Three weeks of Havana’s cliquot, bacardi, cervesa, horse races, jai alai, casino, and the rattly-bang-bang, of garbage cans, piercing shrieks of peddlers, not to mention rip-snorting roaring and exhausted automobiles, have had their exhilarating effects on the usual hum drum existence that has been my part of living on a quiet Minnesota farm. The contrast is pleasant although somewhat tiresome. There’s been too much excitement for the little old editor of this family journal of travel. Sometime in the dim and distant past I was told that the most difficult feature in writing was to transcribe the first paragraph. My hardest job here is to stay away from the Scotch and soda long enough to even think what the first paragraph will look like. However, with the able assistance of my good old pals, the Haig brothers, I am at last seated by a rickety old dining room table in an apartment overlooking the Malecon, Morro Castle and the Gulf of Mexico. Confucius once said: “It is not the wine that makes a man drunk—it is the man himself.” This filosophy applies to Cuba today. I have seen more “saloons” in Havana and fewer intoxicated persons than in any city in the United States, both before and since the adoption of the prohibition amendment. The easy manner in which we Americans can get borie-eyed drunk on a few shots of moonshine reminds of the Wag Jag ditty about _DeGulick McBlue, psychological stew,_ _Could always get tight on one small shot or two—_ _Far from proving his worldliness, toughness and such._ _It all went to show that he couldn’t stand much._ In Havana it is forbidden by law to kiss your wife on the gang-plank, in a taxi or other public place. The usual fine for violation is $25. Spooning custom here is quite different, too. In Cuba every residential window is protected by iron bars similar to our jails. It is through these barriers that lovers must cuddle and coo—at least until he becomes so nervous and tired from continual standing that he pops the question. I know it would be rather tough on some of our Minnesota farmhands if the farmers should adopt a custom similar to Cuba. * * * * * The first thing I learned in Havana was that the Cubans do not like the Whiz Bang’s traveling correspondent, Rev. “Golightly” Morrill. Mr. Morrill’s name is anathema to the average native, due undoubtedly to the fact that our reverend friend rarely deals out his views of life with kid gloves. He sees the world from the standpoint of the betterment of humanity and in seeking to attain his end, strikes out in two-fisted manner. In republishing a recent Morrill article from this magazine, a Havana publication takes this rap at our correspondent: