SEEN and HEARD
around the v
NATIONAL CAPITAL!
By Carter Field j
FAMOUS WASHINGTON CORRESPONDENT
Washington.—No buyer for the 12
standard cargo vessels for which
bids were to be opened by the Unit
ed States maritime commission was
ivin sight when the bids were called
for. None is in sight nov And
there are those who say that unless
the merchant marine act is amend
ed materially there is doubt that
any experienced American operator
will buy the new ships.
The merchant marine act was so
weighted down by safeguards by
suspicious legislators that some be
lieve it is almost unworkable. At
the time of its passage. June 29,
1936, it was openly charged that
the act had purposely been so hob
bled as to make government opera
tion necessary if America is to have
a merchant marine.
Public ownership and operation
advocates occupy key positions with
the commission. They are alleged
to be aggravating the present de
moralization in the hope of creating
a situation in which public oper
ation will be the only alternative.
Whether this is true or not, it is
quite apparent that before Ameri
can operators put up any money
they will have to be convinced that
the commission wants them to suc
ceed and will co-operate whole
heartedly in trying to make private
operation successful.
In this connection it is pointed out
that many of the executives now
associated with the American mer
chant marine have operated ships
under foreign Hags. They are fa
miliar with the respective advan
tages and drawbacks of that form of
operation and will be willing to un
dertake it if conditions are not cre
ated promptly to make operation
under the American Hag more tol
erable.
American operators feel that the
way they were compelled to sign
on the dotted line in the termination
of postal subsidies was a bad start
for a co-operative effort to establish
a permanent American merchant
marine. Nothing is causing more
apprehension than the labor situa
tion and the difficulty of maintain
ing proper discipline on shipboard.
Muddle Is Growing
American shipping men say that
they are anxious to operate under
their own flag but as the muddle
seems to be growing worse instead
of better, they are growing impa
tient. They point out that all the
present act does is to equalize
construction and operating costs.
They would be just os well off if they
were to place their construction or
ders abroad and operate under a
more ship-minded jurisdiction. They
then would not have to comply with
a multitude of restrictions such as
are imposed by the merchant ma
rine act.
Some lines are unable to comply
with the requirements that they have
no interest in lighterage or steve
doring operations. This is essen
tial at some ports, shipping inter
ests maintain.
While troublesome restrictions
can be escaped by operating under
a foreign flag. American operators
realize that the navy must have
auxiliaries; that this country’s com
merce must be protected at times
when foreign countries have other
uses for their ships, and that ships
under the American flag are a guar
antee against discriminatory action
by foreign governments that handi
caps our trade. It is for these
reasons, they say, that they have
been waiting thus long in the hope
that the law might be freed of re
strictions they consider unreason
able, and that a disposition be
shown on the part of the maritime
commission to encourage, rather
than hamstring, private operation.
Ambassador Kennedy
Joseph Patrick Kennedy, the silk
hat New Dealer, whom the Presi
dent will send to wear knee pants
for the United States at the Court
of St. James, is one of the most
impressive characters walking the
Washington stage. He headed two
powerful commissions, got himself
whispered for President in 1940.
Now he’ll negotiate a trade tariff
agreement between America and
Great Britain. The pact may bind
the two countries closer together
and make important history.
Mr. Kennedy is Boston Irish,
about fifty, with Celtic blue eyes,
sandy hair—what’s left—expanding
waistline. He’s dynamic. He works
himself and his employees to jit
ters, and they like it.
Mr. Kennedy's home and his wife
and nine children are in swank
Bronxville, half an hour or so north
of New York. At another estate
just out of Washington he some
times breaks quiet along the
Potomac with rousing parties for a
i mixed company of hot shots and
his hard-worked assistants.
Before the New Deal, Mr. Ken
nedy had quite some millions in
Wall street. Then the President
! appointed him to head the securities
and exchange commission—“so no
body else could clean up,” old deal
s ers said.
