At the pass of Thermopolae, between the amorphous wall of Mt. Oeta and the stilly Maliac gulf stood King Leonidas with his three hundred now world famous Spartan heros one day in 480, watching the approach of Xerxes and his host of iron clad companions, the sunlight slithering from plumed helmets. The battle began. Complained a Spartan warrior, "Their arrows fly thicker." "The better to shade us," quoth Leonidas.

And as year after year the acanthus and asphodel sprout above him, Leonidas may have doubted the efficacy of his defence. To be sure, poets have sung him in their spare moments; men have written his name in the encyclopedias and the New York Times; historians have exalted him. He doubts no more. A scintillating triumph has jarred the semi-fossilized bones in their subterraneous abode. For yesterday, the will of a deceased Camden, New Jersey, real estate agent disclosed a sum of $5000 to be devoted to the erection of a fitting and lasting memorial in King Leonidas' home town.