Yellow lights glowed from all four floors of an abandoned cigar factory in Newark, N. J. one night last week. A sickle moon hung in the sky. From the upper windows came susurrous sounds, growing louder and louder, a whisper repeated a hundredfold, until finally the whole neighborhood rang and rang with the cries: "Isn't it wonderful! Peace! Peace! Peace! Ain't it wonderful! OOooh! Peace! Peace!"
The Fourth Precinct desk sergeant's telephone tinkled. Those Negroes over on School Street, someone said, were at it again. It had been going on three months. Everyone else...
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