The Charlotte News

Thursday, January 4, 1940


Site Ed. Note: Back in March, 2005 when the Spartans were headed to No. 1 and all was well in Mudville, (whereas now, it is plain to anyone of discrimination that the Spartans are headed for the cellar, sadly), we noted that we would inform you if we were ever to locate a piece on Cash's expertise on Zuluism, as suggested by J. E. Dowd, upon the occasion of announcing Cash's March, 1941 Guggenheim Fellowship award. Well, below, perhaps, we have located, at least a subliminal reference suggesting his expertise on the subject, at least insofar as it pertains to Zombism.

We were reading this novel, Gone With the Juaned, by Minnie Meece Endafioux, a book based on Revelations in the Bible. We have not yet reached the last chapter and thus we cannot reveal to you yet how it all ends. We'll let you know. So far, it appears to be a very sad tale, yet chocked full of demonically inspired acts and re-acts, some worthy of the Demiurge.

"By the Air?" reveals more about eggs and eggmen. Some of us need them. Some of us crack them. Some of us eat them. Some of us even throw them on occasion to make some assaultive statement.

They did that in June, 1914, for instance, in Sarajevo. They missed.

Unfortunately, however, the Driver of the targeted vehicle took then a wrong right turn, and by the apparently accidental concordance of the far fetid fay-mickled inattention and the ephemeral seated nixie-meted trans-fixation, a memory lost of reading dixie-fêted man's sensation, fortuitously absorbed within the cafe's concourse, then tried to back out of it.

The proximate results were two world wars and the Cold War, as well as other misadventures along the way.

Object lesson: watch how and where you Drive, as well your egg-throwing.

Thermite, incidentally, is typically derivative of rust.

Now, some may ask, "How, if the Driver's driveshaft was broken, was he to slow down the Truck there in Albemarle, with his gearbox? How again, if no airbrakes, would putting the hammer down aid in gripping the road?"

Well, we might respond that, while those inquiries convey some good reading, there is nevertheless an explanation derivative of both the empirical and the inferential data provided, at least to support the suggested resolution we gave you the first time:

As to the second part of the query, we would have to turn back a page and advise to pay better attention to the Roads you are or have been before traveling down. 10-4, 25 or 62.

For the first, we would suggest that you're overlooking a few of your gears to get too fast to the result you might desire. So, slow 'er down, utilizing the box, and figure that one out better by the direction you might be headed through the forest.

Also, study Turkish maneuvers along the Soviet border in 1948.

There ye go.

For more on Mr. Nixon, go here.


Council Agrees To Stage Field Day On Blue Laws

Among all things Mr. S. Chester Nixon does best (1) to make a speech, and (2) to make a speech about Blue Laws. Week in and week out he has waged war on the City Council a sort of one-horse ride for modification of the remarkable ordinance forbidding protected amusements on Sunday. And yesterday he actually obtained the Council's promise to have a meeting on the subject at some future time.

It ought to be a lively occasion and should be a good news story. What it will accomplish we don't know. Despite the innumerable laws which have been written in the cause on Sunday sports and Sunday movies, [indiscernible word] trying to inculcate piety [indiscernible word] of the law-making power, we do not much care.

And a change in the Blue Laws is as certain as the certainty of change. Several factors will determine the time of this change: the growth of the City, the extent to which the native Mecklenburger is influenced by association with persons of a more cosmopolitan outlook, the exposure of the old consolation invented by the Scotch that, since much pleasure is expensive, all pleasure is sinful.

Already, we should judge, the attitude of the most of our citizens is that the observance of Sunday should be left up to the individual, so long as he does not interfere with the right of other individuals to worship undisturbed and so long as the natural law of a day of rest in seven is retained. Between this private conviction and official action there is bound to be a time lag, but the only question remaining is not, will the Blue Laws be eased? It is, when?

Site Ed. Note: The Westwall, or Westliche Wand, is more commonly called the Siegfried Line, the German system of embreasted battlements, begun in World War I, along the French border, resembling the medieval conception of border protection by sticks and staves bound as fasces, having small concrete pyramids to thwart tank and troop movement across the Lorraine terrain.

Natural Move

The Nazis Have Pressing Reasons For This Course

The Nazi threat to aid the Reds in Finland is not surprising. The wonder, indeed, is that it has been so long in coming.

