BY Richard Pate

The dark figure of a man moves slowly up the snow laden street. His pace is as steady as the slow, rhythmic beat of a tired drummer. The pace slows and the figure stops.

The street is quiet, except for some vague strains of music drifting from an open church filled with singing Negroes. The figure is only half listening. He knows the music is of organ and voices, and that the songs are of joy and good will. Silently he sneers. He knows that this is Christmas Eve.

He knows all the things of Christmas. They bore him.

The figure moves on down the street passing the warm church. . . the sweet scent of incense is soon gone from the air about him.

As he walks through Christmas snow, he is thinking of Christmases to come.

He is thinking of the pitiful state the world is in; how people still cling to the belief that all men are created equal. He is thinking of the wonderful joy that would come with complete segregation. "Send the Negores back to Africa!" he had shouted. "Drive the Blacks back!" He grimaces again. "This means all races, all creeds, all colors. This would be a perfect civilization. . . if only. . ." He stops.

A group of Negro boys are singing on the next street corner. He turns sharply down an alley to avoid them. Straightening his collar and tightening his muffler, he braces himself against the harsh, biting wind.

To him the world is stupid. . . stupid not to heed his warning. To him love is weakness, good will is toward other whites, and kindness is for little children.

The wind blows harder and colder. The carolers have gone and the church is now empty. But the figure walks on and on through Christmas snow.

And the pity of it all is. . . he walks on.