Page TWO
ILOT
Southern Pines
North Carolina
“In taking over The Pilot no changes are contemplated. We will try^to keep this a gooa
paper. We will try to make a little money for all concerned. Wherever there seems to be
an occasion to use our influence for the public good we will try to do it. And we wiU
treat everybody alike.”—James Boyd, May 23, 1941.
The Sandhills and Foreign Visitors
Following up a recent editorial in
which we suggested that Southern Pines
take the lead in forming a host commit
tee for foreign visitors who may come
here under the program of the new U.
S. Travel Service, we are pleased to re
port that the Service’s director, Voit
Gilmore, is enthusiastic over the idea,
promised to help in any way he can and
voiced the hope that Southern Pines
might become a kind of “pilot town” in
in showing what American towns and
cities can do to implement the govern
ment’s extensive efforts to attract foreign
tourists to the United States.
Mr. Gilmore says he has received ex
pressions of interest and approval from
several sources, and we feel confident
that much more will be heard from the
proposal soon.
The town Information Center is the
logical coordinating agency for such a
program of hospitality. This would in
volve registration of persons speaking
foreign languages who would be willing
to serve as guides, participation by the
three main civic clubs, all of which have
international connections, and, we would
suggest, the preparation of information
sheets about Southern Pines and the
Sandhills, in several foreign languages.
These would not have to be elaborate—
they could be mimeographed. No great
nimiber of copies would be needed and
we feel sure that volunteer translators
could be located to put a brief and simple
summary of local information into the
desired languages.
As for general hospitality, we have no
fear that the Sandhills—which has been
receiving and entertaining strangers from
our own country for half a century—
would not do a good job with foreign
tourists now.
This newspaper will certainly do all
that it can to make the proposed program
a success.
What Protection from Official Laxity?
The “mess’J that Moore County was
allowed to get into in its handling of
“vital statistics” — the registration of
births and deaths— should be a lesson
in the importance of official alertness and
cooperation in responsible quarters.
A news story elsewhere in today’s
Pijot tells details of the situation and the
shock of the county commissioners on
learning from a State Health Department
official out of Raleigh that Moore County
has one of the worst records in the state
in the handling of this important function
and that 88 of the other 99 counties of
the state had switched to a county-wide
system of registration of births and
deaths, rather than the township registrar
system that had proven shockingly inef
ficient in Moore, but had been allowed
to continue here, despite pleas from
Raleigh that the system be changed.
The commissioners were as much in
the dark as anybody else, until Monday.
The state’s suggestions, advice and pleas
had evidently been shelved in the county
health department, although the health
officer told the commissioners Monday
that he had, several years ago, consulted
with the former chairman of the com
missioners (not now on the board) and
that the chairman had said that he favor
ed the township registration system.
There is no evidence that the state’s re
quest on the matter was ever presented
to the full board of commissioners for
their consideration.
Once the facts were made known to
the commissioners Monday, by the of
ficial from Raleigh, they took prompt
action to change the registration system.
One is appalled to think of the confusion
that might have been averted if the
matter had been brought before the
commissioners, as it should have been,
several years ago.
It is all the commissioners can be ex
pected to do to keep up with current
business brought before them, meeting
once a month or occasionally more often
in special session. Yet what had occurred
in the matter of vital statistics points up
the need for closer supervision of the
operation of county departments, even
those agencies like the health department
that are units of State agencies, as well
as being under county control.
The commissioners could hardly be
expected to exercise such supervision
personally—providing another argument,
it seems to us, for instituting a county
manager system which would provide an
active, constant watchdog service on all
county departments. '
The vital statistics “mess” shows that
a county department head who does not
choose to reveal to the commissioners
repeated requests by the state for reform
in a situation involving his department
can keep whatever is at stake a secret
from the commissioners indefinitely—or
until the state itself intervenes, as hap
pened this week.
Although neglect might still be possi
ble with a county manager digging into
the operation of all county departments,
it would seem to be much less likely.
Laxity in positions of responsibility is
always dangerous. The vital statistics
matter shows that it can’t be assumed it
does not exist in county agencies.
Happy Ending to a Small Town Story
Two years ago, in an editorial, The
Pilot said that it was “a tribute to the
small-town world and to Southern Pines”
that four young people who had hitherto
been leading an aimless, wandering life
of crime had been arrested here and werd
beginning to show signs of regretting
their former ways.
