The Charlotte News

Sunday, January 14, 1940


Site Ed. Note: Incidentally, having thought some more about that last day's last drawled editorial, we have to wonder whether Gene Cox, sounding a bit Asthall Manorial, with all of that talk regarding the inestimable purity of Southern womanhood, was suffering from dementia præcox, murther's burthen from rum and wood. In any event, the chimp-dope laughed, and we might have retorted to the Hon. Cox: When yer limp rope snapped, did it bend ye treetop abaft?

There are two other editorials of this date, but when we collected separately the Sundays only for January, 1940 in the first months of 1999, we were looking only for those editorials on foreign affairs and so, to save a half a minute and a dime, we left off the other two. We shall obtain them for you soon, having, preveniently, saved up our shekels since, such that we can afford a couple of dimes, as long as we can afford the gas to get there--which tends to be prohibitive both when examining our pocketbook and our conscience. (We were reminding ourselves last night, in re-reading The Ascent of Man, that all of man's continuing struggle toward civilization has transpired only since the last ice age; we thus wish, the way things appear to be headed, our extended progeny good fortune on the other side of the bergs to come within about a hundred years or less, as the United States becomes a tropical paradise, full of breadfruit but no wheat.) So, since the library is a bit too far to which to walk, run, or bike, please be patient.

And, speaking of 1976...

Poor Rich Man*

He Can't Keep It; He Can't Even Give It Away

If, after sympathizing with the poor little Chinese and the poor little Finns, there is any sympathy left, it may be wise to save that for the poor hypothetical fellow described on page 231 of a tax study by the Twentieth Century Fund.

At first glance, this chap would seem to be rolling in good fortune. He is (theoretical, understand) an officer of a corporation in New York or Illinois. His income is one million iron men a year, derived from his salary, dividends and interest from stocks and bonds and revenue from real property that he owns.

And by the time he gets through paying local, state and Federal taxes on this property and income, guess what. Right. He hasn't any left. Not a copper to show for a million bucks.

This, the Twentieth Century Fund concedes, to be sure, is an extreme case. The gentleman would have to expose himself wholeheartedly to the tax-gatherers, without, so to speak, taking the preventive measures which he could take under the law.

Nevertheless, if he should fail to take them, and that would be his lookout, the whole thing would go to the politicians. And we were just thinking that if President Roosevelt's proposal of a blanket ten per cent increase in Federal income taxes should go through, our hypothetical millionaire would be in the hole at the end of the year.

He'd be better off, that is, if he gave up his job and sold his property and distributed it among poor relatives--no, by George, the gift taxes would get him then and he'd be worse off than he was before.


A Candidate Smacks Over A Most Solid Tradition

There's one thing about the Hon. Lee Gravely's announcement of his candidacy for the Democratic nomination to the Governorship which is remarkably striking. There may be other things. Just now we are not concerned with them.

To say the truth, this one item is so remarkable that we simply haven't had time to pause to contemplate the rest of what he had to say. Remarkable? It is scarcely the word. Wonderful probably would be better. And indeed, to do full credit to the theme, we should have to collect the gentlemen from Hollywood who think up the adjectives for the movie trailers.

For the Hon. Mr. Gravely is a great innovator, a smasher of precedents to make the present occupant of the White House look pale. To the best of our knowledge and belief, no American politician of any sober consideration ever did anything of the kind in the long annals of the Republic. Or, in fact, any politico of any sober consideration since Aristophanes paid his respects to those of the Athenian Republic.

For, look you, when the Hon. Lee announced himself for Governor, he did [remainder of editorial presently unavailable].

Little Foxes

British, Nazis Play The Game Of Making Faces

Nya, Nya, Nya, said the little fox--
Nya, Nya, Nya, said the little fox--
Nya, Nya, Nya, said the little fox--
You can't catch me!

It is a grim game the British and Nazis are playing, but it somehow reminds us of that crazy song which is going around.

The Nazis fly over and bomb some British ships off the English coast. In retaliation, the British promptly fly over and bomb the Island of Sylt, German airbase, putting a causeway out of commission and dousing some flares.

Thereupon the Nazis take to ranging up toward London and looking over the outskirts of that city, without dropping any bombs. Indeed, they range all up and down the east coast of the British islands, without dropping any bombs save on shipping, and flying too high to be reached by anti-aircraft fire. For that the British retaliate by flying over Hamburg and Cologne and other western Germans towns, without dropping any bombs and flying too high for anti-aircraft fire.

Then the Germans respond to that by flying over on the western side of England, sinking a ship by bombs, and droning over the towns ominously, without dropping any bombs. And to that again the British respond by flying over Austria and Bohemia without dropping any bombs.

Fritz sticks out his tongue. Tommy sticks out his. Fritz puts up his fists. Tommy puts up his. Fritz puts a chip on his shoulder. Tommy puts one on his. "I dare ye," says Fritz. "I dare ye," says Tommy. "Boy, am I going to chew you up!" says Fritz. "Boy, am I going to tear you down!" says Tommy.

Nya, Nya, Nya, said the little fox--
Nya, Nya, Nya, said the little fox--
Nya, Nya, Nya, said the little fox--
You can't catch me!

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