After SEC came the ship subsidy
law, whereby the government is
building vessels for private com
panies operating to foreign coun
i
tries, so that the navy can borrow
the ships back in time of war. Mr.
Kennedy became chairman of the
maritime commission to administer'
the law. Newspapers extolled his
walk-away with the Job. They say
his survey of the United States’
shabby old merchant marine, as
compared with the nifty fleets of
England, Japan, Italy, France is
one of the few businesslike docu
ments ever to come out of Washing
ton. His settlement of claims
against the United States by ship
ping companies, whose ocean mail
contracts were cancelled by the new
marine law, was a model of business
sagacity.
But others said that Mr. Kennedy
used abrupt language to some ship
ping companies who didn’t fall in
line with his plans. That when he
leaves for England in February he
will have contracted definitely with
operators to build only about 43 new
ships. The navy says it needs 500.
Maybe the chairman laid the founda
tion on which an adequate merchant
marine will be built.
Those troubles are all behind the
new ambassador now, but he may
run into more ahead. Plain blunt
talk may not be so good for treaty
making and v/ar-dodging. Or again
it might. If the United States wants
a man to talk turkey, it’s got him.
Crop Regulation
Congress will soon enact a farm
crop regulation law. Since near
ly all the nation's food is produced
on farms, the new law will really
regulate food. Under the law the
secretary of agrictulture will tell the
farmers they can sell only enough
corn, wheat, cotton, tobacco and
rice to make a normal national sup
ply. With a third of the population
ill-clothed and ill-fed, as President
Roosevelt said, his New Deal con
gress is passing a scarcity law.
Must hunger go on in the midst
of plenty? Why?
For years farmers have been get
ting less and less goods in exchange
for their labor on farms. In pioneer
days they produced and consumed
their own food, and supplied near
by towns. Then came fast trans
portation and factory methods,
making foods always cheaper. And
the lower the prices the more the
farmers had to grow to make a
living. The same thing happened,
as a result of machine production,
to clothing, phonographs, furniture,
automobiles. But the manufactur
ers simply stopped making so many
things, and prices stayed up. In the
case of farm produce, however,
there were so many “manufac
turers" scattered over such vast
areas that they never could be or
ganized, or reach an understanding
to limit production.
The government took a hand in
the problem back in post-war days.
Remember all the talk about the
McNary-Haugen bill? But it didn’t
pass. Ever since, and before that,
politicians have been getting farm
ers' votes by promising to do some
thing to increase their purchasing
power. Great national farm unions
tried, but without success.
Nothing of importance was ac
complished until congress passed
the Agricultural Adjustment act
during the last administration. Un
der AAA the government paid farm
ers not to grow crops, not to raise
pigs. But the Supreme court de
clared it unconstitutional. Then the
President got an appropriation for
"soil conservation” and arrived ai
the same result in a different way.
Prevented Disaster
But a lot of fa risers preferred to
raise all they could and sell it
than to plant less and collect the
conservation benefits from the gov
ernment. Crops still were so big
some years that they could be sold
only at starvation prices. Last
year the South raised nearly fifty
per cent too much cotton—more
than 91,000,000 bales—and the gov
ernment prevented disaster only
with loan and subsidy to keep prices
from tailspinning.
So most economists, and indus
try, and labor, agree that some kind
of compulsory crop control is nec
essary. They hate to see farmers
in poverty. But more important, from
a business point of view, is that
the farm population buys a big por
tion of manufactured goods—if it
has the money. If it doesn't have
the money, factory production is
cut down, and labor is unemployed.
Thus, though millions of people
lack enough to eat and wear, it
is not because of scarcity; it is be
cause they don't have enough in
come to buy it. New Deal econ
omists say that helping the farm
ers will help everybody to a better
income. And few good authorities
dispute them on that issue. They
may be right. Time will tell.
e Bell Syndicate.—WNU Service.
