next day, after they have once been opened, are never as good. If this must be done, they should always be corked and kept in a cool place; it should be remembered that their lasting qualities are appreciably shorter than those of milk. A few red wines, notably those of the Beaujolais, are better consumed at cellar temperature. By tradition, a red wine should be served at approximately room temperature -- if anything a little cooler -- and be aged enough for the tannin and acids to have worked out and the sediment have settled well. Thus, red wine must, if possible, never be disturbed or shaken; very old red wine is often decanted so that the puckering, bitter elements which have settled to the bottom will not be mingled with the wine itself. A tug-of-war between an old bottle and an inefficient corkscrew may do as much harm as a week at sea. The cork should be pulled gradually and smoothly, and the lip of the bottle wiped afterward. Many people use wicker cradles for old red wine, lifting the bottle carefully from the bin into the cradle and eventually to the table, without disturbing the sediment. Another school frowns on such a shortcut, and insists that after leaving the bin an old red wine should first stand on end for several days to allow the sediment to roll to the very bottom, after which the bottle may be gently eased to a tilted position on its side in the cradle. In France, when one wishes to entertain at a restaurant and serve truly fine old red wines, one visits the restaurant well ahead of time, chooses the wines and, with the advice of the manager and his chef, builds the menu around them. The wine waiter will see to it that the bottles are taken from the bin and opened at least in time to warm and aerate, preferably allowed to stand on end for as long as possible and, perhaps in the case of very old wines, be decanted. Decanting old wine aerates it fully; it may also be -- practically speaking -- a matter of good economy. For, in the process of decanting, the bottle is only tilted once instead of several or more times at the table: hence, a minimum of the undesirable mixture of wine and dregs. Though there are many exceptions, which we have noted in preceding pages, white wine is as a rule best consumed between two and six years old, and red wines, nowadays, between three and ten. Red wines of good years tend to mature later and to keep longer; the average claret is notably longer-lived than its opposite number, red Burgundy. Some clarets do not come into their own until they are ten or fifteen years of age, or even more. If a red Bordeaux of a good name and year is bitter or acid, or cloying and muddy-tasting, leave it alone for a while. Most of the wines of Beaujolais, on the other hand, should be drunk while very young; and Alsatians may be. Giffen replied punctually and enthusiastically: ``Rest assured that your accompanying Letter of Instructions shall be in the Letter and Spirit strictly complied with and most particularly in regard to that part of them relative to the completion of your noble and humane views''. Giffen lost no time in visiting the plantation. The slaves appeared to be in good health and at work under John Palfrey's overseer. An excellent crop was expected that year. William, who lived in neighboring St. Mary's parish, had taken charge and decided that it would be best for all if the plantation were operated for another year. Giffen advised acceptance of this plan, citing the depressed market for land then prevailing and the large stock of provisions at the plantation. If sold then, the land and improvements might bring only $ 5, 000. Early in January, 1844 he had a conference with Henry and William in New Orleans, and upon learning of Gorham's intention, Henry remonstrated calmly but firmly with his brother. The emancipation plan would not only be injurious to all the heirs, he contended, but would be a form of cruelty perpetrated on the hapless Negroes. They were not capable of supporting themselves off the plantation, and Louisiana law required their removal from the state. Gorham refused to accept money for slave property, but did he realize how much expense and trouble the transportation of his Negroes to the North involved? The suggestion that Giffen hire out the slaves was not realistic, since no planter would take the risk of having Negroes who knew they were to be free living with his own slaves. Henry hid his annoyance, although both he and William were furious with their Yankee brother. William, who did not write to Gorham, told Giffen that unless he could operate the plantation as usual for a year, he would sue ``amicably'' to protect his interests. Palfrey was determined that his portion of the slaves be converted to wage laborers during the transition period before emancipation. If William wished to continue operations for a year, why not simply leave the Negroes undisturbed and pay them ``as high wages to remain there as are ever paid the labor of persons of their sex & age. A disposition to exert themselves for my benefit would perhaps be a motive with some of them to come into the scheme. Their having family ties on our plantation & the adjoining one would be a stronger inducement''. When he heard of his brothers'anger, Palfrey was still hopeful that they could be persuaded to accept his notion of paying wages. If not, he was willing to accede to William's wishes in any way that did not block his ultimate aim. William was adamant on one point: under no circumstances would he allow the Negroes to remain on the plantation with his and Henry's slaves if they were told of their coming freedom. Knowing the antipathy that existed in Louisiana against increasing the number of free Negroes, Giffen suggested that Palfrey bring them to Boston at once, and then send them on to Liberia. Lacking specific instructions, he agreed to William's condition. In March there was a division of the slaves, and Giffen carried out his instructions as nearly as possible. Of the fifty-two slaves, Giffen succeeded in getting a lot of twenty, twelve of whom were females. ``I considered that your views would be best carried out'', he explained, ``by taking women whose progeny will of course be free & more fully extend the philantrophy of Emancipation. I have also taken the old servants of your father as a matter of Conscience & Justice''. The ages of the slaves ranged from sixty-five, for an old house servant, to an unnamed newborn child. If Palfrey ever had any doubts about the wickedness of slavery, they were put aside after he received an inventory of the slave property he had inherited. This cold reckoning of human worth in a legal paper, devoid of compassion or humanity, was all he needed. Each human being, known only by a given name, had a cash value. Old Sam's sixty-five years had reduced his value to $ 150; ; Rose, a twelve-year-old with child-bearing potential, was worth $ 400. In rejecting any claim to the value of the slave property, Palfrey was giving up close to $ 7, 000. Palfrey's brothers each received lots of sixteen Negroes, and for bookkeeping purposes it was agreed that all lots were to be valued at $ 6, 666. 66. Thus twenty ``black souls'' were to remain ignorant of their imminent journey to the land of free men. Giffen extracted one concession from William: the house servants could be free at any time Gorham thought expedient. Despite Giffen's warning, Palfrey still had plans for freeing his slaves in Louisiana. Yet even if he could get the necessary approval, fourteen of his Negroes could not be manumitted without special permission. According to state law a slave had to be at least thirty years old before he could be freed. Palfrey petitioned the state legislature to waive the requirement. Otherwise, freedom would mean removal from the state in which ``as the place of their past residence from birth, or for many years, it would be materially for their advantage to be at liberty to remain''. On March 11 the Louisiana legislature voted unanimously to table the petition. News of the legislative veto appeared in the New Orleans papers, and Henry and William became incensed by the fact that they had not been told of the attempt in advance. Henry stormed into Giffen's office waving a copy of the New Orleans Courier, shouting that the emancipation scheme had become a public affair, and that it would reach the ``Ears of the People on the Plantation, and make them restless & unhappy''. His brothers'anger caused Palfrey genuine concern, for he had imposed a dual mission upon himself: to free his slaves, and to keep the family from falling apart over the issue. When Giffen decided to charge him interest on the loan from John Palfrey, Gorham readily assented, vowing that in a matter of dollars and cents, his brothers would never have any cause to complain of him. In view of these difficulties, Palfrey decided to go to Louisiana. Giffen had already urged him to journey south, if only for a few days to clear up matters. His duties as Massachusetts Secretary of State obliged him to wait until the adjournment of the legislature in mid-April. Palfrey told his wife of his intentions for the first time, and left for New Orleans apprehensively invoking a special blessing of Providence that he might be allowed to see his family again. During his journey Palfrey stopped off to see two abolitionists. In both cases he desired information about placing the freedmen in homes once they arrived in the North. In New York, Lydia Maria Child welcomed him enthusiastically: ``I have lately heard of you from the Legislature of Louisiana, and felt joy at your public recognition of the brotherhood of man''. Mrs. Child, who had once apologized for sending editor Palfrey a book on slavery, now confided that she had helped one of Henry Palfrey's slaves escape to Canada some years before, but asked him not to advertise the fact in Louisiana. She agreed to take charge of five or six of the Negroes should Palfrey decide to send them north immediately. At Lexington, Kentucky, Palfrey consulted with Cassius M. Clay on the same subject, but with no apparent result. Despite his apprehensions about his personal safety, Palfrey's reception in New Orleans was more than cordial. Instead of the expected ``annoyances'' due to the nature of his mission, he received many calling cards and invitations from ``gentlemen of mark, on whom I had no sort of claim, & have had many more invitations than I could accept''. He later told abolitionist Edmund Quincy of the ``marked attention and civility'' with which the New Orleans gentlemen and the upriver planters greeted him. The memory of this southern hospitality did not survive the trials of coming antislavery years and Civil War. Palfrey's autobiography contains a melodramatic account of two perilous days spent among the planters of Attakapas, ``many of whom were coarse & passionate people, much excited by what they heard of my plans''. He proceeded with his task bravely -- in his memoirs, at least -- before the ``passions of my neighbors should have time to boil too high''. Palfrey had already made up his mind that he would allow the men, but not the women, to choose freely whether or not to go North for freedom. The women by remaining behind condemned their children, born and unborn, to bondage. He had a short private talk with each adult slave. Only one objected, but Palfrey soon convinced him that he ought to go with the others. All the slaves joined in requesting that they be allowed to delay their departure until the end of the planting season, so that they could get in ``their own little produce''. Palfrey agreed; the slaves were to remain as wage laborers for his account. William's threat that under no conditions would he allow ``freedom-conscious'' slaves to mix with his own was not carried out, for the plantation continued in operation as before. Palfrey returned to Massachusetts greatly relieved to have made an arrangement ``so satisfactory to my judgment & my conscience''. From Cambridge, Palfrey maintained a close interest in the welfare of his slaves. In fact, as the time for their departure approached, his solicitousness increased. Should any slave change his mind and request to leave earlier, Giffen was to provide passage at once. When a sailing date of March, 1845 was finally established, Palfrey made sure that the Negroes would have comfortable quarters in New Orleans and aboard ship. Giffen assured him that the captain and his mate had personally promised to treat the Negroes with consideration. Palfrey was also concerned about the question of what wage to pay for their labor throughout 1844. The plantation was sold in January, 1845, and Palfrey thought the new owner ought to pay his people two months'wages. Giffen suggested fifty dollars as fair compensation for a year's work; the new owner at Attakapas declined to enter into any philanthropic arrangement. On March 21, 1845 the bark Bashaw weighed anchor at New Orleans, while on the levee Henry and William Palfrey waved farewell to their father's former chattels who must have looked back at the receding shore with mingled regret and jubilation. Not all of Palfrey's slaves were aboard the Bashaw. Giffen had advised that it would not be too difficult to obtain freedom locally for the old house servants. Two of these were included in Palfrey's lot. Giffen filed a petition for permission to emancipate four slaves (all more than fifty years old) with the St. Martin's Parish Police Jury. After an initial rejection, which he attributed to a ``general Excitement against Abolition and Emancipation'', Giffen bribed the right individuals on the jury, and got the permission without further delay. When the Negroes landed at Boston a month later they were, of course, no longer slaves. Slavery was prohibited in Massachusetts by the terms of the constitution of 1780, which declared ``all men are born free and equal''. Nevertheless, Palfrey arranged a religious ceremony at King's Chapel to formalize the emancipation. An eyewitness recalled how awkward the red-turbaned colored women appeared as they curtseyed in the church doorway, and the diffidence the former slaves displayed while they listened to the few words that declared them free. Once the question of emancipation was settled to Palfrey's satisfaction, he faced a real problem in placing the freedmen in suitable homes as servants. Palfrey tried fruitlessly to place a Negro boy in the Hopedale Community, but he had better luck in his other attempts. Mrs. Child, true to her word, helped place Anna and her four children with a Quaker family named Hathaway near Canandaigua, New York. This group had been Palfrey's greatest worry since Anna was in bad health, and her children were too young to work for their keep. But certainly the New Frontier has brought to Washington a group more varied in background and interest. Secretary of State Dean Rusk, a former Rhodes Scholar and Mills College dean, has headed the Rockefeller Foundation and in that role expended large sums for international cultural exchange. One of his initial acts in office was to appoint Philip Coombs of the Ford Foundation as the first Assistant Secretary of State for Educational and Cultural Affairs. (``In the late forties and fifties'', Coombs has declared in defining his role, ``two strong new arms were added to reinforce United States foreign policy economic assistance and military assistance. As we embark upon the sixties we have an opportunity to build a third strong arm, aimed at the development of people, at the fuller realization of their creative human potential, and a better understanding among them''. Many of the new appointees are art collectors. Ambassador-at-Large Averell Harriman has returned to the capital with a collection of paintings that include Renoir, Cezanne, Gauguin, Van Gogh, Toulouse-Lautrec, Degas, Matisse, Picasso, and Walt Kuhn. The Director of the Peace Corps, R. Sargent Shriver, Jr., a Kennedy brother-in-law, collects heavily among the moderns, including Kenzo Okada and Josef Albers. Secretary of the Treasury Douglas Dillon owns a prize Monet, Femmes dans un Jardin. Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara, former President of the Ford Motor Company, comes from a generation different from that of Eisenhower's own first Secretary of Defense, Charles Wilson, who had been head of General Motors. Unlike Wilson, who at times seemed almost anti-intellectual in his earthy pragmatism. McNamara is the scholar-businessman. An inveterate reader of books, he chose while working in Detroit to live in the University community of Ann Arbor, almost forty miles away. He selected as Comptroller of Defense, not a veteran accountant, but a former Rhodes Scholar, Charles Hitch, who is author of a study on The Economics Of Defense In The Nuclear Age. One of the President's special assistants, the Harvard dean McGeorge Bundy, was co-author with Henry L. Stimson of the latter's classic memoir, On Active Service. Another, Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr., has won a Pulitzer Prize in history; his wife, Marion, is a portrait painter. The Press Secretary, Pierre Salinger, was a child prodigy as a pianist. (``It is always of sorrow to me when I find people who neither know nor understand music'', he declared not long ago in proposing that White House prizes be awarded for music and art. ) Mrs. Arthur Goldberg, wife of the Secretary of Labor, paints professionally and helps sponsor the Associated Artists'Gallery in the District of Columbia. (``Artists are always at a new frontier'', she claims. ``In fact, the search is almost more important than the find''. ) Mrs. Henry Labouisse, wife of the new director of the foreign aid program, is the writer and lecturer Eve Curie. The list goes on. At last count, sixteen former Rhodes Scholars (see box on page 13) had been appointed to the Administration, second in number only to its Harvard graduates. Besides Schlesinger, the Justice Department's Information Director, Edwin Guthman, has won a Pulitzer Prize (for national reporting). Postmaster General J. Edward Day, who must deal with matters of postal censorship, is himself author of a novel, Bartholf Street, albeit one he was obliged to publish at his own expense. William Walton, a writer-turned-painter, has been a long-time friend of the President. They arrived in Washington about the same time during the early postwar years: Kennedy as the young Congressman from Massachusetts; Walton, after a wartime stint with Time-Life, to become bureau chief for The New Republic. Both lived in Georgetown, were unattached, and shared an active social life. Walton, who soon made a break from journalism to become one of the capital's leading semi-abstract painters, vows that he and Kennedy never once discussed art in those days. Nonetheless, they found common interests. During last year's campaign, Kennedy asked Walton, an utter novice in organization politics, to assist him. Walton dropped everything to serve as a district co-ordinator in the hard-fought Wisconsin primary and proved so useful that he was promoted to be liaison officer to critically important New York City. Walton, who served as a correspondent with General James Gavin's paratroopers during the invasion of France, combines the soul of an artist with the lingo of a tough guy. He provoked outraged editorials when, after a post-Inaugural inspection of the White House with Mrs. Kennedy, he remarked to reporters, ``We just cased the joint to see what was there''. But his credentials are impeccable. Already the President and the First Lady have deputized him to advise on matters ranging from the furnishing of the White House to the renovation of Lafayette Square. A man of great talent, he will continue to serve as a sort of Presidential trouble-shooter, strictly ex officio, for culture. A more official representative is the Secretary of the Interior. Udall, who comes from one of the Mormon first-families of Arizona, is a bluff, plain-spoken man with a lust for politics and a habit of landing right in the middle of the fight. But even while sparring furiously with Republican politicians, he displays a deep and awesome veneration for anyone with cultural attainments. His private dining room has become a way station for visiting intellectuals such as C. P. Snow, Arnold Toynbee, and Aaron Copland. Udall argues that Interior affairs should cover a great deal more than dams and wildlife preserves. After promoting Frost's appearance at the Inauguration, he persuaded the poet to return several months later to give a reading to a select audience of Cabinet members, members of Congress, and other Washington notables gathered in the State Department auditorium. The event was so successful that the Interior Secretary plans to serve as impresario for similar ones from time to time, hoping thereby to add to the cultural enrichment of the Administration. His Ideas in this respect, however, sometimes arouse critical response. One tempest was stirred up last March when Udall announced that an eight-and-a-half-foot bronze statue of William Jennings Bryan, sculpted by the late Gutzon Borglum, would be sent ``on indefinite loan'' to Salem, Illinois, Bryan's birthplace. Spokesmen for the nation's tradition-minded sculptors promptly claimed that Udall was exiling the statue because of his own hostility to this art form. They dug up a speech he had made two years earlier as a Congressman, decrying the more than two hundred statues, monuments, and memorials which ``dot the Washington landscape as patriotic societies and zealous friends are constantly hatching new plans''. Hoping to cut down on such works, Udall had proposed that a politician be at least fifty years departed before he is memorialized. He is not likely to win this battle easily. In the case of the Borglum statue an Interior aide was obliged to announce that there had been a misunderstanding and that the Secretary had no desire to ``hustle'' it out of Washington. The last Congress adopted seven bills for memorials, including one to Taras Shevchenko, the Ukrainian poet laureate; eleven others were introduced. Active warfare is raging between the forces pressing for a monument to the first Roosevelt on Theodore Roosevelt Island in the Potomac, and TR.' s own living children, who wish to preserve the island as a wildlife sanctuary. The hotly debated plan for the capital's Franklin D. Roosevelt Memorial, a circle of huge tablets engraved with his speeches (and promptly dubbed by one of its critics, ``Instant Stonehenge''), is another of Udall's headaches, since as supervisor of the National Parks Commission he will share in the responsibility for building it. ``Washington'', President Kennedy has been heard to remark ironically, ``is a city of southern efficiency and northern charm''. There have been indications that he hopes to redress that situation, commencing with the White House. One of Mrs. Kennedy's initial concerns as First Lady was the sad state of the furnishings in a building which is supposed to be a national shrine. Ever since the fire of 1812 destroyed the beautiful furniture assembled by President Thomas Jefferson, the White House has collected a hodgepodge of period pieces, few of them authentic or aesthetic. Mrs. Kennedy shows a determination to change all this. Not long after moving in she turned up a richly carved desk, hewed from the timbers of the British ship H. M. S. Resolute and presented to President Hayes by Queen Victoria. It now serves the President in his oval office. Later, browsing in an old issue of the Gazette Des Beaux-Arts, she found a description of a handsome gilt pier-table purchased in 1817 by President James Monroe. She traced it to a storage room. With its coating of gold radiator paint removed -- a gaucherie of some earlier tenant -- it will now occupy its rightful place in the oval Blue Room on the first floor of the White House. But it soon became clear that the search for eighteenth-century furniture (which Mrs. Kennedy feels is the proper period for the White House) must be pursued in places other than government storage rooms. The First Lady appointed a Fine Arts Advisory Committee for the White House, to locate authentic pieces as well as to arrange ways to acquire them. Her effort to put the home of living Presidents on the same basis as Mount Vernon and Monticello recognizes no party lines. By rough estimate her Committee, headed by Henry Francis Du Pont, contains three times as many Republicans as Democrats. The press releases emanating from the White House give a clue to the activity within. A curator has been appointed. A valuable pencil-and-sepia allegorical drawing of Benjamin Franklin by Jean-Honore Fragonard has been donated by the art dealer Georges Wildenstein and now hangs in the Blue Room. The American Institute of Interior Designers is redecorating the White House library. Secretary and Mrs. Dillon have contributed enough pieces of Empire furniture, including Dolley Madison's own sofa, to furnish a room in that style. And part of a fabulous collection of vermeil hollowware, bequeathed to the White House by the late Mrs. Margaret Thompson Biddle, has been taken out of its locked cases and put on display in the State dining room. Woman's place is in the home: man must attend to matters of the yard. One of the vexatious problems to first confront President Kennedy was the property lying just across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House. Congress had already appropriated money, and plans were well along to tear down the buildings flanking Lafayette Square and replace them with what one critic calls the ``marble monumentality'' of government office buildings. While a Senator, Kennedy had unsuccessfully pushed a bill to preserve the Belasco Theater, as well as the Dolley Madison and the Benjamin Taylor houses, all scheduled for razing. What to do about it now that he was President? Only a few days after moving into the White House. Kennedy made a midnight inspection of the Square. Then he called in his friend Walton and turned over the problem to him, with instructions to work out what was best -- provided it didn't pile unnecessary burdens on the President. The situation involved some political perils. One of the offices slated for reconstruction is the aged Court of Claims, diagonally across the street from the White House. Logically, it should be moved downtown. But Judge Marvin Jones, senior member of the Court, is an elderly gentleman who lives at the nearby Metropolitan Club and desires to walk to work. More importantly, he also happens to be the brother-in-law of Sam Rayburn, Speaker of the House. There were aesthetic problems as well as political. On delving deeper, Walton discovered that most of the buildings fronting the Square could be classified as ``early nondescript''. The old Belasco Theater, over which many people had grown sentimental, was only a shell of its former self after arduous years as a USO Center. The Dolley Madison House, Walton concluded, was scarcely worth preserving. ``The attempt to save the Square's historic value'', he declares, ``came half a century too late''. Surrounded by ancient elms, the campus is spacious and beautiful. The buildings are mostly Georgian. The Dartmouth student does not live in monastic seclusion, as he once did. But his is still a simple life relatively free of the female presence or influence, and he must go far, even though he may go fast, for sophisticated pleasures. He is still heir to the rare gifts of space and silence, if he chooses to be. He is by no means the country boy he might have been in the last century, down from the hills with bear grease on his hair and a zeal for book learning in his heart. The men's shops on Hanover's Main Street compare favorably with those in Princeton and New Haven. And the automobiles that stream out of Hanover each weekend, toward Smith and Wellesley and Mount Holyoke, are no less rakish than those leaving Cambridge or West Philadelphia. But there has always been an outdoor air to Dartmouth. The would-be sophisticate and the citybred youth adopt this air without embarrassment. No one here pokes fun at manly virtues. And this gives rise to an easy camaraderie probably unequaled elsewhere in the Ivy League. It even affects the faculty. Thus, when Dartmouth's Winter Carnival -- widely recognized as the greatest, wildest, roaringest college weekend anywhere, any time -- was broadcast over a national television hookup, Prexy John Sloan Dickey appeared on the screen in rugged winter garb, topped off by a tam-o '- shanter which he confessed had been acquired from a Smith girl. President Dickey's golden retriever, frolicking in the snow at his feet, added to the picture of masculine informality. This carefree disdain for ``side'' cropped up again in the same television broadcast. Dean Thaddeus Seymour, wearing ski clothes, was crowning a beauteous damsel queen of the Carnival. She must have looked temptingly pretty to the dean as he put the crown on her head. So he kissed her. No Dartmouth man was surprised. Dartmouth students enjoy other unusual diversions with equal sang-froid. For example, groups regularly canoe down the Connecticut River. This is in honor of John Ledyard, class of 1773, who scooped a canoe out of a handy tree and first set the course way back in his own student days. And these hardy travelers are not unappreciated today. They are hailed by the nation's press, and Smith girls throng the riverbanks at Northampton and refresh the voyageurs with hot soup and kisses. Dartmouth's favorite and most characteristic recreation is skiing. Since the days when their two thousand pairs of skis outnumbered those assembled anywhere else in the United States, the students have stopped regarding the Olympic Ski Team as another name for their own. Yet Dartmouth still is the dominant member of the Intercollegiate Ski Union, which includes the winter sports colleges of Canada as well as those of this country. Dartmouth students ski everywhere in winter, starting with their own front door. They can hire a horse and go ski-joring behind him, or move out to Oak Hill, where there's a lift. The Dartmouth Skiway, at Holt's Ledge, ten miles north of the campus, has one of the best terrains in the East, ranging from novice to expert. Forty miles farther north is Mount Moosilauke, Dartmouth's own mountain. Here, at the Ravine Lodge, President Dickey acts as host every year to about a hundred freshmen who are being introduced by the Dartmouth Outing Club to life on the trails. The Lodge, built of hand-hewn virgin spruce, can handle fifty people for dining, sleeping, or lounging in its huge living room. The Outing Club also owns a chain of fourteen cabins and several shelters, extending from the Vermont hills, just across the river from the college, through Hanover to the College Grant -- 27, 000 acres of wilderness 140 miles north up in the logging country. The cabins are equipped with bunks, blankets, and cooking equipment and are ideal bases for hikes and skiing trips. The club runs regular trips to the cabins, but many of the students prefer to take off in small unofficial groups for a weekend of hunting, fishing, climbing, or skiing. Under the auspices of the Outing Club, Dartmouth also has the Mountaineering Club, which takes on tough climbs like Mount McKinley, and Bait & Bullet, whose interests are self-evident, and even sports a Woodman's Team, which competes with other New England colleges in wood sawing and chopping, canoe races, and the like. There is much to be said for a college that, while happily attuned to the sophisticated Ivies, still gives its students a chance to get up early in the morning and drive along back roads where