The outskirts of eastern Hot Springs resemble a vast
checkerboard--patterned in Black and White. Within two blocks of a house
made of log-faced siding--painted a spotless white and provided with
blue shutters will be a shack which appears to have been made from the
discard of a dozen generations of houses.

Some of the yards are thick with rusting cans, old tires and
miscelaneous rubbish. Some of them are so gutted by gully wash that any
attempt at beautification would be worse than useless. Some are
swept--farm fashion--free from surface dust and twigs. Some
attempt--others achieve grass and flowers. Vegetable gardens are far
less frequent then they should be, considering space left bare.

The interviewer frankly lost her way several times. One improper
direction took her fully half a mile beyond her destination. From a
hilltop she could look down on less elevated hills and into narrow
valleys. The impression was that of a cheaply painted back-drop designed
for a "stock" presentation of "Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch."

Moving along streets, alleys and paths backward "toward town" the
interviewer reached another hill. Almost a quarter of a mile away she
spied an old colored man sunning himself on the front porch of a well
kept cottage. Somthing about his white hair and erectly-slumped bearing
screamed "Ex-slave" even at that distance. A negro youth was passing.

"I beg your pardon, can you tell me where to find Wade Street and James
Baker?" "Ya--ya--ya--s ma'am. Dat--dat--dat's de house over
da--da--da--da--r. He--he--he lives at his daughter's" "Could that be he
on the porch?" "Ya--ya--yas ma'am. Dat--dat--dat's right."