For if England and France carry out their promises to send expeditionary forces into the little northern country, Germany will be in the gravest danger. A defeat of Russia in the north would leave the way wide open for the Allies to hurl a great expeditionary force into Poland by the back door, and take Germany from the rear. If that ever happened, the jig would probably be up in short order, for to head them off the Nazis would have to pull their crack troops away from the Westwall and leave it vulnerable to a mass attack.

But even apart from this possibility, there are good reasons why the Nazi should come to the "aid" of the Reds. One of them is that the increasing loss of prestige to Russian arms deprives them (the Nazis) of one of their trump cards in the diplomatic game--the specter of a complete military alliance with Russia to form an irresistible combination. For better or worse, Germany has cast in with Russia now, and her best bet is the restoration of prestige to the latter by a quick and thorough victory. Another thing is that, so long as Russia is tied up here, the Germans have no chance of getting supplies from her. She needs them all at home, and even if she had a surplus, her transportation system is inadequate to the double task of supplying both her own armies and the Nazis.

Site Ed. Note: The machine, for some reason, misheard us on this one and instead dubbed yer title: "Waste of Good Lumber"--not a bad title, not a bad title at all, that, at that.

So, insert it as you please.

We presume, as presumptions may run to the tale-teller colours of the hands which determine one's stamen, that it was likely, that is the machine to which we refer, that of Mr. Lorry, awaiting yet his cruel length to transport us out to see Mr. Guillotine. Oh, but Mr. Lorry, indeed, your face has grown much too vain and serious a thing, it being in need of the view of an ecclesiast, we presume, whom you need to see, and so, we refer you below, sir. For our neck has been sliced, as we ha' said, already once by Mr. Guillotine. You couldn't slice it so severe again were you to try from now 'til teeme's tamer tries his last into your shoe, you Cock-lane bugger, you. So be off with you and your Hotel George. You're daft, as daft as your eye-popper were.

Next time, don't go up on the Roof where someone of little known pair of eyes can see ye, ye Cock-lain bugger, ye, you and your pals in the Chain of Command.

Hoodlum Hunt

However, Public Opinion In South Carolina Is Still To Be Tested

Judge G. Duncan Bellinger, of Columbia, S. C., is exercised over the fear that if South Carolina doesn't put down its masked hoodlums on its own account the Federal Government will enact an anti-lynching law and do it for it. At least, the Judge argues that way.

In South Carolina, there is a law, he says, which provides prison terms of from one to ten years for anybody who while wearing a mask, assaults, offers to assault, or menaces another. And of course, there are other laws which apply to the case of the attack on the Anderson man, Pruitt, who was dragged from his bedroom, taken for a ride, and whipped. Those against forcible trespass and kidnapping, for instance.

Anyhow, the South Carolina authorities seem to mean business in the matter. Governor Maybank's constabulary has already arrested one man at Anderson, a tavern employee, who is held in $5,000 bond.

It ought to be easy to salt a dozen or so of the scoundrels away for terms ranging up to twenty years. And such a move would be guaranteed to nip the resurgent Klan movement in the bud. However, it remains to be seen whether or not public opinion is for or against the hoodlums. All the efforts of the authorities in rounding up the criminals will be useless if the juries refuse to convict.

And in that case, South Carolina will fully deserve to have the Federal Government step in.

The pair, that is the triad, of Oz:

Site Ed. Note: For more on an Old Man of the Mountain, go here.


Before Outside Perils, The President Seeks Unity

The President's message to Congress yesterday was a very cautious one.

He paid his respects to the "ostriches"--i.e., people who tell us that the European war and its possible outcome is none of our business. But they were an easy target. Howling against emotionalism, these "ostriches" are the most emotional of thinkers. For in logic it is impossible to suppose that a Nazified and Sovietized Europe would not be a major tragedy for us.

For the rest, he asked for greatly increased defenses, defended Mr. Hull's trade treaties and wanted the power to make them renewed, and took a look at unemployment.

There will be little argument about the first. About the second there will be a great deal, most of it on partisan or selfish lines, little of it intelligent enough to deserve being heard.

