Page Four
Fighting Mud with Truth
The best that can be said for Senator Rivers Johnson’s
radio attack on the People’s Candidate for Governor, Kerr
Scott, is that it indicates the extent of Scott strength; for if
the worst true statement the ring can make about Kerr
Scott is that he is a dairy farmer instead of a tobacco farmer,
they are hard up for campaign ammunition.
Certainly the malignant attack indicates that the John
son backers have decided they cannot win the campaign
on the basis of merit; instead they are mudslinging and is
sue-dodging. The state’s leading Democratic newspaper
yesterday was moved to remark:
“Candidate Johnson's decision to depart from his
first primary style of campaigning apparently has been
recent. Certainly it has occurred since May 30, the day
after the first primary, for on that day he issued
the following statement:
“ ‘I still contend that the people of North Carolina
are more interested in good government than mud sling
ing. In my opinion the vote recorded last Saturday
proves my position’.”
Two other accusations made by Senator Johnson against
Scott are that he used gas during the war to drive from
Raleigh to his farm at Haw River, and that he lowered the
state restrictions against importation of milk so that milk
might be shipped to North Carolina from the East and
Midwest.
The Senator from Duplin stuck his neck out there, and
asked that it be chopped off. He should have looked before
he leapt; he could have very easily checked with the Raleigh
YMCA to see how many nights during the war Kerr Scott
spent there instead'of driving to his farm on Haw River.
But he did not make this simple check.
WE KNOW HE DID NOT, BECAUSE WE DID.
KERR SCOTT STAYED AT THE RALEIGH Y.M.C.A. y
OR A RALEIGH HOTEL EACH NIGHT THAT HIS
SERVICES WERE NOT REQUIRED AT HAW RIVER,
ROUTE 2, TO HELP PRODUCE MORE FOOD FOR
OUR ARMED FORCES DURING THE WAR.
We know from personal experience that every man
with land ought to have been producing more food during
the war, because we have had to live on sea-biscuit and C
ration hash for weeks at the time while fighting 18 to
20 hours a day. At the same time every issue of this news
paper carried advertisements and editorials asking farmers
and gardeners to produce more food for themselves and
their servicemen.
As for the other question, the restrictions against
importation of milk were lifted because North Carolina
was not able to produce enough milk to serve the Army
and Marine camps at Fort Bragg, Camp Butner, Camp
LeJeune, Camp Davis, Cherry Point, and other military
installations in this state. We know about this situation
from experience, too, because as $21.00-a-month buck
privates at Fort Bragg, we were mighty grateful for
that half-pint of milk for breakfast each morning.
Even last year North Carolina consumed 60,000,000
more pounds of milk than the state produced, and Kerr
Scott has labored incessantly to try to get Tar Heel farmers
to produce more milk.
The whole matter boils down to a fighting of the smear
brigade’s tactics with the truth, and the free voters of North
Carolina can rest assured that Kerr Scott will give them the
truth. He always has, and he always will.
Be Careful with That Count
In the official counting of the ballots in the first
primary, the State Board of Elections turned up a little
error of 900 odd ballots in the report from Haywood
County. The error was just a little mountain mistake
in addition, the Board says. And nobody from the
mountains to the sea wants to make any mountain
out of a molehill about iL
Indeed, it may be just as well that it tappened. A
good many mountain men seem to be coming down to
Raleigh to take a special interest in the second primary
and it is good in advance to have this innocent error
disclosed. It emphasizes the necessity that in the next
counting the mountaineers and everybody else spit on
their pencils in determination that there be no mistakes
in counting the votes. The News and Observer
The Zebulon Record
Ferd Davis Editor
Barrie Davis Publisher
Entered as second class matter June 26, 1925, at the post office
at Zebulon, North Carolina, under the act of March 3, 1879.
Subscription rate: $1.50 a year. Advertising rates on request
The Zebulon Reeord
This, That and the Other
By Mrs. Theo. B. Davis
A household expert, giving ad
vice last week, suggested that once
u week we look around for cob
webs on walls, saying this will be
often enough to keep the house
clear of them.
Not our spiders! Why, if the
ones we have didn’t spin any fast
er than once-a-week cleaning
would take care of, they’d be so
ashamed they’d drop down to the
floor and not bother to climb back
up. And if I paid no attention to
them save on seventh days, we’d
all look as if we were wearing tat
tered and soiled veils.
Another of life’s smaller worries
is almost as hard to deal with as
are cobwebs. I refer to those light,
fluffy masses of lint that form
from pity knows what all a«d float
just ahead of the broom when you
sweep. Some persons call them
•‘dust kittens”. My brother-in
law’s mother called them “house
moss.” I call them a complete
nuisance. A little moisture, a little
oil on a dust mop, or a great deal
of effort goes to the removal of
these; and then more will be un
der bed and dresser by the time
you get your hands washed.
But I have learned one thing
that you may find helpful, though
you probably will not like the
idea. You know how hard it is to
keep on hand enough wooden
clothes hangers to take care of all
By Carl E. Bjork
There was a certain man who
dwelt nigh on to the Busy Village,
and he falleth upon poor pickings.
For behold he worketh one day in
his tobacco barn and suffereth a
deep scratch upon one of his good
fingers. And the finger did grow
by reason of the swelling, and he
was in much pain.
Now there came by his farm
one day a Poultryman by name,
and he did sit down, and crosseth
his legs.
And the man with a painful
digit opened his heart unto him,
and leaned upon him for sympa
thy.
And after he had unfolded his
woes, the Poultryman did enquire
as to why he did not visit a phy
sician and seek the Balm of Gi
lead for his wounds.
Three reasons have I for that,
saith the Farmer, and the last
reason is the Big On«-
Say on, saith the Poultryman.
