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finally they reached the bottom
of the ridge and surveyed it
through their binoculars, they
were certain it was impassable.
The natural steppes which had
been created by centuries of fall
ing waters were over 150 feet in
height. However, nearby there
was a pyramid of sand which the
wind had blown off the ridge and
as this seemed the only possible
course, they started up it. It was
terribly difficult going, sinking as
they did with every step. The hour
was growing late and the dark
would soon be upon them. As
soon as they reached some firmer
ground, they decided to camp for
the night. A sheltered ravine
seemed the best choice to protect
them from the dangers of the
desert night as well as from the
cold and they arranged themselves
as if in an ambush.
By the time they had finished
eating and settled at their posts,
it was quite late. They hoped that
the next day would bring them
better luck for they had dis
covered, that they had passed the
first big rise, that it was but the
first of many. Wearily they zipped
up their sleeping bags and wide-
eyed lay back trying to adjust
themselves to the black night that
enveloped them. Suddenly they
cried out simultaneously. There
stretching before them, as if paint
ed on a black canvas, was a path,
gleaming in the darkness. It was
the Ma’avar Harotem, (the Path of
the Rotem) leading definitely in
the desired direction, illuminated
by a mysterious fluorescence. Re
vitalized, they jumped up and
started to follow the enchanted
path. Suddenly Ovadiah, the root
less, inarticulate boy, started to
sing the Song of Songs in the
original Yemenite version, in
haunting, beguiling voice. In spite
of the fact that any sound in
creased tenfold the danger of their
mission, none of them could find
it in their heart to stop him. It
seemed so fitting a testimony to
the moment.
Clean Shirt,
Clean Face, but
They Were Chased
Out Anyways
by EDDIE BARKER
Columnist
Atlanta Constitution
The two boys came into the drug
store, hopped onto stools at the
counter, and put change — dimes,
nickels, pennies—in front of them.
Boy-like, they laughed a lot, read
from a board fhat listed sundaes
and splits, shakes and sodas, and
had just decided that a banana-
type thing, something with cream
and nuts, was the best buy for
them. The clerk came, looked long
at the two eight-year-olds, and in
stead of asking their choice order
ed both boys from the shop.
One of them was a Negro.
They went outside, stood on the
street, and from time to time
pressed their noses against the
window. This suburban section of
Atlanta fills a shopping center and
people constantly came through the
free swinging doors, and many of
them headed straight for the soda
counter.
The two boys remained outside.
Why, they wondered, couldn't
they, too, sit and eat that superb
split.
They had the money, didn’t
they?
Worked it out, too.
Too little to mow lawns, the boys
had banded together, borrowed a
broom, and set up a driveway
sweeping business. If housewives
didn’t believe these little broom-
wielders could do a good job, they
never let on.
For a dime, or a nickel and some
pennies, they could do business
with the boys.
No one thought it strange that a
Negro boy was in the neighbor
hood. They had seen him come
with his mother, who did day la
bor as a maid, and through the
summer he had helped her a little,
but mostly he played with the boy
who was his own age.
Together they built tree houses,
caught tadpoles from a creek, and,
when they were tired, they would
come around and drink Kool-Aid
and eat ice cream in the kitchen.
This, though, had been their first
trial at a store.
The little fellows looked at them
selves and tried their best to figure
it. “Is my face dirty?” the white
boy asked of the Negro.
“No,” he answered. “Is my shirt
messed up?”
“Nope.”
Neither could figure it, but they
tried no more to crash the counter.
They gave it up and had started
away from the drug store when
suddenly the face of the Negro
brightened. His eyes shone, and he
said he bet he knew what it
was, because he remembered some
thing his mama had said about the
people for whom she worked:
“Ain’t you,” he asked, “a Jew?”
The age of innocence truly must
be eight.
ATLANTA, TR. 5-7491-2 — CALHOUN — C1IATSWORTH
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RESACA
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The Southern Israelite
19