More than once have I walked with Mr. Henry the mile to her country home, when I thought my friend Alex Hamel, or maybe Rodman DeForest, or Johnny Thomas, or my brother Sam, was the top man there. We were not, of course—Mr. Henry and I—walking out together of a Sunday evening to see the same girl, but had I been pressed to make a choice of the half dozen girls who congregated there, Miss Anna would have been that one. It was not clear to all just who was going to see whom. Alex Hamel’s most cherished memory of his suit was the fact—so he told me—that while walking out in the night with Mr. Henry and the girl, arms in arms, Alex on one side and the tall stately highbred gentleman (Alex’s description) on the other side, he had reached over and kissed Miss Anna. Alex did not say whether or not she had inclined her head toward him for the reception of that kiss in the dark. It was no comedown for the “highbred gentleman” when he married the harness-maker’s daughter. Mr. Henry died, in retirement, in 1917. His widow and son Carroll, later, moved to Boise, Idaho. Augusta Ann DeForest died in 1895. Her husband, Isaac Newton DeForest, had died ten years earlier. During a ten days stay in Los Angeles, following Christmas (1947), at the home of my nephew, W. G. Bristow, and his wife Ethel, and visiting the Weavers — Raymond, Nellie, and Miss Cloy—Tom DeForest called with a new automobile and drove me to his home at Santa Anita, a restricted residential section in the foothills, where I met his wife Hilda, his daughter Mary, and his son Tommy. He also drove me over to the west side to call on the Larzeleres — Ed, Mabel, Ella and her husband Lester Hatch, and their daughter Miss Drusilla, who writes feature (society) articles for the Los Angeles Sunday Times. Tom, son of Moulton and Mary (Thomas) DeForest, is in possession of the original DeForest family bible. From those records, and from Tom himself, I verified facts set forth in this article. Tom DeForest has a $50,000 home only a little way up the canyon from the famous Santa Anita race track. After showing me through the home and we were on our way out, Tom spied some freshly baked pumpkin pies on a table. I imagine they were pies baked for a family outing “below the border” in Old Mexico, where Tom said they were going the following morning for a three-day fishing trip. He said, “I think we ought to have a piece of pie and a glass of milk before we go over to Larzelere’s.” While eating the pie, Tom expounded glibly, as only a DeForest could, on his liking for pumpkin pies in general and particularly the one we were eating—and his detestation of the so-called pumpkin pies made from squash. As we were going out the door, his wife whispered to me, “I made that pie out of Tom’s despised squash which he grew himself here in the garden.” Tom has an extra lot back of his residence where he digs in the good earth to keep himself fit.