As for the third, it is of course the Old Man of the Mountain to the national Sinbad. It is interesting to observe that the President was quick to point out what has been generally overlooked: that the 9,000,000 now unemployed are not identical with the millions of 1932. Industrial production levels are now higher than in October, 1929, but technological improvements--undoubtedly accelerated by the New Deal itself--have made it possible to get along with 3,000,000 fewer workmen than at that time. But for the greatest portion of the unemployed, however--5,000,000--are accounted for by youths who have grown to man's estate in the last eight years. The national economy has simply failed to expand to make room for them. For that the President had no remedy.

Perhaps the real keynote to this cautious speech is the plea for national unity. With the nation surrounded by outside perils, the President seems to grow more sober, to lose that "we have proved their equal, we shall prove their master" tone, to hesitate to follow through on policies which mean a bitter end fight and which, however sound in principle, have in many cases proved dubious enough in the application, to seek genuinely to find the road to conciliation and compromise.

That is the tone of his address, at least. It remains to be seen how his action will bear it out.

By The Air?

Nazis Think New Plane Will Give Them Victory

Dispatches from Berlin indicate that the Germans think that the great putsch (the one Adolf Hitler has promised will bring the Nazis complete victory in 1940) is to take place by air.

Reason given for the failure of wholesale air attacks on England so far is that it has been discovered that bombers flying alone are ineffective--that they must be supported by pursuit planes--and that existing pursuit planes have not had the flying range necessary for long distance attack.

The Nazis claim that they have solved that with their new Messerschmitt plane.

In addition to having the necessary range, it also, they say, is equipped with a cannon firing 20 millimeter shells (slightly less than one-inch) at the rate of 150 a minute, which will knock the British planes, equipped with machine-guns, out of the air faster than they can get in it.

And so before long the British may look at the bombers which will concentrate on ports, ships, industrial plants and cities, railroads, etc. These bombers will not use the heavy "egg" bombs but small incendiary ones filled with thermite, which cannot be extinguished by water or sand.

Site Ed. Note: Longfellow also wrote, as comes to mind off-hand, this bit of Eden's fossilized teeth, called "Sands of Time"--

A handful of red sand, from the hot clime
Of Arab deserts brought,
Within this glass becomes the spy of Time,
The minister of Thought.

How many weary centuries has it been
About those deserts blown!
How many strange vicissitudes has seen,
How many histories known!

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite
Trampled and passed it o'er,
When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight
His favorite son they bore.

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare,
Crushed it beneath their tread;
Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air
Scattered it as they sped;

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth
Held close in her caress,
Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith
Illumed the wilderness;

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms
Pacing the Dead Sea beach,
And singing slow their old Armenian psalms
In half-articulate speech;

Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate
With westward steps depart;
Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate,
And resolute in heart!

These have passed over it, or may have passed!
Now in this crystal tower
Imprisoned by some curious hand at last,
It counts the passing hour,

And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand;
Before my dreamy eye
Stretches the desert with its shifting sand,
Its unimpeded sky.

And borne aloft by the sustaining blast,
This little golden thread
Dilates into a column high and vast,
A form of fear and dread.

And onward, and across the setting sun,
Across the boundless plain,
The column and its broader shadow run,
Till thought pursues in vain.

The vision vanishes! These walls again
Shut out the lurid sun,
Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain;
The half-hour's sand is run!

Since we hae not mowed hay in the yad, we decided to try to cajole our friend down in the Caribbean to enter the array of editorial columnists competing for that precious spot in The News vacated by Mr. Broun--and so we sent along the wires, through sixty-seven satellite interconnects, down through forty-eight telephone interchanges, across the Trans-Atlantic Cable, back up to Miami, then via specially acquired radar and radio wave transmissions across to the string which leads inevitably to the tin can out by the hut on the beach there, to try to make contact with our friend who occasionally provides us with contributions, involuntary though they may be.

"They're having sort of a contest at The News in January, 1940 to fill a void. How's about it?"

He shot back cryptically, but pointedly, "A rolling stone gathers no stone; leave me the hell alone."

Well, we tried again four hours later. "We aren't kidding; let's go. How's about it? The guff on Gus you provided last December, set as it was in February, 1940,--truly a mesmerizing set of inferences to be gleaned from that, and now we implore again."

An hour later, we got this in reply: "Amend that--the rolling stone is unsteened. Now get thee out damnèd Spot, before I really get mean."

We tried yet a third time, this time informing him, per our more usual approach, of things recently uncovered here at The News, and whether he had anything relevant.