Friend, I may have a flat tire
whilst speeding to the Docs, and it
will hurt my sore finger to repair
the blowout. Then I cannot leave
By Barrie S. Davis
Lots of people, at one time or
another, enjoy the friendship of a
very close friend, someone in
whom they can place special
trust, can tell their troubles to.
When I first enlisted in the Air
Force, I was fortunate to be
thrown in with Jack Dunn. We
sweated our way through Cadets,
won our wings, and took training
in planes together. We marched,
argued, flew, and looked over the
women from Missouri to the
southern tip of Florida.
When finally, over our loud pro
tests, we were sent our separate
ways, he to the Pacific and I to
garments needing to be hung up in
hot weather. You know, too, how
prone the wire hangers are to
leave spots of iron rust where
there was perspiration around a
collar. And the wire hangers are
hardest of all to cover, as they
slip out of place so badly. Some
time when you are in a hurry and
simply must have a covered hang
er, slip and old sock over the wire,
sticking the hook part through the
heel. You’ll be surprised to see
now it fits, and you can poke in
some stuffing if you fear lack of
padding will leave marks on the
clothing. Later, a neat cover can
be made to take the place of this
emergency aid, which is a sight to
look at —or you may comfort your
self by saying pretty is as pretty
does.
We have worried considerably
about our premises this year;
neither my husband nor myself
being able to do very much toward
keeping things in good order; and
when a friend remarked one day
this week that everything looks
much more overgrown than form
erly, we realized afresh how it all
looks to passersby. And so when a
young man, a stranger, tapped on
the front door, and being admitt
ed, asked solemnly, “Do you ever
think of doing anything to your
house?” I answered fervently,
“Often and earnestly.” What he
wanted us to do was buy asbestos
siding from his company. I felt
Bjork s Tips
this tobacco barn, it may burn
down while I loiter on the Village
streets. But I am also thinking
that the Doc doth charge me too
many shekels. Yea, I think the last
thought is the lost gear in my trip
to the Dispenser of Pills.
What thinkest thou, Friend, he
asketh the Poultryman.
Now the Poultryman had many
a line on his brow, and he pointeth
to the deepest one, and saith,
Many years ago I desired to cull
my Egg Bearers but I knew not
how to do it. I heard it did cost
many shekels to seek out good ad
vice, so I did ask my best friend,
the Hograiser. And he suggesteth
to me that I listen to the Egg
Bearers, and those that did not
cackle should be sold.
Say on, saith the Farmer.
And so I sitteth upon the shady
side of the Henhouse day unto
day, and each evening I gathered
in the non cacklers for the morn
ing market. And one day did I sit
all day near the Henhouse and
heard no singing within and I am
highly happy for I have culled out
the non Egg Bearers. But 10, and
He Was a Good Boy
Africa, we lost contact except for
infrequent letters.
But I never forgot the debt of
gratitude that I owed Jack Dunn
for his help to me in the army—
for being a wonderful guy.
Well, we both got through the
war. And we both made plans for
a reunion, a real get-together.
It never came about. Last week
I received a telegram stating that
“Captain John F. Dunn was killed
in a crash in Roanoke, Virginia.”
Like everybody, I refused to be
lieve bad news at first. This
couldn’t have been Jack Dunn, the
best doggoned pilot in the air! But
it was. Two planes had crashed
Friday, June 11, 1948
better to learn he had a reason
other than curiosity lor asking.
It was somewhat surprising to
read that the harmonica is now
recognized by composers as a real
musical instrument, and that har
monicas are being used in sym
phony orchestra. They have a wid
er range of notes than the ones
sold around here, and I suppose
the orchestra will not use that
number which imitates a train
coining into the station; but the
mouth harps will be there all
right.
I wonder if those of us who lost
loved ones overseas in the war
have somehow held the feeling
that if they had lived to come
home, they would have been safe,
and with us all the rest of our
lives. Yet only las* week my
youngest son was called to Roan
oke, Virginia, by the death of an
Air Force comrade, Captain Jack
Dunn, who went through the war
as a fighter pilot, came home, en
listed with the Air Force as a re
serve, and was killed in a collision
with a plane piloted by another
experienced flier when they were
putting in time practicing. Since
both were killed, no ones knows
what caused the tragedy. And he
is lost to his wife and babies, his
parents and relatives as surely as
if dead in combat. Truly, whoever
and wherever we may be, there is
but a step between us and death.
behold, when I openeth the door
to see the faithful carriers of The
Egg, not one can be found.
And how is that, asketh the
Farmer.
Friend, I had culled out all of
the flock. I was no longer in the
Egg Business and my wife was very
wroth indeed and my whole year
was given over to much misery.
Ah, how sad, how sad it was.
And the Poultryman goeth his
way after a few more words, and
the Farmer sat in silence before
the tobacco bam.
And not many days later there
cometh by his barn the same
Poultryman and he calleth, How
farest thou, oh suffering man?
And the Farmer held up a finger
much better, and with smiles did
call back, I first did find advice
in your lesson and the Doc has re
lieved me of a few shekels instead
of my whole farm by reason of a
severe case of blood poisoning, and
I am much better.
Moreover as the Poultryman
driveth away, Tie heareth the To
bacco Man singing, I’m Looking
Over a Four Leaf Clover.
together in the air. Two pilots had
been killed as the battered pieces
struck the ground. Captain John
F. Dunn, flying with the Air Force
Reserve, had been one of the pi
lots..
His folks came down from Laf
lin, Pennsylvania to help Kathryn,
Jack’s wife, straighten up his af
fairs. I flew to Roanoke last
Thursday to see them. They were
as I knew they would be. Very
Irish, very nice, and marvelously
brave. Having known their son, I
felt that I had known them also.
As I played with Jack Dunn’s
two-year-old daughter, I talked
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