The following persons are acting as special police officers and will be kept on duty in the city until the fair closes:
     J. W. Barnes, J. A. Beard, M. E. McCarthy, John Willi, T. Cordell, J. K. Jarrell, S. W. Ray, Eli Webb, William Worden, J. J. Templeton, H. Stampfley, Allen Makay, T. J. Cochran, R. E. McNally, Allen Marshall and J. M. Bridges.
     The city pays for six police specials at the fair grounds, as follows: A. M. Krick, James Wilkinson, H. E. Harrell, Porter Cochran, Allen Bailey and S. E. Berry.

     The remarks of Mayor Connor last night, favoring the city's establishing its own electric light plant, were most appropriate and exactly in the line of the repeated suggestions of the TIMES HERALD.
     It is understood that this municipality is now paying over $20,000 a year for light. This represents interest on a plant of $335,000. How much more the people are paying for private consumption is unknown, but it may be reasonably estimated at twice the sum paid by the city. This lighting business, and the enormous tax it imposes on the property owner, is one of the gravest questions for the council's consideration. It demands immediate and full consideration. Dallas should, by all means, own its own plant. Properly managed, it could be made to light the city and afford private consumers light and power for fans, elevator and a variety of manufactures. It is quite possible to give the city the finest of light, without a dollar of cost. It is not believed, that under a reasonable construction of the charter, any legal difficulties could be interposed. If they exist, then amend the charter. Austin proposed to light that city -- has erected a great dam for that purpose -- and she proposes, also, to afford power for all manufacturing plants. It is a hide-bound construction which would prevent a city from utilizing its excess of power by letting it at cheap rates to private consumers. Mr. Chas. Kahn is to be commended for the position he took last night in the council respecting the contemplated issue of bonds. If possible, part of the proceeds, at least, should go to providing this light plant.

     The registration books of this city were closed last night, with 6730 names enrolled, an increase of 520 over last year. The oldest white man to register was Ahab Bowen, 87 years old, of the Ninth Ward. Joe Coleman, 95 years old, was the oldest negro. Fortune Baxter, also a negro, was the last man to register. He ran two miles to get to [the] registrar's office in time.
     The following parties left their certificates of registration at the time of registration, which can be had by calling upon Registrar Lemmon, at the office of W. S. Lemmon, second floor Security, Mortgage and Trust building, on Main street.
     George Anzy, H. W. Ardinger, B. B. Brooks, Jesse Cole, W. S. Eldridge, Wright Jones, C. L. Kirkbridge ,, S. P. Morris, H. W. Wandlep. These men cannot vote without their certificates.

     The happiest man in Dallas today is John Berez. Berez has not become heir to a million dollars, discovered a mine, nor met with the success that most of mankind associates with happiness. John Berez is happy because he has accomplished something which he has long yearned to attain ere the eventide of his life faded away -- and Berez is sixty-two years of age.

