Site Ed. Note: "A huge human foot d'or in a field of azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel."

This quote might well bind today's four pieces as a unit.

Jim Farley would within three weeks kick off his campaign for the presidency by announcing his candidacy, oddly, for his lack of discernible ties to the place, at the Robert E. Lee Hotel in Winston-Salem, N.C. Perhaps, then, Cash's misspelling in "Dinner" of "Allan" with an "e", then perhaps subliminally suggesting, subconscious though it likely was, by the trowelling on of the mortarboard, the Masonic Knights Templar, (or was that Skull & Bones?), as well, undoubtedly, the building in August, 1961 of the Berlin Wall, not to fail to mention Carl Orff's "Carmina Burana", (having little or nothing to do with Karmen Ghia), written in 1935 in Nazi Germany, based on the concept of the medieval wheel, all mixed to form some sort of subaltern code, designed to tell his readers that Farley was walling off his $100-a-plate meal tickets to entice them to his own political encampment, thus reeking vengeance on the well-fed business men in need of a new deal kickback--or, perhaps, just another example of Cash playing Zarathustra through time, yes even unto the post-election drama of 2000 (from which we certainly glean then that Cash would have clearly sided with the challenger who lost but then won and has become lost again).

Then again, the piece might have been by Dowd.

In any event, have some gelato, with a cherry on top, and mull it some.

(We would be remiss, however, not to point out as a sidebar, to be held strictly in confidence, that there is a restaurant within the little village where once we lived, along the same street as, several years before, Cash's brother, Allan, lived,--though his residence having been on a different and decidedly higher-pursed part of it, nearer our old elementary school than that lower part on which we resided,--during the 1940's; and, that restaurant, once a grocery called Food Fair, an establishment which sponsored monthly drawings for brand new automobiles during the latter 1950's and early 1960's, became sometime back the Diamond Back. The mystery thickens, as surely as does the terrapin soup. Just what is the product of some rarified coincidence of the spirit and what part from human concordance requires application of some fine distinction among the analogues going on in the present, for clarified better understanding, probably. We don't know about you, but we are perceiving our ample share of analogous constructs, both of the former and latter categories.)

On another subject, Mr. Cromwell, as referenced in "Alger Story", and whose flambeaux burned to a ripe old age, dying out only in 1990, apparently knew more about marrying the right sort of girl, first a Dodge, then a Duke, than appealing to the masses in politics. For after less than five months as envoy to Canada, he resigned, ran for the Senate seat in New Jersey, just as the editorial suggested he might, and was defeated. (Whether, incidentally, the lady in her ferment from the Battery in Charleston, who communicated a few times with Cash in March, 1941 regarding her defense of Southern architects and other practitioners of the arts as being somewhat more than, as Cash charged in the book, more or less poseurs derivative of the northern galaxy, meant her cryptic assertion regarding the man whom she described as "the perfect exponent of gyneolatry", "the man of action", born and raised in New Jersey, "who can direct the movement of submarines and destroyers superbly", to refer to Mr. Cromwell, as opposed to our initial hypothesis that she intended Lindbergh, we haven't the foggiest--nor, we stress, may it have the slightest significance to anything other than this lady living on the romance-inspiring views, tinged with a hint of old Sumter acid, from the Battery in Charleston in March, 1941. You may adjudge for yourself by reading some of her correspondence within the second part of 1941 within the photographic part of the site.)

Also, we should point out that it is a 1958 Dodge, the one without the right front hubcap, just below the balcony at the motel, in that picture.

Oddly, the 1964 Ford Fairlane station wagon in the FBI photographs of the scene found in the aftermath of its burning after the disappearance of the three young men after their release from jail on a speeding charge at 10:00 p.m. that June night in 1964 in Philadelphia, Mississippi, had its right front wheel off and on the ground, though otherwise intact and undisturbed, the hypothesis having been that perhaps vandals were disturbed in the midst of the act of vandalism, attempting to steal the wheel.

But, perhaps, perhaps subconsciously even, based on our own personal experience ingested once upon a time, there is another explanation, one involving a type of handshake sign or signal-field to the others of their mentality, to demonstrate that which is proclaimed at the beginning of the Poe story referenced below, that coldly served thing, such as Titus Andronicus sought for the cruel and maiming death of his daughter, that thing which has no end to it once begun, the signal then of that thing being had, for those who are in the Know, while Knowing nothing of the Knowledge, which is Evil.