a glimpse of small game, deer, or even bear is not uncommon. City boys find a lot of learning in the feel of an ax handle or in the sharp tang of a sawmill, come upon suddenly in a backwoods logging camp. And on the summit of Mount Washington, where thirty-five degrees below zero is commonplace and the wind velocity has registered higher than anywhere else in the world, there is a kind of wisdom to be found that other men often seek in the Himalayas ``because it is there''. There is much to be said for such a college -- and Dartmouth men have been accused of saying it too often and too loudly. Their affection for their college home has even caused President Dickey to comment on this ``place loyalty'' as something rather specially Hanoverian. Probably a lawyer once said it best for all time in the Supreme Court of the United States. Early in the nineteenth century the State of New Hampshire was casting about for a way to found its own state university. It fixed on Dartmouth College, which was ready-made and just what the proctor ordered. The legislators decided to ``liberate'' Dartmouth and entered into a tug-o '- war with the college trustees over the control of classrooms, faculty, and chapel. For a time there were two factions on the campus fighting for possession of the student body. The struggle was resolved in 1819 in the Supreme Court in one of the most intriguing cases in our judicial history. In 1817 the lawyers were generally debating the legal inviolability of private contracts and charters. A lawyer, hired by the college, was arguing specifically for Dartmouth: Daniel Webster, class of 1801, made her plight the dramatic focus of his whole plea. ``It is, sir, as I have said, a small college, and yet there are those who love it. Dartmouth is today still a small college -- and still a private one, thanks to Webster's eloquence. This is not out of keeping with its origins, probably the most humble of any in the Ivy group. Eleazar Wheelock, a Presbyterian minister, founded the school in 1769, naming it after the second earl of Dartmouth, its sponsor and benefactor. Eleazar, pausing on the Hanover plain, found its great forests and remoteness good and with his own hands built the first College Hall, a log hut dedicated ``for the education & instruction of Youth of the Indian Tribes in this Land in reading, writing & all parts of learning which shall appear necessary and expedient for civilizing & christianizing Children of Pagans as well as in all liberal Arts and Sciences; and also of English Youth and any others''. It was a hardy undertaking, and Wheelock's was indeed ``a voice crying in the wilderness''. A road had to be hacked through trackless forests between Hanover and Portsmouth to permit Governor Wentworth and a company of gentlemen to attend the first Dartmouth commencement in 1771. The governor and his retinue thoughtfully brought with them a glorious silver punchbowl which is still one of the cherished possessions of the college. The exuberance on this occasion set a standard for subsequent Dartmouth gatherings. A student orator ``produced tears from a great number of the learned'' even before the punch was served. Then from the branches of a near-by tree an Indian underclassman, disdaining both the platform and the English language, harangued the assemblage in his aboriginal tongue. Governor Wentworth contributed an ox for a barbecue on the green beneath the three-hundred-foot pines, and a barrel of rum was broached. The cook got drunk, and President Wheelock proved to be a man of broad talents by carving the ox himself. Future commencements were more decorous perhaps, but the number of graduates increased from the original four at a relatively slow pace. By the end of the nineteenth century, in 1893, when the Big Three, Columbia, and Penn were populous centers of learning, Dartmouth graduated only sixty-nine. The dormitories, including the beloved Dartmouth Hall, could barely house two hundred students in Spartan fashion. Then in 1893 Dr. William Jewett Tucker became president and the college's great awakening began. He transformed Dartmouth from a small New Hampshire institution into a national college. By 1907 the number of undergraduates had risen to 1, 107. And at his last commencement, in that year, Dr. Tucker and Dartmouth were honored by the presence of distinguished academic visitors attesting to the new stature of the college. The presidents of Cornell, Wisconsin, C. C. N. Y., Bowdoin, Vermont, Brown, Columbia, Princeton, Yale, and Harvard and the presidents emeritus of Harvard and Michigan were there. Dartmouth is numerically still a small college today, with approximately twenty-nine hundred undergraduates. But it has achieved a cross-section of students from almost all the states, and two-thirds of its undergraduates come from outside New England. Over 450 different schools are usually represented in each entering class. Only a dozen or so schools send as many as six students, and there are seldom more than fifteen men in any single delegation. About two-thirds of the boys now come from public schools. It is still a college only and not a university; it is, in fact, the only college in the Ivy group. However, three distinguished associated graduate schools offer professional curriculums -- the Dartmouth Medical School (third oldest in the country and founded in 1797), the Thayer School of Engineering, and the Amos Tuck School of Business Administration. All three are purposely kept small, with a current total enrollment of about two hundred. All three schools coordinate their educational programs with that of the undergraduate college and, like the college proper, place emphasis upon a broad liberal arts course as the proper foundation for specialized study. Students of the college who are candidates for the A. B. degree and can satisfy the academic requirements of the medical and business schools, may enter either of these associated schools at the beginning of senior year, thus completing the two-year postgraduate course in one year. The Thayer School offers a year of postgraduate study in somewhat the same way, after a boy wins a B. S. in engineering. So Dartmouth is moving closer to the others in the Ivy group. It is still, however, the junior member of the League, if not in years at least in the catching up it has had to do. It has not been a well-known school for any part of the span the other Ivies have enjoyed. However much football has been over-emphasized, the public likes to measure its collegiate favorites by the scoreboard, so, while Yale need never give its record a thought again since outscoring its opponents 694 to 0 in the season of 1888, Dartmouth had to wait until its championship team of 1925 for national recognition. It has come on with a rush in more significant areas. Today it espouses certain ideas in its curriculum that other institutions might consider somewhat breathtaking. But Dartmouth preserves its youthful brashness even in its educational attitudes, and, although some of its experiments may still be in the testing stage, they make for lively copy. President Emeritus Hopkins once proposed to corral an ``aristocracy of brains'' in Hanover. The person who left the buggy there has never been identified. It was a busy street, conveniently near the shopping center, and unattended horses and wagons were often left at the curbside. There are, of course, many weaknesses in any case against Emma. She didn't like her stepmother, but nothing is known to have occurred shortly before the crime that could have caused such a murderous rage. She had no way of knowing in advance whether an opportunity for murder existed. She would have been taking more than a fair risk of being seen and recognized during her travels. If she avoided the train and hired a buggy, the stableman might have recognized her. If police had checked on her more thoroughly than is indicated, she would be completely eliminated as a suspect. Uncle John Vinnicum Morse was the immediate popular suspect. His sudden unannounced appearance at the Borden home was strange in that he did not carry an iota of baggage with him, although he clearly intended to stay overnight, if not longer. Lizzie stated during the inquest that while her father and uncle were in the sitting room the afternoon before the murders, she had been disturbed by their voices and had closed her door, even though it was a very hot day. It is evident that Lizzie did not tell everything she overheard between her father and her Uncle Morse. At that time Jennings had a young law associate named Arthur S. Phillips. A few years ago, not too long before his death, Phillips revealed in a newspaper story that he had always suspected Morse of the murders. He said Morse and Borden had quarreled violently in the house that day, information which must have come from Lizzie. It was obviously the sound of this argument that caused Lizzie to close her door. The New Bedford Standard-Times has reported Knowlton as saying, long after the trial, that if he only knew what Borden said during his conversation with Morse, he would have convicted ``somebody''. Notice, Knowlton did not say that he would have obtained a conviction in the trial of Lizzie Borden. He said he would have convicted ``somebody''. It is known that Morse did associate with a group of itinerant horse traders who made their headquarters at Westport, a town not far from Fall River. They were a vagabond lot and considered to be shady and undesirable characters. Fall River police did go to Westport to see if they could get any information against Morse and possibly find an accomplice whom he might have hired from among these men. These officers found no incriminating information. Morse's alibi was not as solid as it seemed. He said he returned from the visit to his niece on the 11: 20 streetcar. The woman in the house where the niece was staying backed up his story and said she left when he did to shop for her dinner. Fall River is not a fashionable town. The dinner hour there was twelve noon. If this woman had delayed until after 11: 20 to start her shopping, she would have had little time in which to prepare the substantial meal that was eaten at dinner in those days. It is possible that Morse told the woman it was 11: 20, but it could have been earlier, since she did serve dinner on time. Police did make an attempt to check on Morse's alibi. They interviewed the conductor of the streetcar Morse said he had taken, but the man did not remember Morse as a passenger. Questioned further, Morse said that there had been four or five priests riding on the same car with him. The conductor did recall having priests as passengers and this satisfied police, although the conductor also pointed out that in heavily Catholic Fall River there were priests riding on almost every trip the streetcar made, so Morse's statement really proved nothing. We do know that Morse left the house before nine o'clock. Bridget testified she saw him leave through the side door. Morse said Borden let him out and locked the screen door. From that point on he said he went to the post office and then walked leisurely to where his niece was staying, more than a mile away. He met nobody he knew on this walk. There is no accounting of his movements in this long gap of time which covers the early hours when Mrs. Borden was killed. Morse testified that while he was having breakfast in the dining room, Mrs. Borden told the servant, ``Bridget, I want you to wash these windows today''. Bridget's testimony was in direct contradiction. She said it was after she returned from her vomiting spell in the back yard that Mrs. Borden told her to wash the windows. This was long after Morse had left the house. Morse's knowledge of what Mrs. Borden told Bridget could indicate that he had returned secretly to the house and was hidden there. He knew the house fairly well, he had been there on two previous visits during the past three or four months alone. And despite Knowlton's attempts to show that the house was locked up tighter than a drum, this was not true. The screen door was unlocked for some ten or fifteen minutes while Bridget was sick in the back. It was unlocked all the time she was washing windows. Morse could have returned openly while Bridget was sick in the back yard and gone up to the room he had occupied. Mrs. Borden would not have been alarmed if she saw Morse with an ax or hatchet in his hand. He had been to the farm the previous day and he could have said they needed the ax or hatchet at the farm. Mrs. Borden would have had no reason to disbelieve him and he could have approached close enough to her to swing before she could cry out. He could have left for Weybosset Street after her murder and made it in plenty of time by using the streetcar. If he took an earlier streetcar than the 11: 20 on his return, he could have arrived at the Borden house shortly after Mr. Borden came home. With Lizzie in the barn, the screen door unlocked and Bridget upstairs in her attic room, he would have had free and easy access to the house. With the second murder over, he could have left, hidden the weapon in some vacant lot or an abandoned cistern in the neighborhood. His unconcerned stroll down the side of the house to a pear tree, with crowds already gathering in front of the building and Sawyer guarding the side door, was odd. There was no close examination of his clothes for bloodstains, and certainly no scientific test was made of them. And for a man who traveled around without any change of clothing, a few more stains on his dark suit may very well have gone unnoticed. The motive may have been the mysterious quarrel; there was no financial gain for Morse in the murders. On the other side of the ledger is the fact that he did see his niece and the woman with whom she was staying. The time would have been shortly after the murder of Mrs. Borden and they noticed nothing unusual in his behavior. He said he had promised Mrs. Borden to return in time for dinner and that was close to the time when he did turn up at the Borden house. What did Pearson say about Bridget Sullivan as a possible suspect in his trial-book essay? ``The police soon ceased to look upon either Bridget or Mr. Morse as in possession of guilty knowledge. Neither had any interest in the deaths; indeed, it was probably to Mr. Morse's advantage to have Mr. and Mrs. Borden alive. Both he and Bridget were exonerated by Lizzie herself''. That was his complete discussion of Bridget Sullivan as a possible suspect. Although Pearson disbelieved almost everything Lizzie said, and read a sinister purpose into almost everything she did, he happily accepted her statement about Bridget as the whole truth. He felt nothing further need be said about the servant girl. The exoneration Pearson speaks of is not an exoneration, but Lizzie's expression of her opinion, as reported in the testimony of Assistant Marshal Fleet. This officer had asked Lizzie if she suspected her Uncle Morse, and she replied she didn't think he did it because he left the house before the murders and returned after them. Fleet asked the same question about Bridget, and Lizzie pointed out that as far as she knew Bridget had gone up to her room before her father's murder and came down when she called her. Lizzie, actually, never named any suspect. She told police about the prospective tenant she had heard quarreling with her father some weeks before the murders, but she said she thought he was from out of town because she heard him mention something about talking to his partner. And, much as she detested Hiram Harrington, she also did not accuse him. At the inquest she was asked specifically whether she knew anybody her father had bad feelings toward, or who had bad feelings toward her father. She replied, ``I know of one man that has not been friendly with him. They have not been friendly for years''. Asked who this was, she named Harrington. Her statement certainly was true; the press reported the same facts in using Harrington's interview, but Lizzie did not suggest at the inquest that Harrington was the killer. When I interviewed Kirby, who as a boy picked up pears in the Borden yard, I asked if anybody else in the household besides Lizzie and Morse had been under any suspicion at the time of the murders. He said he had not heard of anybody else. ``How about Bridget Sullivan''? I inquired. ``Oh, she was just the maid there'', he replied, waving a hand to indicate how completely unimportant she was. Kirby was, of course, reflecting the opinion that existed at the time of murders. Everyone somehow manages to overlook completely the fact that, as far as we know, there were exactly two people in and about the house at the time of both murders: Lizzie Borden and Bridget Sullivan. All the officials on the case seem to have been afflicted with a similar myopia as far as Bridget was concerned, although records in police files contain many reports of servants who have murdered their employers. True, it is no longer cricket for the butler to be the killer in mystery fiction, but we are dealing here with actual people in real life and not imaginary characters and situations. The actions of Bridget should be examined, since she was there and opportunity did exist, if only to establish her innocence. There are also other factors that require closer examination. The legend as it exists in Fall River today always includes the solemn assurance that Bridget returned to Ireland after the trial with a ``big bundle'' of cash which Lizzie gave her for keeping her mouth shut. The people who believe and retell the legend have apparently never troubled to read the trial testimony and do not know that the maid changed her testimony on several key points, always to the detriment of Lizzie. If Bridget did get any bundles of cash, the last person who would have rewarded her for services rendered would have been Lizzie Borden. Bridget was born in Ireland, one of fourteen children. She was apparently the pioneer in her family because she had no close relatives in this country at that time. She worked as a domestic, first in Newport for a year, and then in South Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, for another year. She finally settled in Fall River and, after being employed for a time by a Mrs. Reed, was hired by the Bordens. I have previously described how, during the week of the murder, Bridget spent the first few hot days scrubbing and ironing clothes. Her father, James Upton, was the Upton mentioned by Hawthorne in the famous introduction to the Scarlet Letter as one of those who came into the old custom house to do business with him as the surveyor of the port. A gentleman of the old school, Mr. Upton possessed intellectual power, ample means, and withal, was a devoted Christian. The daughter profited from his interest in scientific and philosophical subjects. Her mother also was a person of superior mind and broad interests. There is clear evidence that Lucy from childhood had an unusual mind. She possessed an observant eye, a retentive memory, and a critical faculty. When she was nine years old, she wrote a description of a store she had visited. She named 48 items, and said there were ``many more things which it would take too long to write''. An essay on ``Freedom'' written at 10 years of age quoted the Declaration of Independence, the freedom given to slaves in Canada, and the views of George Washington. Lucy Upton was graduated from the Salem High School when few colleges, only Oberlin and Elmira, were open to women; and she had an appetite for learning that could not be denied. A picture of her in high school comes from a younger schoolmate, Albert S. Flint, friend of her brother Winslow, and later, like Winslow, a noted astronomer. He recalled Lucy, as ``a bright-looking black-eyed young lady who came regularly through the boys'study hall to join the class in Greek in the little recitation room beyond''. The study of Greek was the distinctive mark of boys destined to go to college, and Lucy Upton too expected to go to college and take the full classical course offered to men. The death of her mother in 1865 prevented this. With four younger children at home, Lucy stepped into her mother's role, and even after the brothers and sisters were grown, she was her father's comfort and stay until he died in 1879. But even so Lucy could not give up her intellectual pursuits. When her brother Winslow became a student at Brown University in 1874, she wrote him about a course in history he was taking under Professor Diman: ``What is Prof. Diman's definition of civilization, and take the world through, is its progress ever onward, or does it retrograde at times? Do you think I might profitably study some of the history you do, perhaps two weeks behind you. '' And that she proceeded to do. Many years later (on August 3, 1915), Lucy Upton wrote Winslow's daughter soon to be graduated from Smith College: ``While I love botany which, after dabbling in for years, I studied according to the methods of that day exactly forty years ago in a summer school, it must be fascinating to take up zoology in the way you are doing. Whatever was the science in the high school course for the time being, that was my favorite study. Mathematics came next''. Her study of history was persistently pursued. She read Maitland's Dark Ages, ``which I enjoyed very much''; La Croix on the Customs of the Middle Ages, 16 chapters of Bryce ``and liked it more and more''; more chapters of Guizot; Lecky and Stanley's Eastern Church. She discussed in her letters to Winslow some of the questions that came to her as she studied alone. Lucy's correspondence with brother Winslow during his college days was not entirely taken up with academic studies. She played chess with him by postcard. Also Lucy and Winslow had a private contest to see which one could make the most words from the letters in ``importunately''. Who won is not revealed, but Winslow's daughter Eleanor says they got up to 1, 212 words. There was another family interest also. Winslow had musical talents, as had his father before him. At different times he served as glee-club and choir leader and as organist. And it was Lucy Upton who first started the idea of a regular course in Music at Spelman College. Winslow Upton after graduation from Brown University and two years of graduate study, accepted a position at the Harvard Observatory. For three years he was connected with the U. S. Naval Observatory and with the U. S. Signal Corps; and after 1883, was professor of astronomy at Brown University. The six expeditions to study eclipses of the sun, of which he was a member, took him to Colorado, Virginia, and California as well as to the South Pacific and to Russia. After her father's death, Lucy and her youngest sister lived for a few years with Winslow in Washington, D. C.. ``Their house'', writes Albert S. Flint, ``was always a haven of hospitality and good cheer, especially grateful to one like myself far from home''. Lucy was a lively part of the household. Moreover, she had physical as well as mental vigor. Winslow, as his daughters Eleanor and Margaret recall, used to characterize her as ``our iron sister''. There is reason to suppose that Lucy would have made a record as publicly distinguished as her brother had it not been that her mother's death occurred just as she was about to enter college. As a matter of fact, Albert S. Flint expressed his conviction that ``her physical strength, her mental power, her lively interest in all objects about her and her readiness to serve her fellow beings'' would have led her ``to a distinguished career amongst the noted women of this country''. While in Washington, D. C., Lucy Upton held positions in the U. S. Census Office, and in the Pension Bureau. They were not sufficiently challenging however, and she resigned in 1887, to go to Germany with her brother Winslow and his family while he was there on study. After the months in Europe, she returned to Boston and became active in church and community life. What was called an ``accidental meeting'' with Miss Packard in Washington turned her attention to Spelman. Here was a cause she believed in. After correspondence with Miss Packard and to the joy of Miss Packard and Miss Giles, she came to Atlanta, in the fall of 1888, to help wherever needed, although there was then no money available to pay her a salary. She served for a number of years without pay beyond her travel and maintenance. Her students have spoken of the exacting standards of scholarship and of manners and conduct she expected and achieved from the students; of her ``great power of discernment''; of ``her exquisiteness of dress'', ``her well-modulated voice that went straight to the hearts of the hearers''; her great love of flowers and plants and birds; and her close knowledge of individual students. She drew on all her resources of mind and heart to help them -- to make them at home in the world; and as graduates gratefully recall, she drew on her purse as well. Many a student was able to remain at Spelman, only because of her unobtrusive help. Under Miss Upton, the work of the year 1909-10 went forward without interruption. After all, she had come to Spelman Seminary in 1888, and had been since 1891 except for one year, Associate Principal or Dean. She had taught classes in botany, astronomy (with the aid of a telescope), geometry, and psychology. Miss Upton and Miss Packard, as a matter of fact, had many tastes in common. Both had eager and inquiring minds; and both believed that intellectual growth must go hand in hand with the development of sturdy character and Christian zeal. Both loved the out-of-doors, including mountain climbing and horseback riding. In 1890 when the trip to Europe and the Holy Land was arranged for Miss Packard, it was Miss Upton who planned the trip, and ``with rare executive ability'' bore the brunt of ``the entire pilgrimage from beginning to end''. So strenuous it was physically, with its days of horseback riding over rough roads that it seems an amazing feat of endurance for both Miss Packard and Miss Upton. Yet they thrived on it. At the Fifteenth Anniversary (1896) as already quoted, Miss Upton projected with force and eloquence the Spelman of the Future as a college of first rank, with expanding and unlimited horizons. When Dr. Wallace Buttrick, wise in his judgment of people, declined to have the Science Building named for him, he wrote Miss Tapley (April 7, 1923) ``If you had asked me, I think I would have suggested that you name the building for Miss Upton. Her services to the School for many years were of a very high character, and I have often thought that one of the buildings should be named for her''. Such were the qualities of the Acting-President of the Seminary after the death of Miss Giles. At the meeting of the Board of Trustees, on March 3, 1910, Miss Upton presented the annual report of the President. She noted that no student had been withdrawn through loss of confidence; that the enrollment showed an increase of boarding students as was desired; and that the year's work had gone forward smoothly. She urged the importance of more thorough preparation for admission. The raising of the $ 25, 000 Improvement Fund two days before the time limit expired, and the spontaneous ``praise demonstration'' held afterward on the campus, were reported as events which had brought happiness to Miss Giles. With the Fund in hand, the debt on the boilers had been paid; Rockefeller and Packard Halls had been renovated; walks laid; and ground had been broken for the superintendent's home. Miss Upton spoke gratefully of the response of Spelman graduates and Negro friends in helping to raise the Fund, and their continuing efforts to raise money for greatly needed current expenses. She spoke also with deep thankfulness of the many individuals and agencies whose interest and efforts through the years had made the work so fruitful in results. Two bequests were recorded: one of $ 200 under the will of Mrs. Harriet A. Copp of Los Angeles; and one of $ 2, 000 under the will of Miss Celia L. Brett of Hamilton, New York, a friend from the early days. Miss Upton told the Trustees that the death of Miss Giles was ``the sorest grief'' the Seminary had ever been called upon to bear. The daughters of Spelman, she said, had never known or thought of Spelman without her. The removal of Miss Packard 18 years earlier had caused them great sorrow, but they still had Miss Giles. Now the school was indeed bereft. ``Yet Spelman has strong, deep roots, and will live for the blessing of generations to come''. Miss Mary Jane Packard, Sophia's half-sister, became ill in March, 1910; and when school closed, she was unable to travel to Massachusetts. She remained in Atlanta through June and July; she died on August sixth. Before coming on a visit to Spelman in 1885, Miss Mary had been a successful teacher in Worcester, and her position there was held open for her for a considerable period. But she decided to stay at Spelman. She helped with teaching as well as office work for a few years -- the catalogues show that she had classes in geography, rhetoric and bookkeeping. Soon the office work claimed all her time. She was closely associated with the Founders in all their trials and hardships. Quiet and energetic, cheerful and calm, she too was a power in the development of the seminary. Miss Giles always used to refer to her as ``Sister''. She served as secretary in the Seminary office for 25 years, and was in charge of correspondence, records, and bookkeeping. The books of the school hold a memorial to her; and so do the hearts of students and of teachers. Mary J. Packard, states a Messenger editorial, was ``efficient, pains-taking, self-effacing, loving, radiating the spirit of her Master. With infinite patience she responded to every call, no matter at what cost to herself, and to her all went, for she was sure to have the needed information or word of cheer. In a few school districts one finds a link between school and job. In those vocational programs organized with Smith-Hughes money, there may be a close tie between the labor union and a local employer on the one hand and the vocational teacher on the other. In these cases a graduate may enter directly into an apprentice program, saving a year because of his vocational courses in grades 11 and 12. The apprentice program will involve further education on a part-time basis, usually at night, perhaps using some of the same equipment of the high school. These opportunities are to be found in certain cities in such crafts as auto mechanics, carpentry, drafting, electrical work, tool-and-die work, and sheet-metal work. Formally organized vocational programs supported by federal funds allow high school students to gain experience in a field of work which is likely to lead to a full-time job on graduation. The ``diversified occupations'' program is a part-time trade-preparatory program conducted over two school years on a cooperative basis between the school and local industrial and business employers. The ``distributive education'' program operates in a similar way, with arrangements between the school and employers in merchandising fields. In both cases the student attends school half-time and works in a regular job the other half. He receives remuneration for his work. In a few places cooperative programs between schools and employers in clerical work have shown the same possibilities for allowing the student, while still in school, to develop skills which are immediately marketable upon graduation. Adult education courses, work-study programs of various sorts -- these are all evidence of a continuing interest