Where Caribou Thrive
Protected from natural and hu
man enemies, caribou thrive in
northern regions, for their long,
sharp hooves can tear through snow
and ice to reach vegetation. Mag
nificent swimmers, they cross many
streams and lakes in their periodi
cal migrations, breasting currents
with their antlers well ubove wa
ter. Though not as fast in the wa
ter as commonly believed, they do
swim five or six miles an hour.
Tunisian Ship of the Desert Resists Launching.
Carthage Today Is Not the City
of Which Virgil and Flaubert Wrote
Prepared by National Geographic Society.
Washington. D. C.-WNU Service.
TODAY, one goes to Car
thage by automobile or
electric train. Shades
of Dido, Hannibal, and Ham
ilcar!
But for Virgil and Gustave
Flaubert, Carthage would be
deaaer than ancient Philadel
phia, which now is Amman,
Trans-Jordan.
Just above the station, in a little
garden massed with daisies and
geraniums, is a monument to Flau
bert. The head, representing the
“immortal author of Salammbo”
(his “Madame Bovary” isn’t even
mentioned in Carthage) is less than
life size. But Flaubert’s romantic
description clothes the city site with
an aura of lasting glory.
Today, it seems a blessing that
the author wrote some 75 years
ago, for Carthage is less Carthage
now. Stucco villas are crowding
closer and closer about the ancient
ports and their gardens climb high
er and highpr on the Byrsa, where
the Carthaginians had their fort and
temple and around which 700,000
of them had their homes.
The site which Dido chose is too
blessed by beauty and climate to
remain a mere sepulcher for a
vanished race which left its most
notable monuments on the maps of
primitive seamanship and ancient
world commerce.
Carthage isn't Carthage, and pos
sibly never was. What remains is
Punic, Roman, Christian, Moslem,
and art moderne. Here heavy-foot
ed elephants shuffled down long
ramps to their stables and armed
men stood watch on walls that
seemed impregnable. But the site
is a grab bag of history, and unless
one is careful he stumbles over
anachronisms.
“Salammbo” Is a Suburb.
The guardian spirit of Carthage
is a novelist’s creation, whose name
has been appropriated by a sea
side suburb. As one rides from La
Goulette (the “gullet” of the lake of
Tunis) toward Carthage, the street
car conductor shouts “Salammbo.”
Strangers start at the magic word.
The only Punic relic worthy of
Flaubert's heroine is a young priest
ess with a dove in her hand and
her soft robe ending in wings which
cross over her limbs. Among the
stone ammunition, crude steles, and
cinerary caskets of the Punic pe
riod. this life-size coffin top stands
out like a pretty girl in a morgue.
Revengeful ancients who vowed
not to leave one stone of Carthage
on another kept their promise, but
this lone figure slept on in her hill
side tomb and so survived to prove
that the Punic traders, who took
their art where they found it, were
not entirely lacking in taste.
The ancient ports of Carthage,
long isolated from the sea by the
building of a shore road, are again
connected with the gulf of Tunis.
In the interests of health, small
channels have been dug. The naval
and commercial harbors are now
connected with the Mediterranean
whose Levantine shores bathe the
piles of murex shells from which
Tyre and Sidon extracted a purple
whose memory still colors history.
From the rough stones of the am
phitheater rises a white cross.
“Why this modern emblem in
this pagan arena?" one wonders.
Then he remembers. Cardinal La
vigerie, who never lost his historic
sense amid his numerous good
works, erected this seemingly in
congruous cross over a spot where
Christian martyrs, to whom that
symbol was more than life, were
put to death some 400 years before
Mohammed was born.
“Carthage must be destroyed”
was the grandiose slogan. But Cae
sar and Augustus had more sense
than Scipio. They deliberately re
stored a ruined enemy to more than
its former beauty and Hadrian gave
it an aqueduct whose remains still
\ rank among Tunisia’s most impres
sive ancient monuments.
hairouan the Saintly.
