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In the course of his Latin American tour, Rocky Marciano has been mobbed by howling idolators in Caracas, treated to a calypso serenade in Port of Spain, and at S�o Paulo had a two-hour interview with a Cardinal, Carlo Carmilo de Vasconcelos Mota. The Cardinal, like all the rest of Latin America, was delighted.
No more delighted, though, than Rocky himself was on the road to Sorocaba, 60 miles out of S�o Paulo. The champion is a champion consumer of orange juice and other soft drinks. It is a long half hour when he does not pause to slake his thirst, and so, en route to Sorocaba, Rocky and his entourage stopped for the usual reason at a bistro they found in a small cotton-belt town.
The tavern owner recognized Marciano immediately and took a firm hold on the bar to steady himself. His eyes bugged out in awe as he came around the bar to hug the visitor. And, after some effusion of greetings, Rocky got his order in—orange juice. There were oranges but no squeezer. The tavern owner was not desolated. He squeezed the oranges by hand. As he did so, word spread through the town that Rocky Marciano, heavyweight champion of the world, had arrived. The church bells rang, summoning everyone, and soon 500 persons were crowded around the bar to admire the relaxed, easy movement of Rocky's Adam's apple as he downed the juice.
It was one of the greatest days the place had ever known.
Rocky prepared to leave, then had a gracious thought.
"By the way," he asked the owner, "what is the name of your town?"
"We call it S�o Roque," the man said. "In your language I guess it would be St. Rocky."
THE EAGER ENGLISH EYE
There is approximately one field mouse for every human in Great Britain, and 80 other species of mammals besides; in the last two years they have found themselves subject to an invasion of privacy such as wild animals have probably not been forced to endure since the beginning of time. Hares with an urge to gambol in the moonlight can never be sure that a man with night glasses is not eyeing them from some shaded copse, and even seals have been seized, wrestled to their backs, and unceremoniously tagged with an identifying label. England, in a word, now has mammal watchers—members of a society that is doing its best to make bird watching seem effete.