of the schools in furthering educational opportunities for out-of-school youth. In general, however, it may be said that when a boy or a girl leaves the high school, the school authorities play little or no part in the decision of what happens next. If the student drops out of high school, the break with the school is even more complete. When there is employment opportunity for youth, this arrangement -- or lack of arrangement -- works out quite well. Indeed, in some periods of our history and in some neighborhoods the job opportunities have been so good that undoubtedly a great many boys who were potential members of the professions quit school at an early age and went to work. Statistically this has represented a loss to the nation, although one must admit that in an individual case the decision in retrospect may have been a wise one. I make no attempt to measure the enduring satisfaction and material well-being of a man who went to work on graduation from high school and was highly successful in the business which he entered. He may or may not be ``better off'' than his classmate who went on to a college and professional school. But in the next decades the nation needs to educate for the professions all the potential professional talent. In a later chapter dealing with the suburban school, I shall discuss the importance of arranging a program for the academically talented and highly gifted youth in any high school where he is found. In the Negro neighborhoods and also to some extent in the mixed neighborhoods the problem may be one of identification and motivation. High motivation towards higher education must start early enough so that by the time the boy or girl reaches grade 9 he or she has at least developed those basic skills which are essential for academic work. Undoubtedly far more can be done in the lower grades in this regard in the Negro schools. However, the teacher can only go so far if the attitude of the community and the family is anti-intellectual. And the fact remains that there are today few shining examples of Negroes in positions of intellectual leadership. This is not due to any policy of discrimination on the part of the Northern universities. Quite the contrary, as I can testify from personal experience as a former university president. Rather we see here another vicious circle. The absence of successful Negroes in the world of scholarship and science has tended to tamp down enthusiasm among Negro youth for academic careers. I believe the situation is improving, but the success stories need to be heavily publicized. Here again we run into the roadblock that Negroes do not like to be designated as Negroes in the press. How can the vicious circle be broken? This is a problem to which leaders of opinion, both Negro and white, should devote far more attention. It is at least as important as the more dramatic attempts to break down barriers of inequality in the South. I should like to underline four points I made in my first report with respect to vocational education. First and foremost, vocational courses should not replace courses which are essential parts of the required academic program for graduation. Second, vocational courses should be provided in grades 11 and 12 and not require more than half the student's time in those years; however, for slow learners and prospective dropouts these courses ought to begin earlier. Third, the significance of the vocational courses is that those enrolled are keenly interested in the work; they realize the relevance of what they are learning to their future careers, and this sense of purpose is carried over to the academic courses which they are studying at the same time. Fourth, the type of vocational training programs should be related to the employment opportunities in the general locality. This last point is important because if high school pupils are aware that few, if any, graduates who have chosen a certain vocational program have obtained a job as a consequence of the training, the whole idea of relevance disappears. Vocational training which holds no hope that the skill developed will be in fact a marketable skill becomes just another school ``chore'' for those whose interest in their studies has begun to falter. Those who, because of population mobility and the reputed desire of employers to train their own employees, would limit vocational education to general rather than specific skills ought to bear in mind the importance of motivation in any kind of school experience. I have been using the word ``vocational'' as a layman would at first sight think it should be used. I intend to include under the term all the practical courses open to boys and girls. These courses develop skills other than those we think of when we use the adjective ``academic''. Practically all of these practical skills are of such a nature that a degree of mastery can be obtained in high school sufficient to enable the youth to get a job at once on the basis of the skill. They are in this sense skills marketable immediately on graduation from high school. To be sure, in tool-and-die work and in the building trades, the first job must be often on an apprentice basis, but two years of half-time vocational training enables the young man thus to anticipate one year of apprentice status. Similarly, a girl who graduates with a good working knowledge of stenography and the use of clerical machines and who is able to get a job at once may wish to improve her skill and knowledge by a year or two of further study in a community college or secretarial school. Of course, it can be argued that an ability to write English correctly and with some degree of elegance is a marketable skill. So, too, is the mathematical competence of a college graduate who has majored in mathematics. In a sense almost all high school and college courses could be considered as vocational to the extent that later in life the student in his vocation (which may be a profession) will be called upon to use some of the skills developed and the competence obtained. In spite of the shading of one type of course into another, I believe it is useful to talk about vocational courses as apart from academic courses. Perhaps a course in typewriting might be regarded as the exception which proves the rule. Today many college bound students try to take a course in personal typing, as they feel a certain degree of mastery of this skill is almost essential for one who proposes to do academic work in college and a professional school. Most of our largest cities have one or more separate vocational or technical high schools. In this respect, public education in the large cities differs from education in the smaller cities and consolidated school districts. The neighborhood high schools are not, strictly speaking, comprehensive schools, because some of the boys and girls may be attending a vocational or technical high school instead of the local school. Indeed, one school superintendent in a large city objects to the use of the term comprehensive high school for the senior high schools in his city, because these schools do not offer strictly vocational programs. He prefers to designate such schools as ``general'' high schools. The suburban high school, it is worth noting, also is not a widely comprehensive high school because of the absence of vocational programs. The reason is that there is a lack of interest on the part of the community. Therefore employment and education in all the schools in a metropolitan area are related in different ways from those which are characteristic of the comprehensive high school described in my first report. The separate vocational or technical high schools in the large cities must be reckoned as permanent institutions. By and large their programs are satisfactorily connected both to the employment situation and to the realities of the apprentice system. It is not often realized to what degree certain trades are in many communities closed areas of employment, except for a lucky few. One has to talk confidentially with some of the directors of vocational high schools to realize that a boy cannot just say, ``I want to be a plumber'', and then, by doing good work, find a job. It is far more difficult in many communities to obtain admission to an apprentice program which involves union approval than to get into the most selective medical school in the nation. Two stories will illustrate what I have in mind. One vocational instructor in a city vocational school, speaking of his course in a certain field, said he had no difficulty placing all students in jobs outside of the city. In the city, he said, the waiting list for those who want to join the union is so long that unless a boy has an inside track he can't get in. In a far distant part of the United States, I was talking to an instructor about a boy who in the twelfth grade was doing special work. ``What does he have in mind to do when he graduates''? ``Oh, he'll be a plumber'', came the answer. ``But isn't it almost impossible to get into the union''? I asked. ``He'll have no difficulty'', I was told. ``He has very good connections''. In my view, there should be a school which offers significant vocational programs for boys within easy reach of every family in a city. Ideally these schools should be so located that one or more should be in the area where demand for practical courses is at the highest. An excellent example of a successful location of a new vocational high school is the Dunbar Vocational High School in Chicago. Located in a bad slum area now undergoing redevelopment, this school and its program are especially tailored to the vocational aims of its students. Hardly a window has been broken since Dunbar first was opened (and vandalism in schools is a major problem in many slum areas). I discovered in the course of a visit there that almost all the pupils were Negroes. They were learning trades as diverse as shoe repairing, bricklaying, carpentry, cabinet making, auto mechanics, and airplane mechanics. The physical facilities at Dunbar are impressive, but more impressive is the attitude of the pupils. The soybean seed is the most important leguminous food in the world. In the United States, where half of the world crop is grown, soybeans are processed for their edible oil. The residue from soybean processing goes mainly into animal feeds. Soybeans are extensively processed into a remarkable number of food products in the Orient. American chemists, seeking to increase exports of soybeans, have adapted modern techniques and fermentation methods to improve their use in such traditional Japanese foods as tofu and miso and in tempeh of Indonesia. Soybean flour, grits, flakes, ``milk'', and curd can be bought in the United States. Peanuts are the world's second most important legume. They are used mainly for their oil. We produce peanut oil, but to a much greater extent we eat the entire seed. Blanched peanuts, as prepared for making peanut butter or for eating as nuts, are roasted seeds whose seedcoats have been rubbed off. Cereal grains, supplemented with soybeans or dry edible peas or beans, comprise about two-thirds or three-fourths of the diet in parts of Asia and Africa. In western Europe and North America, where the level of economic development is higher, grains and other seed products furnish less than one-third of the food consumed. Rather, meat and potatoes, sugar, and dairy products are the main sources of carbohydrate, protein, oils, and fats. People depend less on seeds for foods in Australia, New Zealand, and Argentina, where extensive grazing lands support sheep or cattle, and the consumption of meat is high. Feeds for livestock took about one-sixth of the world's cereal crop in 1957-1958. Most of the grain is fed to swine and dairy cows and lesser amounts to beef cattle and poultry. About 90 percent of the corn used in the United States is fed to animals. The rest is used for human food and industrial products. More than half of the sorghum and barley seeds we produce and most of the byproducts of the milling of cereals and the crushing of oilseeds are fed to livestock. More than 200 million tons of seeds and seed products are fed to livestock annually in the United States. The efficiency with which animals convert grains and forages to meat has risen steadily in the United States since the 1930's and has paralleled the increased feeding of the cake and meal that are a byproduct when seeds are processed for oil. The demand for food is so great in the world that little arable land can be given over to growing the nonfood crops. Seeds grown for industrial uses hold a relatively minor position. Chief among the seed crops grown primarily for industrial uses are the oil-bearing seeds -- flax, castor, tung (nuts from the China wood-oil tree), perilla (from an Oriental mint), and oiticica (from a Brazilian tree). Oils, or liquid fats, from the seeds of flax and tung have long been the principal constituents of paints and varnishes for protecting and beautifying the surfaces of wood and metal. These oils develop hard, smooth films when they dry and form resinlike substances. The artist who paints in oil uses drying oils to carry the pigments and to protect his finished work for the ages. One of the finest of artists'oils comes from poppy seeds. Seeds of soybean, cotton, corn, sesame, and rape yield semidrying oils. Some are used in paints along with drying oils. Palm oil protects the surfaces of steel sheets before they are plated with tin. Castor oil, made from castorbeans, has gone out of style as a medicine. This nondrying oil, however, is now more in demand than ever before as a fine lubricant, as a constituent of fluids for hydraulically operated equipment, and as a source of chemicals to make plastics. Almond oil, another nondrying oil, was once used extensively in perfumery to extract flower fragrances. It is still used in drugs and cosmetics, but it is rather scarce and sometimes is adulterated with oils from peach and plum seeds. Liquid fats from all these oilseeds enter into the manufacture of soaps for industry and the household and of glycerin for such industrial uses as making explosives. Sizable amounts of soybean, coconut, and palm kernel oil -- seed oils that are produced primarily for food purposes -- also are used to make soaps, detergents, and paint resins. Solid fats from the seeds of the mahua tree, the shea tree, and the coconut palm are used to make candles in tropical countries. Seeds are a main source of starch for industrial and food use in many parts of the world. Corn and wheat supply most of the starch in the United States, Canada, and Australia. In other countries where cereal grains are not among the principal crops of a region, starchy tubers or roots are processed for starch. Starch is used in the paper, textile, and food-processing industries and in a multitude of other manufacturing operations. Gums were extracted from quince, psyllium (fleawort), flax, and locust (carob) seeds in ancient times. Today the yearly import into the United States of locust bean gum is more than 15 million pounds; of psyllium seed, more than 2. 6 million. The discovery during the Second World War that guar gum was similar to imported locust gum increased its cultivation in western Asia and initiated it in the United States. Water-soluble gums are used in foods and drugs and in the manufacture of pulp and paper as thickeners, stabilizers, or dispersing agents. Guar gum thickens salad dressings and stabilizes ice cream. Quince seed gum is the main ingredient in wave-setting lotions. Once regarded as an agricultural nuisance, psyllium was sold in the 1930's as a mechanical laxative under 117 different brands. Locust gum is added to pulp slurries to break up the lumps of fibers in making paper. The seeds of hard, fibrous, stony fruits, called nuts, provide highly concentrated foods, oils, and other materials of value. Most nuts consist of the richly packaged storage kernel and its thick, adherent, brown covering -- the seedcoat. The kernels of brazil nuts, cashews, coconuts, filberts, hazelnuts, hickory nuts, pecans, walnuts, and pine nuts are predominantly oily. Almonds and pistachio nuts are not so high in oil but are rich in protein. Chestnuts are starchy. All nut kernels are rich in protein. The world production of familiar seed nuts -- almonds, brazil nuts, filberts, and the English walnuts -- totals about 300 thousand tons annually. Coconuts, the fruit of the coconut palm, have the largest of all known seeds and are grown in South Pacific islands as a crop for domestic and export markets. The oil palm of West Africa yields edible oil from both the flesh and the seed or kernel of its fruit. World production of copra, the oil-bearing flesh of the coconut, was a little more than 3 million tons in 1959. Exports from producing countries in terms of equivalent oil were a little more than 1 million tons, about half of which was palm kernels or oil from them and about half was palm oil. Other nuts consumed in lesser quantity include the spicy nutmeg; the soap nut, which owes its sudsing power to natural saponins; the marking nut, used for ink and varnish; the aromatic sassafras nut of South America; and the sweet-smelling cumara nut, which is suited for perfumes. A forest crop that has not been extensively cultivated is ivory nuts from the tagua palm. The so-called vegetable ivory is the hard endosperm of the egg-sized seed. It is used for making buttons and other small, hard objects of turnery. Seeds of the sago palm are used in Bermuda to make heads and faces of dolls sold to tourists. The color and shape of seeds have long made them attractive for ornaments and decorations. Since Biblical times, rosaries have been made from jobs-tears -- the seeds of an Asiatic grass. Bead tree seeds are the necklaces of South Pacific islanders and the eyes of Buddha dolls in Cuba. Victorian ladies had a fad of stringing unusual seeds to wear as jewelry. Handmade Christmas wreaths and trees often contain a variety of seeds collected during the year. Tradition has assigned medicinal values to seeds because of their alkaloids, aromatic oils, and highly flavored components. Although science has given us more effective materials, preparations from anise, castorbean, colchicum, nux vomica, mustard, fennel, and stramonium are familiar to many for the relief of human ailments. Flaxseed poultices and mustard plasters still are used by some persons. Peanut and sesame oils often are used as carriers or diluents for medicines administered by injection. Still another group of seeds (sometimes tiny, dry, seed-bearing fruits) provide distinctive flavors and odors to foods, although the nutrients they supply are quite negligible. The common spices, flavorings, and condiments make up this group. Each year millions of pounds of anise, caraway, mustard, celery, and coriander and the oils extracted from them are imported. Single-seeded dry fruits used for flavoring include several of the carrot family, such as cumin, dill, fennel, and angelica. Less common seeds used in cooking and beverages include fenugreek (artificial maple flavor) and cardamom. White pepper is the ground seed of the common black pepper fruit. Sesame seed, which comes from the tall pods of a plant grown in Egypt, Brazil, and Central America, has a toasted-nut flavor and can be used in almost any dish calling for almonds. It is a main flavoring for halvah, the candy of the Middle East. Sesame sticks, a snack dip, originated in the Southwest. Beverages are made from seeds the world over. Coffee is made from the roasted and ground seeds of the coffee tree. World production of coffee broke all previous records in 1959 and 1960 at more than 5 million tons. Per capita consumption remains around 16 pounds in the United States. Cocoa, chocolate, and cocoa butter come from the ground seeds of the cacao tree. World production of about 1 million tons is divided primarily between Africa (63 percent) and South America (27 percent). Several soft drinks contain extracts from kola nuts, the seed of the kola tree cultivated in the West Indies and South America. Cereal grains have been used for centuries to prepare fermented beverages. The Japanese sake is wine fermented from rice grain. Arrack is distilled from fermented rice in India. Beer, generally fermented from barley, is an old alcoholic beverage. Beer was brewed by the Babylonians and Egyptians more than 6 thousand years ago. Brewers today use corn, rice, and malted barley. Distillers use corn, malt, wheat, grain sorghum, and rye in making beverage alcohol. Seed crops hold a prominent place in the agricultural economy of the United States. The farm value of seeds produced in this country for all purposes, including the cereals, is nearly 10 billion dollars a year. Cereal grains, oilseeds, and dry beans and peas account for about 57 percent of the farm value of all crops raised. The economic importance of seed crops actually is even greater, because additional returns are obtained from most of the corn, oats, barley, and sorghum -- as well as the cake and meal from the processing of flaxseed, cottonseed, and soybeans -- through conversion to poultry, meat, and dairy products. Seeds furnish about 40 percent of the total nutrients consumed by all livestock. Hay and pasture are the other chief sources of livestock feed. Seeds are the essential raw materials for milling grain, baking, crushing oilseed, refining edible oil, brewing, distilling, and mixing feed. More than 11 thousand business establishments in the United States were based on cereals and oilseeds in 1954. The value of products from these industries was 15. 8 billion dollars, of which about one-third was created by manufacturing processes. Not included was the value of seed oil in paints and varnishes or the value of the coffee and chocolate industries that are based on imported seed or seed products. Cereal grains furnish about one-fourth of the total food calories in the American diet and about one-third of the total nutrients consumed by all livestock and poultry. To hold a herd of cattle on a new range till they felt at home was called ``locatin ''''em. To keep'em scattered somewhat and yet herd'em was called ``loose herdin '''. To hold'em in a compact mass was ``close herdin '''. Cattle were inclined to remain in a territory with which they were acquainted. That became their ``home range''. Yet there were always some that moved farther and farther out, seekin'grass and water. These became ``strays'', the term bein'restricted to cattle, however, as hosses, under like circumstances, were spoken of as ``stray hosses'', not merely ``strays''. Cattle would drift day and night in a blizzard till it was over. You couldn't stop'em; you had to go with'em or wait till the storm was over, and follow. Such marchin'in wholesale numbers was called a ``drift'', or ``winter drift'', and if the storm was prolonged it usually resulted in one of the tragedies of the range. The cowboy made a technical distinction in reference to the number of them animals. The single animal or a small bunch were referred to as ``strays''; but when a large number were ``bunched up'' or ``banded up'', and marched away from their home range, as long as they stayed together the group was said to be a ``drift''. Drifts usually occurred in winter in an effort to escape the severe cold winds, but it could also occur in summer as the result of lack of water or grass because of a drought, or as an aftermath of a stampede. Drifts usually happened only with cattle, for hosses had'nough sense to avoid'em, and to find shelter for'emselves. The wholesale death of cattle as a result of blizzards, and sometimes droughts, over a wide range of territory was called a ``die-up''. Followin'such an event there was usually a harvest of ``fallen hides'', and the ranchers needed skinnin'knives instead of brandin'irons. Cattle were said to be ``potted'' when ``blizzard choked'', that is, caught in a corner or a draw, or against a ``drift fence'' durin'a storm. Cattle which died from them winter storms were referred to as the ``winter kill''. When cattle in winter stopped and humped their backs up they were said to ``bow up''. This term was also used by the cowboy in the sense of a human showin'fight, as one cowhand was heard to say, ``He arches his back like a mule in a hailstorm''. Cattle drove to the northern ranges and held for two winters to mature'em into prime beef were said to be ``double wintered''. Cattle brought into a range from a distance were called ``immigrants''. Them new to the country were referred to as ``pilgrims''. This word was first applied to the imported hot-blooded cattle, but later was more commonly used as reference to a human tenderfoot. Hereford cattle were often called ``white faces'', or ``open-face cattle'', and the old-time cowman gave the name of ``hothouse stock'' to them newly introduced cattle. Because Holstein cattle weren't a beef breed, they were rarely seen on a ranch, though one might be found now and then for the milk supply. The cowboy called this breed of cattle ``magpies''. A ``cattaloe'' was a hybrid offspring of buffalo and cattle. ``Dry stock'' denoted, regardless of age or sex, such bovines as were givin'no milk. A ``wet herd'' was a herd of cattle made up entirely of cows, while ``wet stuff'' referred to cows givin'milk. The cowboy's humorous name for a cow givin'milk was a ``milk pitcher''. Cows givin'no milk were knowed as ``strippers''. The terminology of the range, in speakin'of ``dry stock'' and ``wet stock'', was confusin'to the tenderfoot. The most common reference to ``wet stock'' was with the meanin'that such animals had been smuggled across the Rio Grande after bein'stolen from their rightful owners. The term soon became used and applied to all stolen animals. ``Mixed herd'' meant a herd of mixed sexes, while a ``straight steer herd'' was one composed entirely of steers, and when the cowman spoke of ``mixed cattle'', he meant cattle of various grades, ages, and sexes. In the spring when penned cattle were turned out to grass, this was spoken of as ``turn-out time'', or ``put to grass''. ``Shootin'' em out'' was gettin'cattle out of a corral onto the range. When a cow came out of a corral in a crouchin'run she was said to ``come out a-stoopin '''. To stir cattle up and get'em heated and excited was to ``mustard the cattle'', and the act was called ``ginnin'' em'round'', or ``chousin'' em''. After a roundup the pushin'of stray cattle of outside brands toward their home range was called ``throwin'over''. A cow rose from the ground rear end first. By the time her hindquarters were in a standin'position, her knees were on the ground in a prayin'attitude. It was when she was in this position that the name ``prayin'cow'' was suggested to the cowboy. They were said to be ``on their heads'' when grazin '. ``On the hoof'' was a reference to live cattle and was also used in referrin'to cattle travelin'by trail under their own power as against goin'by rail. Shippin'cattle by train was called a ``stock run''. A general classification given grass-fed cattle was ``grassers''. When a cowboy spoke of ``dustin ''' a cow, he meant that he throwed dust into her eyes. The cow, unlike a bull or steer, kept her eyes open and her mind on her business when chargin ', and a cow ``on the prod'' or ``on the peck'' was feared by the cowhand more than any of his other charges. The Injun's name for beef was ``wohaw'', and many of the old frontiersmen adopted it from their association with the Injun on the trails. The first cattle the Injuns saw under the white man's control were the ox teams of the early freighters. Listenin'with wonder at the strange words of the bullwhackers as they shouted ``Whoa'', ``Haw'', and ``Gee'', they thought them words the names of the animals, and began callin'cattle ``wohaws''. Rarely did a trail herd pass through the Injun country on its march north that it wasn't stopped to receive demand for ``wohaw''. ``Tailin ''' was the throwin'of an animal by the tail in lieu of a rope. Any animal could when travelin'fast, be sent heels over head by the simple process of overtakin'the brute, seizin'its tail, and givin'the latter a pull to one side. This throwed the animal off balance, and over it'd crash onto its head and shoulders. Though the slightest yank was frequently capable of producin'results, many men assured success through a turn of the tail'bout the saddle horn, supplemented sometimes, in the case of cattle, by a downward heave of the rider's leg upon the strainin'tail. Such tactics were resorted to frequently with the unmanageable longhorns, and a thorough ``tailin ''' usually knocked the breath out of a steer, and so dazed'im that he'd behave for the rest of the day. It required both a quick and swift hoss and a darin'rider. When cattle became more valuable, ranch owners frowned upon this practice and it was discontinued, at least when the boss was'round. When the cowboy used the word ``tailin's'', he meant stragglers. ``Bull tailin ''' was a game once pop'lar with the Mexican cowboys of Texas. From a pen of wild bulls one would be released, and with much yellin'a cowhand'd take after'im. Seizin'the bull by the tail, he rushed his hoss forward and a little to one side, throwin'the bull off balance, and ``bustin ''''im with terrific force. Rammin'one horn of a downed steer into the ground to hold'im down was called ``peggin '''. Colors of cattle came in for their special names. An animal covered with splotches or spots of different colors was called a ``brindle'' or ``brockle''. A ``lineback'' was an animal with a stripe of different color from the rest of its body runnin'down its back, while a ``lobo stripe'' was the white, yeller, or brown stripe runnin'down the back, from neck to tail, a characteristic of many Spanish cattle. A ``mealynose'' was a cow or steer of the longhorn type, with lines and dots of a color lighter'n the rest of its body'round the eyes, face, and nose. Such an animal was said to be ``mealynosed''. ``Sabinas'' was a Spanish word used to describe cattle of red and white peppered and splotched colorin '. The northern cowboy called all the red Mexican cattle which went up the trail ``Sonora reds'', while they called all cattle drove up from Mexico ``yaks'', because they came from the Yaqui Injun country, or gave'em the name of ``Mexican buckskins''. Near the southern border, cattle of the early longhorn breed whose coloration was black with a lineback, with white speckles frequently appearin'on the sides and belly, were called ``zorrillas''. This word was from the Spanish, meanin'``polecat''. ``Yeller bellies'' were cattle of Mexican breed splotched on flank and belly with yellerish color. An animal with distinct coloration, or other marks easily distinguished and remembered by the owner and his riders, was sometimes used as a ``marker''. Such an animal has frequently been the downfall of the rustler. Countin'each grazin'bunch of cattle where it was found on the range and driftin'it back so that it didn't mix with the uncounted cattle was called a ``range count''. The countin'of cattle in a pasture without throwin'' em together for the purpose was called a ``pasture count''. The counters rode through the pasture countin'each bunch of grazin'cattle, and drifted it back so that it didn't get mixed with the uncounted cattle ahead. This method of countin'was usually done at the request, and in the presence, of a representative of the bank that held the papers against the herd. Them notes and mortgages were spoken of as ``cattle paper''. A ``book count'' was the sellin'of cattle by the books, commonly resorted to in the early days, sometimes much to the profit of the seller. This led to the famous sayin'in the Northwest of the ``books won't freeze''. This became a common byword durin'the boom days when Eastern and foreign capital were so eager to buy cattle interests. The origin of this sayin'was credited to a saloonkeeper by the name of Luke Murrin. His saloon was a meetin'place for influential Wyoming cattlemen, and one year durin'a severe blizzard, when his herd-owner customers were wearin'long faces, he said, ``Cheer up, boys, whatever happens, the books won't freeze''. In this carefree sentence he summed up the essence of the prevailin'custom of buyin'by book count, and created a sayin'which has survived through the years. ``Range delivery'' meant that the buyer, after examinin'the seller's ranch records and considerin'his rep'tation for truthfulness, paid for what the seller claimed to own, then rode out and tried to find it. When a cowhand said that a man had ``good cow sense'', he meant to pay'im a high compliment. No matter by what name cattle were called, there was no denyin'that they not only saved Texas from financial ruin, but went far toward redeemin'from a wilderness vast territories of the Northwest. the first use of the word ``rustler'' was as a synonym for ``hustler'', becomin'an established term for any person who was active, pushin ', and bustlin'in any enterprise. Again it was used as the title for the hoss wrangler, and when the order was given to go out and ``rustle the hosses'', it meant for'im to go out and herd'em in. Eventually herdin'the hosses was spoken of as ``hoss rustlin ''', and the wrangler was called the ``hoss rustler''. Later, the word became almost exclusively applied to a cow thief, startin'from the days of the maverick when cowhands were paid by their employers to ``get out and rustle a few mavericks''. It was John who found the lion tracks. He found them near the carcass of a zebra that had been killed the night before, and he circled once, nose to the ground, hair shooting up along his back, as it did when he was after lion or bear, and then he lifted his head and bayed, and the pack joined in, all heads high, and Jones knew it was a hot trail. He stifled the Comanche yell and let John lead him straight toward the nearby black volcanic mountain. This mountain was known as The Black Reef and it rose almost perpendicularly for about two hundred feet, honeycombed with caves, top covered with dense scrub and creepers and tall grass. On the south it ended sharply as though the lava had been cut off there suddenly. Kearton and Ulyate had started the day together while Jones followed the dogs, and Means and Loveless had taken another route, and now, with the discovery of the fresh trail still unknown to him, Ulyate reined in, in the shadow of the Reef and pointed. Kearton focussed his field glasses. ``That's the Colonel'', he said, ``But I can't see the dogs''. As they watched, Jones rode straight for the Reef. Then they picked up the smaller black specks on the plain in front of him. The dogs were working a trail -- lion? Hyena? The pack had made a bend to the north, swinging back toward the Reef, and Kearton and Ulyate could hear them faintly. Kearton got off and tore up some dry grass that grew in cracks between the rocks and piled it in a heap and wanted to make the smoke signal that would bring Loveless and Means and the rest of the party. ``Not yet'', cautioned Ulyate. Jones came toward them fast, now, along the southern toe of the Reef, and the dogs could be heard plainly, Old John with his Grand Canyon voice outstanding above the others. There was Sounder, too, also a veteran of the North Rim, and Rastus and the Rake from a pack of English fox-hounds, and a collie from a London pound, and Simba, a terrier. A motley pack, chosen for effectiveness, not beauty. Jones was galloping close behind them leaning down, cheering them on. ``Light it''! Ulyate said, and Kearton touched a match to the pile of grass, blew on it and flame licked out. He threw green stuff on it, and a thin blue column of smoke rose. ``That will fetch the gang and tell the Colonel where we are''. Two quick shots sounded. Then there was a chorus of wild barking and baying. Then the heavy roar of a lion. Kearton and Ulyate looked at each other and began to gallop toward the sound. It came from the top of the Reef not half a mile away. At the base of the rocky hillside, they left their horses and climbed on foot. The route was choked with rugged lava-rocks, creepers and bushes, so thickly overgrown that when Kearton lost sight of Ulyate and called, Ulyate answered from ten feet away. Nice country to meet a lion in face to face. Ulyate and Kearton climbed on toward the sound of the barking of the dogs and the sporadic roaring of the lion, till they came, out of breath, to the crest, and peering through the branches of a bush, this is what Ulyate saw: Jones who had apparently (and actually had) ridden up the nearly impassable hillside, sitting calmly on his horse within forty feet of a full-grown young lioness, who was crouched on a flat rock and seemed just about to charge him, while the dogs whirled around her. Ulyate drew back with a start, and put finger to lips, almost afraid to move or whisper lest it set her off, ``The dogs have got her bayed. She's just the other side of that bush''! And when they had drawn back a step he added: ``Jones is sitting on his horse right in front of her. Why she doesn't charge him, I don't know. And he hasn't even got a knife on him. He couldn't get away from her in this kind of ground. Careful, don't disturb her''. Jones had been about a hundred and fifty feet from her when he first broke through to the top of the Reef. She was standing on a flat rock three feet above ground and when she saw him she rose to full height and roared, opening her mouth wide, lashing her tail, and stamping at the rock with both forefeet in irritation, as much as to say: ``How dare you disturb me in my sacred precinct''? Intuition told him, however, that she was tired and winded from the run up the Reef and would not charge, yet. He moved forward to within thirty-five feet of her, being careful, because he knew the female is less predictable than the male. (In the graveyard at Nairobi he had been shown the graves of thirty-four big game hunters killed hunting the animals he was attempting to lasso. Of the thirty-four, seventeen had been killed by lions, and eleven out of the seventeen by lionesses. ) She snarled terribly but intuition told him, again, that she was bluffing, and he could see that half her attention was distracted by the dogs. He threw the lasso. It was falling over her head when a branch of a bush caught it and it fell in front of her on the rock. Even then, if she took one step forward he could catch her. But John nipped her rear end -- one lion's rear end was as good as another to John, Africa, Arizona no matter -- and she changed ends and took a swipe at John, but he ducked back. Jones then recoiled his rope and threw again, this time hitting her on the back but failing to encircle her. She whirled and faced him, roaring terribly, and Ulyate, watching through the leaves, could not understand why she did not charge and obliterate him, because he wouldn't have much of a chance of getting away, in that thick growth, but she seemed just a trace uncertain; while Jones, on the other hand, appeared perfectly confident and Ulyate decided perhaps that was the answer. From the lioness'point of view, this strange creature on the back of another creature, lashing out with its long thin paw, very likely appeared as something she could not at first cope with. But now she sank lower to the rock. Her roar changed to a growl. Her tail no longer lashed. Although she appeared more subdued and defeated, Jones knew she was growing more dangerous. She was rested and could mount a charge. Just the tip of her tail was moving as she crouched, and she was treading lightly up and down with her hind feet. At this moment, Loveless and Means arrived, crashing through the undergrowth with their horses, and distracted her, and she ran off a short distance and jumped into a crevice between two rocks. The dogs followed her and she killed three and badly wounded Old John. ``We've got to get her out of there''! Jones yelled, ``or she'll kill'em all. Bring me the firecrackers''. For such an emergency he had included Fourth-of-July cannon crackers as part of their equipment. Lighting one he pitched it into the crevice, and the lioness left off mauling the dogs and departed. ``Ain't she a beauty, though''? Called out Means as she ran. ``Don't you go a step nearer her than I do'', Jones warned, ``and if you do, go at a run so you'll have momentum''! For two hours they drove her from one strong point to another along the side of the Reef, trying to maneuver her onto the plain where they could get a good throw. But she clung to the rocks and brush, and the day wore away. It was hot. The dogs were tired. The men were tired too. It was the story of the rhinoceros fight all over again. And the sun was beginning to go down. If dark came they would lose her. ``I'll get a pole'', Jones said finally, ``and I'll poke a noose over her head''! At this moment she was crouched in a cave-like aperture halfway down the Reef. Ulyate made no comment but his face showed what he thought of poking ropes over lions'heads with poles, and of course these were the lions of fifty years ago, not the gentler ones of today, and this one was angry, with good reason. Loveless, too, objected. ``It won't work, Colonel''. ``Just the same we'll try it''. But without waiting for them to try it, she scattered the dogs and shot down the Reef and out across the plain. John led the chase after her and the other dogs strung out behind, many of them trailing blood. John himself was bruised and clawed from head to tail, but he was in this fight to the finish, running almost as strongly now as in the morning. She took refuge on a tongue of land extending into a gully, crouched at the base of a thorn tree, and waited for them to come up. She had chosen the spot well. With the gully on three sides, she could be approached only along the tongue of land. ``Careful, now'', Jones warned. Means tried her first. Very slowly he maneuvered his rawboned bay gelding, edging closer, watching for a chance to throw, but ready to spin and run, rope whining about his head, horse edging tensely under him, but the gelding was obedient and responded and was not paralyzed by the close proximity of the lion. They tell you horses go crazy at the sight or smell of a bear or a lion, but these didn't. Means edged closer. She snarled warningly. Means spit and edged on. Again she snarled, and again he edged. The pony was sidewise to her. With a whirling jump, it could get into gear. However nothing on four legs was supposed to be faster than a lion over a short distance, unless it was a cheetah. She charged. Means spun and spurred. For thirty yards she gained rapidly. She was closing and within one more bound would have been able to reach the rear end of the bay, but -- and here Jones and Loveless and Ulyate were holding breath for all they were worth -- she never quite caught up that last bound. Means held steady one jump ahead of her. Then gradually he began to pull away. A Western cowpony had outrun an African lion, from a standing start. Photos showed later that she'd been about six feet from Means. Of course the factor of head start made all the difference. How much head start? No one knew exactly. That was the whole question. Enough, was the answer. The lioness quickly changed front, when she saw she couldn't catch Means, and made for Jones. As she had done with Means, she gained rapidly at first, but then Baldy began to draw away. Somewhere in the few scant yards of head start was the determining point. When Jones too drew away, she returned to a thorn bush in the neck of land running into the gully, crouched low and waited as before. This new position, however, gave the ropers a better chance. There was room to make a quick dash past the bush and throw as you went. So: Means edged around on the north side of her, Jones moved in from the south. Tossing his rope and shouting he attracted her attention. He succeeded almost too well, because once she rose as if to charge, and he half wheeled his horse -- he was within fifty feet -- but she sank back. From behind her Means shot forward at a run. Kearton began shouting, ``Wait, wait -- the camera's jammed''! But Means kept on. He raced by within twenty feet of her, roped her around the neck, but a lioness'neck is short and thick and with a quick twist she slipped the noose off. The missionary obligation to proclaim the gospel to all the world was once left to zealous individuals and voluntary societies. But the time came when a church that had no part in the missionary movement was looked upon as deficient in its essential life. The Christian education of children, too, was once hardly more than a sideshow, but the day came when a congregation that did not assume full oversight of a church school was thought of as failing in its duty. The most serious weakness of the ecumenical movement today is that it is generally regarded as the responsibility of a few national leaders in each denomination and a few interdenominational executives. Most pastors and laymen, even though they believe it to be important, assume that the ecumenical movement lies outside the province of their parishes. They may even dismiss it from their minds as something that concerns only the ``ecclesiastical Rover Boys'', as someone has dubbed them, who like to go to national and international assemblies, and have expense accounts that permit them to do so. As long as this point of view prevails, the ecumenical movement will be lame and halt. The next stage ahead is that of making it thoroughly at home in the local community. Progress will take place far less through what is done in any ``summit conference'' of the National Council or the World Council, or even in offices of the denominational boards, than through what happens in the communities where Christian people live together as neighbors. The front line of advance is where witnessing and worshiping congregations of different traditions exist side by side. Until they see the ecumenical movement in terms of the difference it makes in their own attitudes, programs, and relationships, it will have an inevitable aspect of unreality. As things now stand, there is a grievous disparity between the unity in Christ which we profess in ecumenical meetings and the complacent separateness of most congregations on any Main Street in the nation. The crux of ecumenical advance is an even more personalized matter than the relation between congregations in the same community. The decisive question is what happens within each congregation and, finally, in the minds and hearts of the individual members. It is here that the local and ecumenical must meet. It is here that the ecumenical must become local and the local become ecumenical. It has become almost trite to say that the ecumenical movement must be ``carried down to the grass roots''. This way of describing the matter is unfortunate. It implies two misconceptions. One is that whatever is ecumenical has to do with some over-all organization at ``the top'' and needs only to be understood at the so-called ``lower levels''. The truth, however, is that the ecumenical church is just the local church in its own true character as an integral unit of the whole People of God throughout the world. The other misconception is that our ecumenical problems will be solved if only the knowledge of the church in its world-wide extension and its interdenominational connections, now comprehended by many national leaders, can be communicated to all congregations. However needed this may be, the fundamental problem is not information but active commitment to the total mission of the church of Christ in the world. The basic unit in the church, of whatever denominational polity, is always the congregation. It is hardly possible to emphasize this too much. Most people do not realize that the congregation, as a gathered fellowship meeting regularly face to face, personally sharing in a common experience and expressing that experience in daily relationships with one another, is unique. The idea that it is a feature of all religions is entirely mistaken. The Jewish synagogue affords a parallel to the Christian congregation, but Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, Confucianism, Taoism, Shintoism, although they have sacred scriptures, priests, spiritual disciplines, and places of prayer, do not have a congregation as a local household of faith and love. Their characteristic experience is that of the individual at an altar or a shrine rather than that of a continuing social group with a distinctive kind of fellowship. How far the fellowship in most local churches falls below what the New Testament means by koinonia! What is now called Christian fellowship is often little more than the social chumminess of having a gracious time with the kind of people one likes. The koinonia of Acts and of the Epistles means sharing in a common relation to Christ. It is an experience of a new depth of community derived from an awareness of the corporate indwelling of Christ in His people. As Dietrich Bonhoffer puts it, ``Our community with one another consists solely in what Christ has done to both of us''. This may mean having fellowship in the church with people with whom, on the level of merely human agreeableness, we might prefer not to have any association at all. There is a vast difference between the community of reconciliation which the New Testament describes and the community of congeniality found in the average church building. Whenever a congregation really sees itself as a unit in the universal Church, in vital relation with the whole Body of Christ and participating in His mission to the world, a necessary foundation-stone of the ecumenical movement has been laid. The antithesis of the ecumenical and the local then no longer exists. The local and the ecumenical are one. Of course, the perspective of those who are dealing directly with the world-wide problems of the People of God will always be different from the perspective of those who are dealing with the nearby problems of particular persons in a particular place. Each viewpoint is valid if it is organically related to the other. Neither is adequate if it stands alone. Our difficulty arises when either viewpoint shuts out the other. And this is what all too often happens. A little parable illustrative of this truth is afforded by an incident related by Professor Bela Vasady at the end of the Second World War. With great difficulty he made his way from his native Hungary to Geneva to renew his contacts as a member of the Provisional Committee for the World Council of Churches. When he had the mishap of breaking his spectacles, his ecumenical colleagues insisted on providing him with new ones. They were bifocals. He often spoke of them as his ``ecumenical'' glasses and used them as a symbol of the kind of vision that is required in the church. It is, he said, a bifocal vision, which can see both the near-at-hand and the distant and keep a Christian in right relation to both. As things stand now, the local and the ecumenical tend to compete with each other. On the one hand, there are ecumenists who are so stirred by the crises of the church in its encounter with the world at large that they have no eyes for what the church is doing in their own town. They do not escape the pitfall into which Charles Dickens pictured Mrs. Jellyby as falling. Her concern for the natives of Borrioboola-Gha was so intense that she quite forgot and neglected her son Peepy! Likewise, the ecumenist may become so absorbed in the conflict of the church with the totalitarian state in East Germany, the precarious situation of the church in revolutionary China, and the anguish of the church over apartheid in South Africa that he loses close contact with the parish church in its unspectacular but indispensable ministry of worship, pastoral service and counseling, and Christian nurture for a face-to-face group of individuals. On the other hand, many a pastor is so absorbed in ministering to the intimate, personal needs of individuals in his congregation that he does little or nothing to lead them into a sense of social responsibility and world mission. As a result, they go on thinking of the church, with introverted and self-centered satisfaction, only in connection with the way in which it serves them and their families. It would hardly be an exaggeration to say that ninety per cent of the energy of most churches -- whether in terms of finance or spiritual concern -- is poured into the private and domestic interests of the members. The parish lives for itself rather than for the community or the world. The gap between the ecumenical perspective and the parish perspective appears most starkly in a church in any of our comfortable suburbs. It is eminently successful according to all conventional standards. It is growing in numbers. Its people are agreeable friends. It has a beautiful edifice. Its preaching and its music give refreshment of spirit to men and women living under heavy strain. It provides pastoral care for the sick and troubled. It helps children grow up with at least a nodding acquaintance with the Bible. It draws young people into the circle of those who continue the life of the church from generation to generation. And it is easy for the ecumenical enthusiast to lose sight of how basic all this is. But what is this church doing to help its members understand their roles as Christians in the world? All too often its conception of parish ministry and pastoral care includes no responsibility for them in their relation to issues of the most desperate urgency for the life of mankind. It is not stirring them to confront the racial tensions of today with the mind of Christ. It is not helping them face the moral crisis involved in the use of nuclear energy. It is not making them sensitive to the sub-Christian level of much of our economic and industrial life. It is raising no disturbing question as to what Christian stewardship means for the relationship of the richest nation in the world to economically underdeveloped peoples. It is not developing an awareness of the new kind of missionary strategy that is called for as young churches emerge in Asia and Africa. To put it bluntly, many a local church is giving its members only what they consciously want. It is not disturbing them by thoughts of their Christian responsibility in relation to the world. We shall not make a decisive advance in the ecumenical movement until such a church begins to see itself not merely as a haven of comfort and peace but as a base of Christian witness and mission to the world. There is a humorous but revealing story about a rancher who owned a large slice of Texas and who wanted to have on it everything that was necessary for a completely pleasant community. He built a school and a library, then a recreation center and an inn. Desiring to fill the only remaining lack, he selected the best site on the ranch for a chapel and spared no expense in erecting it. A visitor to the beautiful little building inquired, ``Do you belong to this church, Mr. Rancher''? ``Why, no, ma'am'', he replied, ``this church belongs to me''! The story reflects the way too many people feel. As long as the congregation regards the church as ``our'' church, or the minister thinks of it as ``my'' church, just so long the ecumenical movement will make no significant advance. There must first be a deeper sense that the church belongs not to us but to Christ, and that it is His purpose, not our own interests and preferences, that determines what it is to be and do. A local church which conceives its function to be entirely that of ministering to the conscious desires and concerns of its members tends to look on everything ecumenical as an extra, not as a normal aspect of its own life as a church. It would doubtless be greatly surprised to be told that in failing to be ecumenical it is really failing to be the Church of Christ. Yet the truth, according to the New Testament, is that every local church has its existence only by being the embodiment of the whole church in that particular place. Yet a crowd came out to see some fresh kids from the city try to match the boys from the neighboring farms; and buggies and wagons and chugging Fords kept gathering all morning, until the edges of the field were packed thick and small boys kept scampering out on the playing field to make fun of the visitors -- whose pitcher was a formidable looking young man with the only baseball cap. This was a bitterly fought game, carrying almost as much grudge as a fist fight, with no friendliness exhibited between the teams except the formal politeness that accompanied the setting forth of ground rules and agreements on balls that went into the crowd. Every pitch in the game brought forth a howl from the enraptured audience and every fly ball the visitors dropped (and because their right fielder was still a little fuzzy from drink, they dropped many) called forth yelps of derision. At one point in the game when the skinny old man in suspenders who was acting as umpire got in the way of a thrown ball and took it painfully in the kidneys, he lay there unattended while players and spectators wrangled over whether the ball was ``dead'' or the base runners were free to score. This was typical of such games, which were earnestly played to win and practically never wound up in an expression of good fellowship. When the visitors, after losing this game, rode along the village streets toward home, the youngsters who could keep abreast of them for a moment or two screamed triumphantly, ``You bunch of hay-shakers! G'ahn back home! You hay-shakers''! Baseball was surely the national game in those days, even though professional baseball may have been merely a business. Radio broadcasts had not begun and most devotees of baseball attended the games near home, in the town park or a pasture, with perhaps two or three trips to the city each season to see the Cubs or the Pirates or the Indians or the Red Sox. Young men in school could look forward to playing ball for money in a dozen different places, even if they failed to make the major leagues. Nearly any lad with a modicum of skill might find a payday awaiting him in the Three I League, or the Pony League, or the Coastal Plains League, or the fast Eastern League, if not indeed in one of the hundreds of city leagues that abounded everywhere. Even a city of thirty thousand might have six baseball teams, sponsored by grocers and hardware merchants or department stores, that played two or three times a week throughout the summer, usually in the cool of the evening, before an earnest and partisan audience who did not begrudge a quarter each, or even more, to be dropped into a hat when the game was half over. Babe Ruth, of course, was everyone's hero, and everyone knew him, even though relatively few ever saw him play ball. His face was always in the newspapers, sometimes in cartoons that seemed nearly as large as life. As the twenties grew older, and as radio broadcasts of baseball games began to involve more and more people daily in the doings of the professionals, the great hitters (always led by Babe Ruth) overshadowed the game so that pitchers were nearly of no account. Boys no longer bothered learning to bunt and even school kids scorned to ``choke up'' on a bat as Willie Keeler and the famous hitters of another day had done. Other hitters bloomed with more or less vigor in the news and a few even dared to dream of matching Ruth, who was still called Jidge by all his friends, or Leo or Two-Head by those who dared to taunt him (Leo was the name of the ball player he liked the least) and who called most of the world ``Kid''. Lou Gehrig was given the nickname Buster, and he ran Ruth a close race in home runs. But the nickname never stuck and Gehrig was no match for Ruth in ``color'' -- which is sometimes a polite word for delinquent behavior on and off the field. Ruth was a delinquent boy still, but he was in every way a great ball player who was out to win the game and occasionally risked a cracked bone to do it. A few professional baseball players cultivated eccentricities, with the encouragement of the press, so that they might see their names in big black print, along with Daddy Browning's, Al Capone's, Earl Sande's, and the Prince of Wales '. One who, for a time, succeeded best and was still the sorriest of all was Charles Arthur Shires, who called himself, in the newspapers, Art the Great, or The Great Shires. It was his brag that he could beat everybody at anything, but especially at fighting, and he once took on the manager of his club and worked him over thoroughly with his fists. He was given to public carousing and to acting the clown on the diamond; and a policeman asserted he had found a pair of brass knuckles in Art's pocket once when he had occasion to collar the Great First Baseman for some forgotten reason. (This made a sportswriter named Pegler wonder in print if Art had worn this armament when he defeated his manager. ) The sorry fact about this young man, who was barely of age when he broke into major-league baseball, was that he really was a better ball player than he was given credit for being -- never so good as he claimed, and always an irritant to his associates, but a good steady performer when he could fight down the temptation to orate on his skills or cut up in public. In his minor way Charles Arthur Shires was perhaps more typical of his era than Ruth was, for he was but one of many young men who laid waste their talents in these Scott Fitzgerald days for the sake of earning space in the newspapers. There were others who climbed flagpoles and refused to come down; or who ingested strange objects, like live fish; or who undertook to set records for remaining erect on a dance floor, with or without a partner; or who essayed to down full bottles of illicit gin without pausing for breath. One young man, exhilarated to the point of insanity by liquor and the excitement of the moment, performed a perfect swan dive out of the stands at the Yale Bowl during the Yale-Army football game, landed squarely on his head on the concrete ramp below, and died at once. But the twenties were not all insanity and a striving after recognition. The business of baseball began to prosper along with other entertainments, and performers -- thanks partly to George Herman Ruth's spectacular efforts each season to run his salary higher and higher -- prospered too. While fifty years before, Albert Goodwill Spalding, secretary of the Chicago Ball Club of the National League, could write earnestly to the manager of the Buffalo club and request a guarantee of one hundred dollars for a baseball game in August, in this Golden Era a game at the Yankee Stadium might bring in nearly a hundred thousand dollars at the gate. And while less than ten years earlier the wayward Black Sox -- all of them top performers in their positions -- had toiled for stingy Charles Comiskey at salaries ranging from twenty-five hundred dollars to forty-five hundred dollars a year, stars now were asking ten thousand dollars, twenty thousand dollars, yes, even fifty thousand dollars a season. The greatest team of this period was unquestionably the New York Yankees, bought by brewery millions and made into a ball club by men named Ed Barrow and Miller Huggins. Boston fans sometimes liked to wring some