Personality, Feb. 25, 1952

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FORT WORTH, Texas, known both affectionately and derisively as "Cowtown," has a civic monument which, unlike San Antonio's Alamo, Houston's Shamrock and Dallas' Cotton Bowl, can walk & talk at incredible speed. That this monument is made of perishable material causes Fort Worth no immediate concern: Amon Giles Carter, tall, straight-backed and hefty, in his 73rd year shows no signs of erosion. He walks as fast as ever and talks even faster.

At times the talking gets out of hand. At a recent luncheon in Dallas, a city 30 miles east of Fort Worth and the object of Carter's deepest scorn, Carter was asked to introduce the speaker. Carter arose and spoke — at length. By the time he got to the introduction, the speaker excused himself. His prepared address was long, and it was time for the club to adjourn.

The incident might have embarrassed a lesser man. It merely reminded Carter of another occasion: "Once I was asked to introduce William Jennings Bryan. I spoke for quite a long time, leaving Mr. Bryan, who followed me, possibly three minutes. When it was over, I heard a fellow say: 'Bryan was fine, but who was that bald-headed old fellow that followed him?' "

Carter is lavish with words because he is lavish with everything. For nearly half a century, he has been building a glittering legend of showmanship, generosity, boisterousness and buffoonery. The legend lives and grows in a typhoon of frantic activity that sweeps everything before it — including Carter himself. This pays off for both Carter and Fort Worth. But his old friends know a deeper reason. Whether he is giving away hats, tracts of land, scholarships, or popcorn & peanuts at his 900-acre Shady Oak Farm, his friends see a poor boy acting out his dreams.

HIS FATHER was a Texas blacksmith, his stepmother unsympathetic. At twelve, Carter left home to make his way in the world. He walked ten miles to the farming town of Bowie, and asked for work at Mrs. Jarrott's boarding house. "Why, honey," said the landlady, "you're so small; what can you do?"

"I can do anything, ma'am," said Carter, and he did. He swept rooms, washed dishes and waited on table. When the trains came through, he sold fried chicken to the passengers. ("We fried the chickens in a thick batter, and you couldn't tell the drumstick from the gizzard.") He cleaned harness, curried the town doctor's horse and frequently slept on the livery-stable stairs. ("That was the only time I ever envied anyone. I envied people that slept in beds.")

At 18, he became a traveling salesman through the little towns of Texas, Kansas and Indian Territory, selling photo graphic portraits and frames to fit them. He soon bossed a sales crew of his own, and bought, at the age of 20, a flashy diamond ring ("I wish I was half as smart now as I thought I was then"). He drank champagne in San Francisco, broke up a light opera performance in Butte, Mont., wore boots and spurs in hotel dining rooms, and fired his six-shooter on New Year's Eve.