He then replied more calmly: "I may. I may at that. Let me examine the files and get back to you. But you will have to use your own discretion. Some of this stuff is too loaded even for me to read anymore, and the general public might become so confused as to start a world war over it."

We thought he was taking himself a little too seriously on his own account, but nevertheless, when he provided us with a sheaf of forty or so odd pages, we selectively took what we thought would best fit what we had recently found and set them down for you, leaving the rest aside for later, perhaps, should they fit anything here, that is. He informed us that these "mystical pages", as he cryptically dubbed them, were formed into writing in October, 1991, "when the cats were jumping wildly".

And, per our usual dedicated scholarship, we were able, with a team of scholars and carbon-dating specialists who tested every dust particle reposited on the aging, yellowed ms., to conclude, with variance of no more than thirty days either way, that indeed the date given was correct. Also, he told us that he had never read or laid eyes on any of the pieces from December, 1939, or any of the rest of it save a handful of editorials in the Morrison collection from 1967, prior to writing these words then in 1991.

So, you can judge for yourself what it means to you peculiarly, if anything.

Regardless, per the author's request, please do not start any big or even small war over it. That would run counter to its specified purpose. That said, here it is, verbatim as set forth in 1991:

"My pleasure. Perhaps, you may send me a copy of your book for my library."

"Well, I can, but we're here for a year and I couldn't bring extras. I'm writing a novel. Perhaps, that'll be more to your liking. I've a feeling that since you've legal training, you would perhaps not find as much of need for you in the book I've already written."

"As you wish, my friend. Come back to see me later in the year. I could give you more books."

Mary and Wilbur departed, brightly cheered by the interlude. They took a lingering repast in an outdoor cafe, brightly lit with multi-colored paper lanterns set up in the backyard of a residence and attended by a quiet, elderly gentleman who lived in his cafe when lights were out.

Eventual retreat to the rear seats of the old bus gave them postprandial rest as it carried them away from the sunset, back to the east, with wind gusting suddenly with gale force and rain starting to splash in small puddles off the windshield guttering of the old smoker.

Wilbur held tight to the book which the man had given them as a gift. Mary nodded off, her head periodically tossing to her left onto Wilbur's shoulder, as they bumped along the road beneath the bent-back leaf springs which gave the coach a kind of supernatant, uneasy feel.

"What, what did you say, honey?" Mary stretched her eyes open in the sluggard drum of the ride.

"I said I wished I had bought that Ford."

Mary yawned again. "No, you don't, not really. In this? We would be over there in the jungle somewhere."

Wilbur was straining his eyes in the dimly lit interior, peering hard through his glasses into time repairer's wisdom. "I've been thumbing through this Hawthorne. Interesting edition. It has versions of the stories I don't believe I've seen before."

"Looks like an older edition."

"Oh yes, 1837 original. Practically, when he went by 'Ashley Allen Royce' as a nom de plume."

"I never knew he did that."

"Hmmm, hmmm. For example, this one, 'Young Goodman Brown', originally ended with no verse on his tombstone because he died without hope, in gloom, after a vision in the woods as a young man that the whole village was dancing with the devil in a coven. In this version it goes, 'But many years later, heart was restored in Salem village and this epitaph, carved on the slab of stone: 'Life may steal all Hope/ But the ground may be plowed under anew/ For Death has no coping sound/ There, blessed Love in us imbue.' '

"So I was just contemplating Cabell's Beyond Life in this regard."

"I never read it."

"Well, it is a strange work. A man wanders into the library of a man who has original manuscripts of unknown and great authors never published--full of poetry and verse. I remember this one line from it. The man tells his visitor that 'the unwritten books appear to run largely to verse... For many men are poets in their youth, and in their second childhood also.'"

"Hmmm. Entering your second childhood, maybe?"

"Oh, most definitely. You've already seen me running to verse, have you not?"

"Perhaps, I'm running you that way?"

Wilbur scrunched over on the seat and kissed Mary. "Maybe so, Till, maybe so... Woh!"

The bus had hit a rock fallen from a cliff onto the curvy road. Without looking up from the big wheel, the young bus driver yelled out a litany as if by rote.

"¡Ay caramba! ¡Perdoneme! ¡Este es camino nebuloso!"

