Might say I first learned of my Kansas cousin when he was owner and publisher of the Salina Daily Republican, and I was publishing the Wetmore Spectator. A Kansas City printing firm addressed a letter to J. L. Bristow, Wet-more, Kansas—one initial off from my own. It was delivered to me. The contents of the letter showed that it should have been sent to the other newspaper man in Salina. I mailed it to him. He came back promptly wanting to know from whom did I get my name? One more exchange letters told us both exactly who we were. We both claimed kin to old Ben — of Virginia, Kentucky, and New York fame—though I do not now recall his specialty. But it’s a safe bet it had to do with politics. My father was a first cousin of J. L.’s father, a Methodist minister, living in Baldwin, Kansas. My illustrious cousin Joseph has climbed high up the ladder of political fame — and who knows his limit? I shall not lose track of him. After I would have returned from Pensacola, Florida, and spent a day in Nashville with Uncle Tom and Aunt Irene Cullom, and their three daughters, cousins Lora, Clevie, and Myrtle, it was planned to give a party for me at Aunt Harriet’s country home, the day set for one week hence — when they “allowed” they really would show me some Tennessee girls. Here, I think my Wetmore Auntie had been meddling in my behalf once again. Well, no matter. If it was meant that the girls at the coming party would grade upwards in looks from the first showing, it surely would be worth coming back for. Cousin Maggie Lovell, a fifteen-year-old beauty, told me the girls would turn themselves loose at the party—and, she said, “The woods are full of ‘em.” The girls of the advance showing had been rather on the reserved order—I might say very lady-like. Still, I imagine there were missies in that group who would have been pleased to start something. Also, I imagine they were the flower of the flock. All Southern girls at that time were supposed to be pretty. The climate, and the care in which the girls were taught to shield their faces from the sun was believed to make for superior beauty. My mother said that in her day no girl would ever think of going out without her sun-bonnet. Admittedly, the South is blessed with some extremely beautiful girls. But, after extensive searching, may I say that—exempting cousins of course—I did not find it overwhelmingly so. I am convinced that it takes something more than climate and ribbed sun-bonnets to turn the trick; and that the South has no monopoly on this something. Also, I further find that the strikingly beautiful girl is, like -prospector’s gold, where you find her. And for my money give me the sun-kissed girl from the wide-open Kansas range.