“It is not beyond the bounds of possibi
lity,” we wrote at that time, “that their
arrest in Southern Pines may be a turn
ing point in the lives of these young
people. At least they have had to sit still
and think about their misfortunes—^per
haps even begin to understand why they
are in the fix they’re in. The patient,
shrewd and not unkind interrogation (by
the late Police Chief C. E. Newton) to
which they have been subjected may be
showing them that there is a distinction
between truth and falsehood and that
they had better start facing the truth
about themselves. . . ”
The young people’s experience here did
indeed work miracles with them. At their
trial one of the girls was paroled into
the custody of her mother and another
was grant^ a parole not long thereafter
through the efforts of the late police chief.
The two boys went to prison for terms
of more than 18 months (with time off
for good behavior) and then the proof of
the “miracle” wrought here took place.
First of the boys to -be released from
prison, a few months ago, came straight
to Southern Pines, thinking of Chief New
ton, the officer who had sent him to
prison, as the closest and best friend he
had in the world. He did not know that
the chief had been shot dead in line of
duty earlier this year. He was helped
here financially and went on to Florida
where he had formerly had friends.
Then, when the other young man, just
turned 21, was released last month, he,
too, came straight here and was shocked
and grieved to find that Chief Newton
was dead. Yet he found other friends who
knew how much the Chief had done for
the young folks. These new friends wel
comed him and one family received him
into their home while he was here and
was influential in getting him a job in
another town. He is now at work and
living there.
It is the small-town, human interest
angle of this story that fascinates us. For
we doubt if the story could have been
unfolded with quite the same happy out
come in any place but a small town—
albeit this was a small town blessed with
a police chief having extraordinary pati
ence, kindliness and interest in young
people.
It was, in fact, not only the chief that
influenced the outcome of the story. The
arrest of the young people, while one of
them was trying to rob the Catholic rec
tory, was made possible by citizen alert
ness in calling police on seeing suspicious
actions and strangers in the neighbor
hood—that valuable alertness in the pro
tection of the community that is so often
lost in the crowds and impersonality of
city streets. Then, too, other persons, in
addition to the chief, took an interest in
the young people while they were in
jail here and in Carthage, awaiting trial.
Such interest, such human contacts with
persons who were concerned about them
as individuals, as personalities, as poten
tial good citizens, apparently had pre
viously never been experienced by these
rebellious and bitter young people.
“This case has shocked Southern Pines,”
said the editorial of two years ago. “It
affords a close look at a type of young
person that we read about in newspaper
headlines and in more serious social
studies: amoral, rootless, wandering and
apparently unconcerned for the future.
One wonders how many others like them
there are on the roads.”
And now we might add: one wonders
how many others like them could be
saved by the treatment accorded the
quartet who were arrested here and who
were at that time about as unprepossess
ing a group of delinquents as one could
exnect to find.
This story is indeed a tribute to South
ern Pines.
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 5, 1961
“Timothy Tarheel! Long Time No See, Eh, Old Buddy ?”1 Crains of Sand
/
i(
Might have saved the cost of
his visit to the psychiatrist.
That police mess in Denver
makes you think of the old days
—that may still be goidg on—in
New York City. Will Rogers had
something to say about that. He
said:
“It’s getting so in New York that
if a fellow is getting beat up he
doesn’t know whether to call the
police or let well enough alone.”
Science at Work
Among recently noted scientif
ic projects in the news:
An attempt to measure a
“snail’s pace”—how fast or, bet
ter, how slowly, snails actually
do travel.
Checking the thickness of a
“pea-soup fog”—does it actually
approximate the density of pea
soup?
How quick is “quick as a
wink?”
In Sweden some scientists are
smelling the breath of mice. “Tis
said the smell may be a clue to
cancer under certain conditions.
Not an experiment, but notable
in news of the animal world is
the dog that died in England and
was laid out in a black-draped
coffin in the home of his master,
while the city government con
sidered erecting a monument to
him.
Why? The dog had collected
more .than $14,000 over mainy
years, going around the city with
a wooden bucket in its mouth,
and signs attached, soliciting for'
such causes as flood victims and
Hungarian refugees.
THE lilLOT'S EDITOR SOJOURNS 'DOWN EAST' IN AUGUST
Maine*s Coast: Rocks, Boats, Birds, a Wary Seal
Grains of Sand wouldn’t be an
appropriate title for this piece.
There are precious few grains of
sand in the place I’m thinking
about. Instead: great rocks of
granite, Maine granite.
Mostly it’s grey, every sHade
imaginable of grey, with the
shadows in the clefts deep pur
plish-black and the tops of the
granite, where the sea and sun
strike, bleached almost white.