For miles his high-arched aque
duct stretches above grainflelds and
grazing flocks, coming from Mount
Zahouun, which provides Tunis, as it
did Carthage, with water. You
parallel it on your way to Kairouan
the Saintly.
How to describe this holy place
created by Moslems, some of whom
had seen the Prophet in the flesh?
Nothing you may read prepares you
for the silence of the Great Mosque,
the polychrome tiles of the mosque
of Sidi Sahab, the grotesque swords
and giant pipe of the mosque of
Sabers, the teeming marketplace of
the Rue Saussier, or the relentless
irritation of street Arabs begging,
“Good day, mister, give me a cig
arette.”
Once a year the word evidently
goes around that the little pests
shall cease to pester. And since
that luxury comes at a time when
Kairouan is at its best, a visit on
the last day of the annual Rug fair
is pleasantly memorable.
Soon after dawn, to receive pow
der for their salutes, the famous
Zlass horsemen assemble beside the
circular pool of the Aghlabites. Clad
in their best robes and wearing
sombreros whose broad brims are
held up by ostrich feathers, they
seem a docile lot. But when the
resident general’s car arrives the
tempo quickens.
By afternoon these somnolent
horses will be racing at breakneck
speed while their riders stand in
their saddles, sweep the earth with
their heads, do a shoulder stand on
a galloping charger, and juggle gun
and saber in mimic warfare.
Among the whitewashed graves
where the dead huddle as close as
possible to the Great Mosque, veiled
women stand and cheer.
Eve has not lost her delight in
weddings. When the rider sweeps
down on a cortege grouped about
the silken saddle-tent of the bride
to-be, and an Arab Lochinvar ab
ducts the angel of his dreams from
half-hearted defenders, who are
probably glad to have it over with,
the veiled women ululate their de
light. The fact that the silken can
opy is empty doesn’t spoil the fun.
Too Much Olive Oil Produced.
Between Kairouan and the south
ern oases stretches the eastern
plain, in which the French protec
tors take just pride, for they have
restored fertility to a region long
barren. In neat rows, miles long
and 80 feet apart, stand olive trees
whose only fault is their fruitful
ness.
When Paul Bourde, a journalist,
convinced of ancient olive produc
tion here by the ruins of Roman
millstones, brought back groves to
regions the Arab invader had laid
desolate, he failed to bring back
the little Roman lamp.
Even beauty parlors can’t use as
much olive oil as did the Roman
athletes who rubbed it on thick and
then scraped it off in rivulets with
the curved strigil. Lands of corn
and cotton offer substitutes, and the
Philippine palm seeks its share of
the oil trade. Bourde succeeded all
too well. Tunisian olive oil, the
equal of any, begs for buyers at a
fourth its former price.
Sousse and Sfax are the “big
cities” of Tunisia's eastern plain.
Each has its neat European quar
ters, each its interesting native
town.
Sousse, then Hadrumetum, helped
Hannibal fight Scipio and later was
carpeted with Roman mosaics. Le
Bardo’s little gem, found at Sousse,
shows Virgil writing the "Aeneid”
between the Muses.
Sfax, second only to Tunis, ships
phosphates and fishes for sponges,
octopuses, and a variety of finny
fodder. Its neat European quarter
seems like an exposition city. Na
tive life centers in the mosque. On
raised benches covered with mat
ting, dealers sell frippery gewgaws
and a fortune-teller divines from
field beans.
Amphitheater of El Djem.
Between Sousse and Sfax a Ro
man ruin dwarfs the modern town
for which it was the quarry. It is
the amphitheater of El Djem. One
sees it from miles away and its
memory follows one for years.
In the Eighth century, when
Kahena, Berber queen, sought to
repel the Arab invaders, this coli
seum served as her fortress. Ex
cept for this and a few other mar
tial interludes the towering struc
ture stood there, empty as the Yale
bowl or the Ann Arbor stadium be
tween games, waiting only for
60,000 spectators to swarm toward
the clouds and look down on the bar
baric spectacles in the arena.