    Out in a pretty little home at 2806 Forest avenue, lives the subject of this story. Street cars rumble by, automobiles whirl along their way and pedestrians leisurely pass the picket gate. It is just an ordinary little home, but it is home for a very unordinary man -- and his frau.
     From a family of wood-carvers and cabinet-makers, Berez has inherited the knowledge of carving wood. Since he was a boy back in the "old country," when he whittled the limb of a tree with a jack-knife, he has been, at one time or another for a livelihood or for pleasure, carving wood.
     Forty-four years ago -- that is a mighty long time -- Berez was on a trip through Egypt. He stood spellbound before a Sphinx -- as many before and after him have done. The tourist gazed long and earnestly at the enigmatical figure of stone. And, as he left it, he determined to take it with him -- in the storehouse of his memory. And, to shorten the story, Berez brought back to America, his vision of the Sphinx. During all that time -- forty-four years, it has remained indelibly in his mind, until now, by his deft hand, John Berez has carved in wood, his impression of the mammoth Sphinx that looks out puzzlingly across the sands of the Sahara, in far-away Egypt.
     And, not content with one figure of the wooden Sphinx, he has carved two of them. Today, they are mounted on the buttresses that lead to his door, where Berez can always see them, and there they stand like sentinels guarding the gate to the little Forest avenue home. Surmounting each figure is an electric light fixture that the clever creator has designed. Each Sphinx is five feet long, minutely proportioned and perfectly executed. So wonderfully has the craftsman worked, that not a flaw can be found. The wood used in construction is California sugar pine and cost $140.
     Until recently, Berez and his wife had an upstairs dining room downtown. Mrs. Berez has attained no little measure of distinction in cooking, as many who have tasted her baked chicken will testify -- and, as Mrs. Berez carved the chicken, Berez carved the Sphinx. For the past six months, he has been diligently carving, and now his work is finished. The two wooden figures stand before the little home in mute testimony of the master craftsman of the household.
     In the front room of the Berez home, is a veritable treasure-house of examples of wood carving. Here is a Turkish tabourette turned by hand out of the solid mahogany. There is a smoking-chair, a duplicate. The original was made by Berez for the present King Charles of Roumania on the king's order and is now in the royal household. Over in the corner, is a work of intricate knifing -- a figure depicting Masonic work, to which order Berez belongs. Up on the wall, hangs a picture frame of airy carving -- and, in the frame, Frau Berez' picture. On the table -- it, too, was carved by the owner -- a big scrap book. Most of the clippings were from newspapers yellowed with age. A few recent clippings from The Times Herald, a Dr. Frank Crane editorial and a Times Herald account of a debate which was won by Berez' grandson at the Dallas high school. A clipping from a Chicago newspaper of the year 1905 told of another occasion in the eventful life of John Berez -- of the day that he demonstrated his patent belt fire-escape by jumping from the sixteenth story window of a Chicago hotel. Sometime ago, a man using a similar device was killed at the central fire station in Dallas. The visitor was astonished -- it called to mind the rhyme of the school room of many years ago "and still the wonder grew, that one small head could carry all he knew."
     The interviewer looked up admiringly to say good-bye to the clever craftsman. He saw a character that closely resembled David Warfield as he appeared in "The Music Master," the flowing hair, the sympathetic eyes, the expression of a genius. "I'm happy now -- I'm through with my work," said the little man in accented words, as he opened the door to let his interviewer depart.
     It was just another example of a spirit to accomplish -- and, a feeling of self-satisfaction when the work is done. It was the spirit that has led men to tunnel the mighty mountains and build structures of steel that pierce the skies -- it was this same spirit that impelled the sturdy wood-carver, at the age of sixty-two, to see the accomplishment of his ambition of forty-four years ago.
     Is it any wonder that John Berez is happy?

     Postmaster B. M. Burgher, Friday morning, announced that all applicants for the positions of clerks and carriers in the post office department must produce a good picture of themselves when they take their examinations. Photographs taken within the past two years will be admitted. No tin-types are allowed. Pictures must be unmounted.
     The first civil service examination at which the new rule will be effective in Dallas, is that for clerks and carriers, September 12 of this year. All applicants must bring their photographs. Over 100 men have already made application for federal positions at this time. There are no vacancies in the Dallas office at present.

In the above picture is shown part of the large crowd that attended the unveiling of the big Woodmen monument in Oakland cemetery Sunday afternoon. In the crowd were Woodmen from many points in North Texas, including several high officials of the organization.

     If there is anything definitely indicating that Dallas has grown from a large town to a modern American metropolis, it is the extensive building of apartment houses and fashionable residences during the last few years. The old fashioned homes are passing. A busy city has no place for them.
     Hundreds of dignified old houses, formerly regarded as mansions, where Dallas families used to gather around the firesides in the evening, have been ruthlessly torn down. Others have been rented out as rooming houses. The owners either have died or have moved with their children, into more up-to-date residences in the newer districts of the city.
     This is progress of a certain type, but old timers say, that while we are rapidly moving on, we are leaving something valuable behind. The passing from the old fashioned to the new fashioned home is like growing from a boy to a man. Instead of the thrills of being a member of the knothole club, we enjoy a reserved seat in the grand stand.