But sometimes the granite is
pink: coral pink almost, and if
you look closely you can see that
it is full of tiny bits of shining
mica or crystals, that catch the
glint of the sun. There are long
deep cracks in the pink granite
undulating over the huge round
ed rocks like snakes, sometimes
for fifty or sixty feet.
The grey rocks form the coast
of Frenchman’s Bay. This is the
bay, the next big bay from the
Bay of Funday, down the coast
er ‘ up,” they’d say up there, be
cause “down” always means
“down East,” in the opposite di
rection.
You find the pink rocks in only
a few places on that coast. They
are always dramatic, reaching
like huge coral outcroppings out
into the sea.
The best place to see them is at
a tiny fishing village to the east
where the harbor entrance is
flanked by headlands of pink
granite. From their tops you
look way down to the blue water
and the clear wavering sea-bot
tom and, farther out, the lobster-
pots bobbing. There are always
guUs around the pink rocks, and
sometimes clouds of tiny sand
pipers swish by, so fast you can
hardly see them. From the rocks
you look back, to the right, to the
tiny harbor of Corea. (Yes, that’s
the way wp spell it down East.
With a C, ‘Jimmy.)
look up as he goes by and raise
his hand, the setting sun deep
red across his face.
thodontists to install something
elaborate in the way of braces.
The harbor is pretty nearly
empty now, in the day-time, but
if you stay around you’ll hear
the lobsterboats’ engines putting
and soon, as tjie sun starts down,
they’ll be coming in around the
point.
They pass Bar Island, lying
across the entrance of this small
harbor, and follow the turns of
the narrow passage, past, the
hooter, along the line of the near
lobster-pots and one more little
turn before they straighten out
across the water for their moor
ings. The men are busy with
their cargo, a mess of pots and
cordage, dripping and slimy with
kelD. Sometimes one of them will
These Maine lobsterboats are
very beautiful, besides being fine
sea-boats. Though built by many
different men and in different
yards, they are always alike in
their main lines. There is the
same questing bow, the same high
grace to the sheer, the same slight
swell followed by a long taper
back to the stern. As -you watch
them now rounding the rocky
point, sliding with such compe
tence, such trim precision,
through the water, you recall that
the 'Viking ships had such flow
ing lines, and that it was on the
coast of northern Maine that some
of the Vikings are supposed to
have landed. Is it impossible that
they might have left a ship be
hind? Or even surprising that
such ghost ships haunt the
dreams and guide the hands of
Maine shipwrights?
The Public Speaking
Editorial on Certification
Of Teachers Draws Interest
quired for certification and pro
motion.
To the Editor:
Your editorial entitled “Dan
gerous Ground,” reprinted in the
Greensboro Daily News, was
most interesting. I have heard a
lot more on this subject over the
radio, especially from panels on
the Long John Nebel Show,
WOR, New York, 710 on the dial,
than have read. It runs nightly
from midnight to 5 a. m. (11-4 on
Eastern Daylight Time).
I have queried State Superin
tendent Charles Carroll and re
tiring Dean Guy Phillips (fny high
school principal here in 1921) on
this subject of Education courses
vs. excellence in subjects a fu
ture teacher is to be teaching.
There was not the slightest sign
that either had any sympathy for
the excellence side of the situa
tion.
More recently I have been hav
ing it hot and heavy with Chair
man Dallas Herring because of
the State Board’s failure to do
more than recommend to local
boards of education, superinten
dents and principals. The policy
m so many words is that the
State Board will not try to im
pose anything on local boards,
etc., no matter how much local
boards and school officials fail to
try to build up our school teach
ing and learning on the road to
“Quality Education” by employ
ing such things as the San An
gelo, Texas, School Plan, Teach
ing Machines, Programmed
Ijeaming, Speed Rteadi'ng, and
discontinuing most courses in
Education, Methods, Educational
Psychology and the like, all re-
I am especially interested in
what you said about one school
board’s preference for school
teachers who didn’t graduate
from Schools of Education.
Would it be possible for you to
tell me what School Board that
was to which you referred? Such
courage and use of common-
sense, in the best sense, deserves
high commendation.
Several of the boats pull into
the float where the long high lad
der leads from the water up to
the lobsterman’s shack on its high
stilts above. You can hear calls
and talk and the dull “bong” of
a pot hitting the deck or landing
on the rockihg float. The sun
sinks Ipwer, lower, bringing out
deep blue shadows; the sky over
the line of little houses along the
shore deepens, while, over the
opposite headland, clouds are
turning copper-colored. Lights
start coming on here and there.