wry satisfaction out of the fact that most of the great 1923-27 crew were graduates of the Red Sox -- sold to millionaires Huston and Ruppert by a man who could not deny them their most trifling desire. Ruth himself, still owning his farm in Massachusetts and an interest in the Massachusetts cigar business that printed his round boyish face on the wrappers, had led the parade down from Fenway Park, followed by pitchers Carl Mays, Leslie ``Joe'' Bush, Waite Hoyt, Herb Pennock, and Sam Jones, catcher Wally Schang, third baseman Joe Dugan (who completed the ``playboy trio'' of Ruth, Dugan, and Hoyt), and shortstop Everett Scott. By 1926, when the mighty Yanks were at their mightiest, only a few of these were left but they still shone brightest, even beside able and agile rookies like Tony Lazzeri (who managed never to have one of his epileptic fits on the field), Mark Koenig, Lou Gehrig, George Pipgras, and gray-thatched Earl Combs. The deeds of this team, through two seasons and in the two World's Series that followed, have been written and talked about until hardly a word is left to be said. But there is one small episode that a few New York fans who happened to sit in the cheap seats for one World's Series game in 1926 like best to recall. Babe Ruth, as he always did in the Stadium, played right field to avoid having the sun in his eyes, and Tommy Thevenow, a rather mediocre hitter who played shortstop for the St. Louis Cardinals, knocked a ball with all his might into the sharp angle formed by the permanent stands and the wooden bleachers, where Ruth could not reach it. The ball lay there, shining white on the grass in view of nearly every fan in the park while Ruth, red-necked with frustration, charged about the small patch of ground screaming, ``Where's the ---ing ball''? But, as he snarled unhappily when the inning was over, ``not a sonofabitch in the place would tell me'', so little Tommy ran all the way home. The ordinary man and woman, however, saw little of the great professional games of those Golden Days, or of any other sporting event for that matter. Promoters always hastened to place their choice tickets in the hands of the wealthy speculators, and only the man who knew the man who knew the fellow who had an in with the guy at the box office ever came up with a good seat for a contest of any importance. Radio broadcasts, however -- now that even plain people could afford ``loud speakers'' on their sets -- held old fans to the major-league races and attracted new ones, chiefly women, who through what the philosopher called the ineluctable modality of audition, became first inured, then attracted, then addicted to the long afternoon recitals of the doings in some distant baseball park. In some cities games were broadcast throughout the week and then on weekends the announcer was silenced, and fans must needs drive to the city from all the broadcast area to discover how their heroes were faring. This had a pleasant effect upon the Sunday gate receipts as well as upon the intake of the rail and bus companies, some of which began to offer special excursion rates, including seats at the park, just as the trolley and ferry companies had when baseball was new. While women had always attended ball games in small numbers (it was the part of a ``dead game sport'' in the early years of the twentieth century to be taken out to the ball park and to root, root, root for the home team), they had often sat in patient martyrdom, unable even to read the scoreboard, which sometimes seemed to indicate that one team led another by a score of three hundred and eighty to one hundred and fifty-one. The questions women asked at baseball games were standard grist for amateur comedy, as were the doings of women automobile drivers; for every grown man (except a few who were always suspected of being shy on virility) knew at least the fundamentals of baseball, just as every male American in this era liked to imagine (or pretend) that he could fight with his fists. And women were not expected to know that the pitcher was trying not to let the batter hit the ball. Radio, however, so increased the interest of women in the game that it was hardly necessary even to have ``Ladies'Days'' any longer to enable men to get to the ball park without interference at home. Women actually began to appear unaccompanied in the stands, where they still occasionally ran the risk of coming home with a tobacco-juice stain on a clean skirt or a new curse word tingling their ears. The radio broadcasts themselves were often so patiently informative, despite the baseball jargon, that girls and women could begin to store up in their minds the same sort of random and meaningless statistics that small boys had long learned better than they ever did their lessons in school. This conclusion is dependent on the assumption that traditional sex mores will continue to sanction both premarital chastity as the ``ideal'', and the double standard holding females primarily responsible for preserving the ideal. Our discussion of this involves using Erik Erikson's schema of ``identity vs. identity diffusion'' as a conceptual tool in superimposing a few common denominators onto the diverse personality and family configurations of the unwed mothers from whose case histories we quoted earlier. Our discussion does not utilize all the identity crises postulated by Erikson, but is intended to demonstrate the utility of his theoretical schema for studying unwed mothers. We hope thereby to emphasize that, from a psychological standpoint, the effectual prevention of illegitimacy is a continuous long-term process involving the socialization of the female from infancy through adolescence. Hypothesizing a series of developmental stages that begin in the individual's infancy and end in his old age, Erikson has indicated that the adolescent is faced with a series of identity crises. The successful and positive resolution of these crises during adolescence involves an epigenetic principle -- during adolescence, the individual's positive resolutions in each area of identity crisis depend, to a considerable degree, on his already having resolved preliminary and preparatory identity crises during his infancy, childhood, and early adolescence. Within Erikson's schema, the adolescent's delinquent behavior -- in this case, her unwed motherhood -- reflects her ``identity diffusion'', or her inability to resolve these various identity crises positively. The adolescent experiences identity crises in terms of time perspective vs. time diffusion. Time perspective -- the ability to plan for the future and to postpone gratifying immediate wants in order to achieve long-range objectives -- is more easily developed if, from infancy on, the individual has been able to rely on and trust people and the world in which she lives. Erikson has noted that, unless this trust developed early, the time ambivalence experienced, in varying degree and temporarily, by all adolescents (as a result of their remembering the more immediate gratification of wants during childhood, while not yet having fully accepted the long-range planning required by adulthood) may develop into a more permanent sense of time diffusion. Experience of this time diffusion ranges from a sense of utter apathy to a feeling of desperate urgency to act immediately. These polar extremes in time diffusion were indicated in some of the comments by unwed mothers reported in earlier chapters. Some of these mothers, apparently feeling a desperate urgency, made, on the spur of the moment, commitments, in love and sex, that would have life-long consequences. Others displayed utter apathy and indifference to any decision about the past or the future. For many of these unwed mothers, the data on their family life and early childhood experiences revealed several indications and sources of their basic mistrust of their parents in particular and of the world in general. However, as Erickson has noted, the individual's failure to develop preliminary identities during infancy and childhood need not be irreversibly deterministic with respect to a given area of identity diffusion in his (or her) adolescence. And, as shown in Chapter 6,, some SNP females originally developed such trust only during their adolescence, through the aid of, and their identification with, alter-parents. In the specific case of time diffusion, we must emphasize the significance of the earlier development of mistrust when it is combined with the inevitable time crisis experienced by most (if not all) adolescents in our society, and with the failure of the adolescent period to provide opportunities for developing trust. The adolescent experiences two closely related crises: self-certainty vs. an identity consciousness; and role-experimentation vs. negative identity. A sense of self-certainty and the freedom to experiment with different roles, or confidence in one's own unique behavior as an alternative to peer-group conformity, is more easily developed during adolescence if, during early childhood, the individual was permitted to exercise initiative and encouraged to develop some autonomy. However, if the child has been constantly surrounded, during nursery and early school age, by peer groups; inculcated with the primacy of group acceptance and group standards; and allowed little initiative in early play and work patterns -- then in adolescence her normal degree of vanity, sensitivity, and preoccupation with whether others find her appearance and behavior acceptable, will be compounded. Her ostensible indifference to and rebellion against suggestions and criticisms by anyone except peer friends during adolescence are the manifestations, in her adolescence, of her having been indoctrinated in childhood to feel shame, if not guilt, for failing to behave in a manner acceptable to, and judged by, the performance of her nursery-and elementary-school peer friends. To be different is to invite shame and doubt; and it is better to be shamed and criticized by one's parents, who already consider one different and difficult to understand, than by one's peers, who are also experiencing a similar groping for and denial of adult status. The attitudes of some unwed mothers quoted in Chapter 2,, revealed both considerable preoccupation with being accepted by others and a marked absence of self-certainty. Many appeared to regard their sexual behavior as a justifiable means of gaining acceptance from and identification with others; but very few seemed aware that such acceptance and identification need to be supplemented with more enduring and stable identification of and with one's self. Another identity crisis confronting the adolescent involves anticipation of achievement vs. work-paralysis. The adolescent's capacity to anticipate achievement and to exercise the self-discipline necessary to complete tasks successfully depends on the degree to which he or she developed autonomy, initiative, and self-discipline during childhood. The developmental process involves the individual's progressively experiencing a sense of dignity and achievement resulting from having completed tasks, having kept commitments, and having created something (however small or simple -- even a doll dress of one's own design rather than in the design ``it ought to be''). These childhood experiences are sources of the self-certainty that the adolescent needs, for experimenting with many roles, and for the freedom to fail sometimes in the process of exploring and discovering her skills and abilities. If she has not had such experiences, the female's normal adolescent degree of indecision will be compounded. She may well be incapacitated by it when she is confronted with present and future alternatives -- e. g., whether to prepare primarily for a career or for the role of a homemaker; whether to stay financially dependent on her parents or help support herself while attending school; whether to pursue a college education or a job after high school; and whether to attend this or that college and to follow this or that course of study. Erikson has noted that, as this indecision mounts, it may result in a ``paralysis of workmanship''. This paralysis may be expressed in the female's starting -- and never completing -- many jobs, tasks, and courses of study; and in the fact that she bases her decisions about work, college, carreer, and studies on what others are doing, rather than on her own sense of identity with given skills, abilities, likes, and dislikes. The absence, during her childhood and early adolescence, of experiences in developing the self-discipline to complete tasks within her ability -- experiences that would have been subsequent sources of anticipation of achievement -- and her lack of childhood opportunities to practice autonomy and initiative in play and expression, both tend in her adolescence to deprive her of the freedoms to role-experiment and to fail occasionally in experimenting. The comments made by some unwed mothers (quoted in Chapter 2)) reflect this paralysis of workmanship. They attended school and selected courses primarily on the basis of decisions others made; they accepted a job primarily because it was available, convenient, and paid reasonably. These things both express and, at the same time, continue contributing to, their identity diffusion in an area that could have become a source of developing dignity and self-certainty. As their identity diffusion increased, they became more susceptible to sporadic diversions in love and sexual affairs. These affairs temporarily relieved the monotony of school or work activities containing no anticipation of achievement and joy of craftsmanship, no sense of dignity derived from a job well done. Childhood experiences in learning work and self-discipline habits within a context of developing autonomy and initiative have considerable significance for the prevention of illegitimacy. The excerpts from case histories presented above confirm this significance, though through different facets of experience. For example, some unwed mothers had had no work experiences, household chores, and responsibilities during childhood and early adolescence; they subsequently occupied their leisure hours in searching for something exciting and diverting. Sex was both. On the other hand, some unwed mothers had had so much work and responsibility imposed on them at an early age, and had thus had so little freedom or opportunity to develop autonomy and initiative, that their work and responsibilities became dull and unrewarding burdens -- to be escaped and rebelled against through fun and experimentation with forbidden sexual behavior. The adolescent also faces the identity crisis that Erikson has termed ideological polarization vs. diffusion of ideals. In discussing the ways this crisis is germane to consderations for the prevention of illegitimacy, we shall again superimpose Erikson's concept on our data. Adolescents have a much-discussed tendency to polarize ideas and values, to perceive things as ``either-or'', black or white -- nuances of meaning are relatively unimportant. This tendency is, perhaps, most clearly revealed in the literature on religious conversions and experiences of adolescents. Erikson has postulated that such ideological polarization temporarily resolves their search for something stable and definite in the rapidly changing and fluctuating no-man's-land between childhood and adulthood. It provides identification -- with an idea, a value, a cause that cuts through, or even transcends, the multiple and ambivalent identities of their passage from child to adult, and permits their forceful and overt expression of emotion. The positive development, during adolescence, of this capacity to think and to feel strongly and with increasing independence, and to identify overtly either with or against given ideas, values, and practices, depends to a considerable degree on both previous and present opportunities for developing autonomy, initiative, and self-certainty. Most adolescents have some ideological diffusion at various developmental stages, as they experience a proliferation of ideas and values. The diffusion is most pronounced and most likely to become fixed, however, in those who have had no or very minimal opportunities to develop the autonomy and initiative that could have been directed into constructive expression and so served as sources of developing self-certainty. A pronounced ideological diffusion -- i. e., inability to identify independently with given ideas and value systems -- is reflected in many ways. For example, it is evinced by the adolescent (or adult) whose beliefs and actions represent primarily his rebellion and reaction against the ideas and behavior patterns of others, rather than his inner conviction and choice. It is mirrored by the individual Willie Lohmans, whose ideas and behavior patterns are so dependent and relativistic that they always coincide with those of the individual or group present and most important at the moment. In another sense, it is represented in the arguments of the ``true believers'' who seek to disprove the validity of all other beliefs and ideas in order to retain confidence in theirs. The case histories provide some interesting illustrations of ideological diffusion, embodied in the unwed mother's inability to identify independently a given value system or behavior pattern,, and her subsequent disinclination to assume any individual responsibility for her sexual behavior. For example, the unwed mothers expressed their frustration with males who did not indicate more explicitly ``what it is they really want from a girl so one can act accordingly''. They were disappointed by the physical and emotional hurt of premarital sexual intercourse. They condemned the movie script writers for implying that sex was enjoyable and exhilarating. They criticized parents for never having emphasized traditional concepts of right and wrong; and they censured parents who ``never disciplined and were too permissive'' or who ``never explained how easy it was to get pregnant''. In the adult world, there are a number of rather general and diffuse sources of ideological diffusion that further compound the adolescent's search for meaning during this particular identity crisis. For example, some contemporary writing tends to fuse the ``good guys'' and the ``bad guys'', to portray the weak people as heroes and weakness as a virtue, and to explain (or even justify) asocial behavior by attributing it to deterministic psychological, familial, and social experiences. In the final accounting, these would have augmented the bill for both sides. An estimate of one million dollars is probably not excessive. Yet the huge amount of money consumed by the Selden litigation, which many regarded as wasteful, indirectly contributed to constructive changes in legal procedure. The duration and other circumstances of the Selden case made it a flagrant example of the gross abuses of patent infringement actions. The suit, as we have seen, came before the courts when patent attorneys, inventors, and laymen were making mounting demands for reforms in the American patent system. Chief among the defects they singled out were the complicated and wearisome procedures in equity. In a long and angry footnote to his opinion, Judge Hough had lent the weight of judicial condemnation to such criticism. ``It is a duty'', said Hough, ``not to let pass this opportunity of protesting against the methods of taking and printing testimony in Equity, current in this circuit (and probably others), excused if not justified by the rules of the Supreme Court, especially to be found in patent causes, and flagrantly exemplified in this litigation. As long as the bar prefers to adduce evidence by written deposition, rather than viva voce before an authoritative judicial officer, I fear that the antiquated rules will remain unchanged, and expensive prolixity remain the best known characteristic of Equity''. Observing that ``reforms sometimes begin with the contemplation of horrible examples'', Hough catalogued the many abuses encouraged by existing procedures. He cited the elephantine dimensions of the Selden case record; the duplication of testimony and exhibits; the numerous squabbles over minor matters; the ``objections stated at outrageous length''; and the frequent and rancorous verbal bouts, ``uncalled for and unjustifiable, from the retort discourteous to the lie direct''. The fundamental difficulty of which the Selden case was ``a striking (though not singular) example'', concluded Hough, ``will remain as long as testimony is taken without any authoritative judicial officer present, and responsible for the maintenance of discipline, and the reception or exclusion of testimony''. Not least among the members of the patent bar who echoed this powerful indictment were those who had participated in the Selden suit. William A. Redding asserted that if the case had been heard in open court under rules of evidence, the testimony would have been completed in sixty days instead of five years. Inventors joined lawyers in the clamor for reform, inevitably centering upon the Selden litigation as a ``horrible example''. Its costive deliberations were likened to those of the British courts of chancery mercilessly caricatured by Dickens in Bleak House. Parker, who agreed with much of this criticism, did not conceal his dissatisfaction with procedural defects. But he felt that the Selden case was being unfairly pilloried. In a detailed letter published in the Scientific American in 1912, he remarked that ``loose statements'' about the case showed scant understanding of the facts. The suit, although commonly designated as a single action, actually embraced five cases. Parker insisted that the size of the record would have been drastically reduced but for an unavoidable duplication of testimony. In a private communication written in 1911, Parker had been more to the point. Noting the complaints of inventors and members of the patent bar, he admitted that some of the strictures ``were fairly well founded'', but he added that under existing rules the courts could not consolidate testimony in a group of suits involving separate infringements of the same patent. The vast industrial interests caught up in the Selden suit, as well as the complex character of the automotive art, encouraged both sides to exploit ``every possible chance'' for or against the patent, said Parker. ``This very seldom happens in this class or in other cases, and of course all of these matters led to a volume and an expense of the record beyond what ordinarily would occur''. Parker listed the remedies he deemed essential for reducing the cost and mass of testimony. The most important of these found him in agreement with Hough's plea for reform. Parker called for abolition of the indiscriminate or uncontrolled right of taking depositions before officers of the court who had no authority to limit testimony. The taking of depositions, he suggested, should be placed under a special court examiner empowered to compel responsive and relevant answers and to exclude immaterial testimony. ``I am satisfied that in the Selden case had this power existed and this course (been) pursued, it would have shortened the depositions of some of the experts nearly one-half and of some of the other witnesses thereto more than that''. In the end Hough's acidulous protest, which Parker called the ``now somewhat famous note on this'Selden'case'', did not go unheeded. In 1912 the United States Supreme Court adopted a new set of rules of equity which became effective on February 1, 1913. The revised procedure was acclaimed as a long-overdue reform. Under the new rules, testimony is taken orally in open court in all cases except those of an extraordinary character. Other expeditious methods are designed to prevent prolixity, limit delays, and reduce the expense of infringement suits. One of the A. L. A. M. lawyers observed that if the Selden case had been tried under this simplified procedure, the testimony which filled more than a score of volumes, ``at a minimum cost of $ 1 a page for publication alone, could have been contained in one volume''. While patent suits are still among the most complex and expensive forms of litigation, these rules have saved litigants uncounted sums of money. There is little doubt that they were promulgated by the Supreme Court as a direct result of the Selden patent suit. Even before it was formally dissolved in 1912, the A. L. A. M. was succeeded by the Automobile Board of Trade, the direct lineal ancestor of the present-day Automobile Manufacturers Association. The trade bodies which came in the wake of the A. L. A. M. were more representative, for they never adopted a policy of exclusion. Nevertheless, it is from the Selden organization that the industry inherited its institutional machinery for furthering the broader interests of the trade. One of the chief features of this community of interest is the automotive patents cross-licensing agreement, a milestone in the development of American industrial cooperation. Its origin lies in the Selden patent controversy and its aftermath. From the earliest days of the motor car industry, before the A. L. A. M. was established, patent infringement loomed as a serious and vexing problem. Many patent contests were waged over automobile components and accessories, among them tires, detachable rims, ball bearings, license brackets, and electric horns. The fluidity and momentum of the young industry abetted a general disregard of patent claims. As early as 1900 a Wall Street combination acquired detail patents with the intention of exacting heavy tribute from automobile manufacturers. This scheme failed, and the following decade brought a deluge of infringement suits among individual manufacturers that reached its crest in 1912. In this tangle of conflicting claims, the patent-sharing scheme adopted by the A. L. A. M. at its founding proved to be the best device for avoiding or mitigating the burdens of incessant litigation. The interchange of shop licenses for a nominal royalty eliminated infringement suits among the members of the A. L. A. M. patent pool (although it did not protect them against outside actions) and kept open channels for the cross-fertilization of automotive technology. One of the conditions of the pool was a prohibition upon the withholding of patent rights among A. L. A. M. members. Within its limits, this arrangement had the actual or potential characteristics of a cross-licensing agreement. Its positive features outweighed the fact that the pool was an adjunct of a wouldbe monopoly. Since the A. L. A. M. holdings embraced only about twenty-five per cent of motor vehicle patents, the denial of rights to independent companies did not retard technical progress in unlicensed sectors of the industry. The highly important Dyer patents on the sliding gear transmission were held by the A. L. A. M. pool. But Henry Ford used the planetary transmission in his Model T and earlier cars and, in 1905, as a precautionary measure, took out a license from the man who claimed to be its inventor. For those affiliated with it, the A. L. A. M. pool was a haven from the infringement actions involving detail patents that beset the industry with mounting intensity after 1900. By 1910 the courts were crowded with cases, many of them brought by freebooters who trafficked in disputed inventions. It was commonplace for auto makers, parts-suppliers, and dealers to find warning notices and threats of infringement suits in their daily mail. ``Purely from the business man's standpoint and without regard to the lawyer's view'', commented a trade journal, ``the matter of patents in the automobile and accessory trade is developing some phases and results that challenge thought as to how far patents are to become weapons of warfare in business, instead of simple beneficient protection devices for encouraging inventive creation''. Occasionally new enterprise was discouraged by the almost certain prospect of legal complications. One manufacturer who held an allegedly basic patent said: ``I would readily put over $ 50, 000 into the manufacture of the device, but it is so easy to make that we would enter immediately into a prolonged ordeal of patent litigation which would eat up all our profits''. The prevailing view in the industry was summed up in 1912 by a group of auto makers who told a Senate committee: ``The exceedingly unsatisfactory and uselessly expensive conditions, including delays surrounding legal disputes, particularly in patent litigation, are items of industrial burden which must be written large in figures of many millions of dollars of industrial waste''. By that time it was commonly agreed that patent warfare was sapping constructive achievement and blocking the free exchange of technical information. At this point Charles C. Hanch, long an advocate of patent peace in the industry, became chairman of the patents committee of the National Automobile Chamber of Commerce, successor to the Automobile Board of Trade. Hanch was treasurer of the Nordyke & Marmon Company, an Indianapolis firm which had manufactured flour-milling machinery before producing the Marmon car in 1904. He had first-hand knowledge of the patent wars which had driven about ninety per cent of the milling equipment makers out of business in the mid-1890's. Anxious to avoid a similar debacle in the motor car industry, Hanch went to Detroit in 1909 to enlist the support of leading A. L. A. M. members for an industry-wide patent-sharing plan. The breach created by the Selden patent doomed his proposal, but Hanch did not abandon his scheme. After the demise of the A. L. A. M., the time was propitious for establishing such a pool. Most manufacturers were now disposed to heed a proposal for the formal interchange of patents. ``It is a much easier course to agree to let one another alone so far as ordinary patents are concerned'', said a trade authority, ``than to continue the costly effort of straightening the tangle in the courts or seeking to reform the patent system, which appears to be getting into deeper confusion every day''. With the other members of the patents committee -- Wilfred C. Leland, Howard E. Coffin, Windsor T. White, and W. H. Vandervoort -- Hanch drafted a cross-licensing agreement whose essential feature of royalty-free licensing was his own contribution. The plan was supported by Frederick P. Fish, counsel for the National Automobile Chamber of Commerce. It will be recalled that in his summation for the A. L. A. M. before Judge Hough, Fish had condemned patent litigation as the curse of the American industrial community. He was well aware that some inventors and their allies used their patents solely for nuisance value. ``My personal view is that not one patented invention in ten is worth making'', he later told a Congressional committee. The eloquent persuasions of Fish guaranteed the adoption of the plan by the members of the automotive trade association. Drawn up in 1914, the cross-licensing agreement became effective in 1915. It remained in force for ten years and has been renewed at five-year intervals since 1925. A little farther along the road you come to the Church of Santa Sabina, called the ``Pearl of the Aventine''. Continue another hundred yards to the Piazza of the Knights of Malta. On the wall of this square there are delightful bas-reliefs of musical instruments. The massive gate of the Maltese villa affords one of the most extraordinary views in Rome. If you look through the keyhole, you will see an artistically landscaped garden with the white dome of St. Peter's framed in a long avenue of cropped laurel trees. Retrace your steps a few yards on the Via Di Santa Sabina and turn right on the Via Di S. Alessio, a street lined with stately homes. Oleanders, cypress, and palms in the spacious gardens add much color and beauty to this attractive residential section. Turn left a block or so before the street ends, and then turn right down the Via Di Santa Prisca to the Viale Aventino. Here you can pick up a taxi or public transport to return to the center of the city. These two walks take you through the heart of Rome. You will walk some of the narrow, old streets, hemmed in by massive palazzi. You will visit a few churches that are exceptional yet often by-passed, a magnificent square, the main shopping district, the Spanish Steps, and the lovely Pincian Gardens. By seeing such varied places, both interesting and beautiful, you will become aware of the many different civilizations Rome has lived through, and in particular, get a feel of Renaissance Rome. You will realize why Rome is indeed the Eternal City. Start on the Via D. Teatro Di Marcello at the foot of the Capitoline Hill. The majestic circular tiers of stone of the Theatre of Marcellus give you some idea of the huge edifice that the Emperor Augustus erected in 13 B. C.. Twenty-two thousand spectators used to crowd it in Roman days. Andrea Palladio, an Italian architect of the sixteenth century, modeled his designs on its Doric and Ionic columns. Wander past the three superb Columns of Apollo by the arches of the theatre. The remains of the Portico of Octavia are now in front of you. Climb the steps from the theatre to the Via Della Tribuna Di Campitelli for an even better view of the Columns of Apollo. Turn to the right along a narrow street to the tiny Piazza Campitelli, then proceed along the Via Dei Funari to the Piazza Mattei. Here is one of the loveliest fountains in Rome, the Fontana delle Tartarughe or ``Fountain of the Tortoises''. It's typical of Rome that in the midst of this rather poor area you should find such an artistic work in the center of a little square. Stand here for a few moments and look at this gem of a fountain with its four youths, each holding a tortoise and each with a foot resting on the head of a dolphin. The figures have been executed so skillfully that one senses a great feeling of life and movement. Opposite is the Palazzo Mattei, one of Rome's oldest palaces, now the headquarters of the Italo-American Association. Go inside for a closer look at a Renaissance palace. In the first courtyard there are some fine bas-reliefs and friezes, and in the second a series of delightful terraced roof gardens above an ivy-covered wall. The Palazzo Caetani, still inhabited by the Caetani family, adjoins the Palazzo Mattei. Keep straight ahead on the Via Falegnami, cross the wide Via Arenula, and you will come to the Piazza B. Cairoli, where you should look in at the Church of San Carlo Ai Catinari to see the frescoes on the ceiling. Follow the colorful and busy Via D. Giubbonari for a hundred yards or so. Now turn left at the Via dell'Arco Del Monte to the Piazza Dei Pellegrini. Just a few yards to the right on the Via Capo Di Ferro will bring you to the Palazzo Spada, built in 1540 and now occupied by the Council of State. Paintings by Titian, Caravaggio, and Rubens are on display (open 9: 30 to 4: 00). Before you enter the palazzo, note Francesco Borromini's facade. The great architect also designed the fine interior staircase and colonnade which connects the two courts. The large statue on the first floor is believed to be the statue of Pompey at the base of which Julius Caesar was stabbed to death (if so, the statue once stood in the senate house). (This is shown in the afternoon and on Sunday morning. By tipping the porter, you can see in the courtyard Borromini's unusual and fascinating trick in perspective. When you stand before the barrel-vaulted colonnade you have the impression that the statue at the end is at a considerable distance, yet it is actually only a few feet away. The sense of perspective has been created by designing the length of the columns so that those at the far end of the colonnade are much shorter than those in front. The gardens of the palazzo, shaded by a huge magnolia tree, are most attractive. The courtyard is magnificently decorated. From the Palazzo Spada you continue another block along the Via Capo Di Ferro and Vicolo De Venti to the imposing Palazzo Farnese, begun in 1514 and considered by many to be the finest palace of all. Michelangelo was the most distinguished of several noted architects who helped design it. Today it is occupied by the French Embassy. Its lovely seventeenth-century ceiling frescoes, as well as the huge guards room with a tremendously high and beautifully carved wooden ceiling, can be seen Sundays (11: 00 to 12: 00 noon). Ask to see the modern tapestries of Paris and Rome designed by Lurcat. Directly in front of the palace along the Via D. Baullari you will come to the Campo Di Fiori, the famous site of executions during the turbulent days of Renaissance Rome. Today, by contrast it is a lively and colorful fruit, vegetable, and flower market. Continue on the Via D. Baullari to the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, then turn right for a couple of hundred yards to the Church of Sant'Andrea Della Valle. As you approach the church on the Via D. Baullari you are passing within yards of the remains of the Roman Theatre of Pompey, near which is believed to have been the place where Julius Caesar was assassinated. The dome of the church is, outside of St. Peter's, one of the largest in Rome. Opera lovers will be interested to learn that this church was the scene for the first act of Tosca. At this point you cross the wide Corso Vittorio Emanuele 2,, walk along the Corso Del Rinascimento a couple of hundred yards, then turn left on the Via Dei Canestrani to enter the splendid Piazza Navona, one of the truly glorious sights in Rome. Your first impression of this elongated square with its three elegant fountains, its two churches that almost face each other, and its russet-colored buildings, is a sense of restful spaciousness -- particularly welcome after wandering around the narrow and dark streets that you have followed since starting this walk. The site of the oblong piazza is Domitian's ancient stadium, which was probably used for horse and chariot races. For centuries it was the location of historic festivals and open-air sports events. From the seventeenth to the nineteenth century it was a popular practice to flood the piazza in the summer, and the aristocrats would then ride around the inundated square in their carriages. Giovanni Bernini's ``Fountain of the Rivers'', in the center of the piazza, is built around a Roman obelisk from the Circus of Maxentius which rests on grottoes and rocks, with four huge figures, one at each corner, denoting four great rivers from different continents -- the Danube, the Ganges, the Nile, and the Plate. The eyes of the figure of the Nile are covered, perhaps either to symbolize the mystery of her source or to obscure from her sight the baroque facade of the Church of Sant'Agnese in Agone, the work of Bernini's rival, Borromini. In the Piazza Navona there are many delightful cafes where you can sit, have a drink or lunch, and watch the fountains in the square. The scene before you is indeed theatrical and often appears in movies about Rome. Perhaps a street musician will pass to add that extra touch. Take the Via Di S. Agnese in Agone, next to the church and opposite the center of the square, then turn right after about two hundred yards to reach the beautiful Church of Santa Maria Della Pace. Inside you will find the lovely Sibyls painted by Raphael and a chapel designed by Michelangelo. The church's cloisters are among Donato Bramante's most beautiful creations. Now return to the Piazza Navona and leave it on the opposite side by the Corsia Agonale; in a moment cross the Corso Del Rinascimento. In front of you is the Palazzo Madama, once belonging to the Medici and now the Italian Senate. Walk by the side of the palazzo and after two blocks along the Via Giustiniani you will come to the Piazza Della Rotonda. You are now facing the Pantheon, the largest and best-preserved building still standing from the days of ancient Rome. This circular edifice, constructed by Agrippa in B. C. 27, was rebuilt in its present shape by the Emperor Hadrian. It was dedicated as a church in the seventh century. As you pause in the piazza by the Egyptian obelisk brought from the Temple of Isis, you will admire the Pantheon's impressive Corinthian columns. The Pantheon's interior, still in its original form, is truly majestic and an architectural triumph. Its rotunda forms a perfect circle whose diameter is equal to the height from the floor to the ceiling. The only means of interior light is the twenty-nine-foot-wide aperture in the stupendous dome. Standing before the tomb of Raphael, the great genius of the Renaissance, when shafts of sunlight are penetrating this great Roman temple, you are once again reminded of the varied civilizations so characteristic of Rome. As you leave the Pantheon, take the narrow street to the right, the Via Del Seminario, a block to Sant'Ignazio, one of the most splendid baroque churches in the city. (Along the way there, about one hundred yards on your right, you pass a simple restaurant, La Sacrestia, where you can have the best pizza in Rome. ) The curve of faded terra-cotta-colored houses in front of the church seems like a stage set. This is one of the most charming little squares in this part of Rome. One block along the Via De Burro (in front of the church) will bring you to the Stock Exchange in the old Temple of Neptune. A few yards farther, on the Via Dei Bergamaschi, is the Piazza Colonna. The great column from which the square takes its name was erected by the Emperor Marcus Aurelius. You are now at the Corso, though narrow, one of Rome's busiest streets. Horse races took place here in the Middle Ages. If you have taken this stroll in the morning, and you have the time and inclination, walk to the right along the crowded Corso for half a dozen blocks to visit the fine private collection of paintings -- mainly of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries -- in the Palazzo Doria (open Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday, 10: 00 to 1: 00). Here is your opportunity to see the inside of a palazzo where the family still lives. Otherwise, cross over the Corso and walk a block or so to the left. You will come to Alemagna, a delightful, though moderately expensive restaurant, which is particularly noted for its exceptional selection of ice creams and patisseries. Either here, or in one of the modest restaurants nearby, is just the place to end this first walk through the heart of Rome. The second walk through the heart of Rome should be taken after lunch, so that you will reach the Pincian Hill when the soft light of the late afternoon is at its best. Rare, indeed, is the Harlem citizen, from the most circumspect church member to the most shiftless adolescent, who does not have a long tale to tell of police incompetence, injustice, or brutality. I myself have witnessed and endured it more than once. The businessmen and racketeers also have a story. And so do the prostitutes. (And this is not, perhaps, the place to discuss Harlem's very complex attitude toward black policemen, nor the reasons, according to Harlem, that they are nearly all downtown. It is hard, on the other hand, to blame the policeman, blank, good-natured, thoughtless, and insuperably innocent, for being such a perfect representative of the people he serves. He, too, believes in good intentions and is astounded and offended when they are not taken for the deed. He has never, himself, done anything for which to be hated -- which of us has? -- and yet he is facing, daily and nightly, people who would gladly see him dead, and he knows it. There is no way for him not to know it: there are few things under heaven more unnerving than the silent, accumulating contempt and hatred of a people. He moves through Harlem, therefore, like an occupying soldier in a bitterly hostile country; which is precisely what, and where, he is, and is the reason he walks in twos and threes. And he is not the only one who knows why he is always in company: the people who are watching him know why, too. Any street meeting, sacred or secular, which he and his colleagues uneasily cover has as its explicit or implicit burden the cruelty and injustice of the white domination. And these days, of course, in terms increasingly vivid and jubilant, it speaks of the end of that domination. The white policeman standing on a Harlem street corner finds himself at the very center of the revolution now occurring in the world. He is not prepared for it -- naturally, nobody is -- and, what is possibly much more to the point, he is exposed, as few white people are, to the anguish of the black people around him. Even if he is gifted with the merest mustard grain of imagination, something must seep in. He cannot avoid observing that some of the children, in spite of their color, remind him of children he has known and loved, perhaps even of his own children. He knows that he certainly does not want his children living this way. He can retreat from his uneasiness in only one direction: into a callousness which very shortly becomes second nature. He becomes more callous, the population becomes more hostile, the situation grows more tense, and the police force is increased. One day, to everyone's astonishment, someone drops a match in the powder keg and everything blows up. Before the dust has settled or the blood congealed, editorials, speeches, and civil-rights commissions are loud in the land, demanding to know what happened. What happened is that Negroes want to be treated like men. Negroes want to be treated like men: a perfectly straightforward statement, containing only seven words. People who have mastered Kant, Hegel, Shakespeare, Marx, Freud, and the Bible find this statement utterly impenetrable. The idea seems to threaten profound, barely conscious assumptions. A kind of panic paralyzes their features, as though they found themselves trapped on the edge of a steep place. I once tried to describe to a very well-known American intellectual the conditions among Negroes in the South. My recital disturbed him and made him indignant; and he asked me in perfect innocence, ``Why don't all the Negroes in the South move North''? I tried to explain what has happened, unfailingly, whenever a significant body of Negroes move North. They do not escape Jim Crow: they merely encounter another, not-less-deadly variety. They do not move to Chicago, they move to the South Side; they do not move to New York, they move to Harlem. The pressure within the ghetto causes the ghetto walls to expand, and this expansion is always violent. White people hold the line as long as they can, and in as many ways as they can, from verbal intimidation to physical violence. But inevitably the border which has divided the ghetto from the rest of the world falls into the hands of the ghetto. The white people fall back bitterly before the black horde; the landlords make a tidy profit by raising the rent, chopping up the rooms, and all but dispensing with the upkeep; and what has once been a neighborhood turns into a ``turf''. This is precisely what happened when the Puerto Ricans arrived in their thousands -- and the bitterness thus caused is, as I write, being fought out all up and down those streets. Northerners indulge in an extremely dangerous luxury. They seem to feel that because they fought on the right side during the Civil War, and won, they have earned the right merely to deplore what is going on in the South, without taking any responsibility for it; and that they can ignore what is happening in Northern cities because what is happening in Little Rock or Birmingham is worse. Well, in the first place, it is not possible for anyone who has not endured both to know which is ``worse''. I know Negroes who prefer the South and white Southerners, because ``At least there, you haven't got to play any guessing games''! The guessing games referred to have driven more than one Negro into the narcotics ward, the madhouse, or the river. I know another Negro, a man very dear to me, who says, with conviction and with truth, ``The spirit of the South is the spirit of America''. He was born in the North and did his military training in the South. He did not, as far as I can gather, find the South ``worse''; he found it, if anything, all too familiar. In the second place, though, even if Birmingham is worse, no doubt Johannesburg, South Africa, beats it by several miles, and Buchenwald was one of the worst things that ever happened in the entire history of the world. The world has never lacked for horrifying examples; but I do not believe that these examples are meant to be used as justification for our own crimes. This perpetual justification empties the heart of all human feeling. The emptier our hearts become, the greater will be our crimes. Thirdly, the South is not merely an embarrassingly backward region, but a part of this country, and what happens there concerns every one of us. As far as the color problem is concerned, there is but one great difference between the Southern white and the Northerner: the Southerner remembers, historically and in his own psyche, a kind of Eden in which he loved black people and they loved him. Historically, the flaming sword laid across this Eden is the Civil War. Personally, it is the Southerner's sexual coming of age, when, without any warning, unbreakable taboos are set up between himself and his past. Everything, thereafter, is permitted him except the love he remembers and has never ceased to need. The resulting, indescribable torment affects every Southern mind and is the basis of the Southern hysteria. None of this is true for the Northerner. Negroes represent nothing to him personally, except, perhaps, the dangers of carnality. He never sees Negroes. Southerners see them all the time. Northerners never think about them whereas Southerners are never really thinking of anything else. Negroes are, therefore, ignored in the North and are under surveillance in the South, and suffer hideously in both places. Neither the Southerner nor the Northerner is able to look on the Negro simply as a man. It seems to be indispensable to the national self-esteem that the Negro be considered either as a kind of ward (in which case we are told how many Negroes, comparatively, bought Cadillacs last year and how few, comparatively, were lynched), or as a victim (in which case we are promised that he will never vote in our assemblies or go to school with our kids). They are two sides of the same coin and the South will not change -- cannot change -- until the North changes. The country will not change until it re-examines itself and discovers what it really means by freedom. In the meantime, generations keep being born, bitterness is increased by incompetence, pride, and folly, and the world shrinks around us. It is a terrible, an inexorable, law that one cannot deny the humanity of another without diminishing one's own: in the face of one's victim, one sees oneself. Walk through the streets of Harlem and see what we, this nation, have become. the fact that American Negroes rioted in the U. N. while Adlai Stevenson was addressing the Assembly shocked and baffled most white Americans. Stevenson's speech, and the spectacular disturbance in the gallery, were both touched off by the death, in Katanga, the day before, of Patrice Lumumba. Stevenson stated, in the course of his address, that the United States was ``against'' colonialism. God knows what the African nations, who hold 25 per cent of the voting stock in the U. N. were thinking -- they may, for example, have been thinking of the U. S. abstention when the vote on Algerian freedom was before the Assembly -- but I think I have a fairly accurate notion of what the Negroes in the gallery were thinking. I had intended to be there myself. It was my first reaction upon hearing of Lumumba's death. I was curious about the impact of this political assassination on Negroes in Harlem, for Lumumba had -- has -- captured the popular imagination there. I was curious to know if Lumumba's death, which is surely among the most sinister of recent events, would elicit from ``our'' side anything more than the usual, well-meaning rhetoric. And I was curious about the African reaction. However, the chaos on my desk prevented my being in the U. N. gallery. Had I been there, I, too, in the eyes of most Americans, would have been merely a pawn in the hands of the Communists. The climate and the events of the last decade, and the steady pressure of the ``cold'' war, have given Americans yet another means of avoiding self-examination, and so it has been decided that the riots were ``Communist'' inspired. Nor was it long, naturally, before prominent Negroes rushed forward to assure the republic that the U. N. rioters do not represent the real feeling of the Negro community. According, then, to what I take to be the prevailing view, these rioters were merely a handful of irresponsible, Stalinist-corrupted provocateurs. I find this view amazing. It is a view which even a minimal effort at observation would immediately contradict. One has only, for example, to walk through Harlem and ask oneself two questions. The first question is: Would I like to live here? And the second question is: Why don't those who now live here move out? The answer to both questions is immediately obvious. Unless one takes refuge in the theory -- however disguised -- that Negroes are, somehow, different from white people, I do not see how one can escape the conclusion that the Negro's status in this country is not only a cruel injustice but a grave national liability. Now, I do not doubt that, among the people at the U. N. that day, there were Stalinist and professional revolutionists acting out of the most cynical motives. Wherever there is great social discontent, these people are, sooner or later, to be found. Their presence is not as frightening as the discontent which creates their opportunity. What I find appalling -- and really dangerous -- is the American assumption that the Negro is so contented with his lot here that only the cynical agents of a foreign power can rouse him to protest. It is a notion which contains a gratuitous insult, implying, as it does, that Negroes can make no move unless they are manipulated. Color was delayed until 1935, the wide screen until the early fifties. Movement itself was the chief and often the only attraction of the primitive movies of the nineties. Each film consisted of fifty feet, which gives a running time of about one minute on the screen. As long as audiences came to see the movement, there seemed little reason to adventure further. Motion-picture exhibitions took place in stores in a general atmosphere like that of the penny arcade which can still be found in such urban areas as Times Square. Brief snips of actual events were shown: parades, dances, street scenes. The sensational and frightening enjoyed popularity: a train rushes straight at the audience, or a great wave threatens to break over the seats. An early Edison production was The Execution Of Mary, Queen Of Scots. The unfortunate queen mounted the scaffold; the headsman swung his axe; the head dropped off; end of film. An early film by a competitor of the Wizard of Menlo Park simply showed a long kiss performed by two actors of the contemporary stage. In the field of entertainment there is no spur to financial daring so effective as audience boredom, and the first decade of the new device was not over before audiences began staying away in large numbers from the simple-minded, one-minute shows. In response, the industry allowed the discovery of the motion picture as a form of fiction and thus gave the movies the essential form they have had to this day. Despite the sheer beauty and spectacle of numerous documentaries, art films, and travelogues, despite the impressive financial success of such a recent development as Cinerama, the movies are at heart a form of fiction, like the play, the novel, or the short story. Moreover, the most artistically successful of the nonfiction films have invariably borrowed the narrative form from the fiction feature. Thus such great American documentaries as The River and The Plow That Broke The Plains were composed as visual stories rather than as illustrated lectures. The discovery that movies are a form of fiction was made in the early years of this century and it was made chiefly by two men, a French magician, Georges Melies, and an American employee of Edison, Edwin S. Porter. Of the two, Porter is justly the better known, for he went far beyond the vital finding of fiction for films to take the first step toward fashioning a language of film, toward making the motion picture the intricate, efficient time machine that it has remained since, even in the most inept hands. Melies, however, out of his professional instincts as a magician, discovered and made use of a number of illusionary techniques that remain part of the vocabulary of film. One of these is the ``dissolve'', which makes possible a visually smooth transition from scene to scene. As the first scene begins to fade, the succeeding scene begins to appear. For a moment or two, both scenes are present simultaneously, one growing weaker, one growing stronger. In a series of fairy tales and fantasies, Melies demonstrated that the film is superbly equipped to tell a straightforward story, with beginning, middle and end, complications, resolutions, climaxes, and conclusions. Immediately, the film improved and it improved because in narrative it found a content based on time to complement its own unbreakable connection with time. Physically, a movie is possible because a series of images is projected one at a time at such a speed that the eye ``remembers'' the one that has gone before even as it registers the one now appearing. Linking the smoothly changing images together, the eye itself endows them with the illusion of movement. The ``projection'' time of painting and sculpture is highly subjective, varying from person to person and even varying for a given person on different occasions. So is the time of the novel. The drama in the theater and the concert in the hall both have a fixed time, but the time is fixed by the director and the players, the conductor and the instrumentalists, subject, therefore, to much variation, as record collectors well know. The time of the motion picture is fixed absolutely. The film consists of a series of still, transparent photographs, or ``frames'', 35-mm.- wide. Each frame comes between the light and the lens and is individually projected on the screen, at the rate, for silent movies, of 16 frames per second, and, for sound films, 24 frames per second. This is the rate of projection; it is also the rate of photographing. Time is built into the motion picture, which cannot exist without time. Now time is also the concern of the fictional narrative, which is, at its simplest, the story of an action with, usually, a beginning, a middle, and an end -- elements which demand time as the first condition for their existence. The ``moving'' picture of the train or the wave coming at the audience is, to be sure, more intense than a still picture of the same subject, but the difference is really one of degree; the cinematic element of time is merely used to increase the realism of an object which would still be reasonably realistic in a still photo. In narrative, time is essential, as it is in film. Almost everything about the movies that is peculiarly of the movies derives from a tension created and maintained between narrative time and film time. This discovery of Melies was vastly more important than his sometimes dazzling, magician's tricks produced on film. It was Porter, however, who produced the very first movie whose name has lived on through the half century of film history that has since ensued. The movie was The Great Train Robbery and its effects on the young industry and art were all but incalculable. Overnight, for one thing, Porter's film multiplied the standard running time of movies by ten. The Great Train Robbery is a one-reel film. One reel -- from eight to twelve minutes -- became the standard length from the year of Robbery, 1903, until Griffith shattered that limit forever with Birth Of A Nation in 1915. The reel itself became and still is the standard of measure for the movies. The material of the Porter film is simplicity itself; much of it has continued to be used over the years and the heart of it -- good guys and bad guys in the old West -- pretty well dominated television toward the end of the 1950's. A band of robbers enters a railroad station, overpowers and ties up the telegraph operator, holds up the train and escapes. A posse is formed and pursues the robbers, who, having made their escape, are whooping it up with some wild, wild women in a honky-tonk hide-out. The robbers run from the hide-out, take cover in a wooded declivity, and are shot dead by the posse. As a finale is appended a close-up of one of the band taking aim and firing his revolver straight at the audience. All this is simple enough, but in telling the story Porter did two important things that had not been done before. Each scene is shot straight through, as had been the universal custom, from a camera fixed in a single position, but in the outdoor scenes, especially in the capture and destruction of the outlaws, Porter's camera position breaks, necessarily, with the camera position standard until then, which had been, roughly, that of a spectator in a center orchestra seat at a play. The plane of the action in the scene is not parallel with the plane of the film in the camera or on the screen. If the change, at first sight, seems minor, we may recall that it took the Italian painters about two hundred years to make an analogous change, and the Italian painters, by universal consent, were the most brilliant group of geniuses any art has seen. In that apparently simple shift Porter opened the way to the sensitive use of the camera as an instrument of art as well as a mechanical recording device. He did more than that. He revealed the potential value of the ``cut'' as the basic technique in the art of the film. Cutting, of course, takes place automatically in the creation of a film. The meaning of the word is quite physical, to begin with. The physical film is cut with a knife at the end of one complete sequence, and the cut edge is joined physically, by cement, to the cut edge of the beginning of the next sequence. If, as a home movie maker, you shoot the inevitable footage of your child taking its first steps, you have merely recorded an historical event. If, in preparing that shot for the inevitable showing to your friends, you interrupt the sequence to paste in a few frames of the child's grandmother watching this event, you have begun to be an artist in film; you are employing the basic technique of film; you are cutting. This is what Porter did. As the robbers leave the looted train, the film suddenly cuts back to the station, where the telegrapher's little daughter arrives with her father's dinner pail only to find him bound on the floor. She dashes around in alarm. The two events are taking place at the same time. Time and space have both become cinematic. We leap from event to event -- including the formation of the posse -- even though the events, in ``reality'' are taking place not in sequence but simultaneously, and not near each other but at a considerable distance. The ``chase'' as a standard film device probably dates from The Great Train Robbery, and there is a reason for the continued popularity of the device. The chase in itself is a narrative; it presumes both speed and urgency and it demands cutting -- both from pursued to pursuer and from stage to stage of the journey of both. The simple, naked idea of one man chasing another is of its nature better fitted for the film than it is for any other form of fiction. The cowboy films, the cops and robbers films, and the slapstick comedy films culminating in an insane chase are not only catering to what critics may assume to be a vulgar taste for violence; these films and these sequences are also seeking out -- instinctively or by design -- the peculiarly cinematic elements of narrative. There still remained the need for one great film artist to explore the full potential of the new form and to make it an art. The man was D. W. Griffith. When he came to the movies -- more or less by accident -- they were still cheap entertainment capable of enthralling the unthinking for an idle few minutes. In about seven years Griffith either invented or first realized the possibilities of virtually every resource at the disposal of the film maker. Before he was forty Griffith had created the art of the film. Not that there had not been attempts, mostly European, to do exactly that. But in general the European efforts to make an art of the entertainment had ignored the slowly emerging language of the film itself. Staggeringly condensed versions of famous novels and famous plays were presented. Great actors and actresses -- the most notable being Sarah Bernhardt -- were hired to repeat their stage performances before the camera. In all of this extensive and expensive effort, the camera was downgraded to the status of recording instrument for art work produced elsewhere by the actor or by the author. The phonograph today, for all its high fidelity and stereophonic sound, is precisely what the early art purveyors in the movies wished to make of the camera. Not surprisingly, this approach did not work. The effort produced a valuable record of stage techniques in the early years of the century and some interesting records of great theater figures who would otherwise be only names. But no art at all was born of the art effort in the early movies. In general, religious interest seems to exist in all parts of the metropolis; congregational membership, however, is another thing. A congregation survives only if it can sustain a socially homogeneous membership; that is, when it can preserve economic integration. Religious faith can be considered a necessary condition of membership in a congregation, since the decision to join a worshiping group requires some motive force, but faith is not a sufficient condition for joining; the presence of other members of similar social and economic level is the sufficient condition. The breakdown of social homogeneity in inner city areas and the spread of inner city blight account for the decline of central city churches. Central cities reveal two adverse features for the major denominations: (1) central cities tend to be areas of residence for lower social classes; (2) central cities tend to be more heterogeneous in social composition. The central city areas, in other words, exhibit the two characteristics which violate the life principle of congregations of the major denominations: they have too few middle-class people; they mix middle-class people with lower-class residents. Central city areas have become progressively poorer locales for the major denominations since the exodus of middle-class people from most central cities. With few exceptions, the major denominations are rapidly losing their hold on the central city. The key to Protestant development, therefore, is economic integration of the nucleus of the congregation. Members of higher and lower social status often cluster around this nucleus, so that Protestant figures on social class give the impression of spread over all social classes; but this is deceptive, for the core of membership is concentrated in a single social and economic stratum. The congregation perishes when it is no longer possible to replenish that core from the neighborhood; moreover, residential mobility is so high in metropolitan areas that churches have to recruit constantly in their core stratum in order to survive; they can lose higher-and lower-status members from the church without collapsing, but they need adequate recruits for the core stratum in order to preserve economic integration. The congregation is first and foremost an economic peer group; it is secondarily a believing and worshiping fellowship. If it were primarily a believing fellowship, it would recruit believers from all social and economic ranks, something which most congregations of the New Protestantism (with a few notable exceptions) have not been able to do. They survive only when they can recruit social and economic peers. The vulnerability of Protestant congregations to social differences has often been attributed to the ``folksy spirit'' of Protestant religious life; in fact, a contrast is often drawn in this regard with the ``impersonal'' Roman Catholic parish. We have seen that the folksy spirit is confined to economic peers; consequently, the vulnerability to social difference should not be attributed to the stress on personal community in Protestant congregations; actually, there is little evidence of such personal community in Protestant congregations, as we shall see in another connection. The vulnerability of Protestantism to social differences stems from the peculiar role of the new religious style in middle-class life, where the congregation is a vehicle of social and economic group identity and must conform, therefore, to the principle of economic integration. This fact is evident in the recruitment of new members. The rule of economic integration in congregational life can be seen in the missionary outreach of the major denominations. There is much talk in theological circles about the ``Church as Mission'' and the ``Church's Mission''; theologians have been stressing the fact that the Church does not exist for its own sake but as a testimony in the world for the healing of the world. A crucial question, therefore, is what evangelism and mission actually mean in metropolitan Protestantism. If economic integration really shapes congregational life, then evangelism should be a process of extending economic integration. The task of a congregation would be defined, according to economic integration, as the work of co-opting individuals and families of similar social and economic position to replenish the nuclear core of the congregation. (Co-optation means to choose by joint action in order to fill a vacancy; it can also mean the assimilation of centers of power from an environment in order to strengthen an organization. ) In a mobile society, congregational health depends on a constant process of recruitment; this recruitment, however, must follow the pattern of economic integration or it will disrupt the congregation; therefore, the recruitment or missionary outreach of the congregation will be co-optation rather than proclamation -- like elements will have to be assimilated. Evangelism and congregational outreach have not been carefully studied in the churches; one study in Pittsburgh, however, has illuminated the situation. In a sample of new members of Pittsburgh churches, almost 60 per cent were recruited by initial ``contacts with friendly members''. If we add to these contacts with friendly members the ``contacts with an organization of the church'' (11. 2 per cent of the cases), then a substantial two thirds of all recruitment is through friendly contact. On the surface, this seems a sound approach to Christian mission: members of the congregation show by their friendly attitudes that they care for new people; the new people respond in kind by joining the church. Missionary outreach by friendly contact looks somewhat different when one reflects on what is known about friendly contact in metropolitan neighborhoods; the majority of such contacts are with people of similar social and economic position; association by level of achievement is the dominant principle of informal relations. This means that the antennae of the congregation are extended into the community, picking up the wave lengths of those who will fit into the social and economic level of the congregation; the mission of the church is actually a process of informal co-optation; the lay ministry is a means to recruit like-minded people who will strengthen the social class nucleus of the congregation. Churches can be strengthened through this process of co-optation so long as the environs of the church provide a sufficient pool of people who can fit the pattern of economic integration; once the pool of recruits diminishes, the congregation is helpless -- friendly contacts no longer keep it going. The transmutation of mission to co-optation is further indicated by the insignificance of educational activities, worship, preaching, and publicity in reaching new members. The proclamation of the churches is almost totally confined to pastoral contacts by the clergy (17. 3 per cent of new members) and friendly contacts by members (over two thirds if organizational activities are included). Publicity accounted for 1. 1 per cent of the initial contacts with new members. In general, friendly contact with a member followed by contact with a clergyman will account for a major share of recruitment by the churches, making it quite evident that the extension of economic integration through co-optation is the principal form of mission in the contemporary church; economic integration and co-optation are the two methods by which Protestants associate with and recruit from the neighborhood. The inner life of congregations will prosper so long as like-minded people of similar social and economic level can fraternize together; the outer life of congregations -- the suitability of the environment to their survival -- will be propitious so long as the people in the area are of the same social and economic level as the membership. Economic integration ceases when the social and economic statuses in an area become too mixed or conflict with the status of the congregation. In a rapidly changing society congregations will run into difficulties repeatedly, since such nice balances of economic integration are hard to sustain in the metropolis for more than a single generation. The fact that metropolitan churches of the major denominations have moved approximately every generation for the last hundred years becomes somewhat more intelligible in the light of this struggle to maintain economic balance. The expense of this type of organization in religious life, when one recalls the number of city churches which deteriorated beyond repair before being abandoned, raises fundamental questions about the principle of Protestant survival in a mobile society; nonetheless, the prevalence of economic integration in congregations illumines the nature of the Protestant development. It was observed in the introductory chapter that metropolitan life had split into two trends -- expanding interdependence on an impersonal basis and growing exclusiveness in local communal groupings. These trends seem to be working at cross-purposes in the metropolis. Residential associations struggle to insulate themselves against intrusions. The motifs of impersonal interdependence and insulation of residential communities have polarized; the schism between central city and suburb, Negro and White, blue collar and white collar can be viewed as symptomatic of this deeper polarization of trends in the metropolis. It now becomes evident that the denominational church is intimately involved with the economy of middle-class culture, for it serves to crystallize the social class identity of middle-class residential groupings. The accelerated pace of metropolitan changes has accentuated the drive to conformity in congregations of the major denominations. This conformity represents a desperate attempt to stabilize a hopelessly unstable environment. More than creatures of metropolitan forces, the churches have taken the lead in counteracting the interdependence of metropolitan life, crystallizing and perpetuating the stratification of peoples, giving form to the struggle for social homogeneity in a world of heterogeneous peoples. Since American life is committed above all to productivity and a higher standard of economic life, the countervailing forces of residential and religious exclusiveness have fought a desperate, rearguard action against the expanding interdependence of the metropolis. Consumer communities have suffered at the hands of the productive interests. Negroes, Puerto Ricans, and rural newcomers are slowly making their way into the cities. Soon they will fight their way into the lower middle-class suburbs, and the churches will experience the same decay and rebuilding cycle which has characterized their history for a century. The identification of the basic unit of religious organization -- the parish or congregation -- with a residential area is self-defeating in a modern metropolis, for it simply means the closing of an iron trap on the outreach of the Christian fellowship and the transmutation of mission to co-optation. Mission to the metropolis contradicts survival of the congregation in the residential community, because the middle classes are fighting metropolitan interdependence with residential exclusion. This interpretation of the role of residence in the economy of middle-class culture could lead to various projections for the churches. It could be argued that any fellowship which centers in residential neighborhoods is doomed to become an expression of the panic for stable identity among the middle classes. It could be argued that only such neighborhoods can sustain religious activity, since worship presupposes some local stabilities. Whatever projection one makes, the striking fact about congregational and parochial life is the extent to which it is a vehicle of the social identity of middle-class people. Attention will be given in the next chapter to the style of association in the denominational churches; this style is characteristically an expression of the communal style of the middle classes. The keynotes of this style are activism and emphasis on achievements in gaining self-esteem. These values give direction to the life of the middle-class man or woman, dictating the methods of child rearing, determining the pattern of community participation, setting the style for the psychiatric treatment of middle-class illness, and informing the congregational life of the major denominations. ``Fellowship by likeness'' and ``mission by friendly contact'' form the iron cage of denominational religion. Its contents are another matter, for they reveal the kinds of interests pursued by the congregation. What goes on in the cage will occupy our attention under the rubric of the organization church. An understanding of the new role of residential association in an industrial society serves to illuminate the forces which have fashioned the iron cage of conformity which imprisons the churches in their suburban captivity. The perplexing question still remains as to why the middle classes turn to the churches as a vehicle of social identity when their clubs and charities should fill the same need. With capital largely squandered, there seemed to them no other course to pursue. The directors sold directly to concessionaires, who had to make their profits above the high prices asked by the company. These concessionaires traded where they wished and generally dealt with the Indians through engages, who might be habitants, voyageurs, or even soldiers. The concessionaires also had to pay a tax of one-tenth on the goods they traded, and all pelts were to be taken to company stores and shipped to France in company ships. The company disposed of the pelts, but with what profit, the records do not show. In accord with its penurious policy, the company failed to furnish presents to hold the loyalty of the principal Indians. The lavish use of presents had been effective in expanding the Indian trade of New France and Louisiana in the previous century, and the change in liberality aroused resentment in the minds of the red men. Traders from the English colonies were far more generous, and Indian loyalty turned to them. Protests from governors and intendants passed unheeded, and the parsimonious policy of the company probably let loose Indian insurrections that brought ruin to the company. In 1721 the King sent three commissioners to Louisiana with full powers to do all that was necessary to protect the colony. They ordered the raising of troops and obtained 75, 000 livres with which to build forts. They adopted a program by which Louisiana was divided into five districts. In each of these there was to be a strong military post, and a trading depot to supply the smaller trading houses. For southeastern Louisiana, Mobile was the principal post, and it was to furnish supplies for trade to the north and east, in the region threatened by British traders. Mobile was to be the anchor of a chain of posts extending northward to the sources of the Tennessee River. Fort Toulouse, on the Alabama River, had been erected in 1714 for trade with the Alabamas and Choctaws, but money was available for only one other new post, near the present Nashville, Tennessee, and this was soon abandoned. West of the Mobile district was the lower Mississippi district, of which New Orleans was headquarters. Dependent upon it were posts on the lower Mississippi and the region westward to the frontiers of New Spain. On the middle Mississippi a principal post was to be located near the mouth of the Arkansas. It was hoped that to this post would flow a large quantity of furs from the west, principally down the Arkansas River. On the Ohio or Wabash was to be built another post ``at the fork of two great rivers''. Other posts would be established up the Ohio and Wabash to protect communication with Canada. On the upper Mississippi the Illinois post was to be established near Kaskaskia, and dependent posts were to be built on the Missouri, ``where there are mines in abundance''. Each of the five principal posts was to have a director, responsible to a director-general at New Orleans. An elaborate system of accounting and reports was worked out, and the trade was to be managed in the most scientific way. Concessionaires were to be under the supervision of the directors. Engages must be loyal to the concessionaires, and must serve until the term provided in the engagement was ended. The habitants were to be encouraged to trade and were to dispose of their pelts to the concessionaires. Only two principal storehouses were actually established -- one at Mobile, the other at New Orleans. New Orleans supplied the goods for the trade on the Mississippi, and west of that river, and on the Ohio and Wabash. Mobile was also supplied by New Orleans with goods for the Mobile district. The power that Bienville exercised during his first administration cannot be determined. Regulations for the Indian trade were made by the Conseil superieure de la Louisiane, and Bienville apparently did not have control of that body. The Conseil even treated the serious matter of British aggression as its business and, on its own authority, sent to disaffected savages merchandise ``suitable for the peltry trade''. It decided, also, that the purely secular efforts of Bienville were insufficient, and sent missionaries to win the savages from the heathen Carolinians. During the first administration of Bienville, the peltry trade of the Mobile district was a lucrative source of revenue. The Alabamas brought in annually 15, 000 to 20, 000 deerskins, and the Choctaws and Chickasaws brought the total up to 50, 000 pelts. These deerskins were the raw material for the manufacture of leather, and were the only articles which the tribes of this district had to exchange for European goods. During his first administration, Bienville succeeded in keeping Carolina traders out of the Alabama country and the Choctaw country. The director of the post at Mobile kept an adequate amount of French goods, of a kind to which they were accustomed, to supply the Indian needs. The Alabama and Tombigbee rivers furnished a highway by which goods could be moved quickly and cheaply. De La Laude, commander of the Alabama post, had the friendship of the natives, and was able to make them look upon the British as poor competitors. Diron D'Artaguette, the most prominent trader in the district, was energetic and resourceful, but his methods often aroused the ire of the French governors. He became, after a time, commander of a post on the Alabama River, but his operations extended from Mobile throughout the district, and he finally obtained a monopoly of the Indian trade. The Chickasaws were the principal source of trouble in the Mobile district. Their territory lay to the north, near the sources of the Alabama, the Tombigbee, the Tennessee, and Cumberland rivers, and was easily accessible to traders among the near-by Cherokees. In 1720 some Chickasaws massacred the French traders among them, and did not make peace for four years. Venturesome traders, however, continued to come to them from Mobile, and to obtain a considerable number of pelts for the French markets. British traders from South Carolina incited the Indians against the French, and there developed French and British Factions in the tribe. The Chickasaws finally were the occasion for the most disastrous wars during the French control of Louisiana. To hold them was an essential part of French policy, for they controlled the upper termini of the routes from the north to Mobile. They threatened constantly to give the British a hold on this region, from whence they could move easily down the rivers to the French settlements near the Gulf. Bienville realized that if the French were to hold the southeastern tribes against the enticements of British goods, French traders must be able to offer a supply as abundant as the Carolinians and at reasonable prices. His urgings brought some results. The Company of the Indies promised to send over a supply of Indian trading goods, and to price them more cheaply in terms of deerskins. But it coupled with this a requirement that Indians must bring their pelts to Mobile and thus save all costs of transportation into and out of the Indian country. The insistence of Bienville upon giving liberal prices to the Indians, in order to drive back the Carolina traders, was probably a factor that led to his recall in 1724. For two years his friend and cousin, Boisbriant, remained as acting governor and could do little to stem the Anglican advance. Although he incited a few friendly Indians to pillage the invaders, and even kill some of them, the Carolina advance continued. The company was impressed with some ideas of the danger from Carolina, and when Perier came over as governor in 1727, he was given special instructions regarding the trade of the Mobile district. But the Company of the Indies, holding to its program of economy, made no arrangements to furnish better goods at attractive prices. To the directors the problem appeared a matter of intrigue or diplomacy. Perier attempted to understand the problem by sending agents to inquire among the Indians. These agents were to ascertain the difference between English and French goods, and the prices charged the Indians. They were to conciliate the unfriendly savages, and, wherever possible, to incite the natives to pillage the traders from Carolina. They were to promise fine presents to the loyal red men, as well as an abundant supply of trading goods at better prices than the opposition was offering. Perier's intrigues gained some successes. The savages divided into two factions; one was British and the other, French. So hostile did these factions become that, among the Choctaws, civil war broke out. Perier's efforts, however, were on the whole ineffective in winning back the tribes of the Mobile district, and he decided to send troops into the troubled country. He asked the government for two hundred soldiers, who were to be specifically assigned to arrest English traders and disloyal Indians. In spite of the company's restrictions, he planned to build new posts in the territory. He asked also for more supplies to trade at a low price for the Indians'pelts. No help came from the crown, and Perier, in desperation, gave a monopoly of the Indian trade in the district to D'Artaguette. D'Artaguette went vigorously to work, and gave credit to many hunters. But they brought back few pelts to pay their debts, and soon French trade in the region was at an end. Perier finally, in one last bid in 1730, cut the price of goods to an advance of 40 per cent above the cost in France. The Indians were not impressed and held to the Carolina traders, who swarmed over the country, almost to the Mississippi. With the loss of the Mobile trade, which ended all profits from Louisiana, the Natchez Indians revolted. They destroyed a trading house and pillaged the goods, and harassed French shipping on the Mississippi. The war to subdue them taxed the resources of the colony and piled up enormous debts. In January, 1731, the company asked the crown to relieve it of the government of the colony. It stated that it had lost 20, 000, 000 livres in its operations, and apparently blamed its poor success largely on the Indian trade. It offered to surrender its right to exclusive trade, but asked an indemnity. The King accepted the surrender and fixed the compensation of the company at 1, 450, 000 livres. Thenceforth, the commerce of Louisiana was free to all Frenchmen. Company rule in Louisiana left the colony without fortifications, arms, munitions, or supplies. The difficulties of trade had ruined many voyageurs, and numbers of them had gone to live with the natives and rear half-blood families. Others left the country, and there was no one familiar with the Indian trade. If this trade should be resumed, the habitants who had come to be farmers or artisans, and soldiers discharged from the army, must be hardened to the severe life of coureurs de bois. This was a slow and difficult course, and French trade suffered from the many mistakes of the new group of traders. These men were without capital or experience. Perier and Salmon, the intendant, wished either to entrust the trade to an association of merchants or to have the crown furnish goods on credit to individuals who would repay their debts with pelts. Bienville, who returned to succeed Perier in 1732, objected that the merchants would not accept the responsibility of managing a trade in which they could see no hope of profits. He reported, too, that among the habitants there were none of probity and ability sufficient to justify entrusting them with the King's goods. He did find some to trust, however, and he employed the King's soldiers to trade. With no company to interfere, he kept close control over all the traders. In order to compete with English traders, Bienville radically changed the price schedule. The King should expect no profit, and an advance of only 20 per cent above the cost in France, which would cover the expense of transportation and handling, was all he charged the traders. They would not be pleased to have it published back home that they planned a frolic in Paris or Hong Kong at the Treasury's expense. They would be particularly displeased with the State Department if it were the source of such reports. Few things are more perilous for the State Department than a displeased congressman. The reason for this bears explaining for those who may wonder why State spends so much of its diplomatic energy on Congress when the Russians are so available. First, the State Department is unique among government agencies for its lack of public supporters. The farmers may be aroused if Congress cuts into the Agriculture Department's budget. Businessmen will rise if Congress attacks the Commerce Department. Labor restrains undue brutality toward the Labor Department; the Chamber of Commerce, assaults upon the Treasury. A kaleidoscope of pressure groups make it unpleasant for the congressman who becomes ugly toward the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare. The congressman's patriotism is always involved when he turns upon the Defense Department. Tampering with the Post Office may infuriate every voter who can write. With all these agencies, the congressman must constantly check the political wind and trim his sails accordingly. No such political restraint subdues his blood when he gazes upon the State Department in anger. In many sections he may even reap applause from press and public for giving it a good lesson. After all, the money dispensed by State goes not to the farmer, the laborer, or the businessman, but to foreigners. Not only do these foreigners not vote for American congressmen; they are also probably ungrateful for Uncle's Sam's bounty. And are not the State Department men who dispense this largesse merely crackpots and do-gooders who have never met a payroll? Will not the righteous congressman be cheered at the polls if he reminds them to get right with America and if he saves the taxpayer some money by spoiling a few of their schemes? The chances are excellent that he will. The result is that the State Department's perpetual position before Congress is the resigned pose of the whipping boy who expects to be kicked whenever the master has had a dyspeptic outing with his wife. People in this position do not offend the master by relating his peccadilloes to the newspapers. State keeps the junketeering list a secret. The Department expects and receives no thanks from Congress for its discretion. Congress is a harsh master. State is expected to arrange the touring Cicero's foreign itinerary; its embassies are expected to supply him with reams of local money to pay his way; embassy workers are expected to entertain him according to his whim, frequently with their savings for the children's college tuition. But come the next session of Congress, State can expect only that its summer guest will bite its hand when it goes to the Capitol asking money for diplomatic entertaining expenses abroad or for living expenses for its diplomats. The congressman who, in Paris, may have stuffed his wallet with enough franc notes to paper the roof of Notre-Dame will systematically scream that a $ 200 increase in entertainment allowance for a second secretary is tantamount to debauchery of the Treasury. In the matter of money State's most unrelenting watchdog during the Eisenhower years was Representative John J. Rooney, of Brooklyn, who controlled the purse for diplomatic administrative expenses. Diplomats stayed up nights thinking of ways to attain peaceful coexistence, not with Nikita Khrushchev, but with John Rooney. Nothing worked. In the most confidential whispers ambassadors told of techniques they had tried to bring Rooney around -- friendly persuasion, groveling abasement, pressure subtly exerted through other powerful congressmen, tales of heartbreak and penury among a threadbare diplomatic corps. Rooney remained untouched. ``The trouble,'' explained Loy Henderson, then Deputy Undersecretary for Administration, ``is that when we get into an argument with him about this thing, it always turns out that Rooney knows