Real Homes Disappearing.
     There are certain advantages in the change, but the melody of "Home, Sweet Home" is losing some of its sweetness. In fact, it is seldom heard now except in jazz time. There are still many real homes in Dallas, but they are gradually disappearing. The change is more noticeable to native Texans. The old fashioned home always has been the nucleus of Texas life.
     Not long ago, there was an old residence demolished in South Dallas to make room for an apartment house. Twenty years ago, it was a home, sacred to a large family. Everybody came home in the evening. There were no picture shows to keep them down town, and it wasn't much fun to drive around at night in the carriage.
     After supper -- not dinner -- the older boys and girls gathered around the piano and sang or danced in the old fashioned parlor. Father and mother occupied themselves in the sitting room, while grandma sat by the fire and told stories to the youngsters.
     The servants consisted of a family of old fashioned negroes who lived in a house in the back yard. Company sometimes came and enlivened the evening. There was somewhat of monotony in this kind of life, but to the children, this was home, and the center of the universe.

Uniformed Jap Servants.
     But, times have improved. The children are scattered, but the oldest son still makes his home in Dallas. The old house did not suit his wife, who was city raised. He lives in a more fashionable part of the city. When the door bell is rung in the evening, a Japanese servant, dressed in a white uniform, answers the call. There is nobody home.
     The boys and girls are motoring around White Rock and will not return until after midnight. Father and mother are downtown at a picture show. Grandma is attending a meeting of the Moonlight Bridge club. The house is as fine as money can make it, but it is hardly a home. It is, rather, a residential hotel, serving as headquarters for the family.
     To live in a home of this kind is to enjoy the greatest privilege available as [a] result of the progress of civilization and, of course, everybody wants one, but somehow or other, such a home fails to have the magic hold on the family that its old fashioned predecessor had. It is so easily duplicated by the expenditure of a little money, that small regret is felt on leaving it, but the soothing atmosphere of the deserted old home cannot be replaced. The only way to shake off the regret is to brand the whole story of the old fashioned home as "hokum," and feed the motor a little more gas.

Old Home Demolished.
     It was interesting to watch the workmen tear down the old home. First, it was necessary to drag out and sell to the secondhand dealer, the old fashioned furniture. The soft and gaily-colored old sofa could not be sold at all. It has been replaced by a more beautiful affair with double cushions, and by the more modern contraption called the "day lounge." A grotesque sofa-pillow "Sister" spent six months making, was thrown away. Such things, these days, can be bought ready-made.
     Tearing away the old fireplace was dirty work. Soot still remained from the old wood and coal fires, although the fireplace had long ago given way to a gas reflector. One of the workmen tore his shirt on a nail driven under the mantelpiece. It was one of six nails on which the youngsters used to hang up their stockings on Christmas eve. They still believed in Santa Claus in those days. He, also, has passed away with the old fashioned home. Modern children have been relieved of this deception.
     It happened that this old home still had a fence around the yard, although yard fences began to disappear in Dallas many years ago. In the old days, Nero used to bark through the palings at persons passing by, but he was satisfied to stay in the yard. His place in the new home has been taken by Flossy, a tiny white Spitz, who stays in the sunparlor and barks out the window. She is kept inside. There is no yard fence, and she would be killed by passing automobiles.