Under your feet, rounding and
precipitous, the pink rocks turn
fiery. The rolling wake of the
last boat catches the light and
glistens like molten gold. Time to
go home.
Suddenly, down on the water
below, there’s a big swooshing
splash. Something dove; there’s
just the big circle where it went
down. It’s the seal; it must be.
Of course, there are a good
many seals, and they quite often
may be seen swimming grace
fully along to their ledges about
a mile up the bay, but somehow
it seems likely that it is always
the same one who comes at about
this time of a still evening to
bask in the setting sun. You
watch the sunpath and—there he
comes. His sleek black head
gleams as he slides his long snout
up into the sunshine. He shakes
himself and the drops fly off his
grey whiskers. (You’ve got the
glasses on him now, moving very,
very quietly or he will dive in
stantly.) He turns over on his
back and his furry tummy is like
a shining island. He lies there on
his back, one flipper idly raised,
the other keeping him steady. He
looks asleep.
FRANK L. YOUNG
516 Fifth Ave.
Greensboro, N. C.
(Editor’s Note: The editori
al to which the Greensboro
man refers, originally ap
pearing in The Pilot several
weeks ago, said that a school
board “in another state” pre
ferred to employ smart lib
eral arts graduates to gradu
ates of teacher colleges and
made the point that deep un
derstanding of a subject and
contagious enthusiasm for it
are the prime requisites of a
good teacher and that these
qualities could not be taught
potential teachers in “Edu
cation” courses on how to
teach. The school board to
which reference was made is
in New Jersey and its ad
dress has been forwarded to
Mr. Young. Apparently, in
New Jersey, local school
boards are free to hire whom
they wish as teachers with
out having to conform to a
state standard, at least so far
as credits for courses in Edu
cation are concerned.)
Another time, you were watch
ing water and rocks from the
cabin porch high above the grey
rocks of the bay. Directly across,
the sun lay like a pumpkin in the
western sky; heavy and static it
looked at the end of its sunpath
across the water.
It was the still time of evening.
There was no wind. The tide was
full in, only occasionally it lap
ped against the rocks. The only
sound came from the nuthatches.
We were beseiged by them this
August. They were everywhere,
especially in the firs. The bjg one,
that grew so close to the ledge of
rocks that you wondered .what
happened to its roots, was full of
them. It shook from top to toe
with little flutterings and fritter-
ings. Every now and then you
caught a glimpse of one of the
birds, generally hanging head
down at the end of a branch
while he picked furiously at the
cones above him. They were the
red-breasted kind: extremely
alert and fancy, spick and span.
And busy, most likely, filling up
for their long flight south. Some
times you saw a larger bird and
that was probably a cross-biU.
There were quite a few of them
around, though you didn’t often
have a chance to glimpse their
odd criss-cross parrot-like bills.
Obviously there are no bird or-
A cormorant, wings flailing
rapidly, long snaky neck stretch
ed forward like a spear, comes
speeding through the air, heading
for his roost on Jack’s Ledge.
Straight as an arrow he flies,
looking strangely heraldic, like a
creature in some old medieval
bestiary. His course takes him di
rectly ovef the seal.
The big black bird flashes in
and out of the sun’s rays and you
follow his flight till he is a speck
in the gathering dusk; then—the
seal isn’t there. So quietly you
, never noticed, he slid below,
leaving not the slightest wrinkle
on the water to show where he
went down. 'Why did he go down:
nothing to fear from a bird?
Would he come up again? No an
swer to either question. The sun
path stays empty and though you
search the bay’s expanse, no
dark, wet head cleaves the still,
green water.
—KLB
The PILOT
Published Every Thursday by
THE PILOT, Incorperaled
Southern Pines. North Carolina
1941—JAMES BOYEt—1944
Katharine Boyd Editor
C. Benedict Associate Editor
Dan S. Ray Gen. Mgr.
C. G. Council Advertising
Mary Scott Newton Business
Mary Evelyn de Nissoff Society
Composing Room
Dixie B. Ray, Michael Valen,
Thomas Mattocks and James E.
Pate.
Subscription Rates
Moore County
One Year $4.00
Outside Moore County
One Year $5.00
Second-class Postage paid at
Southern Pines, N. C.
Member National Editorial Assn,
and N. C. Press Assn.
D'You See What I See?
See where that Denver police
man really did spy a safe being ,
carried off in another policeman’s
car.
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