In any event, it all, this day's print, is extraordinarily interesting to ponder as a sum, as someone later might have, consciously or subconsciously, thus providing the tale-teller of the heart, mind and ultimately the nearly unmistakable mind-print of the hand, when read in terms of subsequent events.

Incidentally, a snake Hisses.

A Pig oinks.

Just what it is a Pink Lady does, we are not quite certain. We could imagine, however, that it is the case that she might properly refuse the advances of a Pig, hence why she might be perceived as pink in the process.

And, moreover, 1948, 1952, 1956, 1960, 1968, and 1972, were long yet to occur.

Well, for now, we shall say no more of this about that--except to say that, come to think of it, it seems in hindsight a bit of a violation of Secret Service protocol to have allowed several heckling spectators of a scruffy variety to have climbed the sound towers at the Greensboro Airport in 1972 at the appearance of the President. But those were very theatrical days. Perhaps, the President was simply concerned about the rights of the young people and wished to make that perfectly clear to all of us there at the meeting on the tarmac--which is why he singled them out as having been so typical of his enemies while the rest of us splendid folk, ourselves included, as we have previously indicated, were down where we were supposed to be, amid the nice clean-cut, dapperly dressed cheering crowd on the macadam. It was exciting.

Mr. Cromwell, incidentally, whose sister was the first wife of General Douglas MacArthur,--who later helped win the war in the Pacific, rebuild Japan after the war, and then, with political ambitions apparently guiding his cudgel-play's planned coup de main deus ex machina, disgraced himself in Korea by first publicly criticizing Truman's limited war policy with respect to China, then finally in 1951 issuing his regnum belli to the Chinese in the face of a presidential directive to stand down so that cease-fire talks could begin--, lost to Republican William Barbour, a former heavyweight amateur boxing champion, who had been appointed first to an unexpired Senate term in 1931 by a Republican Governor, and then, failing re-election in 1936, was appointed in 1938 to the other seat's unexpired term by a Democrat, Harry Moore, who had resigned this same Senate seat to run successfully for his third term as Governor. Whether Democrat Boss Hague played a hand in all of these various unexpired terms and appointments suggestive of the then usual political machinations in New Jersey, we cannot say.

To his lasting credit, however, Senator Barbour in 1943 took up the cause of the Jewish refugees from Europe seeking asylum in the United States, introducing a bill significantly to increase immigration quotas by three times that which existed, to allow 100,000 such emigrés to enter the U.S. This response came largely in reaction to pressure from the Bergson movement, whose ultimate goal was a new Promised Land called Israel. Although Barbour died soon after his bill was introduced, growing pressure on the Congress and the Administration to address the plight of Jews fleeing Nazism led, in January, 1944, to the formation of the War Refugee Board which is credited with saving the lives of 200,000 men, women, and children.

The souls of the other six million or more who were murdered then nevertheless still float among us to insure that such an inexorable force in the world will on next occasion when its fangs dig deep to the heel have far more difficulty achieving traction.

And, we see today a news story about an eagle in Alaska which nabbed a deer head from a garbage bin and, with the consequent weight and low trajectory, became befouled in power lines, electrocuting itself and knocking out power to 10,000 Juneau residents. One might ask what it is which prompted an eagle to need to plunder an urban garbage bin in the second place, out of the broad Alaskan wilderness where one would naturally assume provender is plentiful. Moreover, what was a deer head doing in the garbage bin in the first instance?

But, such weighty questions boggle our wee little heads today, and so we'll leave it to you to consider.

For, meanwhile, obsequies are being heaped upon a racehorse on which more money was probably expended on medical care since May of last year than most of us humans receive in a lifetime, even on our deathbeds. That being without apparent regard to the fact that it is the natural weight of this animal of the equine variety which, for time immemorial, has dictated the sad practice of euthanasia, upon one of its members going lame, some few exceptions perhaps being noteworthy--but, notwithstanding, Seabiscuit was a smaller horse.

Oh well, they can no doubt make a nice, sweet, sentimental tv movie of the week out of it, probably, while someone then proceeds to make millions off the poor ingratiates who invest more feeling in animals than many of them are, thus displaced in fancy, capable of doing for similarly situated human beings--that is, those confined to the stall and paddock, with occasional shows on the racetrack.