Then, at the end of the Seven
teenth century, rebels hid here, a
bey broke through the wall to reach
them, and El Djem, each of whose
stones had been painfully quarried
and shaped, became a source of
ready-made building blocks for
puny huts.
ffoyd QMtous'
ADVENTURERS’ CLUB
HEADLINES FROM THE LIVES
OF PEOPLE LIKE YOURSELFI
“77ie Creek Bed Horror”
By FLOYD GIBBONS
Famous Headline Hunter
Hello everybody:
You know, boys and girls, I’ve often said you can
get into more adventures in your own back yard than you
can in the whole of darkest Africa. And here comes Houston
Norris of Yonkers, N. Y., with a story that backs up my
theory. Houston’s back yard was a pretty big one, though.
It was a farm in Sussex county, Virginia, where he lived
when he was a kid.
This happened back in 1920, when Houston was just thirteen years
old. On a hot August day, he set out to change the cows from one
grazing ground to another where they would be in the shade for the
afternoon. He had a shotgun—as a lot of kids do in the country—and he
took that off the rack. He carried that gun most everywhere he went,
on the chance he’d get a shot at a crow, or a chicken hawk. There was a
state bounty on those birds and that just about kept him in ammunition.
And incidentally, it’s a doggone good thing he did take that
gun along with him. For, although he didn't know it, he was
heading straight for an adventure, and that shootin’ iron was des
tined to come in mighty handy.
Caught in the Fox Trap.
Ahead of him lay a brook, the bed of which was dry during the
summer months. That creek bed was always full of snakes that hid in
the brush which grew along the bottom, so Houston started to cross on
a log put there to afford a passage in wet weather. He noticed, as he
stepped on the log, that it was covered over with heaps of tree moss, but
he—well—he thought maybe the kids of the neighboring farmer had
been playing and left it there. But that was the big mistake of his life.
Houston stepped on the log—and something snapped. He felt a
sharp pain in his leg, and knew how foolish he had been. That moss hadn’t
been put there by the neighboring farmer’s kids. It had been put there
by the farmer himself to conceal a fox trap—and Houston had stepped
right into it.
The chain on that trap was only six inches long, and Houston’s step
was cut short. He lost his balance—fell forward. His gun fell to the
— ———--- n'V)if» J
He Had Stepped Right Into the Trap.
ground and then, as he landed, he heard another click—felt another stal
of pain—this time in his left hand. There had been two fox traps on tha?
log, and he had fallen into both of them.
The pain in his hand and leg made him wince, and he gritted his
teeth. He was caught fast—unable to get himself out. But getting out of
those traps didn’t worry Houston so much. He was only a short dis
tance from home. A few shouts would bring someone to his assistance.
Then Came the Rattler.
He drew a deep breath—was all ready to let out a yell for
help—when something stopped him. To his ears eame a peculiar
buzzing sound and a familiar rustling of leaves directly under
the log on which he lay. His eyes dropped to the spot, and the
hair began rising on the top of his head. A HUGE RATTLE
SNAKE was crawling out from beneath the log!
"I was frightened then for the first time,” he says. "And for the
first time in all my life I felt completely helpless. My gun was four
feet away from the log, and I didn’t dare call for help lest I anger the
snake and cause him to strike at me.
"I hoped—as I never hoped before—that that snake would crawl
away and leave me alone. But that hope vanished when it brought its
huge body into a coil and settled down by the log to watch me.
“My trapped hand and foot began to pain me terribly. My back
was cramped and began to ache, but I had to keep it tense for fear that
I would roll off the log and fall on top of the snake. I wondered what
would happen when I got too tired to hold that position any longer. Then,
suddenly, something happened that brought the situation to a quick
climax.”
Got the Gun Just in Time.