Relics Are Found.
     But, Nero died long ago. The only being disturbed in the wrecking was a brindle cat, one of the descendants of the old brindle pussy that used to sit close to the andirons on cold evenings, back in the nineties. Her place has been taken by a beautiful Persian, already the winner of three blue ribbons at cat shows. The old fashioned family dog and family cat have gone with Santa Claus and the old fashioned home.
     When the walls were finally razed and the floors from which the heavy vari-colored old carpets were torn, had been removed, several interesting relics were found. An old fashioned, slick headed, shiny-faced China doll had been preserved under the house. She still had on a calico dress made by "Little Sister." There are dolls in the new home, but they are "so different." Some of them are cute little kewpie vamps, with eyes little sister never would have understood. Another one of her old dolls was found that, when squeezed, used to make a squeaking noise that sounded like "mama." The dolls in the new home look as if they would, if you squeezed them, not say "mama," but "sweet papa." The old fashioned Santa Claus took with him his old fashioned dolls and toys. He used to bring the children lions and elephants on wheels, but they now get for Christmas, shimmie-hounds and King Tut pups.
     Another relic unearthed was papa's mustache cup, an extra large mug with a guard to keep his whiskers and mustache out of the coffee. His son doesn't need it. He has a mustache, but the kind he wears is short and to the point. The modern mustache was one of the few good things America got out of the war. His son wouldn't need the mustache cup in any event, though, for he hardly ever eats at home.

Old Home Wrecked.
     So, the old home was rapidly wrecked. The apartment house that replaced it is occupied by eight families, who call their rooms "home." The children, who must play in the park, because there is no yard around the house, speak of going home when they run upstairs to their apartment suite.
     There are many advantages in living in an efficiency apartment that cannot be had in a home, especially in this age, when woman has at least come to the point where it is no reflection on the husband for her to get out and work to help him support the family. Few modern children will be able to speak with truth of the "pies that mother used to make." They will reflect fondly on the "restaurant where we used to eat."
     But, after all, perhaps, there is no one who would care to go back to the days of the old fashioned home. It would mean loss of the automobile, the phonograph, electric light, radio, electric iron, moving picture show, and many other luxuries that have sprung up lately, not to mention denatured grape juice, electric marcel wavers, buzz fans, player-pianos, and the ukulele.

Special To The Times Herald
     Garland, Aug. 11. -- Jamming the four sides of the public square with a stream of automobiles two deep, and solid phalanxes of people on each sidewalk, a crowd estimated at six thousand individuals witnessed the parade of 450 members of the Women of the Ku Klux klan in Garland Saturday night. At least a third of the women marchers were unmasked, while marching at the forefront beside the fiery cross came District Attorney Shelby Cox and Sheriff Dan Harston. The crowd was entirely orderly and inclined to be sympathetic to the demonstration.
     Shortly after 8 o'clock, as darkness was just descending on the city, there sounded a fanfare of trumpets on the southwest side of the public square, and the first of the marchers came into view. Immediately in the van guard, flew an American flag, carried aloft by women flag-bearers, while powerful searchlights played upon the waving folds of the colors. Behind the flag, was carried the huge flaming cross, electrically lighted, beside which, the two officers of the peace were walking.

Band in Van.
     A fife and drum corps, composed of about thirty pieces, preceded the band of 45 pieces, which was next in line of march. After these elements, came the rank and file of marchers, majority masked, who, dressed in snow white from the tip of their shoes, to the top of their heads, passed slowly by, two by two, clasping hands.
     Fully, forty-five minutes were required for the parade to pass one point, while the entire assemblage passed completely around the square and took exit on the same side from which they had entered.
     Torch lights and flares played over the silent marchers at points of vantage along the line. Due to the solemnity of the procession, only scattered outbursts of enthusiasm were heard from the big crowd of onlookers, although as the first contingents swung into the square behind the band, playing "Onward, Christian Soldiers," prolonged cheers greeted them. Hand clapping was sporadic and sustained among the huge audience.
     After the parade of the Women of the Ku Klux klan, the band proceeded to a cleared space in the center of the town, where a number of old-time southern melodies were played. A number of speakers addressed the crowds afterwards.

     When Dallas' 10,000 poor and orphaned children awake on Christmas morning, they won't press cold noses to window panes on houses of the rich and cast eager eyes on luxurious toys and brightly-lighted trees therein.
     For Christmas of 1928 will, as never before, be a unanimous celebration for the city's 100,000 children, regardless of race or color, regardless of the size of papa's bank account. Names of the sons and daughters of "rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief" -- all will be included on Santa Claus' roll when the "Grand Old Man of the North" swoops down upon the city Monday, the night before Christmas.