more about our budget than we do''. One year the Department collected a file of case histories to document its argument that men in the field were paying the government's entertainment bills out of personal income. News of the project reached the press. Next day, reports went through the Department that Rooney had been outraged by what he considered a patent attempt to put public pressure on him for increased entertainment allowances and had sworn an oath that, that year, expense allowances would not rise a dollar. They didn't. The Department's constant fight with the House for money is a polite minuet compared with its periodic bloody engagements with the Senate. Armed with constitutional power to negate the Executive's foreign policy, the Senate carries a big stick and is easily provoked to use it on the State Department's back, or on the head of the Secretary of State. With its power to investigate, the Senate can paralyze the Secretary by keeping him in a state of perpetual testimony before committees, as it did with Dean Acheson. John Foster Dulles escaped by keeping his personal show on the road and because Lyndon Johnson, who was then operating the Senate, refused to let it become an Inquisition. During Dulles's first two years in office, while Republicans ran the Senate, the Department was at the mercy of men who had thirsted for its blood since 1945. An internal police operation managed by Scott McLeod, a former F. B. I. man installed as security officer upon congressional insistence, was part of the vengeance. So was the attack upon Charles E. Bohlen when Eisenhower appointed him Ambassador to Moscow. The principal mauler, however, was Senator Joseph McCarthy. Where Acheson had fought a gallant losing battle for the Department, Dulles fed the crocodile with his subordinates. Fretting privately but eschewing public defense of his terrorized bureaucrats, Dulles remained serene and detached while the hatchet men had their way. In view of Eisenhower's reluctance to concede that anything was amiss in the Terror, it is doubtful that heroic intervention by Dulles could have produced anything but disaster for him and the country's foreign policy. In any event, the example of Acheson's trampling by the Senate did not encourage Dulles to provoke it. He elected to ``get along''. During this dark chapter in State Department history, men who had offered foreign-policy ideas later proven wrong by events filled the tumbrels sent up to Capitol Hill. Their old errors of judgment were equated, in the curious logic of the time, with present treasonous intent. Their successors, absorbing the lesson, made it a point to have few ideas. This, in turn, brought a new fashion in senatorial criticism as the Democrats took control. In the new style, the Department was berated as intellectually barren and unable to produce the vital ideas needed to outwit the Russians. For three or four years in the mid-1950's, this complaint was heard rumbling up from the Senate floor whenever there was a dull legislative afternoon. It became smart to say that the fault was with Dulles because he would not countenance thinking done by anyone but himself. An equally tenable thesis is that the dearth of new thought was created by the Senate's own penchant for crucifying anyone whose ideas seem unorthodox to the next generation. there are ninety-eight foreign embassies and legations in Washington. They range from the Soviet Embassy on Sixteenth Street, a gray shuttered pile suggesting a funeral-accessories display house, to what Congressman Rooney has called ``that monstrosity on Thirty-fourth Street'', the modern cement-and-glass chancery of the Belgians. Here is the world of the chauffeured limousine and the gossip reporter, of caviar on stale crackers and the warm martini, of the poseur, the spy, the party crasher, and the patriot, of the rented tails, the double cross, and the tired Lothario. Into its chanceries each day pour reports from ministries around the earth and an endless stream of home-office instructions on how to handle Uncle Sam in an infinite variety of contingencies. Here are hatched plans for getting a share of the American bounty, the secret of the anti-missile missile, or an invitation to dinner. Out of it each week go hundreds of thousands of words purporting to inform home ministries about what is really happening inside Washington. Some, like the British and the French, maintain an elaborate system of personal contacts and have experts constantly studying special areas of the American scene. Other embassies cable home The New York Times without changing a comma. Each has its peculiar style. The Soviet Embassy is popularly regarded as Russian espionage headquarters. When Ambassador Mikhail Menshikov took it over in 1957 from Georgi Zaroubin, he made a determined effort to change this idea. Menshikov hit Washington with a TV announcer's grin and a hearty handclasp. To everyone's astonishment he seemed no more like the run-of-the-mine Russian ambassador than George Babbitt was like Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov. Where his predecessors had glowered, Menshikov smiled. Where they had affected the bleak social style of embalmers'assistants, Menshikov went abroad gorgeous in white tie and tails. Overnight he became the most available man in Washington. Speeches by the Soviet ambassador became the vogue as he obliged rural Maryland Rotarians and National Press Club alike. In Senator Joseph McCarthy's phrase, it was the most unheard-of thing ever heard of. A newspaperman who met him at a reception swore that he asked Menshikov: ``What should we call you''? And that Menshikov replied: ``Just call me Mike''. ``Smilin'Mike'' was the sobriquet Washington gave him. His English was usable and he used it fearlessly. Toasting in champagne one night at the embassy, he hoisted his glass to a senator's wife and gaily cried: ``Up your bottom''! For a few giddy months that coincided with one of Moscow's smiling moods, he was the sensation of Washington. At the State Department, hard-bitten Russian experts complained that the Capitol was out of its wits. Newspaper punditry was inspired to remind everyone that Judas, too, had been able to smile. The Menshikov interlude ended as larks with the Russians usually end. Finding peaceful coexistence temporarily unsuitable because of domestic politics, Moscow resumed scowling and ``Smilin'Mike'' dropped quietly out of the press except for an occasional story reporting that he had been stoned somewhere in the Middle West. The most inscrutable embassies are the Arabs ', and the most inscrutable of the Arabs are the Saudi Arabians. When King Saud visited Washington, the overwhelming question consuming the press was the size of his family. Rumor had it that his children numbered in the hundreds. The State Department was little help on this, or on much else about Saudi Arabia. A reporter who consulted a Middle East Information officer for routine vital statistics got nowhere until the State Department man produced from his bottom desk drawer a brochure published by the Arabian-American Oil Company. ``This is where I get my information from'', he confided. ``But bring it right back. It's the only copy I've got''. The size of Saud's family was still being debated when the King appeared for his first meeting with Eisenhower. When it ended, a dusky sheik in desert robes flowed into Hagerty's office to report on the interview. The massed reporters brushed aside the customary bromides about Saudi-American friendship to bore in on the central question. How many children did the King have? ``Twenty-one'', replied the sheik. And how many of these were sons? ``Twenty-five'', the sheik replied. ``Do you mean to tell us'', a reporter asked, ``that the King has twenty-one children, twenty-five of whom are sons''? The sheik smiled and murmured: ``That is precisely correct''. The Egyptians are noted for elusiveness of language. When Dag Hammarskjold was negotiating the Middle East peace after Israel's 1956 invasion of Egypt, he soon found himself speaking the mysterious phrases of Cairo, a language as anarchic as Casey Stengel's. The reports of President Nasser's pledges which Hammarskjold was relaying from Cairo to Washington became increasingly incomprehensible to other diplomats, including the Israeli Foreign Minister, Mrs. Golda Meir. Finally he reported that Nasser was ready to make a concrete commitment in return for Israeli concessions. The deep water is used by many people, but it is always clean, for the washing is done outside. I know now why our Japanese friends were surprised when they walked into our bathroom. Of course, most toilets are Eastern style -- at floor level -- but even when they are raised to chair height, they are actually outside toilets -- inside. A few newer homes have Western flush toilets, but even with running water, they are usually Eastern style. The next day I visited International Christian College which has developed since the war under the leadership of people who were interned and who know Japan well. They are trying to demonstrate some different ways of teaching and learning. The library has open shelves even in the unbound periodical stockroom. Spiritual life is cultivated, but students do not need to be Christian. They have an enviable record of being able to place in employment 100 % of their graduates. In the afternoon Miss Hosaka and her mother invited me to go with them and young Mrs. Kodama to see the famous Spring dances of the Geisha dancers. Mrs. Hosaka is one of the Japanese women one reads about -- beautiful, artistically talented, an artful manager of her big household -- (four boys and four girls), and yet looking like a pampered, gentle Japanese woman. She was a real experience! The dances were as beautiful as anything I have ever seen -- they rival the New York Rockettes for scenery and precision as well as imagination. Because Don was leaving the next day, I spent the evening with him at Asia Center. The following morning Mr. Morikawa called for me, and we went to visit schools -- kindergarten, middle-school, elementary school, and high school -- Mr. Yoshimoto's school. There is much more freedom in the schools here than I expected -- some think too much. There is a great deal of thought being given to the question of moral education in the schools. With the loss of the Emperor diety in Japan, the people are left in confusion with no God or moral teachings that have strength. The older parents continued to teach their children traditional principles, but the younger people, who have lost all faith and convictions, are now parents. There seems to be no purpose in life that is sure -- no certain guiding principles to give stability. As a result, money is spent quickly and freely, with no thought of its value. Gambling is everywhere, especially among students. Parents indulge their children. The government has recognized the dilemma and is beginning to devise some moral education for the schools -- but the teachers often have no firm conviction and are confused. I was told that it is quite likely that Japanese soldiers would not fight again -- for why should they? It will be painful, but interesting, to see what kind of a god these people will create or what strong convictions they will develop. In the evening the former Oregon State science teachers met for dinner at the New Tokyo Restaurant where I had my first raw fish and found it good. They suggested several new foods, and usually I found them good, except the sweets, which I think I could learn to like. Six of the science teachers were present, and we had great fun. After a day at Nikko, Mrs. Kodama put me on the train for Kyoto. My instructions were that Mr. Nishimo would meet me at the hotel, but instead he and three others were at the station with a very warm welcome. My hotel rooms on the trip were arranged by Masu and the Japan Travel Bureau and were more elegant than I would have chosen, but it was fun for once to be elegant -- I did explain to the students, however, that this was not my usual style, for their salaries are very small, and it seemed out of place for me to be housed so well. They understood and teased me a bit about it. I think I would have been much disappointed in Japan if I had not seen Kyoto, Nara, and Hiroshima. Kyoto is the ancient capital of Japan and still its cultural center. It, along with Nara, was untouched by the war -- and is now a beautiful example of the loveliness of prewar Japan. Here I was accompanied by Mrs. Okamoto (Fumio's mother), her son, Mr. Washizu (a prospective student with whom I have been corresponding for more than a year), and Mr. Nishima, one of the science teachers. I arrived at 7: 00 a. m. and by 9: 00 a. m. I had finished breakfast and was on my way to see what they had planned. We walked miles and saw various shrines and gardens. We visited the Okamoto home -- where for the first time I saw the famous tea ceremony. At 6: 00 p. m. we went to the Kyoto Spring dances at the place where these beautiful dances originated. They were even better than those of Tokyo -- more spectacular and more imaginative. After a supper of unagi (rice with eel -- eel which is raised in an ice-cold pond at the foot of Mt. Fuji), I returned to my beautiful room to sleep as hard as possible to be ready for another busy day. We started at 9 a. m. to visit the Kyoto University where Mr. Washizu is attending. I was amazed at the very poor hospital facilities accompanying the medical school. They apologized for the condition, including dirt and flies, and I was a little at a loss to know what to say. There seemed to be no excuse? I don't have the answer yet. We had tea at Mr. Washizu's home where I learned that he, too, comes from a very wealthy family. His grandfather is a Buddhist priest; and he, being the eldest, was supposed to be a priest, but he chose to do differently, and one of his brothers is to become the priest. This is a significant fact in Japan, for only a few years ago he would have had no choice. In his big home live four families and thirty people, so it needs to be big. Also, there are housed here some priceless historical treasures from 400 to 600 years old -- paintings, lacquer, brocade, etc.. He had displayed more of them than usual so that I could enjoy them. About 100 of the most important items he had already given to the museum. The house itself is 400 years old with all the craftsmanship of older, less-hurried times. Mr. Nishima went with me on the train to Nara. We passed his house and school on the way. In Nara I stayed at the hotel where the Prince and Princess had stayed on their honeymoon. A new red carpet had been laid for their coming, but I walked on it, too. Here Mr. Yoneda met us after a three-hour train trip from the town where he teaches. Even though we had walked miles in Kyoto that day, we started out again to see Nara at night. In the evening both of the men went with me on the train 30 miles to Osaka to put me on the train for Hiroshima. Again the plan was for me to go alone, but they wouldn't let me. At Osaka, Mr. Yoneda had to leave us to get the train to his home, but Mr. Nishima and I had an hour and a half before train time to see Osaka at night. It is the second largest city in Japan, with about four million people. One spot in Osaka I shall always remember -- the bridge where we stood to watch the reflections of the elaborate neon signs in the still waters of the river. In the midst of a great busy city, people take time to enjoy the beauty of natural reflection of artificial light. My train arrived in Hiroshima at the awful hour of 4: 45 a. m.. I had planned to go to the hotel by taxi and sleep a little, after which Mr. Uno would arrive and pilot me around. But there he was at the train with an Oregon State pennant in his hand. I know now why the students insisted that I go to Hiroshima even when I told them I didn't want to. They knew that I was still grieving over the tragic event, and they felt that if I could see the recovery and the spirit of the people, who hold no grudge, but who also regret Pearl Harbor, I would be happier and would understand better a new Japan. There were no words to say this but there was no need. The teachers of Mr. Uno's school gave me a small gift to thank me for coming. Hiroshima is a better city than it was before -- in the minds of the people I met was a strong determination for peace and understanding. I was grateful for their insight into my need for this experience. A better world may yet come out of Hiroshima. On arriving in Tokyo later we were met by Masu who took us immediately to her university, the Japanese Women's University. This day was ``Open House for Parents'' day, and the girls were busy preparing exhibits and arranging tea tables. Everything was in an exciting turmoil -- full of anticipation and fun. It was thrilling to see the effect of an American-trained teacher on Japanese students in a class in Home Planning. Our Masu is one of the very few architects in Japan who is trying to plan homes around family functions and women's needs. I am told the time will soon come when women will find it necessary to do most of their own work, and even now it is important to have conveniences for the use of servants. Many of the features of the homes are the latest modern devices in American homes, but an interesting blend of cultures finds us using Japanese artfulness in our own Western architecture at the same time that the Japanese are adopting Western utility patterns. At this Women's University we find a monument to a courageous family who believed that Japanese women also should be educated. Even today there are some doubts about the value of education for Japanese women, but this University continues to grow and to send its students out into the community. Active alumnae have built a fine building on the campus where members can come and stay for a few days or longer and where they can have their social gatherings and professional meetings. As far as I am concerned there is continuous piling up of evidence that the creative fresh ideas which are needed in the world are going to be found by educated women unafraid to break traditions. Masu is also teaching in a municipally-sponsored school for Japanese widows in Tokyo. Here the women learn to keep house as maids; they become skilled in cooking and cleaning and in receiving guests. They learn how to take care of children and sick members of the family. They have model kitchens, a sick room with a model patient in bed, and a nursery with a life-like doll. Although the training is only for one month, it is intensive and thorough. Graduates of this maid's school are much in demand and can always find work immediately. Occasionally they return for additional training. Masu's home economics training comes into play as she designs cupboards along modern functional lines for the storage of cleaning materials. Masu also uses the training she got in an American home where she learned to polish furniture, clean corners, and work effectively in keeping a shiny house. Her education in the United States, not just in a classroom, but also in an American house with an American housekeeper, stands her in good stead. After a fine luncheon in the cafeteria, the kitchen of which Masu had planned, Mr. Washizu and I left to meet representatives of the USIS for a visit to the University of Tokyo. Here again it was vacation time and there were many things I could not see, but I was able to visit with a professor who is famous in Japanese circles and be guided through the grounds by his assistant. The achievement of the desegregation of certain lunch counters not only by wise action by local community leaders but by voluntary action following consultation between Attorney General Rogers and the heads of certain national chain stores should, of course, be applauded. But for it to be just to attain this same result by means of the force of a boycott throughout the nation would require the verification of facts contrary to those assumed in the foregoing case. The suppositions in the previous illustration might be sufficiently altered by establishing a connection between general company practice and local practice in the South, and by establishing such direct connection between the practice and the economic well-being of stores located in New York and general company policy. Then the boycott would not be secondary, but a primary one. It would be directed against the actual location of the unjust policy which, for love's sake and for the sake of justice, must be removed, and, indivisible from this, to the economic injury of the people directly and objectively a part of this policy. Perhaps this would be sufficient to justify an economic boycott of an entire national chain in order, by threatening potential injury to its entire economy, to effect an alteration of the policy of its local stores in the matter of segregation. Such a general boycott might still be a blunt or indiscriminating instrument, and therefore of questionable justification. Action located where the evil is concentrated will prove most decisive and is most clearly legitimate. Moreover, prudence alone would indicate that, unless the local customs are already ready to fall when pushed, the results of direct economic action everywhere upon national chain stores will likely be simply to give undue advantage to local and state stores which conform to these customs, leading to greater decentralization and local autonomy within the company, or even (as the final self-defeat of an unjust application of economic pressure to correct injustice) to its going out of business in certain sections of the country (as, for that matter, the Quakers, who once had many meetings in the pre-Civil War South, largely went out of business in that part of the country over the slavery issue, never to recover a large number of southern adherents). In any case, anyone who fails to make significant distinction between primary and secondary applications of economic pressure would in principle already have justified that use of economic boycott as a means which broke out a few years ago or was skillfully organized by White Citizens'Councils in the entire state of Mississippi against every local Philco dealer in that state, in protest against a Philco-sponsored program over a national TV network on which was presented a drama showing, it seemed, a ``high yellow gal'' smooching with a white man. It is true, of course, that the end or objective of this action was different. But since this is a world in which people disagree about ends and goals and concerning justice and injustice, and since, in a situation where direct action and economic pressure are called for, the justice of the matter has either not been clearly defined by law or the law is not effectively present, there has to be a morality of means applied in every case in which people take it upon themselves to use economic pressures or other forms of force. The need that we not give unqualified approval to any but a limited use of economic pressure directed against the actual doers of injustice is clear also in light of the fact that White Citizens'Councils seem resolved to maintain segregation mainly by the use of these same means and not ordinarily by physical violence. An unlimited use of economic pressures for diametrically opposite causes could devastate the pre-conditions of any fellow humanity as surely as this would be destroyed by the use of more obviously brutal means. The end or aim of the action, of course, is also important, especially where it is not alone a matter of changing community customs but of the use of deadly economic power to intimidate a person from stepping forward to claim his legal rights, e. g., against Negroes who register to vote in Fayette County, Tennessee, at the present moment. Here the recourse is in steps to give economic sustenance to those being despoiled, and to legal remedies. This, however, is sufficient to show that more or less non-violent resistance and economic conflict (if both sides are strong enough) can be war of all against all no less than if other means are used. It is also sufficient to show the Christian and any other champion of justice that he needs to make sure not only that his cause is just but also that his conduct is just, i. e., that, if economic pressure has to be resorted to, this be applied directly against those persons directly in the way of some salutary change in business or institutional practices, while, if injury fall upon others, it fall upon them indirectly and secondarily (however inevitably) and not by deliberate intent and direct action against them. It is clear that non-violent resistance is a mode of action in need of justification and limitation in Christian morality, like any other form of resistance. The language used itself often makes very clear that this is only another form of struggle for victory (perhaps to be chosen above all others). One of the sit-in leaders has said: ``Nobody from the top of Heaven to the bottom of Hell can stop the march to freedom. Everybody in the world today might as well make up their minds to march with freedom or freedom is going to march over them''. The present writer certainly agrees with that statement, and would also affirm this -- in the order of justice. However, it is also a Christian insight to know that unless charity interpenetrates justice it is not likely to be freedom that marches forward. And when charity interpenetrates man's struggle for justice and freedom it does not simply surround this with a sentimental good will. It also definitely fashions conduct in the way explained above, and this means far more than in the choice of non-violent means. R. B. Gregg has written that ``non-violence and good will of the victim act like the lack of physical opposition by the user of physical jiu-jitsu, to cause the attacker to lose his moral balance. He suddenly and unexpectedly loses the moral support which the usual violent resistance of most victims would render him''; and again, that ``the object of non-violent resistance is partly analogous to this object of war -- namely, to demoralize the opponent, to break his will, to destroy his confidence, enthusiasm, and hope. In another respect it is dissimilar, for non-violent resistance demoralizes the opponent only to re-establish in him a new morale that is firmer because it is based on sounder values''. A trial of strength, however, is made quite inevitable by virtue of the fact that anyone engaging in non-violent resistance will be convinced that his action is based on sounder values than those of his opponent; and in warfare with any means, men commonly disagree over the justice of the cause. This makes necessary a morality of means, and principles governing the conduct of resistance whenever this is thought to be justified. The question, then, is whether sufficient discrimination in the use of even non-violent means of coercion is to be found in the fact that such conduct demoralizes and overcomes the opponent while re-moralizing and re-establishing him. Here it is relevant to remember that men commonly regard some causes as more important than their lives; and to them it will seem insignificant that it is proposed to defeat such causes non-violently. A technique by which it is proposed to enter with compulsion into the very heart of a man and determine his values may often in fact seem the more unlimited aggression. Among Christian groups, the Mennonites have commonly been aware more than others of the fact that the nature of divine charity raises decisively the question of the Christian use of all forms of pressure. Since the will and word of God are for them concentrated in Christ-like love, it seems clear to them that non-violent resistance is quite another thing. ``The primary objective of non-violence'', writes the outstanding Mennonite ethicist, ``is not peace, or obedience to the divine will, but rather certain desired social changes, for personal, or class, or national advantage''. Without agreeing with every phrase in this statement, we must certainly assert the great difference between Christian love and any form of resistance, and then go on beyond the Mennonite position and affirm that Christian love-in-action must first justify and then determine the moral principles limiting resistance. These principles we have now set forth. Economy in the use of power needs not only to be asserted, but clearly specified; and when this is done it will be found that the principles governing Christian resistance cut across the distinction between violent and non-violent means, and apply to both alike, justifying either on occasion and always limiting either action. Economy in the use of power means more than inflicting a barely intolerable pressure upon an opponent and upon the injustice opposed. That would amount to calculating the means and justifying them wholly in terms of their effectiveness in reaching desired goals. There must also be additional and more fundamental discrimination in the use of means of resistance, violent or non-violent. The justification in Christian conscience of the use of any mode of resistance also lays down its limitation -- in the distinction between the persons against whom pressure is primarily directed, those upon whom it may be permitted also to fall, and those who may never be directly repressed for the sake even of achieving some great good. In these terms, the ``economic withdrawal'' of the Negroes of Nashville, Tennessee, from trading in the center city, for example, was clearly justified, since these distinctions do not require that only people subjectively guilty be singled out. We may now take up for consideration a hard case which seems to require either no action employing economic pressure or else action that would seem to violate the principles set forth above. There may be instances in which, if economic pressure is to be undertaken at all, this would have to be applied without discrimination against a whole people. An excellent article was published recently in the Journal Of The Church Peace Union by a South African journalist on the inhuman economic conditions of the blacks in South Africa, amounting to virtual slavery, and the economic complicity of both the government and the people of the United States in these conditions. ``Billions of American dollars, not only from capital investors but also from the pockets of U. S. taxpayers'', this author states, ``are being poured into South Africa to support a system dedicated to the oppression, the persecution, and the almost diabolical exploitation of 12 million people the color of whose skins happens not to be white''. Both the conditions and the complicity are documented in considerable detail. This leads to the conclusion that ``the fact is inescapable that America does have a say in whether or not apartheid shall continue''. Our leadership in a wide economic boycott of South Africa would be not only in accord, it seems, with the moral conscience of America, not to be denied because we also as a people have widespread injustice in the relations of the races in our own country, but also in accord with our law, U. S. Code Title 19, Section 1307, which forbids the importation of goods made by forced or convict labor. Not only should this provision be enforced but other economic and political actions might be taken which, this author believes, ``must surely be supported by every American who values the freedom that has been won for him and whose conscience is not so dominated by the lines in his account books that he can willingly and knowingly contribute to the enslavement of another nation''. 