Henderson Daily Dispatch

South Dakota
Senator In
First Speech

By CHARLES P. STEWART
Central Press Columnist

Washington, Oct. 18.-Senator William J. Bulow originally arrived in Washington from South Dakota with a reputation for the ability to make the most entertaining speeches of any politician in the country at that juncture. He hadn't made any of them up until then except locally, having only just been elected to the upper congressional chamber. However, he'd done Senator Bulow plenty of talking throughout his home state, where he'd served a couple of terms as governor. But he'd made such a hit there that his fame had spread all over. He not only was meaty; he was witty. Folks traveled long distances to hear him. The verdict was

that not even Mark Twain, Bill Nye or Will Rogers had anything on him.

He did lots of orating, too. Any time there was a call on him to say something, he said it in tiptop style and on short notice. He never repeated himself, either.

Oh, he was well advertised in advance of his advent on Capitol Hill. The Senate waited with bated breath to listen to him.

Well, what did he turn out to be but about the most reticent solon in the memory of the oldest lawmaker! He's been on the job for eight years now, and only a few days ago did he make his first speech of any consequence. It was a hum-dinger when he got around to it. It was chock-full of dry humor; it was original; it was peppy. It wasn't as ponderous as some legislators' speeches are, but it overflowed with ideas.

It related to neutrality revision. Bulow's against it. He's an absolute isolationist. I think a majority of the other senators disagreed with him, but they had to admit that he's a champion at expressing himself pungently.

Democracy's Obligations.

His argument was that Uncle Sam is under no obligations to modify his arms embargo with a view of helping Britain and France, like ourselves, versus Germany, as a totalitarian power.

He reasoned that the British and French might have known that they couldn't help Poland appreciably before that latter was extinguished—and it ought to have been realized, he said, that a dead Poland would be hard to resuscitate. But the Allies did promise protection. Poland stood pat; it's squashed, with no advantage to anybody (except at least temporarily, to Hitler and Poland)—and a war's on.

If the Allies really could have saved the Poles, Bulow concedes that their promises to Warsaw perhaps would have been justified; but they knew that they couldn't—so he says. If they'd confessed that they couldn't, he adds, the poor Poles would have made some sort of terms, but, like suckers, according to the South Dakota's version, they fell for Allied assurances; today they're obliterated.

Bill Bulow doesn't defend Hitler or Stalin, but he does blame the Allies for what he considers inexcusable blundering.

"Let 'em stew in their own juice," so far as Uncle Sam's concerned, according to his motto.

I don't take anybody's side; I say only that the senator presents his case forcefully, after a long silence.

Why Silent So Long?

What puzzles me is:

Why was the senator inarticulate so long?

For eight years he's sat at his desk without an observation. It wouldn't have been so queer if he hadn't been so capable a talker earlier.

The funny part is that he has been a talker.

He's sat in his Senate seat without saying a word. He's voted, but he hasn't talked until just now; in debate he hasn't asked a question. Yet he's gone home, between sessions, and made as good local speeches as ever.

It's in Washington, not in South Dakota, that he's been so tongue-tied.

The usual national lawmaker likes to make the Capitol his sounding board. Bulow hushes up in Washington. Back home he is where he sounds off from.

It's a system that has its points politically.