What happened was this. Three shotgun shells had worked them
selves loose from their holder at Houston’s belt. They rolled from the
log and lit, almost simultaneously on the back and head of the rattler.
In an instant the snake threw its head up to the level of the log. Its
beady eyes glittered as it looked Houston over carefully.
The reptile seemed to sense that it had him at its mercy—that
there was no need for haste. Slowly it drew back its head to strike.
“Then,” says Houston, “I had to do something. In desperation
I started to reach for my gun. I rolled my free foot over the ground,
making a desperate and painful effort to make my step as wide and
as far from the log and the snake as possible. Then I dropped my right
knee and struggled with my right hand to get at the gun.
“My fingers could barely touch the gun's muzzle, but by stretching
the chains of the traps that held me, I managed to get a grip on it and
pull it my way. Desperately, I drew it alongside my body with its muzzle
pointing toward the center of the log, until my trembling fingers could
reach the trigger.
“The rattler was moving forward—angered by the movements I had
made. Its head was a bare three inches from my left leg. Then I
drew back the hammer and pulled the trigger. There was a roar—and
when the smoke cleared away, that once deadly snake was scattered in
bits along the creek bed.”
And after that, it was just a matter of a few good lusty yells, and
help came and Houston was out of his traps.
Copyright.—WNU Service.
Claimed Exemptions From Draft
During the Civil war immigrants
who had not become naturalized
filed claims for exemptions from
the drafts. To counteract this, pa
triotic organizations made appeals
, for volunteers and endeavored to
raise troops among their own peo
i pie. In Cincinnati, Ohio, German
and Irish organizations held meet
ings to denounce aliens trying to es
cape the draft and to ask their lead
ers to raise troops.
—_____
Mexicans Grew Dahlias
The Mexicans had cultivated the
dahlia before the Spaniards arrived
in 1519, but it was about 300 years
later, in 1791, that the plants ap
peared in Europe, at the Botanic
gardens in Madrid, Spain. The new
er forms have all been brought
about since 1800, says the Rocky
Mountain Herald. The native Mex
ican name of the dahlia was acocot
li, which means water pipe, and
its present name is in honor of the
famous Spanish botanist. Dr. An
dreas DahL
The “Rich Port”
Porto Rico, one of the earliest of
Spanish American colonies, has en
dured since its settlement by Ponce
de Leon more than four centuries
ago, as the “Rich Port,” the name
that Christopher Columbus gave it
on its discovery. P„s history in the
development of the Americas is
shared only by the Dorrdrican Re
public, where the early Spa.-.Lsh set
tlers established their first gc;ern
mental base.
Iris, Snake Bite Cure
Iris typifies wisdom, faith and
courage. Its early medicinal value,
according to doctors of the time,
was as a cure for snake bites, fits,
dropsy, bruises, anger and coughs.
Some doctors went so far as to
say that if petals of the iris were
placed on a black and blue spot for
five days the flesh would assume the
natural color. The roots of the iris
were used as teething rings for ba
bies and are used to this day in
some countries. The iris was used
by Louis VII in his crusades in 1137.
AMATEUR WRITER
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Dh Pierce’s Pleasant Pellets are an
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Children like them. Buy now!—Adv,
Shadows
Every flower, even the fairest,
has its shadow beneath it as it
swings in the sunlight.—Anon.
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Work is the grand cure of all tht
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Bad Example v
They do more harm by their
evil example than by their actual
sin.—Cicero.
CoNsriMii
What a difference good
bowel habits can make!
To keep food wastes soft
and moving, many
doctors recom
mend Nujol.
INSIST ON GENUINE NUJOL
Copx. 1987. Stanco Inc.
To Be Just
Be not exacting in your justice,
lest you be unjust in your exact
ing.
EMINENT DOCTORS WROTE
THIS OPINION!
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acid condition of the
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various alkalies”—ex
cerpl from medical journal. 1 ne
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