When TIME printed a letter from a reader extolling the merits of the Windsor knot for neckties (TIME, March 3), the editors thought a note should be added to explain how the knot is tied. After struggling to condense the explanation into a short paragraph (right hand over the left hand, etc.), they gave it up as a bad job, recommended that interested readers write to the Men's Tie Foundation in New York City for diagrams.

Apparently a large number of readers, struggling with their own necktie problems, were interested. The foundation, according to Mrs. Charlotte Thompson, executive director, has received thousands of letters--asking how to tie four-in-hand and bow knots, as well as Windsors. Unequipped to handle such a volume of mail, the foundation has recruited the help of seven tie manufacturers. And Mrs. Thompson is more convinced than ever that "fewer than 20% of the men in this country know how to tie a knot correctly."

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You may remember the story about John Bohling and the seizure of his contraband Mettwurst by customs officials (TIME, March 17). Bohling had brought 8 Ibs. of the German pork sausage back with him from his first visit to his native Germany in 23 years. Because uncertified meat may not be imported from countries where there is foot-and-mouth disease, the sausage was confiscated by the Department of Agriculture.

The story kindled a spark of sympathy in Reader Ronald P. Schehr of Lockland, Ohio, self-styled president of the Society for the Preservation of Mett in America. He wrote TIME to ask for Bohling's address. Then Schehr wrote to Bohling: "This letter is the bearer of good tidings for you. On this Saturday, I have arranged to ship you (airmail) 5 Ibs. of Schmidt's famous hickory-smoked Mett sausage (American variety)."

Schehr explained that he first met Mettwurst as a boy when somebody handed him a grilled Mett sandwich at the annual turkey-shoot of the Low German Shooting Society. Years later, old feelings were stirred anew when he wandered into the butcher shop of William P. Schmidt in Reading, Ohio and smelled the teasing aroma of smoked Mettwurst. For the past five years he has been a twice-a-week customer at the shop, traveling two miles each way for his Monday and Thursday Mett. Schehr could understand how Bohling felt about his loss, and said: "You can't describe how good Mettwurst tastes. If you eat it, you know what I mean. It's like I tell Bill Schmidt. Each one of his Mett sausages is 40 inches of flavor."

When the package arrived at their Long Island home, the Bohlings opened it carefully, hands trembling, then looked at the contents in mild dismay. Said Mrs. Bohling: "This was the stuff you have to cook. The other didn't have to be cooked. It was like a salami."

But she cooked it anyway, in pea soup. Bohling tasted it, smacked his lips, pronounced it very good. Then, in a gesture of generosity befitting the occasion, he passed samples of it around to his neighbors.

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Marcel Stary is a 33-year-old Czechoslovakian artist who acted as an interpreter between American troops and underground forces during the war, according to a letter from Reader Marcel Leonard, of St. Jerome, Quebec. Stary fled the Communists and moved to St. Jerome a year ago.

When the artist saw the reproduction of a sketch for Diego Rivera's new mural. The Nightmare of War and the Dream of Peace (TIME, March 17), he was angered by the symbolism that glorified Russia and derided the U.S. Translating his wrath into action, he picked up brush and palette, set to work on the painting shown here.

It depicts life in Communist countries, shows people dying in prison, idle factories, cannon ready to fire, churches demolished, and people in slave camps. The sharpest touch: a mask of Rivera peering from behind a dollar-sign totem pole.

Stary worked for six days straight, resting only briefly, in order to finish the painting before he had cooled off.

Cordially yours,

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