Wilbur smirked. "You can say that again."

"Why, you're learning the language."

"No, I'm learning the buses. We should have got the Ford."


He that observeth the wind shall not sow;
And he that regardeth the clouds shall not reap.
In the morning, sow thy seed,
And in the evening withhold not thine hand:
For thou knowest not whether shall prosper,
Either this or that,
Or whether they both shall be alike good.

Truly the light is sweet,
And a pleasant thing it is for the eyes
to behold the sun:
But if a man live many years,
and rejoice in them all;
Yet let him remember the days of darkness;
For they shall be many.

All that cometh is vanity.

--Ecclesiastes 11:4, 6-8

Now have we journeyed to a spot of earth
Remote--the Scythian wild, a waste untrod
And now, Hephæstus, thou must execute
The task our father laid on thee, and fetter
This malefactor to the jagged rocks
In adamantine bonds infrangible;
For thine own blossom of all forging fire
He stole and gave to mortals; trespass grave
For which the Gods have called him to account
That he may learn to bear Zeus' tyranny
And cease to play the lover of mankind.

--Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound

Meadow and field have I forsaken,
That deeps of night from sight enroll;
A solemn awe the deeps awaken,
Rousing in us the better soul.

No wild desires can longer win me,
No stormy lust to dare and do;
The love of mankind stirs in me,
The love of God is stirred anew.

--Goethe, Faust, The First Part, lines 1178-1185

July 1, 1941 arrived. It was not to be any other day for most people across the world. Wilbur and Mary would not be the exceptions to prove the rule.

Over a quiet breakfast, Wilbur profusely and sincerely apologized to her for "the whole appalling thing" the previous night. Not wishing to upset him further, she only implored that he see a doctor. After a degree of insistence against it, he reluctantly agreed.

Mary went upstairs to the apartment of an American couple from San Antonio to learn of a suitable psychiatrist or physician. She was referred to one and set up an appointment.

When Mary returned to the apartment a few minutes later, Wilbur was gone. He left no note and she assumed he had simply gone out for a morning walk to clear the muddle of the night before. It would do him good.

Wilbur in fact had gone to the Embassy to try to talk to Daniels. He had figured out that he could perhaps speak to Daniels in veiled metaphor and get some word across that he was in danger. Perhaps he could trip a wire in Daniels such that he would realize Wilbur possessed some kind of knowledge which placed him--everyone--in danger.

Just what that might be, Wilbur, himself, at this time, could only venture clues and ungrounded speculation.

He only knew that there was the possibility of some military attack on Pearl Harbor and on Japan by the Nazis. Just what that entailed, how likely it was to occur, how possible it was that it could happen, he knew not. He knew only that it sounded preposterous and that his explanation as to why he thought it could occur sounded worse.

What, in fact, did he know which even buttressed the conclusion that there was even a scant possibility of such attacks? Some half-baked unsigned notes which referred to Biblical verses, short-wave emissions regarding pearls and verbal expressions from shadowy figures whose real identities or affiliations, if any, he did not know?

What was that worth?

There was Delilah. What good was that for exposition? It might make him look the nuttier; and was that not the point? How could he prove anything with "Malampaya Sound" 150 pages away from "Pearl Harbour", connected by a 'c' and a sound?

There was Malcolm Raddle--but what would he admit with his political ties?

And, he had mentioned Billy Davis to Daniels one time already. Daniels's eye movements had betrayed his awareness of the man's activities in Mexico during the previous few years. He had a look of utter disgust at the mere mention. So what could he tell Daniels that Daniels did not already know about him? And what did he, himself, know of Davis other than the brief noisome meeting in Austin and the second-hand references from Raddle?

As he walked to the Embassy, he tried to calm down and think of just what he would say, how he would express his fears to Daniels without appearing, too, the madman.

Why would Hitler launch a direct attack on a Pacific port which would almost assuredly bring the U.S. into the war? It made no sense. Hitler wanted the U.S. kept out of the war. He had even made peace tenders to Great Britain, provided he was able to maintain the territory obtained thus far.

He knew the Japanese were capable of terrorist acts after the Shanghai incident in '37. But what of it? Why would they seek to awake the sleepy giant? And were not they possibly, too, as ignorant of what was about to occur as the Allies?

