Site Ed. Note: We are reminded of the "Furniture Guys", for some reason. Whatever happened to them? It was time for a humorous do-it-yourself program for a change after all those udder ones.

Anyhow, one finds it hard to take the horsehair very seriously when he, the horse, that is, is constantly brushing its tail upon thy mane as thine attempts to shoe on the fly between the knees.

We knew some horsehair once. It lied all the time in its stall. And it, being a real --- -- - -----, just like the strikers below who started the riot among the children, we decided, in the main, to stuff it, right back where it belonged, in its loveseat.

As for the South Sea Bubbles Francey Scheme of Reynolds, he should have stuck to kissing Harlowe maybe. But that was tough, for she was dead.

The horsehair sofa era was in full flower down at the City Council chamber yesterday.

So far as the comfort station goes, we don't give two whoops whether it is located in the old cemetery or at the Square. It would probably cost less if located in the cemetery, but it would be more convenient for more people at the Square. But the notion that there would be anything offensive about the place does seem to be a relic from the age when horsehair was in bloom.

The main issue--as to whether the place shall be made into a downtown park--was completely slurred over by the City Council. But the ladies of the D. A. R. made it amply clear that they were dead agin it. Oh, yes, they were quite eager to have the township in and help 'em beautify it--and heaven knows it needs it. But they made it clear, too, that they wanted the two strands of barbaric barbed wire, which they said they "had gone to great trouble and expense to put up," and the "NO TRESPASSING" signs, to stay put.

That was the way it was, you know. You had a parlor. You "beautified" it by putting in the horsehair sofa, the upright piano, the whatnot, fifteen red plush chairs, nineteen china bulldogs and shepherds and shepherdesses, rushes under glass over the mantle, and 338 family portraits. And then--then you shut up the windows tight, pulled down the shades all the way, locked the door, and never, never opened the place up save for very special company indeed.

Robert Rice Reynolds, who once left the Virgin Islands in a huff and announced that they ought to be given away to the first possible taker, has now expanded his scheme for getting us into war with England, France, and Canada. Last Fall he busted loose with a proposal that England and France ought to pay off their war debts to us by handing over the West Indies in toto, French Guiana, and Labrador and Newfoundland. And now he wants a corridor through Canada to Alaska.

It is a little difficult to reconcile Robert's lust for the French and British West Indies with his dissatisfaction with the big West Indian island which is already ours. And as for taking over the Canadian territories and carving the land in two with a corridor--has Robert asked the Canadians?

But, ah, now, we are pretending to take Robert seriously. And, of course, we oughtn't to. The scheme is silly, quite as though English holders of the long-ago defaulted Mississippi bonds should propose to take over North Carolina in payment. And its purpose is not sincere at all, but only the same as the kissing of blonde actresses in public--to keep Robert's name in the public prints. Moreover we observe suddenly that we are playing the sucker and helping the purpose along. Good day!

The young woman who used to be secretary to Simone Simon got a sentence of from three to forty-two years in Los Angeles court yesterday. She stole some $6,500. Mr. Richard Whitney stole some part of a million and got three to five years. Which is interesting to say the least.

The young woman, as a matter of fact, will only have to serve nine months provided she lives up to the condition imposed by the judge. And it is that condition which engages our attention. During the trial, the young woman started to make some purportedly spicy revelations about her former employer, and got so far as saying that the fair if a little petulant Simon had passed out to "friends" two golden keys to her apartment. The judge stopped the story there, and the condition is that the young woman shall never reveal who got the happy keys.

Which seems, somehow, a little odd. We don't like the young woman. She seems to have been a snitch who was trying to retaliate upon her accuser. And we know no reason at all that the public should be let in on the private affairs of the little French girl. But we don't know of any reason, either, why a court should set itself up as the protector of little actresses' secrets, and why a judge, without any warrant in law, should make his personal chivalry toward little actresses the measure of the punishment to be meted out to a thief.

From our rhapsody in yesterday's paper over the prospect of a slum-clearance project in this slum-infested town, the realtors brought us back to earth (at so much a front foot) with a jolt. It is quite true, as was pointed out, in the statement of Mr. Lex Marsh, president of the Charlotte Real Estate Board, that slum dwellers simply don't move into these brand-new, spanking clean apartments. None has yet. Reason they don't is that they can't afford them. Even with the upkeep subsidy that the Government so thoughtfully provides, rents that have to be charged in order to make the properties pay for themselves are more than the ill-housed third of our people can pay.

And yet, the thing is eminently worth undertaking, at that. For one reason, we are going to have to pay for these Federal handouts whether or not we get our share of them. There is considerable unemployment in the building trades, which a slum-clearance project and the building of a couple of hospitals will help mightily to relieve. And indirectly, slum clearance does clear slums. One crowd moves up and into the new dwellings, and their former places are taken by the crowd beneath them.

Besides, the alternative to turning down the Government's offer is to stay as we are, lousy with slums and doing nothing about them. Anything would be better than that.

When at the beginning of the Summer the Greatest Show on Earth had to go dejectedly back into Winter quarters on account of labor trouble, the big top and a number of the star performers were sent out West to augment the Al G. Barnes Circus. Gargantua the gorilla and Frank Buck and the Flying Wallendas and that gorgeous blonde trapezist and some of the other top-notchers were among them, and because of a far-fetched notion that these, including Gargantua, were scabs, a thousand labor union members and sympathizers in Janesville, Wisconsin, picketed the show and started a riot.

That's going too far. In the first place, children have to take their papas and mamas to the circus, and anybody who could start a riot on a lot jammed with children is a ------ --- -- ----------, net. In the second place, though we've already called them the worst we can think of, our labor friends should take care lest the same sour leaven be working in them as in the dictatorship boys--the leaven of an ideology--of fighting other people because they don't wear the same armlets--of crusading after holy grails and totally flouting the spirit which gives them any meaning. Most of all they should take care lest they make themselves ridiculous, for once the people of this nation start laughing at an institution, no matter how seriously it takes itself, they laugh it clear out of existence.

Dr. Wesley Marvin Robey, to whom death came Tuesday night in faraway California, needs no written eulogy. A thousand people spoke it for him yesterday when they said, "Dr. Robey is dead." And they were sorrowed by the message, and they thought kind thoughts of him.

It is no wonder that they did, for kindness itself was the essence of this man's nature--kindness, gentleness, uprightness and a certain raw high toughness of character. It was this fortitude which enabled him to bear out the last years of his life, which he knew were few, with no apparent change in his cheerful demeanor. He remained the amiable and kindly philosopher, the professional man whose roots and resources went back to the soil, the helpful friend even though he himself was beyond help.