Overheard a rather humorous remark of a local celebrity, Clayt Robson by name, one evening in the lobby of the Kimball house. Robson is a well-known Georgian lobbyist and political boss, who is considered a power in the present state administration. Clayt jokingly spluttered to a group of friends that “I was twenty-one years old and grown-up before I knew that ‘damned Yankee’ was two words.” My visit to Atlanta brought to memory a conversation I had with Cole S. Blease, former governor of South Carolina, about four years ago. The governor very kindly invited me to his suite in the Selwyn hotel at Charlotte, N. C., to partake of his private twenty-year-old stock. While “killing” the quart of medicine, the subject of Atlanta came to the front. Here is the Bleasian description of the South’s largest city, as nearly as I can remember: “_Atlanta is a hell-hole of perdition. It is no place for a virtuous woman or an honest man._” I cannot quite agree with Mr. Blease, for Atlanta treated me royally. The girlies here I found to be of true Southern stock—very shy and rather demure. I once heard the late “Pitchfork” Ben Tillman remark that the only family tree he could boast was that the women were virtuous and the men reasonably brave. From my cursory observations this description fairly fits Atlanta. From Atlanta our next stop was Jacksonville. Went for a joyride here, which ended in a thrilling though harmless smashup. Upon picking myself from out the wreckage, I thanked the kindly doctor for a safe delivery. Which calls to mind these lines by Lincoln, or some other noted personage: _Oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud?_ _As he rides in his swift-flying car like a cloud,_ _A break in the axle, a bust in the tire,_ _He passeth from life to the heavenly choir._ * * * * * As a deer hunter, I’m a good farmer. Spent ten days tramping the windfalls in the neighborhood of Breezy Point Lodge without even seeing a deer. Saw plenty of polecats, bobcats and house cats, and nearly captured a “porky.” I learned lots about the habits and habitations of the northern pine animals and finally managed to knock down a “spike buck” (whatever that means) on the last day of the hunting season. Must admit the buck almost shook hands with me before I was able to knock him over. However, I had a very good guide, Arthur Foote by name, but better known as “Panther Pete.” Pete has earned a regular living for twenty-five years as a trapper and deer hunter, and I am sure that the small buck never would have fallen for me had he not enticed the animal to leave his forest retreat. * * * * * While touring the San Francisco underworld as the guest of the police vice squad on my recent tour of the Pacific coast, we encountered what the police considered a suspicious party. He was one of those dapper young men with a red necktie that frequent this section of Famous Frisco.