If you don't want the horse unduly at risk to go lame, and thence to be put to sleep, then don't race it, or pay to go see it race. But, having done so, we think it rather silly to croc-it, and for nine weepy months.

Otherwise, it seems to us, that we are, consciously or unconsciously, merely afoot trying to stimulate more and more movies of the week soaked in tears and beers, by the heat of the steaming ingle.

Actually, last night, Barbaro came to us, sidled right up next to us, shook his head up and down the way they do, and said, in horsy talk--which we comprehend from long experience with it--that all was well, and he is happy as a lark to be out of that stall and cast finally, out again in the wide open with his wild ancestors on the plains having the best of times just running and leaping over and in amid the chaparral there, somewhere out in central Wyoming. And that's what it's all about, he said, before galloping away into the mist.

We caution, incidentally, about trying to go look for him there, as he was a little vague about just where he was in Wyoming, having just provided a whinniful plenty of neighing hints in response to our ticking off several places he might be--Casper, Cheyenne, or Lovell, for instance--a non-denial denial in horsy talk.

In any event, next time, save the doe, ab initio.

Anybody for some burgers down at Chip's?

Incidentally, we momentarily neglected to point out that Clara Bow apparently claimed that her young friend, named Johnny, had burned to death in her arms and that every time she needed to cry on cue, she only had to think of that lullaby, the one ascribed to the authorship of Mrs. Carlton, referenced in yesterday's News. Well, we don't know if the story is true about Ms. Bow's claim or whether, if true, her claim was true, or whether it all became garbled in transmission over the years since original telling; but we do find it a little difficult to comprehend, unless poetic, how anyone may be burned to death in someone's arms, lest the arms of that person be burned fairly badly, too, in the process. Perhaps, they were, but it still sounds a bit fishy to us, as nothing is so referenced about Ms. Bow's arms.

Could it be that in all of that, somewhere is the explanation for the moniker thus applied to Ms. Bow of the "It" girl?

Again, we don't know.

It may be that what she was simply saying was that she loved her little playmate to death.

Or, maybe he fell from a tree which he climbed to impress her fluttering eyelids.

Further research, we posit, is probably warranted, though we advise against it being necessarily experiential.

Mr. Farley Probably Played Fair With Them, At That

Old Jim Farley fed his $100-a-plate men pretty well last night.

For the fish course, they served a dish of lobster, crab flakes, and scallops a la Newburg, with Madeira sauce. And Graves Rosechatel, an excellent white wine of 1933, which seems to have been one of the best wine years in recent ones. Chablis or Cassis might have been better--it all depends on your taste.

Then, having again titillated the appetite with cucumber sandwiches, they passed on to steak, beans, potatoes, and lettuce, washed down with a good Burgundy.

And finally they wound up with Italian spun ice cream, and little French cakes, topped with coffee.

A pretty good meal. But in the balmiest days of the old Waldorf you could have had it for about ten smacks. And to this day you can get it in one of the hoity-toity restaurants in the Bois de Boulogne for less.

However, the boys had the great pleasure, rare to many of them, of sitting in company with the awful office of the President of the United States. And in addition, most of them are on the public payroll, and those who aren't there hope to be. So, all in all, it was probably fair enough.

Governor Maybank Goes After The Ku Klux Klan

The Ku Klux Klan seems to be pretty well on the spot in South Carolina.

Standard practice with this outfit is to disclaim any responsibility for outbreaks of mob violence on the part of its masked hoodlums. It started that in the case of the mob which entered the home of one Lanier Pruitt at Anderson, kidnaped and whipped him. There was no Klan chapter at Anderson, it said.

But Governor Maybank is made of sterner stuff than most Southern Governors, and had his State constabulary to seize and impound the Klan records. Cursory examination of them has already disclosed that the Bedsheets had plenty of paying members at Anderson, chapter or no chapter.

The Governor is going about the break up of this masked violence in the very best way--by striking straight at the source from which it begins. It is not enough to round up the unimportant little grocery clerks and tavern attendants who actively participated in the crime against Pruitt. What is needed is to get the men who make it their business to stir these small fry up to such crimes, by filling their shallow little minds with hate and the vision of themselves as great vindicators of morals, race, and what have you--all by way of relieving these morons of their cash and lining their own pockets.

