Toothless Tiger

It was only 10 a.m., but the square in Perryville. Ark. (pop. 719), was already sizzling in 90DEG heat. Clustered beneath shady oaks on the lawn of the county courthouse were 50 or so ginghamed and gallused townspeople. There were over-ailed men with weathered impassive faces, women with hair combed back severely into tight round buns, country-pretty girls in the early 20s. and children scooting mindlessly through the throng. Silently and intently, they listened as Orval Eugene Faubus, Governor of the sovereign state of Arkansas, told why they should keep him in the air-conditioned splendor of the Governor's mansion down in Little Rock for an unprecedented fifth term.

Faubus' voice, magnified by a sound truck, filled the tiny square, ripped through the still, oppressive heat and bellowed out over the whole town. Pausing only to drink from a red paper cup or wipe his sweating face with a handkerchief, Faubus appealed to his listeners as "my kind of folk." "I've been an ordinary working person all my life," he said. "I'm a hillbilly. I never was out of the shadow of the green Ozark Mountains until I was well past a man." He recounted the gifts of progress that he had brought to their state--and was even human enough to admit error: "We're all imperfect children of God, and none of us will be perfect until we cross that river toward which we all journey and are made whole on the other side." The women pursed their lips and glanced at each other with approving nods. Orval was their kind of folk too.

Decidedly Different. It all seemed pretty familiar--the homey pitch, the church-folk tone, the appeal to kinship. But as Orval Faubus canvassed Arkansas last week, something was decidedly different. Gone was the fiery segregationist fervor that only five years ago spread his name through the world as the villain of Little Rock. Gone were his sarcastic references to "outsiders," to federal troops, to the Supreme Court, to the monstrous, power-grabbing U.S. Government. No longer did he hold up segregation literature and talk about the evils of integration; he scarcely mentioned integration at all. In fact, hard as it was to believe, Orval Faubus was under heavy fire from segregationists who felt that he had deserted their cause.

Faubus is running in the primaries against five other Democrats, and the two who are giving him trouble are both old Faubus allies. One is moderate Sid Mc-Math, Governor from 1949 to 1953, who broke with Faubus over the Little Rock episode; the other is Congressman Dale Alford, a strong segregationist who had filed for his candidacy under the impression that Faubus would not run (Faubus' ulcer was kicking up) and is now campaigning against Faubus' long incumbency and against integration as well. Caught between the two, Faubus shrewdly decided to chuck segregation as a dead issue, concentrate instead on talking about new industry, educational advances, increased welfare benefits and wages--all topics that now appeal more than segregation in a state that is anxious to improve its long-shoddy image in the nation's eyes.

Not a Captive. By sensing the shift in the political winds and following it, Faubus has brought down the wrath of his old segregationist allies. "The people are beginning to realize that Governor Faubus simply used the integration question." says Mrs. Pat House, president of Little Rock's Women's Emergency Committee for public schools, "and now that it's no longer politically useful, he's not going to carry their banner." Says former Citizens Council President Dr. Malcolm Taylor: "He turned his back on greatness. No longer will we thrill to the tirades of a toothless tiger. We must look elsewhere for leadership."

If Faubus' talking about mundane issues is a startling sign, it is only because he believes that he needs a new image. By insisting that he was never an extremist on either side ("I am not a captive of any extremists of any viewpoint"), he is countering the welter of criticism with considerable success. He stands an excel lent chance of winning a majority in next week's primary or, if not then, in a runoff election that would probably follow. Old Tiger Faubus may have lost his teeth, but in Arkansas there seems to be no lion in the streets strong enough to threaten him seriously.

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