The New South

The American Trail, the Penn did in London, the new South, the pale dead moon of the Southland dissolved into the dark.

Morning now, no time to dally, the people have a job to do, hip to be built. In Norfolk, Virginia, a passage of plane loaded with business men taking off from Atlanta, or Texas City, Kansas City, New York City.

Great cars out of Kentucky loaded with poles and then blumberg. Raw materials to be smelted down in the blast furnaces of Birmingham. An oil well coming in from a hundred feet below the surface of the South of New Orleans.

A new noisy big, rolling industry. New? It didn't happen yesterday, but it wasn't always like this. It was quiet, quiet, and still. And a great tiredness stretched across the cross-straveny-roaded hills and flatlands. Quiet. 866. The war between the states is empty now.

quarter of a million southern boys dead from wounds and disease. The nightmare called the people, the fearless everywhere. In the dust, in the hot scorching wind, the people stand there petrified, shocked, stunned. A man and his wife, their house gone. They stare at all that's left them.

The land. You still got that? Land. Look at it. It lay there. Ravish. Desolent. Like the people. All hope for the future. Dead. We'll never get back, Mr. Grady. Get back. Where are we used to the get back into the past?

The past belongs to the dead. The man is Brady, Henry Brady, 25 years old, editor of a southern newspaper, the Atlanta Constitution, young, vigorous, and stands at the window in his office. The farmer from the land is with him.