A crazy quilt is made up of pieces arranged without pattern or order. Eureka Springs is like that. It is an architectural labyrinth unique among cities. The recently built annex of the Penn Memorial Baptist Church has a home for the minister on the third floor. You may enter at the street-level door on Mountain Street, walk through the rooms—a distance of about forty feet—and look down upon Owen Street, thirty feet below. This sounds like an architectural fairy tale, but it is true. Houses are built like that in this Switzerland of America. In many homes the street entrance is on the second or third floor, or the house may be reached by a stairway clinging to the mountain side. One business house is surrounded by streets like a moat ’round a castle and it has four street addresses each on a different level. In the early days when the town was thronged with health seekers who wanted homes near the springs, terraces were built and hemmed-in with massive stone walls. Houses were constructed on these terraces with stairways leading from one level to the other. Frequently a natural cave opens at the backdoor. The yards and gardens have the appearance of “The Hanging Gardens of Babylon,” built by Nebuchadnezzar for his hill-loving queen. Some residents may step from their gardens to the roof of the house while others must climb stairways to their patch of vegetables. The first lawsuit in Eureka Springs, according to the old-timers, was caused by a woman who lived in one of these terraced homesites. She carelessly threw dishwater out of the backdoor and down a neighbor’s chimney, damaging the furniture. Vance Randolph tells about a drunken farmer who was found in the streets of the town one Saturday night. The pavement is not level by any means and the poor farmer was walking with one foot on the sidewalk and one in the gutter. A woman came along and the fellow called on her for help. “You’re just drunk,” she told him. “Is that it?” he said, much relieved, “My gosh, I thought maybe I was crippled.” Eureka Springs is laid out with 238 named streets with no direct cross intersections. (One or two right-angle crossings have been found since Ripley featured this item in his “Believe It or Not.”) On the map the streets look like a bewildered maze with the letters U and V formed fifty-one times, the letter S thirteen times, O, seven times, and perhaps other alphabetical curiosities in this labyrinth of streets. There are five street levels on West Mountain from Main Street in the valley to the Crescent Hotel on Prospect Avenue.