The very best way to get rid of these outbreaks of mass violence is to smash the Klan. And the way to smash the Klan is to send some of its big shots to jail for inciting its dupes to break the law.

Revised Version, Brought Strictly Up To Date

A man whose phenomenal rise in the world fascinates us, is the Hon. Jimmy H. R. Cromwell, who will succeed Uncle Dan Roper as Uncle Sam's "honest man sent to lie abroad for his country" in Canada.

Only a few years ago, the Hon. Jimmy was unknown and practically penniless--with no more, that is, than a few millions thoughtfully left him by his male parent. Also, he had married the first time into the Dodge millions.

But the odds against him did not at all deter the flame of ambition burning in his aspiring breast, and Destiny, as always with the brave, smiled upon him.

Almost overnight he leaped to the front pages by falling in love with, winning, and marrying the "world's richest girl," Doris Duke.

Then he wrote a book. It was not, to be candid, a very good book. But still it was a book--and so a wonderful thing in a man who is destined for American politics.

And after that,--why, after that, Jimmy, always mindful of his humble origins, came out strong for the New Deal. And in 1936, his enthusiasm rose to such a pitch that Mrs. Cromwell wrote a check for $50,000 to help re-elect Mr. Roosevelt. There were unkind people who said that that seemed strange, seeing that the Duke fortune had come in part from the utilities, and seeing also that one of the things Jimmy had advocated in that book was the abolition of income taxes and the substitution of a universal sales tax. But they, of course, were only the wicked old witches of our story. And they have their answer in the fact that now Dame Fortune has tapped Jimmy to be an Ambassador, and, they say, is grooming him to be a great United States Senator from New Jersey.

Our only regret is that Horatio Alger Jr. had, in the course of nature, to depart this world a good many years ago. It would have done his heart good to see how merit continues invariably to win its rewards in the good old American democratic tradition.

Site Ed. Note: For an earlier editorial on Hungary by Cash, see "Will Hungary Go Next?", May 31, 1939, and its accompanying note regarding the subsequent history.

It May Be Funny, But This Looks Bad For Hitler

In his last public utterance on the subject, Signor Mussolini assured the world and Germany that the Axis was still made of solid steel, that he was still the Nazis' full ally, and that the only reason he hadn't come to Germany's aid was that Hitler had advised him it was entirely unnecessary.

If so, then he is the most wonderful ally in sight, including Joe Stalin, and the most wonderful enemy Britain and France ever encountered. For he has just struck the most decisive blow for Allied victory yet managed by anybody.

If, that is, we are to take his new agreement with Hungary at face value and eliminate--never a quite safe thing to do in considering Fascist moves--the possibility that it is a double double cross, executed with the secret connivance of Germany and directed not only against the Allies but also against Russia.

If this agreement means what it seems to mean, then it puts Germany in a far tougher spot than it puts Russia. Observe that it is made with Hungary and not with Rumania, the nation in most danger of attack from the Reds. Observe also that the Italian newspapers are crying that the Italian front is in the Carpathians--which is to say in Transylvania--which is to say in the territory Hungary claims from Rumania--and not in Bessarabia or any part of Rumania east of this disputed territory. What it really seems to say to Russia is, all right, you can take most of Rumania but you had best stop when you get to those mountains.

On the other hand it effectually blocks any joint action of Germany with Russia to seize mastery of the Balkans. For Germany's only good road into Rumania is through Hungary. The approach from Slovakia is too difficult and too narrow to be feasible for a Blitzkrieg. And if Mr. Mussolini means what he says, any attempt of Germany to go through Hungary now would be a desperate gamble. With Yugoslavia open to the Italians, it would have to succeed within a far shorter period than was required to overtake Poland, or the Germans would find themselves with an Italian army encamped within sight of their back door, with every prospect of the Allies throwing in armies to back up the Italians. That would leave Germany worse off on the Eastern Front than she was at any time in the last war right up until the final collapse. For in that war, she succeeded in maintaining her front in the southern and eastern Balkans for nearly the whole period.

All this, as we infer, must be taken with caution. There is a curious silence in Berlin concerning the case which may be consternation--or something else. And on the other hand, there is little sound of jubilation from London and Paris. On the surface of the matter, however, it begins to look as though the Allies might not have to whip Germany; her allies seem bent on doing the job first.