Maybe, as before, Hitler was going to use them to do the attack and then would turn on them, attacking them as Russia. Sounds about right. But how could that be shown?

He was sure he was going to get nowhere in convincing Daniels. Indeed, Mary was apparently convinced he was mad as a hatter.

Finally, he reached the Embassy and felt a letdown when told Daniels was out for much of the remainder of the morning and would not be back until just prior to lunch at around 11:00 or 11:30. Wilbur was anxious about not being able to see Daniels right away but it would give him time to calm and think. He did not have to meet the Joker until 3:30.

He sat down in the lounge area and began his typical morning perusal of the newspapers. His mind, however, was hardly fixed on the articles on this occasion, though he had both Monday's and Tuesday's to scan.

His eyes glimpsed an article reporting that Lyndon Johnson had, in the waning hours of election counts on Monday, fallen to within a mere 77 votes of being declared the loser in the Senate election. With only a couple of thousand votes left to count, mostly from rural areas, and Pappy steadily gaining, it did not look good for a renascent republic. Texas, it appeared, would continue for awhile as it had been, despite Wilbur's remarks at Austin. This bit of turn-around in news added to the decided pall enveloping his mind over the previous twenty-two hours.

He continued to run the argument in his head as he idly looked at the papers and turned the pages to insure anyone watching that he was not distracted or upset.

After flipping through The Washington Post awhile, he noticed that the man across the way had finished with hisTimes. Wilbur thought it wise to change newspapers so as not to appear to be lingering unusually long with one publication.

As he picked it up, it seemed to convey ironic discord with and perhaps penetrating augury of the times and the moment in which he found himself.

There, on the carelessly slung down pages, perched right on the apogee of the up-turned horizontal center crease line of the rag-paper was an ad for that recent play by Robert Sherwood, "There Shall Be No Night". Nearby, were listings for "Arsenic and Old Lace", "Hellz-a-Poppin", "The Corn is Green" and "Panama Hattie", among others.

Wilbur thought to himself that he would have much preferred now to have seen that which he had espied in a similar, seemingly random coincidence of what had appeared at the time as apparent hyperopia on that Saturday afternoon, July 27 of the previous year, when he had dropped by the News offices to play the unaccustomed role of braggadocio at having finally placed the in toto version of the manuscript upon the wind blown pods of the rayless goldenrod, hovering the yellow brick road to New York and the eagerly awaiting hands of Knopf.

Then, he had seen, albeit, he recalled, with the page inverted so that the ad fell in the nadir point within the fold of the page, the announcement for Saroyan's "The Time of Your Life".

The memory of it being aroused by this in brevet recapitulation of the earlier scene now bespoke the former as a cruel, saturnine joke, emanating from within the darkened recesses of those enamored of the reprobate spirit of perhaps Rabelais's Panurge or the sooth-saying witches of Macbeth or just plain old Beelzebub, qua Mussolini, the man-woman from his earlier funereal nightmare.

From whence it came, there was surely now, somewhere in that spiritual realm, a cuculiform soiree, its participants soaked with the sweat from a steaming ingle, ingeminating the evil out of a proximal nexus with hell itself. And that, he thought, must supply them with the unholiest of cuck-cawing at his confused plight at this pivotal hour. Let it be, he spurned himself, as Churchill had exhorted the British people on the eve of the Battle of London the previous September, the "finest".

For he was now inextricably within the breach and he knew it.

His eyes caught an ad announcing, "How to Say It in Spanish". He did not need to know. The anger effused would be sufficient to communicate what he felt in any language toward these unspeakables.

There was a good joke. A "Peggy Anne" marries a Biddle.

"Half at War--Half Asleep". Amen.

"Good Evening, Breakfast! Good Morning, Supper!" Thank you, WNEW.

"Barber's Trick!" You can say that again.

Last two days to see "Citizen Kane". Better hurry for popcorn, Sue.

Oh, the "Miracle of Gus". That's loose.

"Take the Century tonight!" I agree, but I'm limited.

With his typical subliminal sardonism fully intact at the unintended irony expressed by these otherwise hollow adverts, Wilbur continued thumbing through the mixed pages of the paper trying to calm his anxiety as he awaited the arrival of Daniels.

Framed Edition
[Return to Links-Page by Subject] [Return to Links-Page by Date] [Return to News--Framed Edition]
Links-Date -- Links-Subj.