alright in a photograph, even in bathing trunks. But, without the trunks, it was all a little sad! If you see what I mean. So Paul, who is fifty-three, would like to write someone else, hoping for better luck. Someone not quite so far away as Fort Wayne.

Meanwhile, Gerald would have written ONE, cursing us roundly for having palmed off on him "that perfectly disgusting slob," adding "that picture of him sure must have been taken by a real expert."

Let us turn now to Millard. Millard is very artistic, very sensitive, according to his letters, and lives in a lovely old house back in the Virginia hills, not far from Washington. Being very sensitive it has always been hard for him to meet people.

He would have told all of this to his Pen Pal, Joe. In fact, Millard poured out his soul on paper, for Joe seemed so very understanding. When the first picture of Joe arrived-tight levis, no shirt, big brawny arms and a groovy chest with just enough hair to be exciting, but not so much as to be vulgar, poor Millard almost fainted with ecstacy.

He sent Joe the plane fare to come to Washington from Abilene and then tossed through sleepless nights, wondering if it was just a racket and he had been taken. But Joe came. He was far better-looking than his pictures and with an electric quality that nearly sent Millard crazy. So easy to talk to.

too.

Never would he forget their drive out through the rolling Virginia hills, with dogwood trees blossoming from every thicket. Nor could he ever forget that first night when they sat up late listening to Callas' Norma. Joe seemed to know it almost by heart. They talked about books, and travel. How they would like to sportscar through Provence together and stay at some economical, but picturesque, little pension in Arles, or somewhere

one

nearby.

Millard was almost trembling with joy he was so happy those weeks. In gratitude to ONE he became an Associate Member and wrote vaguely about seeing his attorney to make arrangements for leaving the Corporation something in his will. The estate was not inconsiderable, he intimated.

Then, one day he had to run down to Richmond to visit an old aunt of his who was ninety, and such a sweet thing. It was not possible to take Joe along because she might be ninety but she was plenty sharp and might ask embarrassing questions. Joe was rather miffed at being left behind, but it wouldn't be long and couldn't be helped, anyway.

You've probably already guessed the ending of our little fable. For when Millard returned, Joe was gone, and so were a good many other things too. Every tasteful, costly thing in the place that was moveable and might be sold. All of the things that had been so hard to find.

There was that exquisite little Waterford-glass candy jar, that had cost fifty. A bargain at the price, too. And the choice Chinese ebony box with the carved ivory cover, with half a dozen really nice jades inside. None of the things museum pieces, but very lovely. Now they were gone, and so was Joe. Millard would be too sick, too actually ill to do anything but just fall onto the bed and stare dumbly at the ceiling.

Our last example turns out to be even uglier. Sven was a husky big guy, instructor in one of the gyms around town. Got lots of propositions of course, but you know how it is, with a job like that he had to play dumb and turn them all down on account of having to go around to the various high schools to give gymnastic demonstrations. Couldn't be seen at the spots around town either.