They're painted on a white frame house that stands on a cheerless block of Albany Avenue in West Tampa like a beacon, a flag of peace, an oasis.

It's Walter Smith's offering to the community of his childhood and to the children of today.

Smith worries about these children. He worries that they have less of a chance than he did when he was a kid and ran along West Tampa's streets, when it was legal to hold black people back.

As limited as opportunities were then, Smith learned that no matter how many insults were thrown his way, he was just as good as anybody, and that if he worked hard enough, he would make it.

He worries that today's black children don't have the gift of this belief. He worries that futility has set in among Tampa's poorest blacks and that even among those who have succeeded, so many others still see skin color before they see knowledge, talent or skill.

He wonders why so many black children lag behind white children in school, how white society let this happen and, most of all, how black people did the same.

He, for one, isn't standing by. Neither are several others who help him at the library.

The Walter Smith Library is dedicated largely to Smith's accomplishments. Among the books, magazines and African artifacts are dozens of the plaques and honorary degrees he received throughout his career in education. And why not?

Here is a man who cut okra and stripped sugar cane in Georgia and pushed clothing carts in New York's garment district, a man who returned to school and worked his way through college waiting tables at a steakhouse, who then became the first black manager of a 7-Eleven in this region, then provost of Hillsborough Community College, president of Roxbury Community College in Boston and president of Florida A&M University. From there, he went to Africa as a senior Fulbright Scholar, creating a higher education program for professors in Malawi and founding a community college in South Africa.

But much is at stake here.

In 2000, Smith retired from his job as graduate admissions director at the University of Florida and came home to live near his parents.

``When I thought of their sacrifices, there was no way I was going to move to Carrollwood when I could come here, give them some money, remodel and have a nice home,'' Smith says. ``This was going to be my little paradise in the city.''

Working Toward The Dream

But paradise it was not. Smith soon noticed the men on the steps of another house he'd bought nearby. Drug dealers. He persuaded them to leave.

``Let's just say I said what I had to say. I faced them down,'' he says. ``You face people down by being emphatic, by being no nonsense, by making them believe you have the appropriate protection.''

A friend listening to Smith tell the story, Al Givins, smiles and adds, ``There's a way a man has of speaking that lets you know he's serious.''

Smith has that way.

He exudes gravity, even in an Atlanta Falcons T-shirt, sneakers and black jeans flecked with paint. He speaks slowly, in long, formal sentences, with few hand movements and a steady gaze. He loves a good laugh but gets angry when he thinks about what's happening to many black children today.

``They're not pushed,'' he says. ``They're put in a corner. When they look for role models, they see drug dealers.''

He envisioned creating his library one afternoon as he watched two girls jump off their school bus. They horsed around, pushing each other and making playful threats. He figured they would plop in front of a television set as soon as they got home, and he thought, ``Wouldn't it be nice to hear one of them say, `Meet me back at the library. We can study together.' ''

Holding onto that vision, Smith and his friends spent many late nights trying to turn the rundown house on Albany, next door to his mother's, into a hall of learning. It cost Smith nearly $100,000 in savings. More than once, Smith concedes, he wondered who would come when the place was finished.

Making Progress

The house with clouds painted on its side opened its doors in September. And children came. On any day now, six to 10 of them will be reading, doing homework, using the computer, with the help of Smith's friends, including retired dentist Charles Myers.

Among the students are two regulars, Ambria and Anthony Conley. Anthony, 8, refused to speak when his grandmother first brought him to the library. But big sister Ambria, 12, loved the place. Slowly Anthony's resistance softened.

One day recently, as Myers conducted afternoon exercises, he tested the brother and sister's knowledge of Roman numerals. They grasped that V was five, X was 10, even that XVI was 16.

``Anthony, tell me what the following is: XVIII,'' Myers said solemnly. The boy slumped and fidgeted. ``Think hard. Sit up,'' Myers said. The boy stared ahead, then smiled and announced, ``18.''

OK. What is XIV? Myers asked.

``26,'' Anthony piped.

Myers slowly shook his head. ``Remember what we talked about, what it means when the I is in front of the V or X.''

The boy paused, then cried out, ``24.''

Myers turned to Ambria.

``What is XIX?''

Twenty-one.

``No. Remember.''

She cut her eyes to her brother.

``Don't look over there. Think.

``Ambria. You know this. Tell me what IX is.''

Silence. Then comprehension. ``Nine.''

``OK. So tell me now. What is XIX.''

As Smith watched from another room, she opened her eyes wide, smiled like she had a secret, saying ``Ohhhhhhh,'' then ``19?''

Yes.

The children dashed home with Gasparilla beads around their necks.

And the stepson of a longshoreman, grandson of a garbageman at FAMU, smiled with joy at the thought of that happy cry, ``19.''

This is only the beginning, Smith says. He envisions more children, and when older children begin to come, holding special tutoring classes and youth conferences on today's issues.

``I want to use this for our young men and women to come in here and discuss anything they want to discuss to help them in their development,'' he says. ``This is a workshop. It's a think tank.''

And it's not just for black children. He worries about the things that hold all children back. He thinks a lot about the children of impoverished Mexican and other immigrants, many of whom have moved to West Tampa. He knows that in their fight to survive here, the first thing they give up on is school.

He's one of dozens of others who grew up in Tampa's ethnic enclaves with the same worries, ideas and goals, who also work to help those still there. But they function like a cart whose wheels are different sizes. They don't coordinate their efforts, and there's nothing to pull them together and harness their energies.

If they did, what could be gained?

Imagine how much richer the city would be, both culturally and economically, Smith says, if the minority groups who lag behind could get a better education, make more money, buy homes, start and seed new businesses or libraries and museums.

If Tampa can't fulfill this vision, he asks, ``Where are we going to be 10 years from now?''

Yes, he adds. Much is at stake. Lindsay Peterson