     With that eventful day only two days off, Dallas was in the midst of the last-minute rush all day Saturday and far into the night. Frantic parents scoured toy, clothing and confectionery counters for appropriate gifts for their offspring. Bright-eyed kids almost rubbed the glass off shop windows along Elm, Main and Commerce as they watched the miniature train run round the track, or the toy airplane roaring over its course, or the cry-baby doll, or playhouse dishes, jack-knife or brand-new bicycle. With simple faith, children of the rich and poor alike scribbled out their messages to Santa and wished that their dreams might come true as they said their prayers.
     The Christmas demands of these children have brought joy to the hearts of Dallas merchants, too. When they rubbed their sleepy eyes and counted the last dollar in the cash register Saturday night, they smiled. For, before their shops close Monday night before the Christmas swapping season opens Wednesday morning -- they expect to take in more than $1,000,000 from the sale of toys and trinkets alone.

     In this wild racket, one might think that the street waifs, the orphans, the fatherless children of $10-a week mothers might be forgotten. But, no. For, just as wealthy sires wondered whether to buy Mary Jane a diamond ring or a little fur coast, scores of welfare, church and institutional workers, Saturday, huddled over plans to give every one of Dallas' 10,000 poor and orphaned children a toy, a bag of fruit and candy, possibly a warm suit and waterproof shoes and maybe a turkey dinner.
     As a result -- borrowing the words of Mrs. Albert Walker, city welfare director -- "it'll almost be a privilege to be an 'underprivileged' child in Dallas this year."

     By Christmas eve, or not later than Christmas morning, 140 little boys and girls in the Working Mothers' home and the fourteen licensed children's boarding houses, 1,240 children in the six local orphans' homes, 500 Mexican kids, as many more negroes and 7,500 others classified as "underprivileged" children will get their share of Christmas gifts.

     Welfare workers are under the impression that Santa Claus never forgets any child, but that he gives no child too many toys or too much candy and fruit. For that reason, they have gone over thousands of letters sent to Saint Nick and checked each name with the Confidential exchange to ascertain that no child gets gifts from two or three agencies. Sure enough they have found that many of the street urchins either wanted to pull the wool over Santa's eyes or were afraid, lest their requests might not be answered and sent letters to every charitable agency in town. But, the Santa Claus of Dallas Welfare fame isn't "hard-boiled." And, these bad boys and girls won't find the traditional switches in their stockings on Christmas morning; but, they will find but one toy and one bag of candy and fruit.

     Cinderella's Christmas started off with a bang Friday night at the annual municipal Christmas tree party at the city hall auditorium. Fifteen hundred children whooped and yelled as jovial Col. S. E. Moss, posing in the role of Santa Clause, handed out stockings full of fruit and candy supplied by the Empty Stocking Crusade as comedians, dancers and musicians from various theaters staged a "free show."
     Saturday night at Fair Park auditorium, the Salvation Army gave its annual Christmas tree party. About 2,500 children attended and received the toys, fruit and candy from David Main, chief executive of local Army forces.
     But, the Friday and Saturday parties weren't even starters. The best is yet to come -- Monday and Tuesday.
     By Christmas morning, Fire Chief Rod Gambrell and his blue-coated fire fighters will have delivered appropriate toys to 700 of the poorest children of the city. For the last two days, they have combed the flooded areas of the Trinity river bottoms and the less livable sections of the city for the rickety homes of the poor. There, they have left the rebuilt toys, which, for six weeks, they have spent every minute of their spare time mending. But, they're not half through and Saturday, Chief Gambrell has asked his men to put on their brass-buttoned coats early Sunday morning and "finish the job of playing Santa Claus."
     "I never knew there could be so many poor children anywhere," the chief said. "But, the men'll make 'em smile before Christmas."
     In that part of the city, nestling at the foot of McKinney avenue, known as Little Mexico, Christmas is a sight worth seeing -- a tragedy, and yet, a comedy. There are found the offspring of swarthy parents who swarmed out of Mexico to a mythical land of easy money and Fords. There are found the children in groups of five and even ten who are dependent for food and raiment upon the uncertain $2.50-a-day wages of an unfortunate father.
     Shivering from the cold and positively hungry, these brown-skinned children are experiencing possibly their first American Christmas. Cold and hunger do not seem to bother them as they stretch out eager hands for toys and bright trinkets and jabber in their half English tongue about this strange fellow, Santa Claus. The Mexican mothers, however, are more jubilant over the baskets of food and the warm clothes.

