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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 CARTERSV1LLE — SPRING PLACE — RANGER OAKMAN — WHITE RESACA Qeo. C. WuJod FREIGHT LINES DEPENDABLE SERVICE Phone BR. 8-2050 DALTON, GEORGIA 37 YEARS’ EXPERIENCE FAST DEPENDABLE Bill Ridgeway, Owner PLUMBING & HEATING REPAIRS-CONTRACTING REMODELING NEW INSTALLATIONS EASY TERMS ARRANGED 1 TO 10 YRS. TO PAY Residential - Commercial 3143 Roswell Rd., N.E. ATLANTA, GEORGIA CEdar 7-5556 - If No Answer Dial BL. 5-6540 The Southern Israelite 19