Story-Telling Statesman from Arkansas

              Story-Telling Statesman from Arkansas     By Cyril E. Bryant     He'd rather be right than congressman     The Ku Klux Klan burned a cross and threatened damage to a church at Bogalusa, Louisiana, when Brooks Hays was announced as speaker at a community-wide discussion on racial problems last January.  The Klan knew—as Washington folks learned long ago—that Hays is a persuasive man.  And they knew too that though he is labeled as a political "moderate," he is an uncompromising advocate of freedom and justice.  Hays, who is sixty-six, has the appearance of a harmless looking fellow.  He's five feet 10 inches tall and weighs 160 pounds.  He's begun to bald a little and there are lines around his eyes and forehead.  The whole of his face smiles even to the stranger with a "let's be friends" welcome.  But he is armed with a heart of strong Christian convictions, a keen mind, and a barrelful of humor and folk tales.  His humor is an Abe Lincoln type of anecdotal wit. He talks of his Arkansas home folk and townspeople, and he is not afraid to laugh at himself.  Shortly after he moved into the White House as a special assistant to President Kennedy, one hero-worshipping woman fawned, "Oh, Mr. Hays, it must be wonderful working so close to the President.  You do see him every day, don't you?"  Hays answered honestly, "I feel sorta like the little old lady down in Arkansas.  They asked her if she had seen Halley's comet, and she replied, 'Only from a distance.'"  Another time, according to a modern Washington legend, Hays drove his eight-year-old car to work in the middle of a morning rush hour.  "Hey, you, can't you go any faster?" one policeman bellowed at him.     18