     Both the St. Vincent de Paul social center and the Methodist mission will stage Christmas tree parties for the little Mexicans on Christmas eve.
     The 1,240 orphans in the six local institutions probably will have the best Christmas of any of the "underprivileged" children. Baptist churches of the city and state will provide every child in Buckner Orphans' home with plenty of toys, food and clothes on Christmas morning. Presbyterians and Christians will leave nothing undone for the orphans at the Reynolds and Juliet Fowler homes, respectively. The Catholics have made exhaustive plans for Santa Claus programs at Dunn Memorial and St. Joseph's orphan homes. And, the employes of A. Harris & Co. will, as usual, give a Christmas party for the children at the Garrett Memorial home.
     Thirty-five years ago, I. Rude, a jobless Jewish boy, walked the streets of New York on Christmas day. He knew what it meant to be cold and hungry. And, on this Christmas morning, the same I. Rude, now a wealthy Dallas merchant, will give 2,000 complete outfits of clothing to poor children and grownups of the city from the doors of his Elm street establishment.
     By noon, on Christmas day, the Empty Stocking Crusade will have distributed a stocking and a toy to each of 5,000 "underprivileged" children of the city. Scores of the workers, under the direction of Mrs. E. L. Bale, have been hard at work at this crusade for weeks.
     Junior Chamber of Commerce workers, with the aid of KRLD, The Times Herald station, and the radio Christmas tree, gave toys to 1,500 poor children of the city. Under the direction of President Sam P. Kohen, the junior chamberites collected and distributed toys received from many parts of the United States.
     Out at the Working Mothers' home, where are kept fatherless children of a score of women who are forced to work all day for very small salaries, a party will be staged on Christmas morning. Toys, food and clothes will be supplied by the Mothers' council, the Sunshine club and the Forest Avenue Baptist church. The 120 children in the fourteen licensed children's homes were given toys by the firemen.
     The scores of newsies who stand on cold street corners and cry out the day's news in the "poiper," will have their Christmas, too. At the Dallas Newsboys' club, they will get clothes, trinkets and a warm dinner Tuesday.
     There are more "underprivileged" negro children in proportion than whites. And, these pickaninnies will find out, that there is a Santa Claus after Monday morning at 10 o'clock, a tree party will be held for 700 little negroes under the supervision of Hilaria Morgan of the welfare department. The darkies will get stockings full of fruit and candy, toys and warm clothes.
     One hundred poor negro families will find Christmas dinner baskets from various institutions and organizations. Names of these families are being supplied by Mrs. Walker and officials of the Salvation Army.
     Then, there is always the Good Samaritan who walks among the poor at Christmas time, does his kindly deed and goes away without the city's praise.
      There will be other parties for the "underprivileged" children; a theater party at the Majestic theater Monday morning at 10 o'clock, sponsored by the Majestic management and the Lions club, and a concert by the Melody club at 2 o'clock Wednesday afternoon at the city hall auditorium.

BONEHEADS IN A MEXICAN PLAZA gather in front of the city fountain at Saltillo, Mexico, in what one member described as "full disarray." Thirty members of the Dallas Bonehead Club flew to several Mexican cities in two planes last week as guests of D. Harold Byrd. Standing in the back row, left to right, are Myron Everts, D. Harold Byrd and Dr. Gordon Maddox. Standing, front row, left to right, are M. M. Gardner, Neal Lyons, G. W. Wagner, E. J. Koenig, Dr. C. V. White, J. Howard Payne, Capt. C. W. B. Long and L. M. Napier. Seated in the front is H. L. (Duke) DuLany.